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Introduction to REFLECTION

This is the last novel of the cycle. You might

expect the great climax – fireworks and what-not –

but what you get is the first novel I was not able to

write forty years ago. Very strange and for me very

touching: to come so far in order to say what I wanted

to say when I was twenty!

The novel is in part a retelling of the tale of

Oisín and his sojourn in the Land of Youth, which is

then completed by means of a modern second part –

in which the Fairy Princess of legend is enticed into

our realm, the Land of the Wise.

REFLECTION Summary

After the failure of a love relationship, a young

man travels to Kerry in order to throw himself into

the ocean there. Complications prevent him from

doing this, so that he finds himself instead carried off

to another part of the country, to an old stone house

that nestles close to the same ocean. In this house

there is an ancient crystal mirror. And through this

Looking Glass there is everything a young man might

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want, but of course there is also much more – that

might take the young man a lifetime to understand…

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REFLECTION

PHILIP MATTHEWS

© Philip Matthews 2010

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Part One

In the Land of the Young

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It surprises him that he can find no loose rocks

in the vicinity. There are large rocks, sure enough, but

they are deeply embedded in the thick sod. What

stones he does find – obviously blown up here by

storm winds – are too small for his purpose: too small

in that it would take him too long to amass a

sufficient weight of them for his purpose.

He searches nonetheless around the steeply

rising fields, wary of the big bullocks that want to lick

the salt from his ruck; their clumsy movements over

the soft ground he feels could be a danger to him. It is

not stormy today – no flying pebbles – instead there is

a keen steady breeze off the ocean that whips about

his hair and brings tears to his eyes. It is an infuriating

wind, insinuating a chill that undermines the rare

warmth of the mid July day. It drives him to glare out

to sea from time to time, as though to face down this

intrusive force of nature. And the sea – which should

be blue under the clear sky – expresses a similar

torment, ridges of spiked foam giving the surface a

cold green cast instead.

There is a novelty in looking out over the wide

ocean – knowing that two thousand miles of salt

water stretches out between here and Labrador. But

then he becomes aware of its depths and the chill he

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is feeling becomes a darkness. Yet that idea of the

dark depths fascinates him. It is the experience of the

complete stillness to be encountered there that

absorbs him. For a moment he stands and stares out to

sea – indifferent to the tears that roll from his eyes –

and savours the relief it brings him, the conviction

that no matter what he does, that centre of quiet and

silence is always available to him.

Then an understanding of what it is he is doing

comes to him. He knows already that it is not the

sadness that motivates him, nor the spite that unsettles

him at times; it is not even the tendency he has to act

on impulse when stymied. What he is doing is more

like a stepping forward as though in a test. For an

instant he can see that: he is testing something, a

belief or an insight. A deliberate process, first finding

something, then losing it, and then setting again out to

regain it.

He has been walking back down the field while

he has these thoughts. He climbs over the old sagging

gate into the next field, then continues down across

the ridged soil right to the edge of the cliff

overlooking the ocean. He realises he is now thinking

that he might be able to descend the cliff to the shore,

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where he might find the kind of rocks he is looking

for.

He doesn’t go right to the edge of the cliff –

knowing very well that there is more than likely an

unstable overhand of sod – but sights at an acute

angle down to the rocky shore about eighty feet

below to the right. No matter how narrowly he peers

against the wind, his eyes stream water, but he can

see that the cliff is sheer and that the narrow shoreline

is being pummelled by the heavy rollers that are

driving into the inlet.

Perplexed, he turns away from the wind and

mops the tears from his face with his fingertips. He is

bemused that the kind of rocks he wants are not

available. So far – since deciding on this course of

action – every step has gone according to plan. The

annual leave he applied for was approved

immediately, even though he was not senior enough

in the section to get the dates he did. Then no one in

the family seemed to notice that he was going on two

weeks’ holidays with little more than a toothbrush.

Public transport seemed to arrange its timetables for

his convenience, buses in Dublin, Limerick and

Tralee on the point of departure once he had secured

his one-way tickets, the outside window seat three or

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four rows back vacant, the companion seat

unoccupied for the duration of each journey. Even the

guest house in Tralee seemed to present itself to him,

hospitable matron attentive to his needs, charmed by

his youth, apparently valuing his answers to the

questions she asked.

Then he sets out to walk to Tiduff – bright

morning sun warming his back, gentle wind to cool

his brow – and soon a large comfortable car stops and

he is lifted there in a matter of minutes. The whole

day is ahead of him to make his preparations and no

one about yet at so early an hour. He surveys his

surroundings, squinting against the morning glare at

the horizon. Except for a dog barking off in the

distance, the landscape appears utterly devoid of life.

He lets his eyes range over the nearby grazing fields,

then out over the moorland that runs up to Brandon

Mountain a mile or two away. He had climbed

Brandon about five years ago, had stood surveying

the prospect of the wide ocean, eyes settled on its flat

horizon as though it was some final revelation at the

end of the world.

That experience he can remember clearly: on

top of the world at eighteen. Now he is preparing to

fathom the deep of that ocean. He can see the contrast

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without his habitual irony; instead, there is that

pervasive feeling of sadness that has become tinged

with regret. He always knew there would be regret –

had felt it as early as seven years of age – the pity that

the beauty of this world is not enough, that it must

sooner or later be relinquished.

So he searched the fields surrounding the inlet.

Climbing the mossy drystone walls, avoiding the avid

bullocks, he stumps through the rich, deep pastures.

Scents of the little flowers lurking among the blades

of grass fill the air. There is placid hum of flying

insects, while yet an intense silence radiates from the

sky – despite the unceasing growl of the waves down

in the inlet. All the time he feels the balance in

himself, conscious of the tall mountain like a puff-

chested giant to the north and the broad flat ocean to

the west, a bright deceptive mirror right now before

the sea breeze picks up. It’s a balance that gives him a

feeling of coherence at this crucial point, where

patience is required just as the culmination beckons.

And while the morning settles towards noontime, it is

this patience that sustains him in the face of the

growing realization that he may not find what he is

looking for among these fields.

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So now he is standing at the cliff’s edge, rolling

sea directly below, the breeze whipping his face

relentlessly. He is honestly baffled that this particular

step of the operation has failed completely. Pondering

what to do, he perversely proposes to himself the

obvious solution. But the vision of his body merely

floating on the surface below, bobbing limply about

in the heavy waves, affronts him as something

carelessly abandoned in a profoundly callous way.

Yet the alternative is even worse. He had once

considered that puncturing his stomach with an

instrument like a breadknife – the serrated edge best

for creating a sizeable tear – could answer to this

problem of his dead body’s buoyancy too. But here

the prospect of injuring himself, of wilfully damaging

his body in any way was abhorrent to him, a betrayal

of trust, almost a profanity.

In any case, he hasn’t brought a knife with him.

Looking down at the sea below, he sees that

there is only one thing he can do: jump. And do it

now. He observes himself jumping out at the best

angle against the wind, arms up as though he will fly

– though they should not be – and dropping at greater

and greater speed, his clothes ballooning as they fill

with air, until he smashes at some awkward

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indeterminable angle into the cold water, a heavy

wave perhaps about to break over his shocked body.

Like that? he thinks. Just like that?

No. He would thrash about, he knows,

scandalised by the whole accidental character of the

action, and would drown in a coughing splutter, no

doubt screaming as best he could in a complete panic.

He would die reluctantly.

A complete travesty of what is intended for that

moment.

For a moment the balance he has achieved goes

askew. He feels as though he is turning towards the

mountain to find something like dryness, like air,

though in fact it is a reaction to an encumbrance of

the ocean in his imagination. The imbalance frightens

him – he glimpses what lies beyond it – but then he is

already experienced enough in these internal struggles

to know that the reaction is simply false. He knows

already that what is at issue here is a single event for

which he must always be prepared.

It is that simple.

Properly done, there would be his rucksack

filled with rock. The ruck would then be securely

strapped to his chest – that is, to his chest, not to his

back. Then he would dive out and down into the inlet.

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His arms would be raised to point together above his

head. They would cut the water surface for him and

he would sink down out of sight with hardly a splash.

Then he would inhale. Then he would die and

sink on down to the bottom of the great ocean, where

the dark and the quiet stilliness prevails for ever and

ever.

He considers this scenario with his

characteristic intentness, fascinated as usual by the

prospect of letting himself go. He rehearses again the

throwing of himself out onto the air, how his arms

will rise once the fall begins. Then he must brace

himself as the weight in the ruck tied to his chest

exerts its influence and his body overturns until he is

head downwards, hands joined before him now, ready

to pierce the waiting sea.

And the sea, he knows, will receive him

passively, its fluid, infinitely formable body

accommodating him in every particular without

resistance. And then…

‘Don’t go so close to the edge, Bert!’ Despite

the tearing wind across his ears and the laminated

commotion of the sea below in the inlet, he hears the

woman’s voice with remarkable clarity, as though he

is focused preternaturally upon it. A clear, bell-like

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tone of a middle-aged English woman, who will have

straw hair and rounded bones.

‘Oh be easy, Beth. I only want to take a quick

look.’ A gruff tone, imperturbable complacency: he

hears a middle-aged Englishman of unquestionable

steady habits. This voice is also heard with

remarkable clarity. So clearly, in fact, that he knows

from the faint rattle that accompanies the tongued

sounds that the man wears both upper and lower

dentures. ‘This is the real ocean, love. Not like

Cromer. Hear them waves.’ The man is drawing

closer. ‘Look, it goes all the way to America, love.

That’s thousands of miles.’

‘You’ll fall in, Bert, you’ll fall in. Don’t do it!’

The woman’s voice is rising in pitch, her anxiety

breaking down into real distress very quickly. Her

scream is so piercing that he wonders abstractly just

what kind of woman she must be.

‘Don’t do it!’

At once he sees the image of a young woman

with long fair hair. She is slender, wearing a tight-

fitting gown of a deep green velvet, trimmed along

the seams and hems with gold thread. Her fair hair

flows over her shoulders in soft, lustrous waves. She

has grey-blue eyes – like sapphires against her pure

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white skin – and she is gazing directly at him with an

ardent expression.

He is startled back to full consciousness –

remembering even so that the instant of striking the

ocean’s surface is the crucial point – finding himself

buffeted by the breeze, the woman’s scream still

burning his eardrums. Turning abruptly, he catches

the man staring at him with an open curiosity. Hair

trimmed to a tight back-and-sides, secured against the

wind by mean of some heavy oil, pallid face with thin

moustache, he at least is exactly what would be

expected of a middle-aged Englishman of solid habits

– even to the grey flannel slacks and the dark blue

blazer with brass buttons, some obscure insignia

stitched into the breast pocket.

The man looks away, shouting back over his

shoulder, an edge of embarrassment in his voice: ‘It’s

all right, Beth, I tell you. You can see for yourself that

it’s safe.’

The woman is not far off, one hand to her mouth

in fear, the other crooked to hold her large flat

handbag. She is middle-aged too, stocky, wearing

dark slacks with an elasticated waist, all rucked about

her waist to accommodate her underwear.

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She has dull brown hair – obviously dyed –

crimped tightly to her scalp by a recent perm. Her

skin is pasty pale, lurid make-up, bright red lipstick

evident when she lowers her hand under his gaze.

She shouts across to him, pointing to her

husband, ‘Is the water deep there?’

He can do no more than nod once, twice, taken

up as he is again with the phantasy of his falling

down and down towards the ocean. And he thinks

with sudden firmness that he must really concentrate

on that moment of contact, when he must inhale the

first of the water he encounters. He shivers a mighty

shiver. The resolve wavers in the face of a mounting

sense of alienation, of the sheer strangeness of what

he is planning to do.

The man has continued to approach the edge of

the cliff, his brass buttons twinkling as they ought to,

but the sheen on his hair repellent. Now his wife

screams again, anger this time as she loses all

patience with him:

‘Come away from there, Bert, you silly ass!’

And the husband stops and turns to her,

unruffled by anything, the blustery wind, the

tumbling waves, his wife’s annoyance, and says in a

normal tone that she might or might not hear:

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‘I only want to see what it’s like, love. I’ve

never seen the ocean before.’

The man’s turns and winks at him. Then he sets

off at a quick straight-leg toddle to the edge of the

cliff and throws himself out onto the air. His blazer

balloons up immediately as he starts to fall, the fabric

rising until it obscures his face.

He is stunned to see this happening. The man

has not planned his jump. He waits to hear the scream

as he panics, but all he can hear is the rumble of the

seething water below and the abiding bluster of the

wind.

He finds he is watching the woman. She has her

hand to her mouth again – her other arm still

clutching the handbag by her side – but this time he

notices how stiffly her blouse flaps in the wind. He

reasons that it must be made of some kind of plastic,

most likely Terylene or Bri-nylon. He had a shirt

made of Bri-nylon, bought because of the claims that

it drip-dries and is wrinkle free. By coincidence, it

was almost the same shade of blue as the blouse the

woman wears.

Yet he is actually pondering the fact that the

man had not rehearsed his jump. This surprises – even

shocks – him very much. It can only mean that the

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man didn’t know what he was about to do. What a big

mistake, he thinks: the only justification for suicide is

that it is premeditated, that you know both what you

are doing and why.

‘That’s a grand day, isn’t it?’

Startled, he finds that he has walked out along

the edge of the inlet to the point where the stream

from the mountain enters the ocean at Cuas. The

speaker is standing on the grassy bank of the stream,

thick dark hair flapping wildly in the wind, his hand

cupped to protect his cigarette. He is gesturing with

that hand back up the inlet.

‘Bit of a commotion there?’

He looks back. The woman has her hands in the

air. She is screaming, though the wind is carrying the

sound away from them. He nods and says:

‘Just jumped over the edge.’

The man nods, then takes a quick draw on his

cigarette. When he has exhaled, he says:

‘That’s the only way some people can do it.’

He realises that though the man speaks in a

normal – even quiet – tone, he can hear him very

clearly. He shakes his head, then lowers his eyes to

study the ground that lies between them, where the

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heather gives way to the grass of the stream bank. He

says, also speaking in a normal tone:

‘But it’s as bad as not doing it at all.’

The man has no problem agreeing with him. He

takes a last draw on his cigarette, then drops it and

grinds it out with his heel. He looks up and smiled

warmly at him.

‘I have to get on.’ He nods down towards the

roadway. ‘Can I give you a lift?’

He looks around, knowing he’s looking over

this place – the mountain like an expansive grand

guardian and the expectant ocean – for the last time.

He nods, then follows the man as he sets off inland

towards the roadway over by some farmhouses. He

catches him up after a few paces and then they settle

down to tramping across the broken ground and rough

pasture.

As they approach the roadway, the man

suddenly says, head bent towards him as though to

speak in confidence:

‘Mind you, some of them are dead already. In a

manner of speaking, I mean.’ He looks up to catch his

eye: ‘Do you know what I mean?’

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Asked another time and he would have admitted

he didn’t. Now he finds it more to the point to say, a

rhetorical shift to deflect the man’s sincerity:

‘Not him, anyway. He did it on the spur of the

moment.’

The man nods to show that he is listening, then

he says:

‘But the way it happens, it might be hard to

tell.’ He stops and faces him, the wind bringing a

trickle of moisture to his eyes as he searches his

expression earnestly: ‘You know, the death of the

body is just the end of the process. There are others

parts of us that can die – sort of die, I mean – before

that.’

He’s not comfortable under the man’s intense

scrutiny, disturbed to see the tears rolling down his

face. He steps around him and looks towards the farm

buildings. There are two vehicles on the road, a

battered Volkswagen flatbed van and a red Morris

1100, squat and bright against the ragged hedging.

The man has followed immediately, the wind

bringing his voice forward to him:

‘Living the way they do in their cities, a man

could be dead for years and not know it.’

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Reaching the road, he sees that the Morris 1100

has an English plate. He turns towards the

Volkswagen van. Even though he is upwind of it,

there is a strong smell of fish in its vicinity.

