Page 30 of A Winter By the Sea
The next day, with the schoolmaster’s blessing, Emily read the story to the students at the Sidmouth School and their enthusiastic response emboldened her. So on the last day of the year, she carried Mr. Gwilt’s manuscript to the Marine Library and waited in nervous silence while Mr. Wallis read. As he turned the pages, she gauged his progress, mentally summarizing the story in her mind. She knew when he’dreached the part about Parry living with the ship’s captain in a rented room after he retired from sea. She knew when he read about the captain dying and Parry finding himself in a curiosity shop, poorly fed and tormented by mean-spirited youths. And then the tentative joy of being rescued by a small, quiet man. The man was not named in the story, but of course Emily knew the character was based on Mr. Gwilt himself.
The story went on to recount their early days together. Parry did not talk to the man or repeat his greetings at first. He was tired and sickly after months in the shop and disillusioned with humans. Instead, he watched and waited to see what sort of human had brought him home.
This man was kind to Parry and fed him delicious treats, yet grief hung heavy over the man—grief caused by the woman in her bed, still and silent, although alive. This, Emily knew, described Mr. Gwilt’s wife.
The man dutifully cared for the woman, although she spoke not a word to him and barely seemed to know who he was.
Parry, who had long feared being forgotten, felt the deep sadness of this and longed to cheer the man. Hearkening back to a phrase he had not repeated in a long, long time, Parry praised him with a “Good boy.”
This earned Parry a smile from the sad man—a treat far sweeter than mango.
Every night before the man went to bed, he would say to Parry, “Good night. Sleep well. I love you.”
And Parry would repeat, “G’night.”
The other words were unknown to him, but he concentrated and kept listening.
Then one day, Parry heard the man weeping over thewoman in bed. And soon after, people came and carried her away.
After that, the poor man sat beside Parry’s cage for hours as the rooms darkened, not bothering to light a lamp. Yet he never forgot to feed Parry.
Eventually, the shroud of grief lifted and the man began to talk to him once more. He told Parry he was good company. A godsend, whatever that was.
All Parry knew was that he looked forward to spending time with the man and liked his soothing voice. Is that what “love” was?
A peaceful time passed. A few months, perhaps more. Then Parry began to lose his appetite. To sleep more and to talk less. Even his favorite treat of mango lost its appeal, although he pecked at it to please the dear man, who watched him with mounting concern.
One day the man lifted Parry’s weak body from the cage and held him gently on his lap, stroking his feathers.
“Oh, Parry. Will I lose you too?”
Parry saw tears in the man’s eyes and his little heart swelled. Parry no longer cared if the world remembered him after he was gone. As long as this kind man, his true friend, never forgot him, he would be content.
“G’night,” Parry said. “Love you.”
And those were the last words he ever spoke.
Mr. Wallis pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and swiped at his nose. Then he removed his spectacles and dabbed his eyes.
Emily wondered if he found the story moving, or if he was thinking of his own dearly departed wife.
After a moment, she ventured softly, “Affecting, is it not?”
With a final sniff, he stowed his handkerchief and straightened. “Depressing, I’d say. Surely not a children’s book.”
She huffed and countered, “Robinson Crusoewas not initially considered a children’s book, and it has become a treasured tale for adults and children alike.”
“This is noRobinson Crusoe.”
Emily felt her defenses rise and her mouth fall open in dismay.
He raised a consolatory palm. “Admittedly, I may not be the best judge. I do not publish children’s books as a rule.”
“But you publish games for children. And just last year you publishedSketches of Juvenile Character, which included stories like ‘The Curious Girl, Cured,’ and ‘The Life of an Angry Boy.’”
He winced. “That was primarily my brother’s doing. Moralistic twaddle, I thought.”
“Those are far more depressing than this story.”
