The Consequence Was...

‘Happy New Year,’ Grace murmured under her breath, the wind whipping the bitterness from her lips and spreading it out amongst the trees.
Reunited in death, her mother lay just three rows from Uncle Bernard now. She taken by the sudden and catastrophic failing of her heart, he more gently by old age. Grace felt exposed by the loss of him.
Uncle Bernard, her protector. He could be nothing but a hero to a little girl who, cowering from a storm, had been discovered by his kindly eyes. Even now his name recalled the scent of mint and tobacco as he had handed her his jacket and raincoat. In the darkness of that moment she had been wrapped in the warmth and flavour of him.
Bernard had not intruded, had not scolded, he had not tried to force or coerce the child she had been to leave her safe haven. He had remained, selflessly giving her the protection that he needed from the lashing weather, accepting his role as sentinel.
From beneath the bench she had watched the interaction of mother and watchman, seen the primal force of maternal fear diminish to sparkling laughter with just a word and a gesture from this man. Bernard had been unaware of his power over them, of how he had utterly changed their lives.
The storm that had thrown them together was not the source of Grace’s fear. It was only that the noise, the bluster, the sudden violence of it reminded her of something else. From the first distant rumble of the key in the door, the rolling promise of anger in his voice, to the tumult of limbs, the crack of pain and the piteous shrieking. Grace had learned to run for shelter at the first sign.
Bernard was the warm front that moved into their lives and calmed the storm. From that first moment, when he had seen Grace and decided she was worth protecting, when he had prioritised her over himself, he made a silent statement; Grace and her mother had value.
When a young Grace had learned the role that St Bernards carry out for mountain rescue she had giggled, calling the man a saint until he had begged her to stop. It had seemed so apt though; he had arrived to find them frozen and exposed, and the friendship he delivered thawed them from the centre as sure as any nip of brandy.
Her mother had explained to her that we are all formed by the generations that precede us. Her father’s upbringing had been uncertain, harsh, and it had made him violent. Bernard regaled them with stories of his mother, the woman who had been a living example of kindness, generosity, and compassion.
Just as he had stayed with her on that stormy day, so he stayed with them through the years. A reassuring presence, asking no questions, expecting nothing, giving much.
There had been no children for Bernard, no wife to bear them. Grace had privately speculated as to why, but the answers now lay in the dirt of Munich. She hoped that his life had been happy, in spite of the absence of these things that so many valued.
Grace stood at the foot of his grave enriched by his estate and by that most valuable of lessons; knowing she was worthy of love and protection. She would not repeat her mother’s mistakes. None of Bernard’s blood flowed in her veins but he had formed her more surely than DNA.
‘Happy New Year,’ Grace murmured under her breath. She had promised Bernard she would find him a corner to sit in while she danced the night away but she could hardly keep that promise with him six feet below.
A breeze enveloped her, warm and gentle, and scented somehow with mint and tobacco. Closing her eyes, Grace accepted the reality that her Sentinel was not yet ready to give up his role. He would watch her dance, wherever he was.