The man has caught him up:

‘You wouldn’t even know what was happening

to you.’

He passes him by and carries on to the van. The

man is not very tall, so he has to stretch to reach over

the van’s side panel. He raises the edge of a tarpaulin

and studies the situation. Then he drops the tarpaulin

and turns around to him, shaking his head.

‘The fish is cooking in there. Have to get more

ice in Tralee.’

He pulls the passenger door open before going

around to the driver’s side. The cab is very lived in,

an old rug stretched unevenly across the bench seat, a

sheaf of old bills pressed into the angle between the

dashboard and the windscreen. The stale odour of fish

is pervasive. Once he is in the van, the man says,

peering around the steering wheel for the ignition

slot:

‘Do you mind if we just get on? This hot sun

doesn’t help.’

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The van starts with the characteristic explosion

of an aging VW. The man treads the throttle a few

times then gears up. He is leaning forward to peer

ahead, and it’s only then that he notices that the

windscreen is filthy with dried splatterings and dead

flies. The man catches his wary glance.

‘It’s my brother-in-law’s. He has a fish business

up in Renvyle, in West Galway. Sometimes when

he’s stuck I’ll do a run for him. I don’t mind doing

that. He has a van going up to Dublin every week and

they pick up anything I want from there. So it

balances out.’

He tears his eyes from the road to look across,

his eyes suddenly bright, even smiling.

‘Now you know.’

The van shoots forward, a lot of noise and rattle,

the man obviously an impatient driver used to

pushing old machines to their limit. He says, pitching

his voice above the noise,

‘It’ll be alright once we’re under way. Be cooler

back there.’

The narrow road twists and turns a lot, abundant

hedging in places further reducing the view ahead.

The man is leaning over the steering wheel, face only

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inches from the windscreen, alert to any oncoming

traffic.

This is a moment of respite for him sitting

passively on the passenger side of the bench. First,

then, he clears a place for his feet, shoving old

sacking and a couple of stained shopping bags back in

under the seat, the reek of tar rising from the old butts

caught up in the pile. Then he must remove the ruck

from his back, sitting forward and struggling to get

the straps free of his arms even as the sudden shifts in

the van’s momentum rock him about. He lays the

ruck at his side, beside the door, unwilling to risk

staining its leather base on the floor.

Then there is the moment when he can sit back

and take what feels to be a first breath. At once the

world subtly shifts in relation to him, so that he feels

as though a new partition of glass separates him from

everything, even from the cab of the van that encloses

him.

He panics instantly, the fright sudden and

devastating. He almost cries out, but he has the

presence of mind – a kind of fatalism, really – that

keeps him from giving way. Instead, he takes a series

of deep breaths, all the while deliberately thinking his

way back out of this situation. He tells himself that

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what he seems to see is not true; it cannot be true. He

believes this. He tells himself next that nothing has

changed, because nothing can change – at least not

like that. He believes this also.

Believing, he relaxes. At once, the panic returns.

And just as suddenly, he knows that the panic is real

and that it is true.

Yet the fear is not so great.

‘Are you alright?’ The man has stolen a quick

glance across at him, a measured interest in his eyes.

He takes another deep breath, not sure what will

happen when he tries to speak, but he does manage to

say:

‘I need to go to the toilet.’

The man nods, slows the van and pulls over at

the next field gate. He has a problem with the door, so

the man must lean over and wrench at the lever until

it swings open.

‘Getting old,’ the man, smiling his warm smile

again. Then a stroke of irony, hard to resist: ‘Like us

all.’

The air is uncharacteristically warm, the sun

immediately hot on his neck. He aims the arc of urine

into the gap between the stone jamb and the gate. The

relief is immediate, an opening in him as part of him

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rises in the bright sunlight. He hopes the panic has

gone, the awful sense of exposure that underlay it.

Yes, a momentary spasm of sorts…

‘Must have been the shock.’

Hearing the man’s voice outside somewhere to

his rear, makes him aware of the greater silence. No

pounding waves.

The man is standing at the other side of the gate,

right hand forming a discreet cap as he directs his

stream in through the bars of the gate. He looks up

from the close study of his urine.

‘To see someone jump into the sea like that, I

mean. It would take time for the shock to hit you.’

He has zipped and now he digs out his

cigarettes. The man comes over, he buttoning up the

fly of his serge trousers. He offers him a cigarette.

‘Ah, Churchmans. Don’t often see those down

here.’

He lights them both with his little Ronson,

expertly shielding the modest flame against the

wavering warm air. Both inhale deeply at the same

time.

‘Still, a sweet smoke.’

‘What do you smoke then?’

The man flashes his packet of Sweet Afton.

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‘They’re pretty strong.’

The man inhales again, as deeply as before, then

throws his head back and laughs. ‘Well, just the thing

for down here.’

Two Guards come by on their bicycles, heading

back the way they’ve come. The lead Guard is

pedalling with earnest force, the strap under his big

chin securing his hat. The second Guard, younger and

leaner, is toiling along behind, tunic unbuttoned, his

hat clutched against the handlebar by his right hand.

The man calls out, raising his arm in salutation:

‘Go néirí an bóhar liv, men.’

The older Guard returns the salute by reflex and

shouts back with habituated civility:

‘Bail ó Dhia oraiv, men.’

The younger Guard stares at them, seemingly

embarrassed, then nods abruptly as he struggles past.

The man smiles, revealing his liking for irony:

‘The youngster needs a squad car, eh?’

He nods to show agreement, though he has not

taken in what the man said. He can hear a bird

singing. And such is his state of being that the

birdsong pierces him with a force he has never before

experienced.

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The man is quick to sense his reaction. He nods.

‘Ah, the lark. You can’t beat that bird for song.’

He could cry with the sadness of the experience.

Instead, he draws deeply on his cigarette. He says:

‘Yes. They are everywhere, aren’t they.’

‘Not in Dublin, surely?’ the man asks.

‘Oh no. In the mountains. I use to walk a lot.’

He sees the mountains he used to walk in a flash of

memory: they are secured behind the glass-like

screen. They will remain now like that for all eternity.

He knows this, while he doesn’t know what it means.

But he knows that for the rest of his life that

particular image of the Wicklow Mountains – the

long shoulder coming off Mullaghcleevaun towards

Glenbride – will be repeated over and over again in

his imagination for no apparent reason.

The man throws his butt over the fence into the

field beyond and goes around the front of the van.

‘Better get on, then.’

He tosses his own butt into the field and climbs

in on his side. He finds he has to slam the door to

make it shut fast. It’s only when he is seated – and

while the man searches about behind the wheel for

the ignition slot – that he notices the long slope of the

mountain extending almost from the edge of the road

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up into the blue sky. It might be dread or some hidden

fear coming at last to the surface, but the sight of the

mountain’s reach into the sky fills him with a sense of

reluctance. He thinks momentarily that he will never

climb a mountain again, that he could never find the

patience for the stolid effort required.

At last the van explodes into action and the man

sets off with a start, at once bending forward to peer

intently through the small area of clear windscreen,

on the lookout for oncoming traffic. After a moment

to settle down, he says:

‘Anyway, it’s happened. It’s done now.’

He is startled by this.

‘What?’

Now an ambulance comes racing towards them,

thankfully on one of the rare straight sections of the

road. The driver and his companion raise their hands

in salute even as they sweep by. The man, he sees,

returns the salute.

‘It’ll be a tricky day for the lot of them.’ He

tears his eyes away from the roadway for a second.

‘They’ll no doubt wait for the tide to turn and see

which way he goes then.’ He glances over again,

engrained courtesy requiring him to face as best

possible the person he addresses. ‘He might end up on

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the rocks below or be carried out into Coosawaddig.

The boatmen could get him then.’

They hear the jangle of the bell – the cab is a

relatively quiet place thanks to the rear-mounted

engine of the Volkswagen – of the fire tender before

it comes hurtling around the bend, red lights flashing,

the crew all leaning forward to scrutinise the roadway

ahead. The man pulls the van over and stops. The

crew of the tender all smile the same broad smile and

all raise their right hands in exactly the same cordial

salute. The man, of course, replies, and even he – it

being an occasion – raises his own right hand in

uncertain salutation.

The man starts the van up again, saying:

‘They’re the boys who’ll have to go down the rocks if

the body lands up there.’

Bobbing body: he sees the bobbing body

clearly, head surfacing amid the welter of waves and

recoiling water, eyes staring wide in panic at the blue

sky above, mouth open in terminal scream as though

still gulping desperately for air. He is fighting tears of

utter hopelessness, acutely vulnerable to the pathos of

death now. The sadness is like an abandonment that is

happening to him – like losing something he fears he

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may never have had, so that a vacancy is finally

uncovered.

The man says, straightening up as they enter

Dingle:

‘Every year a score of men throw themselves

into the sea under Brandon.’ He glances across, the

warmth in his eyes as though an emphasis. ‘And each

death is that man’s own death, if you know what I

mean.’

He nods dumbly, afraid at first to speak in case

the tears burst out. But then the need to speak

becomes greater. He stares away through the side

window at the modest red bricked houses that line the

road, absenting himself from his voice:

‘What about those left behind?’ He looks over

at the man now, what he is going to say about the

dead man’s wife acting like a screen to protect his

feelings: ‘His wife was standing only a few yards

away from him.’

The man slows the van as they enter the main

street, where the traffic is building up.

‘Where will I drop you?’

He hears what the man says, but he is also

thinking about abandonment and about how the dead

man’s wife must feel now. He pictures her with her

31

hand to her mouth, a pure incomprehension in her

eyes.

He looks around him at the crowded street.

‘Anywhere will do.’

The man is occupied with negotiating a crossing

with several cars and lorries. He says absently, even

more crouched forward to the windscreen as he

manoeuvres for advantage, ‘Anywhere? Are you not

staying here?’

He shakes his head, then realises the man cannot

look his way, so he says, ‘No, I was only staying for

one night.’

The man finally clears the crossing, saluting

various drivers as he does, the same courtesy despite

the sharp struggle that has just ended. He pushes the

van to maximum throttle. Now he can glance across:

‘Well, look, I don’t know which way you’re

going now, but I can drop you in Tralee if you like.

You can get the train to Dublin from there. Or a bus

to Killarney, if you’re going that way.’

He nods, only glancing quickly at the man in

case the confused grief he is feeling shows itself.

‘That would do fine, thanks.’

Instantly, the man settles back on the bench, a

less urgent need to study the coming traffic now that

32

the roadway is both wider and straighter. He settles

back too, resting his spine against the bench for the

first time. Relaxed, he sees two things almost at once,

the insights tripping over each other: the emptiness in

the woman is real and terrible, but there is no

emptiness in himself.

The man laughs suddenly and says in a warm

confiding tone:

‘You know, it crossed my mind when I first saw

you there up on the cliffs that you might be

contemplating doing away with yourself too.’

He goes cold all over, the shiver of his response

is pretty marked, one hand reaching to grasp the ruck

by his side – between himself and the door. He then

throws his head back – an obvious ploy to hide what

he considers his all-too revealing response – trying

furiously to think of something to say that will put the

man off.

The man glances across at him, eyes wide open

in a peek-a-boo way. He says, even as he returns to

studying the road ahead:

‘’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to

have loved at all.’

He has trouble grasping the point of this

declaration, his evasion now so extreme that he

33

cannot even acknowledge the accuracy of the man’s

insight.

But the man is chuckling to himself, shaking his

head in faint admonishment at some memory. He

glances across again.

‘I have to tell you something.’ Now the chuckle

become open laughter, his small, strong white teeth

gleaming in the recess of his mouth. ‘For years I

thought Shakespeare has written those lines. Do you

know that? I used to say to people, “As Shakespeare

said”, then I’d quote the lines. It was only about three

or four years ago that someone told me they were

written by Tennyson.’

The man is still laughing at himself, head now

nodding as though in agreement.

He sees that the man is covering an acute

embarrassment. He is suddenly touched that the man

should reveal this to him in this way.

The man glances across again:

‘Did you know that?’

He shakes his head.

‘Did you ever hear it before?’

He is still shaking his head, but allowing his

eyes engage with those of the man.

‘I think I heard something like it in a song.’

34

The man nods. ‘Yes. That would be it. But I

think Tennyson said it first.’

He nods again, allowing that this might well be

true.

The man throws his head up and recites with

relish:

‘I hold it true, whate’er befall;

I feel it, when I sorrow most;

‘Tis better to have loved and lost

Than never to have loved at all.’

He smiles with pleasure. ‘Not a bad philosophy,

is it?’

It’s strange, he finds – once the man has

finished speaking and gone back to concentrating on

the road – that he knows with an unfamiliar certainty

that the man – and the poet – are wrong. But he says

nothing of this out loud; instead, he sits upright on the

bench, gazing forward through the dirty windscreen,

his left arm laid across the ruck at his side. He is

thinking: The problem with loving is that you cannot

lose; once you enter its realm, you can never leave.

The man says suddenly, without turning his

head: ‘Don’t you like poetry?’

He is startled by the man’s intuition, even if it

misses the point: ‘Not really. It just seems an

35

elaborate way of stating the obvious.’ As he speaks,

he is seeing that love at its heart is a knowledge, not

an experience.

The man darts a glance at him, a sharpness in

the glance:

‘The obvious?’

He shrugs, a pull of reluctance at the growing

engagement with the man. He doesn’t want to fall out

with him while dependant on him for a lift. ‘The

allusions would fail if you didn’t know what the

poem was about.’

The man is shaking his head, seemingly

shocked: ‘Have you read Alastor? By Shelley.’

He shakes his head in turn, thinking that silence

will help defuse the situation. But the man reads some

kind of admonishment there, so he says: ‘Well, you

should.’ He glances quickly across, obviously afraid

that his tone was too sharp. He continues in a easier

voice: ‘I mean, I agree that what Tennyson wrote can

seem trite, but it does comfort some people. But the

Shelley, now. You really should read it. I think it’s

the greatest poem of that era.’

The word “era” takes him by surprise. He looks

across to catch the man looking at him in a kind of

entreaty, as though trying to regain the earlier rapport.

36

The man smiles wryly. ‘I’m driving a fish truck, but

don’t let appearances fool you.’

‘You write poetry?’

The man senses the approaching truck and

returns his attention to the road, but saying as he

does: ‘Oh no, not me. But I studied it for a while at

university.’

He is now staring at the man, seeing him now in

new ways, more complicated and even ambiguous.

The man throws him another quick glance, the wry

grin more pronounced now: ‘I know, I know. How

could a student of English literature not know who

wrote those lines.’ He looks back to the roadway,

shrugging his shoulders. ‘I just assumed, I suppose. I

mean, I’ve read hardly a line by Tennyson. At least

up to a few years ago.’

The compulsion to study the man is hard to

resist, though he knows it looks as though he is just

staring at him. The man, of course, is aware of his

eyes on him, and he says, raising his head a bit so that

he seems to be enunciating rather than just speaking,

obviously intent on explaining himself:

‘I gave up during second year. It’s a long story.

The war was on and some of the class had already

joined up.’

37

He stops to concentrate on an unexpected slow-

up in the traffic. A tractor drawing a wagon grossly

overloaded with loose hay is being negotiated into a

farmyard about two hundred yards ahead. The man

concentrates intently on this situation until he realises

he cannot use it any longer as a ploy. So he lays his

forearms flat on the steering wheel and looks across

the cab.

‘Well, you know, there was also a romance. Bit

of a disaster. Just a simple culchie in the big city, I

suppose.’ It’s obvious that the memory still rankles.

‘Anyway, I went off and joined the Royal Navy.

Mostly in the Far East, based at Darwin in Northern

Australia.’

The tractor and trailer are gone, at last, so the

traffic can start out again. The man puts the van in

gear, sets his hands around the wheel again, foot on

the clutch pedal. Watching the road intently, he says,

musingly, as though drawn to memories long

dormant: ‘Still loved the poetry, though. There were

long days at sea when I had nothing else to do but sit

and read. Man, how you could lose yourself.’

