James Hilton: Collected Novels (95 page)

His face lit with the beginnings of excitement. “She was…oh, I
can’t
tell you. It’s the nearest thing to heaven in my mind,—the only meaning heaven has,—that memory I have of her and of him. The little doctor—my little father. I used to watch them smile at each other. I used to go to sleep after they had touched me. They were
real
—and that’s what’s so hard to believe—that they were
ever
real…Do you mind if we take a walk?”

“Good idea.”

We went out into the streets of Galderbury, where it was growing dusk and lights were blinking from shops and houses; and far ahead, at the top of Shawgate, the towers of the Cathedral lifted insubstantially into the darkening east. Calderbury had survived, though how narrowly none could say. We passed the house where the little doctor had lived, and then, along Briargate, we passed the jail where the little doctor had died. That was being pulled down also—it was far too big and the site had grown valuable. I was still a little bothered by not knowing how much to believe of all that Gerald had told me, but I felt there must be a sort of truth in it, somewhere. “Well,” I said, “you’re probably right and there isn’t a lot any of us can do.”

“But there ought to be,” he answered, so desperately that I was startled. “And, oh God, if only there were…”

THE END

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

So Well Remembered
copyright © 1945 by James Hilton

Random Harvest
copyright © 1941 by James Hilton

We Are Not Alone
copyright © 1938 by James Hilton

Cover design by Morgan Alan

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