Nine Hours Behind

Sarah Lahey left Room 7 a little before eight in the evening and walked out to her car in the Vaucluse car park. She did not start the engine. She rang her brother before she rang anyone else. She had not forgotten what it had cost him, at twelve, to be the last to know.

In London it was ten to eleven on a Saturday morning. Oscar Lahey was walking the last stretch of a run along the Regent's Canal towpath, not far from his flat, when the phone strapped to his arm began to ring. He saw Sarah's name and almost let it ring out. The two of them wrote to each other about practical matters and seldom spoke, and an unexpected call from Tasmania had brought bad news before.

Sarah told him plainly that their grandmother had died that evening, shortly before half past six. She passed on what the staff had told her: that it was her heart, that it had been quick, that Jane had asked for her at the end, and that Sarah had arrived twelve minutes too late. She did not mention the folded wrapper in her coat pocket.

Oscar's questions were practical. He asked who was handling the arrangements, whether the costs were covered, and whether there was anything he needed to sign from London. He offered to transfer money that evening. Sarah answered each question in turn and waited for one that did not come.

She asked him to come home. He said he would look at flights and see what could be done about leave. They both heard how little the answer committed him to. Sarah did not press him. She had stopped pressing him years before, around the time he missed their grandfather's funeral.

The call lasted eleven minutes. When it ended, Oscar stood on the towpath with the phone still in his hand while a narrowboat passed at walking pace. Then he went back to his flat, opened his laptop, and began working through fares to Hobart.