The man sighs, an honest-to-God sigh. Then the

van starts forward, the engine rising to the unpleasant

flat banging of the VW under full steam. The man

38

peers carefully through the windscreen, then –

satisfied that the traffic flow is steady – sits back and

looks across at him:

‘Strange thing, though. I was ordered off the

Hood about twelve hours before it set sail after the

Bismarck.’ Getting no response to this, the man

amplifies: ‘The Hood was sunk by the German. Only

three survived. I still have a photograph of my mates

on the Hood. All of them died that morning.’

He has nothing to say to this either, except: ‘An

uncle was in the RAF.’

The man shows some interest. ‘Where did he

serve?’

‘England. France and Germany after D-Day.’

A klaxon sounds. A large lorry and trailer is

bearing down on them at speed, so the man must

jump to get the van over to the side pretty quickly. He

watches him do this, seeing how coolly he responds –

where he himself would be irritated by the intrusion –

measuring the situation on the road, declutching

expertly, checking the rear view, and then the habitual

wave as the lorry sweeps past with a roar, the van

rocking in its wake. Then the man says:

‘The Hood exploded and went down in minutes.

They didn’t have a chance. I spent the whole war at

39

sea waiting for that to happen to me.’ The man’s

expression is strange: both haunted and defiant. ‘I still

think about drowning, do you know that? Almost

every day.’

There’s a large hoarding by the road advertising

an hotel in Tralee. Then the first houses come into

view.

Turning the van into a side street in the town,

the man says, ‘I’m going to have something to eat

here. Do you want to join me?’

He goes to check the time, then remembers that

his watch is lying deep in a pocket of his ruck. He

looks out at the town, the narrow street with the worn

cars and trucks, a tractor chugging along just in front,

the farmer’s wife mounted to the rear of the driver,

she studying himself and the man intently.

‘What time is it?’

The man raises his left arm, the sleeve of his

anorak falling back to reveal a bare wrist. ‘I’d say

about two.’ He slows the van then pulls right into a

yard. ‘Don’t know about you, but I’m starving. I’ve

been on the go since five.’ He’s familiar with the

yard, running the van up to the back of the building,

40

then spinning the wheel and reversing in under a

dilapidated awning hanging out from a party wall,

where it is shaded.

A small lean man comes out from the door let

into the building. He peers then waves, calling out,

‘Be the holy, it’s Josie McClain. How are ye,

boy?’

The man winds down the window. ‘God save

ya, Paddy. Is Peader about today?’

The little man indicates with his thumb. ‘He’s

away in the bar, boy.’

The man switches off the engine and turns to

him:

‘Are you coming? You’ll get a good dinner

here, I promise you. Keep you going for the rest of

the day.’

He nods, gathers up his ruck and sets to trying

once again to open the door. Meanwhile, the man has

climbed out of the van and is saying: ‘Can you get me

a bag of ice, Paddy? For the fishes in the back. I’ll fix

up with Peader.’

‘Oh sure, boy. Tis a hot day to be carting them

up the country.’

41

The man comes round and opens the door from

the outside. ‘There’s a knack in that.’ He smiles with

mock grimness, ‘And I still don’t know it.’

He totters a step or two, as though part of him

trails far behind now, still standing on the cliff above

the ocean. The yard is warm with trapped air, yet he

shivers, goose pimples running up and down his legs.

He follows the man in through the door. The

passageway is surprisingly wide, doors opening on

either side, a strong smell of boiled cabbage coming

from the leftside door. A tall girl comes out from the

rightside door, a pile of plates in her arms. She smiles

at them, eyes very open and friendly, and pauses to let

them pass. Then some steps and the footing changes

from tile to carpet and the reigning odours become

those of stout and tobacco, stale but redolent.

The man leads off to the right into an even

wider hallway, old prints in heavy frames on the walls

and a notice demanding neat attire in the lounge. He

sees the booths and the chintzy wall lamps, the

embossed wallpaper through the glass panels of the

door, then they are in the bar. Each man at the counter

turns round as they enter and each nods civilly, while

one or two raise their hands in more specific greeting

when they recognise the man.

42

The man behind the counter throws his head

back in practiced cheer and calls out, ‘Well, if it isn’t

the bold Josie McClane, all the way from

Connemara!’

The man responds in kind, throwing up his left

hand and calling back: ‘There you are, Peader,

looking as well as ever.’

The men at the counter make a space for the

man and a sort of half space for him, at the same time

scrutinising him closely for the outsider they know

him to be. The man behind the counter asks, reaching

for a pair of pint glasses under the counter, ‘So, men,

what will it be this fine day?’

The man turns to him, ‘Will you have a pint

with your dinner?’

He nods, at the same time eases his ruck away

from where it jams against a man’s back.

The man behind the counter is already pouring

them, first one glass then the second, both held

together in one broad hand. The man leans forward

and says, ‘I asked Paddy for some ice, Peader. I’ll

need to fix up with you.’

‘Oh, sure, don’t worry yourself about that. That

machine makes the stuff all the time.’ He pauses

while he lines the glasses on the counter to let the

43

stout settle. ‘Are ye bringing up some fish for Willy

O’Neill?’

The man nods, then turns and says him, ‘Do you

want to find a table somewhere. I’ll see about all

this.’

The bar has been crowded, vacant tables not yet

cleared but there is one set, over towards the window

in a little alcove formed by a pillar. Not till he is

seated does he notice the second table close by

jammed into the gap between the pillar and the wall.

The three men there look up all together, survey him,

nod to him and than go back to their own business.

Desolation sweeps him when he sits down, the

kind of passing depression that always hits before he

enters intimacy, as though for a moment he sees – in

reaching out to another – the true nature of human

existence. There is the approach, there is the distance,

there is the knowledge that the distance can never be

covered.

‘No, somewhere in Hollywood, I tell you. They

have these huge studios. Could easily do it there.’ The

man who speaks is in shirtsleeves, his jacket carefully

straddling the back of his chair, his tie knotted tight to

his throat, face red with the heat of the food and

drink.

44

‘Oh come off it, John. It’s real enough. I mean,

think of the risk if they were caught out.’ This man is

younger, jacketed but tie loosened, close shaven to a

frightening degree.

Now the third man has his say, whiskey glass in

his hand, tipped cigarette smoking away in his other

hand: ‘And they’re the men to do it too.’

He pulls off his own anorak and spreads it

across the back of his chair. Laying his forearms on

the table, he discovers the surface is still wet, a

veritable puddle where he has lain his left arm.

The girl leans over to him, a pint in each hand.

She lays a pint before him, the other on the opposite

side of the table, saying, ‘This is a grand spot you’ve

taken.’

He can tell by the light in her eyes that she is

smitten with him, young enough to be entranced by

his looks alone, not old enough to sense his wariness.

But it cheers him momentarily, the rush of gratitude

he always feels now when it happens, and so he says

to please her:

‘They look like fine pints.’

‘And what will they do with it anyway. A big

lump of dead rock.’

45

She simpers with an honest thrill, but then

suddenly shy as the true force of his appeal becomes

apparent to her.

‘Ah no. It’s all politics, I tell you. It’s to show

everyone that they’re better than the Russians.’

She turns away, the swing of her loose print

dress revealing that she is naked underneath it. Then

she swings back and says: ‘Josie says he’ll be back in

a minute.’

‘But look at the cost, man. And the war they

have going in the East.’

‘Oh, a powerful place. My uncle Dessie made a

fortune there in only ten years, do you know that?’

The pint is not fully settled yet. He won’t watch

the girl make her way across the room. Then the man

reappears, a fish held by the gills in his left hand. He

hoists it over the counter to the publican.

It’s the girl who points him out at the table. The

man gives him the slightest nod, then leans over the

counter to talk to the publican, who holds the fish up,

laughing and nodding. The man then turns and

crosses the room to join him at the table.

‘Ah good.’ This is addressed to the pint of stout

in front of him, now fully separated into its dark and

light components. Then he says to him, lifting the

46

glass in toast: ‘Thanks for waiting for me. Your good

health.’

‘And do you think they will fill spaceships with

colonists to take over the place?’

‘Ah now, Seamus, it’s only a symbol like. Sure,

do you think God would allow a Christian leave the

saved Earth?’

They have both drunk deeply of the near-perfect

stout, the man draining well over half of the pint in

one long gulp. He says, breathing in as he does, ‘Boy

oh boys, but I needed that.’

He too has drunk beyond his usual measure, an

impulse in this, like diving straight in as a way to

overcome fear. He puts the glass down and says, ‘My

name is Oisín. Oisín Traynor. I mean, I heard them

call your name.’

The man smiles with pleasure, his eyes bright

with the first flush of alcohol, then lifting his head in

a cautionary way: ‘Joseph, if you will. Joseph

McClain. In Donegal, Josie is the pet form of Joseph,

but down here it’s short for Josephine. It’s hard Kerry

humour.’ He pauses, contemplates the glass in front

of him, says with a laugh: ‘Don’t worry, I get my own

digs in.’ He drains the glass.

47

He’s now beginning to feel the effect of the

alcohol too, this time at least bringing him a welcome

release. He hastily drinks some more of his own stout

and gets to his feet, ‘Hold on, I’ll get you another

one.’

The girl is at his side as though coming from

nowhere, face shining, asking, ‘Can I get you

anything?’

He is momentarily stunned, seeing only the

stiffness in her abundant young hair and realising she

probably still washes it with household soap. He can

only point to the empty glass and nod. She flies off,

the dress a shapeless mass billowing behind her, but

the light shining on the smooth skin of her long

slender calves.

Seated, he sees the man studying him with a

quiet intensity.

The men at the nearby table are leaving, one

farting loudly, no one concerned with that. Their table

is littered with shiny cutlery, dinner plates, custard

bowls, cups and saucers, the cap off the sauce bottle,

a longish butt smouldering in the big ashtray.

The man says, ‘Looks like you don’t lose?’

He nods in reply, looking away, then taking up

his glass and draining it. ‘Strange that I hardly noticed

48

her at first. Got talking to her in a club and then I

walked her and her friend into town to get a taxi.

Made a date just to have something to show for the

night.’ He drains the glass again, the bitter dregs

refreshing him. ‘Live band, so not much dancing.’

The sadness is sudden, like a gale of warm

misery almost indulgent under the circumstances.

The man bends forwards. ‘You get over it.’

He looks around the bar, perked up by the sight

of the girl coming towards them, her eyes intent on

the pints in her hands. He shakes his head, pressing

his lips together in a gesture of stubbornness, not as

perverse as it might seem.

As he expects, the girl serves the pints from his

side, bending across the table to deposit the man’s

before him. Such tenderness he feels for her as he

looks at the reddened hand that still holds his pint,

held back for a more personal presentation. And just

because the girl couldn’t possibly know the way in

which he is restricted, he is as gently considerate with

her as she will allow, her eyelids heavy, her lips

close-up pale with her thinned blood. He holds eye

contact when he thanks her, smiling all at once for

her, charming her to signify the limit they have.

49

She is happy nonetheless, whipping up the

empty glasses, flashing the man a quick smile, and

then rushing off again.

And he thinks – engulfed by the purity of the

might-have-been that has just been enacted – that

there are so many ways to die and only a few of them

involving actual extinction.

The man says, raising his glass, smiling though

his eyes now show that he is dog-tired: ‘It can be that

way too.’

‘The thing is…’ he begins, glancing around in

time to see the publican slap the girl across the face,

his face livid with quick temper.

The man has seen this too, though it seems no

one else notices, child chastisement taken as a matter

of course. ‘Easy,’ he says in a low voice.

‘But she was only flirting,’ he replies, more

scandalised by how he has framed his reply than by

the act itself.

The man lifts his glass to encourage him to lift

his, then says: ‘Sure. But the men don’t like it.’ He

takes a good sup of the stout, eyes lowered in some

kind of concentration, then takes a deep breath.

‘You’re an outsider.’

50

He nods, understanding immediately, though he

makes a last defence: ‘It was harmless.’

The man smiles a wan smiles again and

indicates the full glass in his hand, ‘Will you drink

some of that, for God’s sake, before you slop it all

over the table.’ He continues while he obediently

takes a few mouthfuls: ‘You must remember, Oisín,

that these people don’t trouble themselves with

motives. They judge by what people do.’ He smiles,

relaxing in the success of his explanation, so that he

can add with a hint of humour: ‘You see, a girl’s little

glance gets you a baby bastard in nine month’s time.’

He has no trouble understanding any of this; in

fact, he finds it extremely enlightening in an abstract

way. Even so, he says, ‘Don’t you think she could

know that?’

The man suddenly sits upright, head turned into

the room. ‘And here’re our dinners.’ The girl is

coming towards then, a large plate in either hand. He

looks but can find no trace of the slap she received. In

return, she takes her eyes off the loaded plates for an

instant to throw him a glance, her mouth forming a

thin smirk of defiance.

The man is saying, ‘This will be the best two

shilling dinner you’ve ever had.’

51

It’s certainly a big dinner, large plate of mashed

potato, chopped cabbage and what seems to be a fat

chunk of smooth white meat, all covered with a thick

layer of bisto gravy. He gapes at this, in part surprised

by the unabashed homeliness but also disturbed by

the idea that these countrymen consider this plate of

mush to be something to get excited about.

The man is tipping salt over the meat with his

fingers, shaking his head in mock cuteness: ‘Wait till

you taste this, man.’

So he starts with the familiar. The potatoes are

salty, lumpy, the milk used to mash them off. The

cabbage is very salty, cooked to the consistency of

tripe. Then he investigates the meat with some

trepidation. It falls apart at the first cut. He looks up.

The man has just forked a pile of the meat

topped with potato into his mouth, a look of sublime

contentment on his face. He points with his knife,

then says when he has swallowed: ‘You know what

that is? Bet you never had that up in Dublin.’

Obliged by the man’s intent gaze, he forks up

some of the meat. It’s not meat, and he immediately

connects it with the fish he had seen the man give the

publican.

52

He nods. Even with the bland gravy it settles on

his tongue with a strange uplifting grace.

The man’s smile widens, overjoyed that his

surprise has worked so well. ‘Didn’t I tell you? Isn’t

that the best thing you’ve ever tasted?’

He nods willingly and starts into the meal with a

real hunger.

‘Do you know, Oisín, that they pay a fortune for

that fish in Paris. It’s the ugliest fish in the sea and yet

its flesh is one of the best. Willie can afford to send a

van to collect them from anywhere on the west coast

and still make a good profit in Paris.’

Then silence for a good ten minutes as the two

work their way through their dinners, mouthfuls of

stout now and then to wash away the salt. The bar is

quietening – the dinner crowd having gone back to

their work – with only the clatter of plates as the girl

cleans up. There’s a point at which he winces on

encountering a particularly raw chunk of potato. The

man notices this and makes a mock grimace.

‘The wife goes away up to Dublin when she

can,’ he explains, nodding in the direction of the girl,

now sweeping the floor along by the counter – the

few remaining men obligingly lifting their feet as she

works past them. ‘Stays with the sister and spends her

53

days in the shops. The sister’s married to a Garda

sergeant. So it’s left to the daughter there, Mary, to do

the cooking and cleaning.’

The strange thing for him is this: once he has

eaten the dinner and enjoyed the wonders of the fish

and has finished the enjoyment, it is as though it – the

enjoyment – has never happened. He finds this

experience daunting, worse than the sense of being

trapped behind glass.

Anyway, the man is proffering his box of Sweet

Afton. So he takes one, has it lit, inhales and waits for

the hit to the back of his throat. The man smiles. ‘You

could get used to it, I suppose.’

He shakes his head, gulping as the smoke burns

his throat. ‘Like smoking turf.’

The man laughs out in good-humour. He stands

up reaching into the back pocket of his pants and

producing some crumpled banknotes.

‘Better get on. I said I’d be back by six.’

He takes the cue and fetches out his wallet and

selects a golden ten shilling note. The man is looking

at the brown rims of the five pound notes and the

green of the one pound notes with a kind of

unpreparedness. He says, casual in the explanation:

‘Holiday money.’

