A father's death

The telephone call came late at night. “He's had a fall. They think he's had a skull fracture. He's unconscious–perhaps just concussion, but they're arranging a brain scan. He just faintly moved his thumb when I asked him to,” said my mother, outwardly as cheerful as ever. My voice croaked back: “I understand; I'll come as soon as possible.” Inwardly I cursed myself for not saying all the things I had wanted to say to him. I thought that he had a few more years.

It was the end of August, and nearly the end of the languorous summer holidays in …