The Painted Altar

Epilogue

And so, dear reader, we come to the end. I would like to take the opportunity to thank you all for your support and to remind you that I am an amateur writer. I'm sure you can appreciate the many hours of work and historical research which have gone into the writing of this novel. As a full-time husband, father, teacher and dog owner, my free time is both limited and precious. It would be great therefore if everyone who makes it this far could press the vote icon (the star) at the end of the chapter. Doing so would help keep my novel visible in the book lists and thus attract new readers. Of even greater importance would be your feedback/constructive criticism via the speech bubble symbol. What have you enjoyed? What could I improve on?

Please note that if you scroll on after this part you will find  description/tasters of my other three other Wattpad novels, The Scent of Death, The Third Shadow and Kill Who You Want, the latter of which features Inspector Kubič and the town of Ravensby.

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Finally, thank you once again for support. I hope you enjoy this final part...

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The events I have herein described happened  11 years ago. It is now the spring of 2019 and I am shortly to celebrate my 75th birthday.

But really, I have always thought, 'celebrate' is an entirely inappropriate word to describe birthdays.  The ageing process is not cause to hang up the bunting; the withering of one's flesh and shortening of one's breath not reason to crack open the champagne. The only of us who look forward to birthdays are children, blissfully unaware that they're better off staying as they are, that the adult world will not prove the untethered paradise they imagine it to be. No matter how happy or healthy, there is nobody over the age of seventy who doesn't wish they were still fifty, and nobody of that age who doesn't wish they were still thirty. Birthdays are little more than an insiduous ticking off of numbers until none remain. Until the final curtain falls.

My forthcoming birthday will, I feel sure, be a particularly sad affair. Four months ago I was diagnosed with bowel cancer, and thus there is a high medical probability that it will be my last.

I am not frightened however, or at least not as much people seem to believe I ought to be. As human beings it is not death we should be afraid of, but rather of not living. It took me many decades to properly get started on this, but in these intervening eleven years this is exactly what I have done. I have laughed and breathed and explored. I have splashed and galloped and floated. I have watched suns as they rise and then as they fall. Rather than merely exist, for the first time I have lived.

I retired in July 2008, the year after that life-shaking week which followed Irene's death and a full twelve months before anticipated. There were certain financial consequences of course, but these seemed to pale into insignificance compared to those spiritual of nature. In an ideal world the age of one's retirement would be based on personal intuition rather than governmental imposition. Somehow, I believe, we as individuals can just sense when our time is up. When that last lingering spark of  passion for our chosen profession has faded. When we have nothing more to offer, are only standing obstinately in some younger colleague's way. When it is time, in short, to pass the baton.

It was my deputy, Griffiths - poor, put upon Griffiths - who took over the helm of St Joseph's Primary. Whilst I will never fully understand the didatic philosophy to which he adheres, his drive and committment have never been doubted. I wrote as much in a sincerely worded note which I folded inside a Good Luck card. In accompaniment was a gift-wrapped copy of Roald Dahl's Matilda,  to my knowledge the most inspiring tale any educator of young children can read. Before stepping from my office for a final time and casting a sad, lingering gaze behind, both items were slipped into the lockable top drawer of the desk. The gentle soul that he is, Griffiths would call me later that summer to profusely thank me. A tear, he claimed, had escaped his eye when he'd unlocked that drawer and seen what had lain in surprise.