54

The man – who he suspects was not going to –

accepts the shiny smooth ten shilling note, saying:

‘She says she’s earned it whenever Peader

opens his mouth.’ He winks, their shoulders brushing

as they make their way between tables. ‘Hard women

down here.’

The surprising thing is that the publican won’t

accept their money, saying loudly ‘Ah nah bach lesh.’

The girl manoeuvres into his view, a sly irony in

her eyes. He waves to her in a chummy way, and he is

surprised – again – when she makes only a faint

gesture with her left hand in reply. He wonders at the

weakness of the gesture, seeing in her a loss that was

suffered long before she even knew there was a war

on.

He says to the man in the hallway, as he returns

his ten shilling note to him, now somewhat rumpled:

‘Maybe too hard.’

The man looks back through the glass panel into

the bar. ‘Mary? All skin and bone. Just home from

boarding school. Feed them rubbish in those places.’

It seems even warmer – almost hot – out in the

yard, only one moody hen moping under a broken

barrow as a sign of life. The man checks the fish

under the tarpaulin, a wave of cool fishy air escaping.

55

‘Good lot of ice. Peader will make a fortune

tonight with the rest of that monkfish. He’ll put the

word out.’

The cab of the van is hot, the plastic of the

bench seat sticky where the rug doesn’t reach. The

man winds down the window and gets the van going,

easing it out into the street as he asks:

‘Did you go to boarding school? ’

He has managed to wind down the window on

his side too, a welcome stream of not so hot air easing

the atmosphere in the cab considerably.

‘No. School was five minutes away.’

The man has got them through the town centre

by now: ‘Ah, that’s the advantage with the city.

Better services.’

He nods and continues, wishing to tell this little

story: ‘I used to wait until I heard the playground bell

before setting off to school. Get there just as my class

was going up.’

‘So you got know nobody?’

‘Not really. Had my own childhood friends.

They went to the same school – at least the primary

school – but we were all in different classes.’

‘My primary school was in Carrigart. We were

all neighbours, as you’d expect. But the boarding

56

school in Letterkenny was different. We came from

all over Ulster, as far away as Belfast.’ He steals a

quick glance across. ‘We had to make friends. And

we did, good friends, too.’

‘By secondary school I had a bike and a watch.

Could make the run in two minutes then.’

The man laughs at this, throwing his head back

in enjoyment. Then he freezes and starts to edge the

van out of the traffic in towards the kerb, saying in a

louder voice:

‘Weren’t you going to go on with your holiday

from here?’

He looks out at the road opening before them,

low uplands forwards to the right. He shrugs,

genuinely surprised to have forgotten their apparent

arrangement. But he says in order to be agreeable:

‘Yes. I forgot too. Just drop me here. I can go

back into the town and work my way from there.’

The man has parked the van and now he

switches off the engine. He turns to him, resting his

right forearm across the wheel: ‘What plans have you

got?’

He shrugs again, a sudden torpor at the prospect

of going out and facing the world of everyday affairs.

57

‘I’m on a fortnight’s holiday until Monday

week.’ He looks out the side window, a stout woman

pushing a pram loaded with shopping by on the

pavement, three young children trailing after her, the

lead child clutching the woman’s dress. ‘Just travel

round, I suppose.’ The sadness returns with a sudden

force, a sense of loss this time as well, altogether a

dread feeling that he is coming round to face a bleak

empty future.

What has been lost today?

It’s not a pleasant question and he doesn’t want

to answer it.

The man turns away to look forward through the

still grubby windscreen. ‘Well, look. I’m on my way

through Galway City. I could drop you off there. The

west coast can be beautiful this time of year.’

The man glances back at him, the merest

persuasive warmth in his eyes.

He is glad to nod, feeling that he can thereby

retreat into the shelter – he now recognises – the man

is providing, and providing willingly.

The man starts the van again, pulling out into

the thin traffic: ‘We’ll take the ferry across the

Shannon Estuary, then straight up through Clare.’ He

glances across. ‘You’ll like the scenery.’

58

That settled, the roadway suddenly widens and

comes to stretch out ahead, the ocean a glimmer on

the left, an upland ridge running along to the right.

Even the van seems to have caught the spirit, engine

hammering at full blast, the vehicle rocketing along

with only a little shudder now and then as trucks pass

them going the other way.

The man says, voice raised above the general

hubbub:

‘You should have gone to university.’

He’s surprised to hear this said: ‘How do you

know I didn’t?’

The man makes an uncharacteristic moue – as

though another, more sophisticated, persona lay

hidden within: ‘You can tell.’ He looks over quickly,

again an uncharacteristic sharp look. ‘What

happened?’

He lets out his breath, an annoyance swishing

through him fairly rapidly – but not so fast as to take

him over:

‘I left after the Inter.’ He shrugs, signalling his

reluctance to elaborate.

But the man asks nonetheless: ‘Why?’ The

question is curt but assumes a right to ask it.

59

He finally looks over at the man, reluctant to

hold his ground but finding that he is going to:

‘I wasn’t happy with all the memorising.’

This answer jolts the man, even the van does a

sharp little left-right-left swerve. ‘What do you

mean?’ The man simply does not comprehend.

‘I felt it wasn’t good to be memorising stuff that

didn’t mean anything to me.’

The man lifts his hands from the wheel in

exasperation: ‘But you have to learn things. That’s

the whole point of getting an education.’

He nods in understanding. ‘But it’s hard to

forget some of it afterwards.’

Now the man is shaking his head, honestly

dumbfounded by now: ‘You’re supposed to

remember it. That’s the idea.’

And he is shaking his head, too, feeling the

stubbornness rising, seeing himself coming to the

stage when he walks away from the argument.

‘No. It’s like contamination. Words and images

that are not right coming into my head when I see

certain things or want to say something.’

The man is about expostulate once again, but by

now he has lost all patience with the routine, so he

cuts across him and says with some heat: ‘In second

60

year I read a history of the world where I learned

about Ice Ages and very ancient rock formations. I

could see the evidence for all this in the Wicklow

Mountains. You know, the granites and the way the

valleys are formed, especially Glenmalure and

Glendalough. So I brought this up in class, as a matter

of interest, and was reminded that the world was

created by God six thousand years ago and therefore

what I had read was just so many pagan lies.’

The man is smiling ruefully, obviously having

had a similar experience. ‘But that’s how they see it,

Oisín. Just let it go, that’s what everyone does.’

‘But what about all the other stuff we were

taught? I never trusted memorising. At least in

Primary school I could learn it on the morning of a

test and then forget it. But I found in Secondary

school that I was being forced to memorise too much.

It began to cloud my mind.’

The man is very surprised. ‘Cloud your mind?’

And he in turn is surprised that the man should

ask that question. ‘Well, like darkening it. So I

couldn’t see anymore.’

‘But see what? I don’t understand you.’

Now he begins to wonder if the man knows

what he is talking about. This is the first time he has

61

ever spoken about this to anyone – the first time

anyone has ever asked.

‘See what’s there.’ He sweeps his hand to

gesture out through the windscreen.

The man shakes his head slowly from side to

side repeatedly, no other way of responding available

now.

For his part, he wants to stop now, get out of the

van and walk away. He can only say, feeling himself

withdrawing to that part of himself that no person or

thing can touch, where even death has no effect:

‘It’s like a light that shines on everything. It

shows you where to go and what to do.’ He looks at

the man, a last plea in his voice: ‘You can’t let

anything take that away.’

Traffic lights. That’s what it is. He looks about

him, trying to remember what it is about traffic lights.

The man says, glancing over with a smile, ‘Ah,

back in the land of the living.’

He is puzzled by this, while seeing that the man

looks very tired now, eyes sunken and bruised –

probably the drink.

62

‘You’ve been asleep for over two hours.’ The

light changes to green and the man guns the van

forward. ‘Must have been very tired.’

He shakes his head to clear it. ‘A commotion

out on the street woke me up during the night.

Sounded like a party.’

‘That must have been the Moon walk.’

He looks at the man. ‘What moon?’

The smile laughs, all the time negotiating a

narrowing street with several other vehicles. He

points up with his left hand. ‘Up there. Don’t you

know about the Moon landing?’

He’s about to ask, what landing? when he

remembers seeing an image of a rocket standing on a

column of flame one evening as he passed the

television at home. He shrugs, interest subsiding at

once. ‘Is this Galway?’

The man nods. ‘I thought we might have a cup

of tea. I need something to brighten me up.’

‘Sure.’

The man parks the van out in a crowded square,

tucking it into the shadow of a high sided truck. He

checks under the tarpaulin. The waft of fishy air is

still cool. Then he comes around and opens the

63

offside door, saying: ‘The GBC is just over here. A

pot of tea and maybe a bun?’

He clambers out with his ruck, staggers until he

finds his feet. The air is rich in ozone, cut though by

heavy diesel fumes. The sky is huge. He follows the

man through a little garden area and down a busy

street to the café. The man walks just ahead of him

with a curious little rolling gait, as though he was

stepping out on some high road. Seeing like this from

the rear, it’s hard to believe that he could be so worn

and laboured.

He finds he is feeling affection for the man. He

calls forward,

‘Must make a difference, Joseph?’ Saying his

name so the man will know it’s not someone else

talking to someone else.

The man turns his head at the sound of his

name, obviously pleased. He tosses his head with

irony. ‘So long as they don’t dislodge anything.’

He laughs out at the absurdity, by reflex

imagining in any case lumps of moon rock raining

down on them here in Galway City.

The café is bustling, waitresses in black moving

expertly along the tight aisles, stepping over shopping

bags and parcels, a fine air of concord among the

64

chatty customers. The man finds them a small table

towards the back, near the counter – and the kitchen.

He says, inserting himself into the confined space

between table and chair with his usual neatness, ‘Just

a cup of tea, you see.’

He doesn’t mind at all, enlivened in some odd

way by the busyness of the place, sensing that for

these few minutes he will once again be part of the

ordinary run of things.

‘No, no, it’s fine.’ He attempts some banter

himself. ‘After all, I’m used to crowds.’

A waitress comes to them almost at once,

flipping out the next docket over the carbon, then her

short pencil poised. The man orders, a pot of tea for

two and – after a quick consultation with him – a

couple of sweet cherry buns.

The man places his elbows on the table, rests his

face in his joined palms, goes completely still. The

man hands are square, nails carefully trimmed though

grimy from the van and its loads.

He says, moved by a genuine sympathy: ‘I can

drive the next stage if you like.’

The man lowers his hands. ‘I thought you were

getting out here.’

He remembers. He nods.

65

‘Don’t worry about me. I’m used to this.’

‘No, I forgot.’ He looks about him. A large

woman nearby shouts out ‘in a heasav!’ and explodes

into laughter. Her two companion are equally large

woman, and each has the shiny skin that is the result

of washing in cold water.

The man says, catching something of his

response: ‘Connemara women. Don’t get on the

wrong side of them.’

He shakes his head, staring at them: ‘No. It’s

like another world.’

The man nods. ‘Another time.’

The waitress brings them their tea and buns,

laying everything out in her firm, detached way, and

lastly tearing off their docket. The man pours tea for

them immediately, asking:

‘You learned Irish?’

He nods, but covering himself by saying: ‘It’s

their accent.’

‘I grew up beside the Donegal Gaeltacht. The

dialect is a bit different there. I learned it at school,

too. The curious feature of Irish is that it doesn’t have

a word for I, the first person singular. In fact, strictly

speaking, it doesn’t have any subjects at all. In

English, you would say “I go”, but in Irish you would

66

say something like “the going is me”. You see, in

English, and in all Germanic and Romance languages,

the agent undertakes an action, but in Irish an action

is instanced in things, animate and inanimate.’

They have started into the buns by now, each

laying the butter on thickly, the tea hot and strong,

even if the weather outside is tropical.

He asks, a touch of defensive mockery and a

touch of genuine respect: ‘Did you think that out by

yourself?’

The man smiles, allowing the mockery, pleased

with the respect: ‘Does it interest you?’

He shrugs, feeling for the first time pulled away

from his preoccupation with what had happened that

morning. ‘To some extent. But a language is just a

tool. It only has to work.’

The man’s smile broadens. ‘So you think about

things too?’

He shakes his head urgently. ‘No, not much.

That just came to me there. I mean, like an answer to

what you said.’

The man nods, pouring more tea. He takes his

Churchmans out, keen to avoid another Sweet Afton

so soon. The man has his matches out and so lights

them up.

67

‘But, Oisín, if you think about that and try to see

what kind of world Irish speakers live in, you see it’s

very different to what we are used to. With the

emphasis on action, their world is a whole system of

processes. Ours is a world of actors doing things.

They’re very different worlds. The world of process

is always full and everything is meaningful. Our

world of actors is full of gaps and not everything is

meaningful. People do a lot of stupid things.’

The man is suddenly wistful and he picks up

this mood immediately.

‘Is that what it’s like down here?’

The man is ironic. ‘Sometimes. But sometimes.’

He is surprised to find himself sighing. ‘I used

to walk a lot in the Wicklow Mountains. It was like

that sometimes, too.’

‘But no people?’

He nods. No people, no houses, no roads, no

cars.

‘The West is like that, Oisín. Except that the

people fit in.’

He lowers his head to study the smoke curling

up from his cigarette, thinking of how people could fit

in. He cannot see that, feeling only the edge of fear

that indicates loss.

68

The three women burst into another gale of

laughter, and he hears how like the barking of dogs it

is – inarticulate.

‘Look, if you want, Oisín, I can lift you on to

Clifden. It’s right out on the coast. You’ll be able to

get anywhere from there.’

He nods assent, feeling surprisingly emboldened

by his insight into the women’s behaviour. He says,

to cover himself: ‘As good a place to start as any.’

It is a signal for them to leave. He snaps up the

docket, pulling the now crumpled ten shilling note

from a pocket. ‘Make some use of this.’ The man

heads towards the back of the café, indicating the sign

that in turn indicates the whereabouts of the toilets

upstairs.

Out in the van, they agree that the man will

drive to the edge of the city, where he will take over

for an hour or two. Tea does do the trick. The man is

noticeable fresher – a quick wash-up no doubt helping

here – and even has the energy to hum bits of some

old song. Passing the new cathedral, he remarks,

‘You can drive?’

He laughs at the understatement. ‘Sort of.

Mostly the old man’s – when he let me, that is.’

‘Have you ever driven one of these?’

69

He shakes his head. ‘Can’t be that different.’

The man has to nod at this. ‘Well, the road is

fairly straight and level.’ He glances over: ‘But don’t

let yourself be distracted by the scenery.’

He is ironic now: ‘Oh sure.’

The edge of the city is surprisingly abrupt, one

moment houses line the road, then there are

hedgerows and tall trees, fat cattle in deep grass. The

man pulls down at a convenient lay by and hops out,

saying, ‘It’s all yours now.’ It’s not pleasant behind

the wheel, he only then remembering how little he

likes driving, how it pulls him out of some

comfortable haven within himself. The wheel he

especially dislikes, sitting at almost right angles to his

midriff – and he can understand why the man was

obliged to lean forward all the time.

Once the man has climbed in and arranged

himself and the ruck on the bench, he says in a louder

than usual voice, ‘Alright, here goes.’

Of course, the clutch requires a knack and the

throttle pedal is stiff, then easy, then stiff again –

probably jammed with rubbish. So the van stalls once,

twice, then shoots away with a clamorous roar,

forging out into the roadway on the tail of a large

truck hauling some kind of muck. There is a moment

70

of exhilaration that access to any supra-personal

power provides, he driving the van right up to the rear

of the truck before the reek of the muck forces them

back. He steals a glance at the man, wanting to vent

some of the excitement remaining:

‘Not much scenery to distract me here.’

The man has already settled back in the seat, so

his response is wan: ‘There’s a straight coming up

ahead. You’ll be able to overtake it then.’

And so it is, except that a queue of what seems

like snappy cars has built up behind him, which insist

– one after the other – in getting ahead before him.

