With the death of his lover, Peter, Michael is desolate. Although his friends and his wife, Maureen, rally round, no light enters his sad story until his nephew Patrick, the music student, comes into his life.

Auszug. � Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Maureen O'Sullivan

By Brian Pentland

Trafford Publishing

CHAPTER 1

Kilshannig

Their steps were like tip-tap shoes as they moved down the long corridor: Michael in front with Maureen just behind him, with no expression at all, followed by Bernard and Anthony. Hospital corridors have this fatal concept that they never end and always look the same. When they arrived at the doorway of no. 34, they all came to a halt. Maureen took Michael's arm, "You go in. We'll wait here". A white-faced Michael glanced at the tiny group, a desolate expression on his face. It wasn't possible: how could he, at 39 years of age, be in a situation where he must hold hands with death, this dreadful moment that would part him from the person he loved most in this life? He opened the door slowly and the doctor by the bed turned and said, "He hasn't long. He has been calling for you". The doctor left the room and Michael moved across to what was a fragile memory of Peter, stretched out under the sheet. "Peter", he said, "can you hear me?" "Of course I can", came the reply. "Michael, close the door", Peter said softly and he did as he was asked. He then sat on the edge of the bed. "They say I haven't got long now. Get into bed with me, please!" Michael undressed and slid into bed beside Peter, who whispered, "Take this thing off me". Michael removed his hospital gown and felt the warm body beside him. "Oh Peter", he began. "Ssh!" was the immediate response, and Michael felt his weak arms trying to embrace him. "Michael, I'm going", he said in a soft voice. "Hold me very tight!" Softly, Peter began to cry, tears running down his chalky-white face. Michael followed suit. "You can't go yet", he said, "I need you. I love you. You can't go, it's just not possible". Sobs made him pause. "Michael, will you promise me something?" "Anything! anything!" "Make sure Patrick gets a good musical education, please!" "I promise! I promise!" he repeated and held Peter very tightly. "It's all right, Michael! We'll always be together, no matter what!" His voice trailed off to a mere whisper. "We will always be together at Kilshannig ... I love Kilshannig. ... Michael, I love you ..." The pressure in his arms began to slacken and then everything stopped. Michael got out of the bed and dressed, then sat once more on the edge and ran his hand over Peter's naked body. Still warm, it gave him the wild hope that Peter would get out of bed and they would go back to Kilshannig together, forever. He smothered his face wildly with kisses and only slowly realised that Peter was no longer in this world. When the priest had given him the last rites the previous evening, Michael had been unable to conceive that his brother – the most important person in his world – was no longer going to be there as he had been for 39 years. They had been born exactly one year apart on May 12th. Peter was the first. Then, precisely one year later, to the very hour, Michael was born. They had always been inseparable, in every sense of the word. It wasn't a question of telepathy: they just thought the same; they liked the same things, the same architecture, art, books, and films. From an early age, they would never be separated, always together at Kilshannig.

Kilshannig was a large country estate about 60 miles from Melbourne in one direction and 11 from Warragul in the other. It lay amidst rolling hills and, as children, they had grown up between the big house on St George's Road and Kilshannig, a cosseted world in which their every need was supplied. There had never been any rivalry between them and, from their first moments they had loved and depended on one other, excluding everyone else from their world. Whenever school holidays came along, no beach for them, but back to Kilshannig.

Whatever their parents' ideas, they knew that it would be easier for everyone if they sent the boys to the country with the staff, and went off to do what they wanted alone without being accompanied by two rebellious and uncooperative youngsters: not an option when staying with friends. When not at school, the boys spent their time at Kilshannig: their riding, the swimming pool, Mrs. Rolland's cooking and their nights together contributed to weave it all into what seemed a magic dream, but it was not a dream. At puberty, they discovered their ability to make love, not only in an occasional, sexual way: it developed, so that the mere movement of a hand from one part of the body to another was sufficient to arouse them. Their love-making was always whole-hearted and they enjoyed it to the maximum; it continued as part of their lives until Peter's untimely death.

Michael sat on the side of the bed, his hand in Peter's. He shed no tears; indeed, he was experiencing a total absence of feeling, certain that if anyone touched him he would fall in a million shards upon the floor. The door opened and the doctor came back in. "I think you had better leave him", he said. Michael rose mechanically and headed for the door. As he came out, the first person he saw was Maureen: she came toward him very formally and took his arm. The other woman present said nothing, but narrowed her eyes. It was Anthony who broke the electric silence. "Go in if you want, Bernard. I'll walk down with Maureen and Michael". The other woman spun round as the three of them started off, "Well, it's finally finished", she said bitterly, and went into the room to see Peter, followed almost immediately by Bernard.

Minutes later, an agitated Bernard joined them halfway down the corridor. Not a word was said until they reached the spot where the car was parked. "I'll drive", said Bernard, and they all got in, but before he could pull out into the traffic, the small blonde woman came over to them. "O God", said Anthony, "this is all we need!"

"I suppose you spoke to him", she said, glaring at Michael. "Yes", came his quiet reply. "Well?" "Peter asked if I would pay for Patrick's musical education, and I said I would..."

"All these formal arrangements can be resolved next week after the funeral, Janice. You have our deepest condolences", said Maureen coolly. "Let's go, Bernard!" The car moved off, leaving the short blonde woman staring after them.

"She hasn't improved with age, has she?" said Anthony. "Please, darling, not now!" smiled Maureen and turned to Michael who seemed oblivious to everything except his dreadful sensation of loss. Passing through automatic gates, the car drew up in front of an imposing mansion, one of the few original ones now left in St Georges Road. They all got out and entered the house. "Would anyone like a drink?" asked Maureen. "You're kidding!" said Anthony. "A bottle a head, after a day like this!" "I think I'll lie down for a while", said Michael and disappeared upstairs.

"What would you like, boys?" asked Maureen, and then looked at Bernard, who said, "Open a bottle of champagne!" "Sounds like a real Irish wake", smiled Anthony. Bernard returned with a bottle and Anthony organised the glasses. "It's going to be a very difficult time for Michael. I want you to know, Maureen, that if there's anything we can do, please don't hesitate to call on us." "Thank you, Bernard. You're right, it's going to be very difficult for Michael, but let's hope we can pull him through!"

"Oh, there's a message here on the table", said Anthony. He walked across and handed it to Maureen. "Oh dear, Kilshannig again!" she sighed. "Yet another problem!" "What's wrong?" asked Bernard. "Apparently Michael hasn't answered Mr. Rolands' last request, and the guttering between the two roofs is leaking all...

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