THE PAGER

Julie knows that visiting the cemetery upsets me, and that I would feel even worse if I didn't go. The accident, if you can call it that, happened on a Friday a year ago, just before Christmas. The funeral was on a Friday, and her murderer was sent to prison on a Friday. So, every Friday I go to the cemetery to arrange the flowers and have a chat.

The pager bleeps and I press the button to make the message scroll across the screen. "Love you. See you later, Julie". I smiled.

It's time to leave work, get in the car and drive to the cemetery. It has started to snow, which made the roads slippery. It looks pretty, but I must get to the cemetery before it closes. Being December, it still gets dark early.

I have started to think about how Julie had collected Peter from the Cubs' Christmas party. The lights were green when she moved off at the traffic lights. In court, the other witnesses all said the lights were green - all except him. He swore that he had amber when his car slammed into ours. The police said he was doing at least fifty miles an hour when he hit our car. But worst was that he had well over the legal limit of alcohol in his blood. "Just a pre-Christmas nip," he said. "Nothing more Your Honour."

He spoke so well, and both his suit and lawyer were expensive. He didn't get off, but he only did six months inside. Six months for what he did!

My mind has wandered from my driving. My knuckles are white. The bleep at my hip wakes me up before I do something silly at the wheel. Button pressed and the next message rolls by as I stand at the traffic lights. "Turn right. Lots of traffic left. Love Julie". How does she know that?

I turn right. She always knows. As I nudge out, I see the tail-back off to the left. If I'd got caught in that, I'd never have made it in time. This way is a bit longer, but at least it is moving.

I pull up at the cemetery car park just as the gates clang shut. I run over to them and look at him pleadingly. He lets me in with a mock sigh and a shake of his head. I must be the last visitor before Christmas. I rush over to the grave through the untouched snow and read the top part of the inscription. "Here lies Peter Tremayne, aged 7. Taken from us by the demon drink."

Just then, the pager bleeps again. It says, "Thanks for coming. We both love you, Julie". I look down and read the last part of the inscription. "Also of his loving mother, Julie Tremayne, so cruelly taken."

I smile, look down and gently brush the snow off the headstone, then whisper, "I love you too, darlings".

William Safire's Rules for Writers