The last car clears away just as they all enter a long

shallow bend right, continuous white line, the view

ahead tantalising short. He is intensely frustrated by

now, the van not happy with the low speed in top

gear, and he finds he is gunning the engine forward

and then throttling back as a way of venting his rising

temper.

‘It’ll leave the road soon enough, Oisín.’

He’s startled. ‘Thought you were asleep.’

‘Only resting. Anyway, he’ll pull off before we

get to Oughterard. They don’t spread muck on the

bogs.’

71

And so it is, no sooner out of the tedious bend

and the roadway clear ahead again, but the truck

slows down pretty quickly and then edges off into a

narrow track that runs away under two rows of tall

beech. The relief at having the road open at last is

tempered by the knowledge that he is not comfortable

with the van, disliking its clamour and the drag it

seems to exert on some fine part of himself.

‘Tell me, Oisín,’ the man asks, head resting

back against the rim of the bench, ‘what would cause

a man like you to lose at love, as the poet says.’

Is there a convenient answer to this? No, there

isn’t. He feels trapped by the question, which only

adds to the confinement he experiences behind the

wheel of the hammering van. He can’t ever trust

himself to glance across at the man.

‘Well,’ he begins slowly, hoping something

plausible will come to him. Just then – as it happens –

a tractor comes into view towing a trailer heavily

overloaded with loose hay. The farmer wants the

crown of the road – fearing a tip-over down lower on

the camber. His response is not to yield: an urban

response, wondering how it is that tractors can travel

freely on main roads. Tractors belong in fields.

72

The farmer is obdurate – after all, isn’t this his

place? He pulls the van over left.

‘Very wise,’ the man murmurs, the faintest hint

of amusement in his voice.

So he says: ‘Because that is what happens.’

This causes the man to sit up and take notice.

‘What?’

The road is clear ahead for a good way, so he

chances a quick glance across. He is grinning,

experiencing a sudden curious elation, as though

some restriction has been overcome. ‘Did you love

the girl you told me about? The one that let you down

when you were a student.’ The man is about to

answer in haste, but he forestalls him: ‘No, wait. Or

did you find out afterwards that you loved her?’

He glances over again – forgetting to check the

road – to find the man studying him with a shrewd

expression. ‘And just for the record, I never thought

of the word. I thought in terms of marriage and

settling down for life.’

A loud blare takes his attention back to the road.

A small car approaches at speed, the driver furious

that he must make a little swerve to avoid the van.

More ominous is the looming bulk of the single deck

bus, comfortable filling its side of the road.

73

The man waits until he has sorted all this out

before saying: ‘Yes, that’s a difference. I was the

romantic one.’

‘And the girl?’

‘From your perspective, she was the practical

one. Once she realised I was going off to war, I

mean.’

He looks over sharply, he feeling that an edge of

initiative is coming to his side. ‘So you didn’t go to

war lovelorn?’

The man laughs, part irony at his turn of phrase,

part equivocation in the face of the direct questions:

‘I’d say I was by the time I got there.’

He has to nod at this. He notices that there are

no trees in his view. The land running away to his left

is bare, even rugged. A low hill, grassed with hardy

May bushes here and there lies to the right. But

forward the land is completely flat, the air above it

extraordinarily luminous. High mountains have

appeared on the horizon to the right of this flat land.

The man says: ‘Welcome to Connemara, Oisín.’

Then he laughs, much his old self again. ‘And keep

your eyes on the road.’

74

But the light is extraordinary amid the general

haze, a radiance in the air itself – almost as though

independent of the sun.

The man leans forward too. ‘There are hundreds

of lakes in there. What you see is the light thrown

back up in reflection.’

Now houses appear along the roadside to block

up the view.

‘Oughterard. Do you want me to take over?’

‘No, no. It’s just straight through, isn’t it?’

‘For a while, then there are right angled bends

over a bridge. Just follow the traffic through.’’

And so it is, bustling sort of town, lots of

tractors and old vans, red faced men still in their

jackets, women with light cardigans in case it

suddenly gets cool. Then into a tree lined road along a

river, official-looking buildings in grey stone, a

Protestant rectitude that is surprisingly welcome in a

land becoming increasingly wild. They queue in an

orderly manner for the bridge, everyone holding back

while a long truck loaded with sheep is manoeuvred

through the tight turns, the sheep sounding their panic

all the time.

And then it is as though the world does change.

The mountainy land runs right down to the roadway,

75

so much water that a clear mountain stream runs at

either side of the road, not a tree or house in sight at

this moment to mar the primitive beauty of bare land

against bare sky.

Now the man asks, no doubt so used to the view

that other matters could hold his attention: ‘And what

happened then?’

He finds there is a curious agony in

contemplating mountains, as though he transgressed

in some way in doing so. But he does say, not taking

his eyes off the curiously bald, assertive masses he is

approaching at best speed:

‘The mothers were against it.’ Now he does

glance over, indicating that he is disclosing personal

considerations. ‘My mother disapproved because

Helen’s parents were separated. I mean, her father

was in England.’

‘Hardly a separation. It’s like that with half of

the families around here.’

‘Oh no, they were separated alright. Nothing to

hold them together, I suppose.’

‘Did he support his family.’

‘Oh yes. Bought them a house even.’

The man is scratching his chin. ‘So your mother

thinks it’s catching?’

76

He laughs. ‘Something like that.’

‘And her mother?’

‘She thought Helen was too young to get

involved. That was fair enough – she was only

seventeen then. But it wasn’t as if we were going to

get married at once.’

‘She didn’t want to lose her daughter?’

‘Yes, Helen was the eldest.’

The man is quiet for a moment, watching the

featureless moorland through the side window. ‘So

how was it broken up?’

‘Helen went to stay with her father for a

holiday. Never came back.’

‘And what did you do?’

He glances over at the man, this time signalling

entry upon a sensitive area. ‘Nothing.’

‘But if you loved her?’

He glances at the man, checks the roadway –

both forward and behind – then drifts the van to a

halt. He drags the handbrake and says flatly:

‘I didn’t say that. Helen did nothing. Not a letter

or telephone call even. I saw that as a lack of

commitment, and so that was that.’

The man is genuinely confused now.

‘Why then has it affected you so strongly?’

77

He makes a face by twisting his mouth, half

wry, but also half a sudden fury. ‘That’s another

matter, Joseph.’

Now the man is watching him with steady eyes:

‘What kind of matter?’

He relaxes, finding himself relieved to have

been able to broach this subject. He takes a deep

breath:

‘I don’t really understand it. All I know is what

I do?’

The man nods, as though he understands this:

‘And what do you do?’

He smiles, irony in this but also an enlargement

of the relief:

‘At the moment, drive this van into

Connemara.’

In the silence that ensues, he get the van going

again. He is so light-hearted – for the first time in

what seems like years – that he even whistles a snatch

of a tune.

But the man is persistent: ‘You must have some

idea, Oisín. After all, it’s happening to you.’

He glances over, fully ironic now: ‘What about

yourself? What went on inside you afterwards?’

78

The man nods and sits up, accepting the switch

in focus on to himself. ‘Afterwards? Well, I trained as

a hydraulics Engineer in the navy. After the war, I

worked on passenger liners for about five years, until

I began to feel the world was passing me by while I

was cooped up like that. So I started work with a firm

near London that made industrial cleaning systems.

We mostly installed them in hotels and hospitals and

the like. Then we came here to install a dish washing

unit in one of the big hotels near Clifden. We stayed

with the O’Neills. There I met the daughter, Mary,

and we married about ten years ago. So I settled here

– the mother gave us a property near Letterfrack –

and I make a living installing and maintaining

washing machines in hotels and pubs. And in many

privates home now, too.’

The man smiles, some kind of relief evident in

his face. ‘That’s it.’

He grunts, lips compressed. ‘But what went on

inside you?’

The man throws his head up. ‘What do you

think poetry is for?’

This startles him, so that the man can add:

‘Most art, for that matter. Even pop music. It’s all

intended to let us cope with the aftermath.’

79

The road is running by a small lake now, and he

is stunned to see that the sparkling water is as blue as

he would ever want it to be. A high bare mountain

looms to the right, overbearing them in a mildly

threatening way – even on this fine day. He says, an

involuntary outburst in the circumstances:

‘Can’t this be enough?’

But it’s not clear what he is talking about, the

man failing to catch his response to the present view

through the – dirty – windscreen. He responds with a

sudden gesture of his hands, as though to indicate

what he is saying:

‘Well, it’s not supposed to be, Oisín. I mean,

you can say art is beautiful, but it’s not real.’

He has slowed the van, really affected by the

pure blue of the lake’s surface, overwhelmed by what

he is experiencing as a translucence – as though the

lake has become an enormous jewel.

‘No, this,’ he says in a hushed tone, indicating

with his left hand. He risks glancing across: ‘Why do

you need art?’

The man is glancing from him to the scene

outside and back again: ‘I don’t understand.’

He finally brings the van to a halt on what looks

like a solid verge.

80

‘This world. This life – the life you live and the

life I live – is something in itself. I mean we should

live it like that. You don’t need art for that.’ The man

wants to interrupt, but he raises his hand. ‘The other

thing – what you call love – that comes from another

place, another level – whatever you want to call it.’

The man about to speak, then he takes a deep

breath and sits back against the seat. He is silent for a

while, staring out what is from his position an even

dirtier windscreen.

‘What kind of other place, Oisín?’

‘What do you mean?’ He experiences a sudden

deep anguish, a fear of impending loss. ‘What did I

say?’

‘You said love comes from another place. I’m

asking you what you mean by that.’

He finds he is shaking, now a fear of revelation,

like discovering he is in some kind of fantasy. The

words are forced out of him, his reluctance to speak

overborne by the need to stay in touch with the man,

as though that was a guarantee that he was not

seriously ill in some way.

‘I mean it is like death. Like being cut off for

ever.’

81

He is shaking so badly that the man reaches out

and embraces his left wrist. For a moment he fears

that not even this can detain him, that he will go over

the edge and into a total strangeness.

But the man says: ‘Close your eyes, Oisín.

Breathe deeply.’

At once he realises it is the lake-jewel that has

possessed him. He closes his eyes.

The relief is instantaneous and complete. He

could sing loudly, if he could sing.

The man waits a while before releasing his

wrist.

‘Maybe I should take the wheel again?’

He opens his eyes. The calmness he finds worse

than the preceding terror. There was motivation in the

fear; in the calm there is only a dubious passivity, in

fact a helplessness.

The man opens the door at his side. He looks

around him to find the bench to his left empty, his

rucksack leaning against the back. Then he

remembers and shifts over to let the man in. He

watches the man reach in under the steering wheel for

the ignition key, seeing how neat and practiced are his

movements. He wonders at his need for poetry – the

man so composed in his dealings with the practical

82

world. He says – just as the engine at the back of the

van explodes into life:

‘You understood what I said?’

The man nods immediately, the nod acting as a

admission, a disclosure. Once he has the van under

way, he elaborates:

‘But that comes to all of us.’

‘No.’ He is surprisingly emphatic, finding

himself with himself again – even if the detachment is

still evident to him. ‘You must go to it.’

‘Go to it?’ The man is keeping his attention on

the road.

‘Well, admit it. Put it like that.’

Now the man does look across, both feeling

something of the earlier balance between them again.

‘You mean like accepting it happened?’

He twists his mouth, a momentary anger that

disturbs him. He is aware then that he does not want

to talk like this. He would prefer the more usual

privacy, even if it is his own fantasy.

‘No. You allow it to happen.’

The man takes a sudden deep breath. He needs

then to concentrate as a large German touring bus

comes at him along the centre of the road, the driver

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hastily pulling over to the left. Once that is sorted out,

he speaks:

‘After the Hood went down – remember what I

told you? – I felt not just lucky, but more like graced.

I always wondered why I was allowed to survive.

Mind you, I never thought about it, mainly because so

many men died that day.’ He looks over, nakedly

sincere. ‘Why did so many men have to die? I

couldn’t think about that, Oisín. If it is like you say,

that there is a dark secret of love involved, well, I find

that hard to believe. They were mostly ordinary men,

some were married, some had steady girlfriends. No,

it could only have been an accident of war.’

He is relieved that the focus of attention has

shifted away from himself. ‘Well, you did survive.’

The man has to agree with that, yet he continues

to be earnest: ‘But my life has been very ordinary,

Oisín. I do a day’s work like any other man. Nothing

out of the ordinary.’

He shrugs, feeling the man’s honest strain,

though at heart unmoved by it. They are passing

another lake now, but he takes care this time not to

allow the shining water mesmerise him. They have

passed the mountain on their right, and the terrain

there has opened up to expose a vast desolate

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landscape, treeless and shimmering with a brittle

light.

The man points forward towards a group of

building coming into view forward right. ‘I’m going

to pull in here for a moment. I usually ring Mary from

the post office to let her know I’m almost home.’ He

smiles with obvious pleasure. ‘Give her time to make

the tea.’

The man draws the van up beside the post

office, switches off the engine and then suddenly

turns to face him as best he can.

‘Look, Oisín. You’re going to spend a few days

out here, aren’t you.’

He looks around – at the grey stone buildings,

the furze that is still in bloom, the glinting landscape

– obviously not having thought that far yet. He twists

his mouth in an uncertain grimace. But the man

continues anyway:

‘Well, what I want to suggest is that you come

and stay with us for a few days. It’s right beside

Letterfrack, near the main road, so you’ll be able to

get around pretty easily. What do you think? There’s

plenty of room – there’s only Mary and me.’

He is aghast at the idea, the characteristic urban

fear of intimacy – while perfectly comfortable with

85

crowds. But the strange thing is this: he can see the

man clearly, as though for the first time. An honest,

unbeguiled face, he appears defenceless, yet

seemingly protected by an inexplicable trust.

He nods: ‘Yes, I’d like that.’ And having said it,

he knows that it is true.

The man is very pleased. He shakes his right

arm. ‘Ah, good man.’ Getting out of the van, he jokes

with his delight: ‘I’ll be able to tell Mary we’ll be

three for tea.’

He becomes aware of the fish smell in the cab

as soon as the man has gone. It’s far less unpleasant

to him now than when he first got into the van. In

fact, he finds he is at one with his surroundings – he

can even imagine some of the other smells of the

place: the woody acidity of the peat, the metallic bite

of the water, the scent of the heather, especially that

all-over indefinable freshness of mountain terrain.

He eases himself past the wheel and climbs out

of the van by the driver’s door. He goes back along

the road a bit and in then under some alder. At once

his bladder presses him. He pees up against one of the

trees, watching the urine negotiate its way down the

bark. Then he stands stock still in the midst of the

86

trees, the air cool and still, lit green by the myriad

leaves reflecting the incandescent sun above.

The man is saying, voice raised as the van

passes over pebbles on the road, ‘This is the shortcut

we use. Wait till you see the lakes, Oisín.’

This road is narrower, diving away to begin

with into a long bend hidden by high brambles. There

is a group of high mountains to the left, steep-sided

and for some reason startlingly bare. To the right

there is a line of more rounded hills, extending until it

merges with hills that face him on a far horizon. A

vast empty land, primeval in its starkness.

The man is hunched forward over the wheel –

though this road must be familiar to him – and he is

saying: ‘You won’t be aware of this, but the area

we’re headed for is probably the most isolated place

in Ireland. As you can see here, we’ll have to cross a

dozen miles of bog to get there. It’s much the same in

all the other directions. There are roads now, but once

upon a time – and not so long ago either – the only

way to reach it was by sea.’

He nods away to this, somewhat bemused by the

changing atmosphere. It’s as though something in him

87

is withdrawing, and just as some element in the man

expands. He finds he is himself becoming invisible,

while the man’s presence grows. He realises he is in

any case entering an environment where he will be a

stranger in an intimate setting – not just a tourist

passing through.

The roadway by this time has gained a slight

eminence that raises it above the valley floor. He can

see the road snaking away through the bogland, the

air hazy but it is evident that there are no trees here,

only heather and bilberry, some low bushes down by

the river’s edge.

The man has straightened up in his seat, arms

resting straight out on the wheels rim, his face more

animated than he has seen before. He speaks without

looking over:

‘Do you read philosophy at all, Oisín?’

It takes time to connect to this. ‘No, I don’t…’

There’s a momentary hesitation here because he had

wanted to address the man as “Josie”, but

remembered what he had been told in Kerry. Then he

presses on: ‘I know nothing about philosophy, I’m

afraid.’

The man takes this in good humour. ‘Well,

neither did I until I went out with a girl in London

88

after the war. She was studying philosophy at London

University. And you know how it is, there’s plenty of

time for conversation during the long nights. Well, I

learned a bit about philosophy from her. I didn’t care

a lot for English philosophy, at least what they call

philosophy. But I found I liked Plato a lot, especially

the Symposium and the Timaeus.’

He looks over now, smiling ruefully. ‘I’m afraid

she wasn’t impressed. Not at all. But, I suppose, what

could you expect from a poetry lover? But they did

appeal to my imagination. I mean, two and a half

thousand years ago and there was a man who could

think into things like that.

‘Anyway, I got to know those works very well,

and I could pass the time on long journeys or during

tedious machine testings by going back over them.

But then one day I realised an oddity about

philosophy, at least the philosophy I knew. It was

this: philosophy deals with subjects only.’

There is a need at this stage to negotiate a way

past a large English tour bus, which is done with

many friendly gestures and smiles. Then the man

resumes:

‘It’s hard to explain why I thought this peculiar.

I was married and living here by then, and maybe I

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had begun to think in a different way about

philosophy. But the clue for me was Plato’s theory of

Forms. I could never be easy with the idea. I read that

the Sophists used to tease Plato and his followers

about the Forms of things like nail clippings and, I

suppose, though no one mentions it, piss and shite.

And, you know, Oisín, I never found an answer to

that in any of the books I read.

‘Mind you, once I thought that, there wasn’t

much else I could do with the insight. It was only

when I read a little book about Plato and Aristotle,

that I saw that, while Plato dealt with things – entities,

as they say – Aristotle deals with processes. Can you

see that? Here you have one philosopher who deals

with the world in terms of things, and their Forms,

while another one follows on by dealing with the

world in terms of activities and relationships rather

than the beings and things that perform these actions.

‘I thought that was very peculiar. I mean, it

seemed too neat. Well, of course, I didn’t stop

thinking about these ideas over the years here. Bit by

bit, I began to see other aspects. You can consider

Plato’s and Aristotle’s theories as two sides of a coin,

one seeing the world from the perspective of the

actor, and the other seeing in terms of that actor’s

90

actions. I thought then that if the two philosophies

were combined, then you would have a true

description of the world we live in.

‘The strange thing is, Oisín, there doesn’t seem

to be any such work. And, of course, I started

thinking about that now. It took me a long time to

reach the conclusion that there must be something

wrong with either one of the philosophies or even

with both. Well, I went over both philosophies, this

time reading commentaries on both Plato’s and

Aristotle’s works. To be honest, a lot of what I read

was too technical for me. But it was easy to see that

Plato’s forms were in many ways no more than

reflections of things. Everything that Plato says about

the Forms can be gleaned from what we can

experience of the things that the Forms represent. I

thought then that I had found a fault with Plato’s

philosophies, that it was little more than an empty

formalism dressed up in lively dialogues.

‘I was going to leave it at that, except one day I

read Aristotle’s warning that after the decomposition

undertaken as part of analysis, recomposition should

be undertaken by means of what he called synthesis. I

saw immediately that there was something wrong

with that. If you dissect an animal for analysis, how

91

can you put it back together? It seemed to me that

Aristotle was saying that if you wanted knowledge of

the world, then you had to in some way destroy that

world in order to gain it.

‘Maybe only a poet would see it as like that.

Even so, Oisín, it explained why no one had tried to

combine Aristotle’s philosophy with that of Plato. It

would be like pouring acid over an apple, in a way of

speaking.’

The man is slowing the van. They are passing a

lake, a lone house on the opposite side standing

without shelter under a big lump of a mountain.

Trees! There are trees lining the right side of the road.

The man points forward:

‘This is Kylemore Abbey coming up. You

should send a postcard of it to your family. It’s very

famous.’ They clear the trees and a curious gothic

structure comes into sight, on the opposite side of the

lake that is now on their right hand side. ‘You know,

the local labourers got paid a turnip a day building

that. One turnip. Some of the men walked twelve

miles here to get the work. Then they’d walk twelve

miles back after a long day with a turnip to feed their

families.’ The man issues a long forced sigh. ‘A

92

business man from Manchester, I think, built it.

That’s the way it was done in those days.’

Then it’s on under some more trees and the man

settles back again, but saying as with a last breath: ‘I

hate the sight of the place.’ But then he smiles. ‘Ah,

but the local are proud of it. Why not, I suppose?

They built it and it is world famous.’

They leave the shelter of the trees and return to

being surrounded by bare mountains and bogs. But

the man is slowing the van again as they approach a

turn-off to the right. He explains: ‘We have to drop

the fish off first. No matter, we’ll get a drink out of

it.’

This road is narrow and severely pot-holed, but

this doesn’t stop the man driving it hard. Then

suddenly they round a bend and the roadway opens

up before them, running straight across rough

farmland towards a village dominated by a church

spire.

‘You know, Oisín, the thing about Plato is this.

It was staring me in the face, though it took me a long

time to realise. You think you are learning something

when you read Aristotle, but you could find out most

of it yourself if you bothered to pull things to pieces.

But Plato, now, you start off with the same idea.

93

There’s nothing new about his Forms – you’d learn as

much through using things. But he does tell you

things you don’t know and maybe would never find

out on your own.

‘I mean, in the Symposium, for instance, there is

the claim that the sexes came into being through the

division of an original human being into a man and a

woman. And then in the Timaeus there is the

description of the universe being formed out of two

different elements. Where did Plato get that

knowledge from? I think myself that he just wrote

down what people thought about in those days.

‘But the great thing is this, Oisín. Remember

what I said about Plato’s philosophies being

dominated by subjects, you know, entities? Well, if

you abstract the characters from his philosophy and

think only about the events – processes – he

describes, then his philosophy turns into poetry.’

The man laughs out at this, pent with excitement

at last, slapping his hands down on the rims of the

wheel.

‘Oh I know I know what you’ll say. The poet

turns everything into poetry. Well, why not?’

The van breasts a short steep slope and they are

at once surrounded by houses, a sturdy church in their

94

centre. The man shoots across into a wider roadway

and they run downhill and out of the village.

‘But you should try it, Oisín! Take the process

of the Same and Other in the Timaeus and let them

create the universe in your imagination. Oh I promise

you, boy, but you’ll see this very world in a

completely different light.’

At the bottom of the hill there is another village,

snug houses in a line to the left, turf smoke rising

everywhere, two young girls sitting on a little bridge

watching them approach at top speed. Then they are

across the bridge – a tangerine flash of wild irises on

the banks below – and the man brakes sharply and

swings the van into a yard by the side of the largest

house. The man is saying something, but the clatter of

stones under the van means that he cannot hear. The

man realises this, so he concentrates instead on

steering them between outbuildings and on into a

small yard at the back of the house.

The man switches off the engine with a sigh.

Dogs are barking frantically in a shed nearby. A

woman comes out of the house with the calm patience

of a murdered Irish mother. But she smiles sweetly

and raises a tentative hand. ‘Oh, is it you, Josie?

Willy is over in Tooreenah with the ponies.’

95

The man hops out and points back to the van.

‘Fair day to you, Kate. This is the fish from Dingle. Is

Neddy Mike about? Sure, he can put it in the store till

Willy gets back.’

‘Ah,’ the woman says, reaching to wipe her

hands in the apron about her waist, ‘and he can do

that. Now will you come in and have the tea with us?’

The man goes around to open the passenger

door of the van. ‘Ah no, Kate, not this evening. Sure I

rang Mary from Recess and she’ll be expecting us.’

The woman comes forward when she sees him

getting out of the van. She is wiping her hands in the

apron again. The man does the honours:

‘Well, Kate, and look what I picked up on the

road.’ He winks at him, a little nod too, in case he’s

not getting the message. ‘His name is Oisín Traynor

and he’s from Dublin.’

The woman puts her small hand forward,

shaped out of practice but held low out of a deeply

engrained reluctance. ‘Welcome to Connemara, Mr

Traynor.’

The man now steps in such a way that he is

standing by the woman’s side. He touches her lightly

on her rounded shoulder and says: ‘And this is Kate

96

O’Neill, Oisín, the mistress of this fine

establishment.’

Now the woman smiles again and he can see the

determination in her and the religious capacity to

suffer, and suffer greatly if need be. He finally takes

her hand, feeling less of the awkward guilt that had

been growing in him – how not to evade this

dispiriting situation – heartened instead at least by

what he feels is her innate courage.

He should reply at this point, but whatever he

might say is frozen because he finds that he is looking

through a window into a back room of the house,

where a youth is punching a little boy on the side of

his head. The little boy’s piercing scream can be

heard out in the yard, accompanied by a second

scream as a little girl – just coming into view – joins

him, both screams exactly the same in pitch and

intensity.

The woman mutters something, most like a

prayer, and hurries back towards the house.

Now a tall lean man in his late twenties comes

around the shed – in which the dogs are still barking

frantically – and heads straight for the back of the

van. The man turns to him.

‘Great day, Neddy Mike.’

97

The other man raises a large hand. ‘Thanks be

to God for that, Josie.’ He lifts the tarpaulin back as

the man says, ‘A few stone there, Neddy Mike. Plenty

of ice too.’

‘Aye aye, I see that.’ He sniffs. ‘Oh but it’s

done the job game ball, Josie.’

The man turns to him, ‘You could go around the

front to the bar. I’ll get Molly to go out and pull us a

couple of pints.’ He calls to the other man. ‘Will you

have a pint, Neddy?’

‘Oh no, oh no, I still have a bit of work to be

done. But another time then.’

The man propels him. ‘You go. I’ll finish here

and come round in a few minutes. Have you got your

pack?’

He has his rucksack in his left hand, no weight

because practically nothing in it.

He thinks, an involuntary insight and not

welcomed: I have arrived.

The asphalted track between the outbuildings

leads out onto the wide gravel access laneway

running down to the public road. He can still hear the

children screaming, even though there are now

98

several buildings between him and the unfortunate

pair. The dogs are still barking too. There are no

houses on the other side of the road, so the view

opens onto a wide bay – lit deep blue by the still high

sun – and a tall mountain that lines the far shore. A

scenic wonder: there are no clouds to be seen and the

undulating horizon of high mountain, distant hills,

sandy coastline, and flat ocean at the extreme left is

etched sharply against the sky.

The view gives him pause, the aesthetic familiar

to him, though it is now buried by what seems to him

by contrast a more dreadful reality. And the strange

thing is this: for all the brightness and brilliance, he

experiences this world as though an encroaching

darkness – composed of very fine grains like a soot –

is filling the periphery of vision. He knows it’s not

really there in the outside world. It’s like an inner

oppression, like something in him is closing down.

He finds himself on the roadway, the distressing

sounds almost inaudible now. There are some

doorways let into the house. One is open, two are

closed. The open door leads to the bar. It surprises

him that it is empty. He is glad it is empty – in no

state to suffer the wit mildly inebriated countrymen –

then he is desolate that it is. In that desolate state, he

99

realises just how frightened he is, how frightened he

has been since that incident this morning.

But the instinct is to overcome this fear by

concentrating on his surroundings.

It’s a country bar, like the little bars in

Wicklow, in Roundwood or Valleymount, but

especially the one below the road in Lacken. There is

the dusty little table and its dusty little chairs in a

corner away from the bar that no one uses, the stools

along the bar itself, and the foot-rail here at the higher

end, where the pumps are. He knows from experience

that some men prefer to stand the whole evening at

the high end, elbow on the bar supporting their head,

pint in their free hand, calling banter down the bar to

those seated there. And there are the calendars, the

framed picture of the Sacred Heart or the Mother of

God, screwed-in ads for drink and tobacco. The walls

are stained an uneven brown and all the surfaces

gleam with the shiny layer of tar from years of

smoking.

And then there is nothing to look at. Then – as

circumstances would have it – a piping voice asks:

‘Are you the one that came in with Uncle

Josie?’

100

He finds he is staring back out the door at the

beautiful scene outside. He nods, turning.

‘Well, Uncle Josie wants me to pour ye pints,

but Mammy wants to know if you are hungry.’

The girl is tall for her age, pale and thin with a

huge mop of fine brown hair. He can see from how

she concentrates that she is prone to accidents.

‘No, I’m fine.’

He can see also from how she holds the big

glass that she is naturally left handed and can

understand why she might have trouble handling

things. But he says, banal because he is taking too

much notice of her – there being no other distraction:

‘It’s a great evening, isn’t it?’

She looks up at him with something like a

scared expression, then has to look away again as the

glass in her hand slips and slops the stout. Anyway,

she gets the two glasses filled and leaves them to

settle on top of the bar. Turning to go – a tearful voice

suddenly rising in pitch from within the house – she

asks, her large blue eyes lighting on him, her tongue

suddenly awkward in her mouth – as though she

speaks an unfamiliar language:

‘Mammy says you’re from Dublin.’

101

He steps back so far that he comes up against

the little table over in the corner. He puts the rucksack

on it, saying as though reciting an historical fact:

‘Born and reared.’ He chances a quick smile,

flirting to cover for his growing reluctance, as he

adds, ‘I’m afraid.’

She laughs out freely at this little token. ‘Oh, it

must be great to live in Dublin. I’m going to live in

Dublin when I grow up.’

He nods at this, seeing her at once in her

bedsitter in Rathmines, then the half-world of the

nursery suburbs for the balance of her life.

‘Why?’

‘It’s a big place.’

He goes over to the door, saying while he

indicates with his hand, ‘But not as big as this.’

‘Oh,’ she says immediately to his back, ‘but

nothing happens here.’

The child is shouting in the back of the house.

He can hear the mother’s voice, thin and nasal, and a

gruffer voice then, sounding put upon and

threatening. A car passes outside, its old engine

labouring. He wants to say something out of his age

and experience, but knows that he could not say what

it is in him to say, something about the reach of the

102

ocean outside, how it must always threaten to engulf

those that live on its shores.

He shrugs instead and steps out into the world.

There is then the moment of melancholy and regret,

the sense that he has at last failed. There is a comfort

in this, failure creating the necessary limit to his

existence. But for a fleeting instant, he sees himself

diving deep into the ocean, sees the freedom there,

the abandonment.

The man comes around the corner of the house,

sees him and calls out:

‘Has Molly got those pints ready yet?’

He catches him by the elbow and draws him

back into the bar, face momentarily close to his:

‘Then we can go home for the tea.’

As it happens, the two pints are waiting for

them at the lower bar, fully settled and invitingly

dark. The man gives one to him, then takes the second

for himself. He raises it in salutation and calls out:

‘Your good health, Molly my girl.’

They both do justice to dark thick brew. He

says, wiping the froth from his upper lip: ‘Good

cellar?’

The man indicates the high end of the bar: ‘All

solid stone here. Always the same temperature.’

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Then there is silence. Neither intends rushing

the pint, but first the man drains his glass, and then he

follows suit, as by reflex.

He asks: ‘Time for another one?’

The man nods and calls for Molly, and when

she comes he glances to him, so that he says, voice

thickened as the alcohol begins to work in him:

‘Two more pints for us, please.’

Yes, the alcohol works just fine on him. He

says, looking closely at the man for perhaps the first

time:

‘Sometimes, we’d come in from a really good

climb and sit and drink for three or four hours

straight.’ He bends forward even more, a sudden

impossible desire for something he knows very

clearly he never had. ‘Not getting drunk, just high

like some hippies.’

The man is watching him very closely too. ‘You

sound as though that will never happen again.’

The girl chooses this moment to say, released

from the demand of filling the glasses: ‘Are you

going to climb the mountains here? You can see

everywhere from Leiter Hill.’

He looks at the man, who explains: ‘It’s the hill

up behind the village.’

104

His mouth is suddenly bitter and he knows that

he is out of step here. He can easily say the wrong

thing. So he turns and points out the doorway at the

mountain on the far side of the bay. ‘What mountain

is that?’

The man is about to answer, but when he see the

girl becoming animated, he settles back. She leans

forward towards him, the openness in her both

remarkable and daunting, both naïve and dangerous.

‘That’s Mweelrea. It’s the highest mountain in

Connaught.’

He goes across to the doorway, saying, ‘So

that’s Mweelrea. I hear it can be tricky in bad

weather.’ There is a swagger coming into his voice,

the insouciance of the hill-walker talking about his

mountains. At the same time, the sight of the reach of

the land there fills him with something close to

despair, a realisation that he no longer possesses the

will power to make the climb.

Being buffeted like this by contrary emotions is

draining his morale. He turns back to face the two

people in the bar – the girl in the process of topping

up the pints and passing them over to the lower

counter – and says, a plaintiveness in his voice that he

cannot control:

105

‘What were those mountains we passed when

we left the main road. After you’d made that

telephone call.’

The girl is watching him intently and seems not

to have heard his question, so it’s the man who

answers this time:

‘They were the Twelve Bens.’ He reaches for

his pint and takes a sup. ‘Now, they can be

dangerous. The weather can change there in minutes.’

He knows he doesn’t want the second pint now,

knowing himself well enough to know that it will

make him maudlin. But he comes over anyway and

takes it up, drinks a mouthful and says to the man,

‘No, it won’t. You can be eighteen only once.’

The man appraises him – he can see that the

man is momentarily taken aback, perhaps the remark

is too personal – then he says, his glass raised already

to his mouth:

‘And then?’

He is kicking himself for his cockiness. What he

said is true, but why he said it is another matter. But

he has said it and received the response it merited. He

twists his mouth, then follows the man in drinking

more stout. Afterwards he says:

106

‘Anyone who has been eighteen knows the

answer to that.’

This is a serious breach, and he acknowledges

that it has happened through his own fault. But it is

the girl who answers, again leaning forward towards

him in that openness – even eager now that she is

doing it for the second time:

‘I’ll show you a way up Leiter, if you like.’

He looks at her, thoroughly bemused. The man

has stood up and is draining off the stout. He takes the

hint and finishes his own pint. He reaches for his

wallet, but it’s the man who pays, dropping half-

crowns onto the counter.

Outside on the roadway, the man takes a big

breath. He spends the time looking again at the wide

panorama, the sun still high though an evening glow

beginning to settle at last on the land and sea.

‘Eighteen is not always the uplifting experience

you believe it is,’ the man says at his back, a flat man-

to-man tone now in his voice.

He nods at this without looking around. ‘But it’s

always the same experience.’ He is surprised to hear

himself say this, not knowing where the idea has

sprung from. Turning now, he sees the man nod, a

wistful expression crossing his face. ‘It’s to do with

107

becoming an adult, I think. Something opens for a

moment or two and a kind of light shines through.’

He shrugs, deflated now that a tension has eased in

him.

‘No,’ the man says. ‘Nothing like that I can

remember.’

He looks around him, wondering which way to

go, hoping it’s not back into that yard. He shrugs

again. ‘Maybe people don’t let it happen.’

The man walks away, back towards the gravel

track up by the side of the house. He follows, saying:

‘But I think they forget it.’

‘Would they forget something like that?’

‘People can forget anything they want.’

The man doesn’t go between the outbuildings

this time, pressing on up towards a stand of trees

instead, where a blue van is parked. He goes around

and lets himself in, then slides the offside door open.

The man, who is pressing the starter on the floor as he

gets in, says:

‘Maybe they don’t know it happens.’ The

engine shudders into life, the cowling between them

rattling slightly. ‘What you said about memory.’

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He is surprised to hear this – though he

shouldn’t be – surprised mainly because the man

remembers that. He nods, ‘Education?’

A youth is standing on the gravel track ahead of

them, a parcel held in his arms. The man sucks in his

breath. He slows and indicates that he should slide his

door open. The youth comes forward and says:

‘Daddy said you were to be given this, Uncle

Josie.’

The man grunts and says curtly, ‘Put it on the

floor there.’

The youth lays the newspaper wrapped parcel

on the floor between his feet. Then the youth glances

at him, hostile, cornered, weirdly vulnerable. He nods

to be friendly, but then recognises him for the youth

he had seen punching the little boy. His hatred of him

is sudden and fierce.

The man wrenches the gear shift under the

wheel and accelerates the van down towards the

roadway, swings right back over the little bridge and

up the hill towards the church. He says:

‘I shouldn’t blame him entirely. That’s the

problem with terrorism, it breeds hatred like a

disease. Anyway, the whole country is built on it.’ He

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glances over quickly, challenging in his anger. ‘Isn’t

that right?’

He temporises, ‘Strictness, yes.’

The man goes right at the church, the road

descending towards a river, the land opening again

towards bogs and mountains.

‘Strictness? Yes, I understand that. But in places

like this, it’s not about discipline, but about fear. They

break each other down and then they can’t trust

anyone. That kid just does what he’s seen his father

do.’

The river is deep and turbulent, and yet has its

sources in the mountains only a few miles away. Then

it’s uphill again, fuchsia in bloom along either side of

the road, a silver sheen overlaying the blue sky.

‘But it’s the women, the children, that suffer the

most. The men can beat the shite out of each other for

all I care, but I cannot stand it to see them hit a

woman or a child. Take Molly – you remember from

the bar – up to about two years ago she was the

sweetest girl you could meet. She was kind,

considerate, and very forthright. Now, she has lost all

confidence in herself. Something bad happened to

her, Oisín.’ He glances over. ‘And I think that brother

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of hers is to blame. I hate to think what he’s done to

her. You know, I’d kill him, I really would.’

The man slows the van at the top of the hill and

swings right into a narrow road. He drives slowly past

a row of houses, greeting those who greet him, then

out between more fuchsia blossom.

‘Sorry about that, Oisín. I shouldn’t involve you

in family matters. Mary and I have no children of our

own, and Molly has become like a daughter to us.’

There’s a house in the offing now, russet light

glinting on the slate roof. The man drives past the

house – glimpse of heavy brown door set in a stone

porch, flash of flowers, through a gap in the fuchsia

hedging – then he exerts himself to spin the van into

the yard at the back, braking sharply, all executed as

out of habit.

He switches off the engine, slides back his door,

then stops and turns to him.

‘There’s poor supervision in the family, Oisín.

Willy is out all day doing his business and she’s in

the shop. They had maids, but they won’t stay now

that there are teenage boys. Oh, Kate acts as though

everything is fine. She’s that sort of country mother –

as you probably have recognised – who will do

anything to keep the peace.’ He looks away,

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grimacing. He looks away also, seeing the yard paved

with heavy flags, grass and small flowering plants

growing in the gaps between them, a high boundary

wall behind an old shed. The man then looks back,

eyes very intent, disclosing private thoughts to

someone at last: ‘You can’t really blame her, she

doesn’t have much choice now. You’ve seen the way

they are, immature and deeply vulnerable on one side,

cagey and aggressive on the other. And it’s not just

this family. The whole area is like that. It’s a hard

place to make a living and it makes for a hard people,

I suppose. But where I come from, in northwest

Donegal, is no less hard and yet the people there are

steady and co-operative.’

He goes to leave the van, then he swings back.

He laughs a short ironic laugh, self-conscious now.

‘Ah, sure, I might as well finish it. I’ve thought about

it often enough as it is. My people in Donegal, we’re

Scottish immigrants, once tenants of a branch of the

Stewarts that settled there. Ironically, you’ll notice

that O’Neill is an Ulster name. They were just one of

the prominent Ulster families – the O’Hagans, Kanes,

Diamonds, O’Donnells, as well as the O’Neills –

who were driven here by Cromwell and his armies.

You have to appreciate that those families had ruled

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Ulster for over a thousand years and it was a big

comedown to end up among these bogs. They’ve

been marginalised for over eight generations, so you

can imagine the effect that has had on them.’

The man scoops up the newspaper wrapped

parcel from the floor of the van. ‘Ah, well. That’s

history in the flesh, isn’t it?.’ He throws him a quick

glance, ‘So, Oisín, my good friend, will we go in now

and have the tea?’

Only as he slides the door open – no special

knack required here – does he realise he hasn’t got his

rucksack with him. The man notices immediately.

‘Ah, your bag. It’ll be safe enough. I’ll pop

down later and get it for you.’

He raises the latch and they enter the house, a

deserted kitchen, very neat and tidy, a long range to

the left – a bin beside it for the turf – a slow eddy of

steam rising from a big black kettle there. He unwraps

the parcel on the draining board by the porcelain sink

to reveal a whole leg of lamb.

‘Mary always complains that Willy keeps the

chops for himself.’

Then down a short hall to the left and into a

small room with a round table and chairs, a large

dresser with an impressive display of Willow Pattern

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delph, topped by a line of huge serving plates and

tureens. The table is covered with a heavily

embroidered cloth, bright yellow roses in a vase at its

centre.

‘We’re late,’ the man announces with some

ironic amusement. He ducks back into the kitchen.

‘Quarter to seven. Late.’ He’s smiling a fond smile.

‘No matter.’ He moves the vase to the dresser, folds

the cloth away. Underneath, there is a brightly

coloured oilcloth. Lifting a teacloth on the dresser, he

reveals two little stacks of cup, saucer and side plate,

appropriate cutlery between them. Then into the

kitchen, where he passes him a large bowl of Irish

salad – lettuce, chopped scallions and quartered

tomatoes in almost equal proportions – and a plate of

sliced cooked ham to carry. He himself gathers the

soda bread and butter. Once the table is laid, the man

says, deeply satisfied: ‘And now the tea.’ He

disappears into the kitchen.

The little room is very quiet, a dense silence that

exposes all the rattle within himself. He sits on the

chair that faces the window. Through the gleaming

net curtain he can see the top of some trees and a

section of the bright sky. He lets the rattle rattle away

in him, slightly groggy after the day of unexpected

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incident. Something in the room, like a remainder of

the attention this room gets day after day, is seeping

into him, filling him with an unexpected relief.

The man comes in and sits to his right at the

table. He is smiling again.

‘Give the tea a minute to draw, Oisín. There’s a

little story Mary is always telling me. There was a

couple living up in Tully a few years ago. He was a

carpenter and very hard working. Now his wife was a

bit lackadaisical about the house, while he was a man

with steady habits. Anyway, it was a summertime like

the one we’re having at the moment. The man came

home from his work and discovered the house empty,

nothing on the table and nothing on the stove. He

rushes out into the village and asks what has

happened to his wife. Some of the children tell him

that she’s been seen down on Trá na mBán, a strand

just below the village. So he hurries down there and

sees her sitting on a rock, her face up to catch the sun,

eyes closed. So he rushes over to her and cries out,

“Where’s the dinner, Nora?’ She gives him a quick

glance and goes back to sunning herself. “Ah,

Eugene,” she says, “we’ll have it tomorrow.”’

And there is something to laugh at here, though

he’s not sure what it is. They are laughing together,

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and then he is thinking that he’s laughing at the

absurdity of the woman and the fact that rates of

mental disturbance are above average along the

Western seaboard.

The man, for his part, is very satisfied at the

reception the little tale has received. He goes into the

kitchen and comes back bearing a battered aluminium

teapot, the knob missing from its lid. The tea is the

way it should be, not too strong, the hot liquid

sluicing into the cups like rich turf water. The man is

explaining, altogether lighter in tone:

‘Mary likes to use delph teapots.’ He points

quickly and he sees the row of floral patterned teapots

on the second highest shelf of the dresser. ‘But I like

the tea hot from the Rayburn.’

He’s gone again, the teapot hitting the iron

surface of the range with a flat dunk – plenty of tea

left in it. Then he’s back and they can get down to the

business of eating. They have only taken the edge of

their hunger, when the man says, buttering a thick

slice of the soda bread:

‘Well, you know, Oisín my boy, I think most of

the problems to do with man and woman are caused

by the fact that most people don’t seem to understand

that there is only one sex. I mean, both men and

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women are fundamentally male in their sexuality. I

know, I know. It always upsets people to hear this.

They think there’s no difference then between being

natural and queer. And the truth is, Oisín, in terms of

sexual intercourse, there probable isn’t. And yet the

point is, the great majority of men and women choose

to form relationships with someone of the opposite

sex, as it were. Can you see that? And the great

question is, Why is that?

‘Well, some people say it’s because of custom

or tradition. Men and women grow up expecting to

marry and have children, just like their parents, and

they just do that. You can’t argue with that – it seems

to be true. But is this a matter of sex alone? If there is

only one sex, then all sexual pleasure is a form of

masturbation. And, strictly, masturbation doesn’t

require another person to be involved. You could say

then that men and women unite in order to have

children. There is a point here. If a man is sexually

male, then it’s obvious that a woman – though

sexually male – is more than just a man. To the extent

that the woman differs from the man in being able to

bear children, then it can be argued that it is this that

distinguishes the woman from the man.’

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The man jumps up from the table and gets a jar

from the press under the dresser. He places it at his

elbow and explains:

‘This is the best bramble and apple jam in the

whole West, I promise you. Anyway, as I was saying,

is it the womb then that makes a woman more than

just a man? I thought so for years, Oisín. I mean, it

explains most of the differences. The interesting

thing, I always thought, by removing childbearing

from the sexual activity, as such, it enhances the

whole process of having children, for both the man

and the woman.

‘Of course, I was never going to leave it at that.

If you compare a man and a woman, you find they

have everything in common, except that the woman

has the womb. Right. So I came to approach the

question in a different way. Of all the parts that men

and women have in common, have any of them been

modified in a way specific to that gender? Well, the

male penis is obviously different to what the woman

has, yes? But the woman’s breasts are very different

to a man’s. See? Is this how the woman differs from

the man? Can you see what I’m getting at? Instead of

acting on assumptions that may have no grounding in

fact, start with what is already there. So you compare

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the man and the woman as they are, seeing where

they are the same and where they are different.

Everything is broadly similar, except for the

modifications in the man’s penis and in the woman’s

breasts.

‘Now, it’s clear that the purpose of the

modifications to the woman’s breast allow her feed

her newborn child. So the two modifications make

sense in terms of producing new human beings. Do

you agree with that, Oisín?’

He has reached the stage where he is eating for

the sheer enjoyment of the food on offer. Perhaps it’s

the country air, or perhaps his extreme exhaustion,

but he is amazed at how much soda bread – layered

thickly with butter and the bramble and apple jam –

he can eat. The only problem for him is that his cup is

empty, so he asks, once he has cleared his mouth:

‘Is there any more tea?’

The man is off immediately, out the door and

down the little passageway to the kitchen. Then he is

back, teapot in one hand, the rucksack in his other. ‘It

was out in the hall. Someone must have brought it up

from Tully.’

119

The tea is welcome, all the more now that his

ruck is lying at his feet. When the man comes back,

he says:

‘Don’t you have any regard for evolution?’

The man tosses his head. ‘Evolution? I had a

friend in London who believed that all knowledge

was symptomatic. You know, like evidence for what

was going on in the human race at any time. He used

to argue that if you could explain the Creation

account in the Book of Genesis you could understand

why the modern theory of evolution has the form it

has. But if you’re asking me, then I can only answer

that I’m not dealing with the subject in terms of

evolution – of how humans came to be – only with

what they are now.’ He smiles a surprisingly happy

smile, eyes suddenly bright, which transforms the

slightly melancholic cast of his features.

He shrugs in reply and reaches for another slice

of the soda bread. So the man continues, he also

preparing a slice of the bread:

‘Now the main question for me here is this. The

wormy thing that has becomes a penis in the man, and

the two little glorified pimples on the chest have

become breasts in the woman. Question: what where

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they before that? I mean, before they were modified,

what purpose did they serve?’

The pause here is rhetorical, but he takes the

opportunity – now that all the food has been eaten and

all the tea drunk – to ask:

‘Can I use the toilet?’

The man is on his feet immediately, stepping

out into the passageway. When he has caught up with

him, the man points further along the passageway,

saying: ‘Along to the stairs on the left there. The

bathroom is in to the side under the stairs. You can’t

miss it.’

There is only the light from a curtained panel in

the door at the end of the passageway to guide him in

the murk. He senses rather than sees the heavy frames

hanging on the walls on either sides. There is more

light at the end of the passageway – light streaming

down from a window at the return on the stairs. He is

surprised to see what is a tall mirror set into the wall

facing the stairs, partly covered by a heavy drape.

Then it’s into the deep gloom in by the stairs, but the

bathroom door is open, so the light shafting out from

there leads him through.

The bathroom is a mixture of old and new:

modern toilet bowl and hand-basin nearby, an old

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porcelain bath of ample proportion along the inner

wall, served by thick piping running from a large

copper boiler in the corner. He settles on the bowl and

dozes through the succession of natural movements.

The silence is overwhelming, so profound that it

startles him from time to time, his head coming up in

a twitchy expectant that this silence will be – must be,

by some law of averages – broken in some shocking

way.

Which, of course, doesn’t happen. So he cleans

up and makes his way back by the stairs.

Approaching it face on, the surface of the mirror

seems to emit a soft low light – over and above the

light it reflects from the windows about it. The

surface, in fact, seems unusual: not glass, more like a

stone highly polished but with numerous tiny

imperfections in the crystal itself. It is warm to touch,

and he is passive enough at the moment to be aware

that the stone also vibrates with a low, very rapid

pulse.

Then it’s back to the little room with the table.

The man looks up – he has been engrossed in the

cigarette he is smoking. ‘You found it alright?’

A nod is enough. Then the man says, before he

has even sat down:

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‘So, what do you think of all that?’

He takes a deep breath, as though the extra

oxygen might give him the energy to reply: ‘I’m sure

it’s very interesting, Josie.’ The word is out before he

can stop it, but he realises at once that there was

nothing remarkable in how he uttered it. And the man

seemed not to notice that this is the first time he has

addressed him by name. ‘But it’s not going to change

how people behave, will it?’

The man makes a moue – which gives him an

intellectual air that he had not seen before: ‘But it

might help people’s understanding of each other. I

think it helps explain so much about how people

behave towards each other. For instance, it shows that

there are elements in the relations between men and

women that have nothing to do with sex at all, though

they are usually seen in terms of sex. The way men

and women are constantly being drawn to each other

– that seems more to do with a kind of profound

curiosity rather just promiscuity. As for sex itself, the

way it works itself out between men and women

seems to make it a form of violence. And as for love,

it seems to me the stronger the love between a man

and a woman, the deeper the revulsion they have of

each other’s physicality.’

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He nods, hearing an echo here at last. But he

says, an instinctive suspicion still of this theorising:

‘But it won’t stop what people do, will it? I mean, I

agree that everyone would be happy if they could be,

but you cannot think your way into happiness. No

matter how mysterious we all are, Josie, we have to

deal with the brute facts of our lives.’

The man nods, seemingly chastened by what

has been said. ‘Fair enough, Oisín. But I still think

understanding is important. The world – and the

people in it – just can’t go on in some blind

mechanical way, a set of accidents leading on to more

accidents.’ He shakes his head, staring down at the

remains of their tea: ‘No, something else comes out of

all this. A kind of knowledge that can lead to

understanding.’ He leans forward, suddenly a stark

intimacy between them – despite their respective

ages, how recently they had met – and says, his eyes

focused intently on his: ‘Think of this, Oisín, when

you have time. Where did the womb come from? The

is no comparable organ in the man, nothing even

remotely like it.’ He leans back in his chair, blinking

to break the tired stare his eyes have fallen into, and

smiling more warmly, a genuine affection radiating

from him:

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‘You try to find an answer to that conundrum,

Oisín, during the rest of your life. Where did the

womb come from? Everything else that differentiates

the man from the woman is a modification of some

part of either of them. But the womb comes from

outside. Do you see? The womb was put into the

woman.’

The man pats the table with his palms. ‘There

now. I’m sure that’s enough of that.’ He stands up

and draws in his shoulders, then relaxes them. ‘I don’t

get to talk to many people who might be interested.’

He stands up too, nodding: ‘Oh, it’s interesting

enough, Josie. But I’m not a philosopher.’

The man nods at this, momentarily deflated, but

recovers very quickly. ‘What would you like to do?

Mary is keeping out of the way. You know, shy, and

this is her home. Would you like to read? The front

room is full of books and it gets the sun in the

evening this time of the year.’

He reaches down for his ruck, hefting its

lightness. ‘I’m pretty jacked. Could I just go to bed?’

Then he pauses and looks over the table. ‘What about

these?’

‘Oh, don’t worry about those. I’ll clean them

away.’

125

He drops the ruck at his feet. ‘Oh no, I’ll help.’

Washing up is a game where the home side

washes – knowing the layout peculiar to the home

kitchen – and the visitor dries – an activity generally

the same everywhere.

The man says, working deftly through the little

pile of cups, plates and cutlery, ‘I’m always surprised

at what comes out when I get going. Is it like that

with you?’

He has to think about some aspects of that

question ‘I don’t think I talk so easily, Josie. I seem to

do things rather than talk about things.’

‘Don’t you talk with your friends? You’re

girlfriends?’

He shrugs, momentarily caught out: ‘If I do, I

don’t remember much about it.’

The man must nod to this. He waits until he has

finished and cleaned up before turning to face him:

‘How can you not think, Oisín?’

He too has finished the drying, and he knows

enough about these routines to spread the tea-towel

out along the bar in front of the range to dry. He

thinks about the question the man has asked as he

does.

‘I don’t think in words, that’s all.’

126

The man is so taken by this answer – by the

insight it reveals – that he impulsively reaches and

clutches him by his elbow.

‘Good man, Oisín.’ Then he draws him out of

the kitchen: ‘Come on, I’ll show you where your

room is.’

In the hallway, the man notices the curtain

drawn back from the mirror and remarks: ‘Molly. She

spends a lot of time mooning in front of it. I think she

wants to be beautiful when she grows up.’

‘It’s an impressive mirror, all the same.’

‘It is that. The locals call it the Scathán Geal,

which means the Bright Mirror. It’s famous around

here. Very old. Made of some kind of crystal.’

At the stairs, the man invites him to take a quick

look outside. Through the side door and down some

steps there is an open area between the house and the

wall. The large shed occupies much of the space to

the left – he can see piles of sacking and balls of

coarse twine on the ground in there, the snout of an

old tractor with what seem like spavined front wheels.

There is a small metal gate let into the wall directly

before them, open at the moment, a large black

bicycle with a brand new basket strapped to the

handlebars on the ground beside it. Through the gate

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and they are standing on a low rise above a patchwork

of fields, beyond which is an inlet and – to the left – a

hill running away from them seawards. The sun is

setting directly before them, become by now a

wonderful golden radiance. The man points to the

figures in a field in the middle distance.

‘That’s Molly down there with my wife. As you

can see, it’s all laid out as a market garden. It was

Mary’s idea, and credit to her, she has made a fine job

of it. Most of the vegetables go to the local hotels. It

helped that I know the managers. Molly likes to help

her.’

The woman with Molly is tall too, but with a

shock of white hair. She is working strongly along a

line of cauliflowers, her niece pacing her along a

parallel row. They are talking animatedly.

‘We planted trees over there, apples and pears.

They say plums will grow, but Mary thinks it’s too

exposed here. We’re surrounded on three sides by the

ocean. Very stormy in the winter.’

The man falls silent, so he says at his side:

‘Great evening.’

The man does no more than nod and say ‘Aye’

in a more pronounced Donegal accent. On the way

back into the house, he explains his mood:

128

‘The view here always reminds me of where I

grew up. The farm faced out north west like this. It

would look exactly like this on a summer’s evening,

except there would be the ocean. Daddy used to say

that the next bit of land across the Atlantic from us

was Iceland.’

On the stairs he says, ‘No one knows how old

this house is. The deeds only go back to when the

Blakes sold it to a retired naval officer, and Mary’s

father bought it when the old lad died back in the

twenties. Very little has been done to it since. But,

you know, Oisín, the wall are two foot thick, solid

stone, and the whole house stands on a bed of rock.

There’s no plumbing in the house and all the wiring

runs in conduits along the edges of the rooms. It’s

impossible to date the house, in fact.’

He turns suddenly on the stairs and the man asks

with an uncharacteristic anxiety: ‘What is it?’

‘Oh, the ruck. I forgot it again.’

He goes back down to the little room where they

had eaten, picks up the ruck. The man is waiting for

him in the passageway. He is smiling with a very real

relief. He extends his hand and takes him by the

elbow again.

129

‘Here, let me show you, before you go up to

bed.’ He leads him to the right, into the very murky

hallway. Thick drapes close it off just a few feet in.

‘Almost everything is as the naval officer left it. Look

at these drapes. That’s raw silk.’ The man draws him

closer. ‘Look, that’s gold thread. See how it’s worked

into the fabric. And the dye has never faded, even

after all these years. Pure emerald green. Strange

colour for an Englishman to have in his house,

especially here. But I’m told the IRA never touched

this house. He was able to go about his business

without any hindrance. Anyway.’ He takes his elbow

again. ‘Come and see this room, Oisín.’ He opens the

door and immediately a great radiance of glowing

light fills the hall and spills away into the passageway

beyond. The man tows him into the room. There is

ceiling-high shelving covering most of the walls, but

only a few hundred books are stacked there, over on

either side of the fireplace.

‘Sometimes this room goes to my head and I

want to go into Galway and buy lorry loads of books

– any kind of books – for the shelves.’

The man is drawing him down the room, but he

has eyes only for the light at the tall windows, the

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incandescent glow through which only the faintest

shadow of the wall outside can be seen.

‘Did I tell you that Molly loves poetry? She’ll

spend hours in here when let. She used to sit hunched

in the armchair there. It was too big for her, so she

sank down in the middle. But I’ve got her to use this

chair. Look.’ A large straight-backed chair, with a

padded seat, a bookrest contraption attached to the

left armrest, so that a book could be positioned

exactly as a reader might want it. ‘It’s perfect for her.

Here, see what she’s reading.’

Dante’s Paradiso.

The man smiles dotingly. ‘I tell you, Oisín, that

girl would read the Iliad before breakfast, and Milton

after.’

He nods for the man’s sake and then lets his

eyes travel back to the window, realising as he does

that he does not like the room. Even if it the shelves

were filled with appropriate books, if the furniture

was not so dusty, the chandelier so dilapidated, he

would not feel comfortable here. He drifts towards

the window, conscious that the man is watching him

with uncertainty – the man of course vulnerable in the

intimacy of his home – and finds that he can see out

over the wall. It is not the sun itself that is casting the

131

strong golden light into the room. Instead, the sun is

reflected on the calm water of the inlet just beyond

the fields so that it is reflected magnified in intensify

to the point where the first sight of it sears his eyes.

The man says: ‘It’s the words she loves really,

Oisín. I’m not sure she understands the half of it. She

never talks about what she reads and I don’t try to

make her.’

He is blinking furiously, irritated in his

tiredness, but seeing something nonetheless in the

vivid flashes that fill his inner vision. He would like

to call it by another name – beauty, especially, or

even only allure – but the only word that will match

his feelings is more like rejection or disappointment.

The man says, ‘The mustiness lingers even into

the summer, I know. It’s the stone. It doesn’t breath

and moisture only condenses on it. I think it’s why

Mary won’t have anything to do with this room,

because she can’t control the damp.’

The man misinterprets the tears he sees in his

eyes, so he says hurriedly: ‘No, it’s the bright light.’

The man nods, his head going down a little, as

though he too is suffering a disappointment. He says

with a consoling tenderness: ‘Ah, but you must be

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dead tired, Oisín. You’ve had a long day. A good

night’s sleep will set you up fine. Come on.’

The man takes his elbow again and guides him

out of the room, saying as he does: ‘It’s a different

matter with the dining room across there’ – indicating

the other side of the hall – ‘with her. Every year she

tries to get Willy and the family to come here for

Christmas dinner. Ah but well, Kate won’t stand for

that.’

They both trudge up the stairs, tiredness finally

engulfing both. But the man continues anyway: ‘I

think the panelling is better. Oak. It seems to sweeten

the air in there. I like it, but it’s too big for just the

two of us. Since Willy took over the business – after

the mother died – well, there always was a rivalry…

In here.’

At the head of the stairs there is an ample

vestibule – at the centre of the blind wall a brightly

coloured statue of Our Lady of Lourdes on a small

table, surrounded by partially burned candles in

holders and little vases of flowers – two doors set in

the wall to the front and two others in the wall

immediately to the right. The golden light of the

sunset is pouring in here too, but creating an

extremely comfortable air against the pale wood. The

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man is leading him to the door furthest along to the

right, saying: ‘Better up here, Oisín. The wood here is

beech, I’m told. God knows how old. I spent months

cleaning it back when we first came here. Beautiful

material.’ He opens the door, steps back. ‘Now, in

here. Sleep well.’

For some reason, he reaches out his hand. The

man takes it, shakes it warmly, nodding.

The bed room is surprisingly large, the ceiling

low mainly because of the heavy joisting. Sitting over

the kitchen, it is extremely snug, a high bed with

brass fittings. The panelling has been papered with a

bright flowery paper, the requisite Sacred Heart

picture over the bed.

He plans his movements – a habit of his – how

he will sort out his things first – not much, toothbrush

and pyjamas – then go down and wash up. But he sits

on the bed to unlace his shoes – his feet suddenly

uncomfortable after the long hot day – then he takes

his anorak off, then he lies back on the bed and thinks

he might not be able to sleep. He’s afraid of stopping

now, of the sudden emptiness and what might invade

that vacancy. Already he can hear the beat of the

ocean again and is beginning to understand the utter

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disaster that occurred this morning – how nothing will

ever be the same again for him.

It is dark and he doesn’t know where he is.

There’s a gripe in his bladder, and he remembers the

long hot day. Then the feeling of dread overwhelms

him; the import of the seriousness of his situation is

now hitting him. In a flash he sees his desk by the

window – looking out at the roof of the Pro-Cathedral

and its companion pigeons – and sees the telephone

applications forms he processes, the off-key mauve

dye of the card that would drain the life out of a saint.

Can that be done again? he asks himself in a

temporising rhetoric. But even so, he realises that if

he resumed his post he would only be continuing

what he has always done. In other words, he

understands, it is not that anything has changed in

some fundamental way: it is how he looks at his life

that has changed.

It is not that the world is false or anything like

that; it is, simply, incomplete.

The gripe in his gut finally gets him out of the

bed, the jangling brass of the bedposts underlying the

profound silence otherwise. It is only at the door that

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he realises where he is, so that he is in time to

remember stairs are involved in getting to the

bathroom – growing up in a bungalow-style house has

left him always uncertain in dealing with the tight

stairways of private houses.

Luckily, there is a light somewhere downstairs,

probably to lead in under the stairs to the bathroom.

Actually, it is uncanny: the light – a cool moon-glow

– is coming from the big mirror at the foot of the

stairs. This he sees as he turns on the stairs, the light

radiating as though from underneath the surface of the

mirror, arising from the depth of the crystal. It is a

novelty at first – he can understand why Josie would

want to keep it covered: it’s a bit creepy. He finds

himself sidling past it at the foot of the stairs, in truth

afraid to look at it – for fear of what he might see

there. Then on into the relative safety of the yellow

light of the incandescent bulb in the bathroom. His

urine is yellow, hot against the tender surfaces of his

penis, and he reminds himself to drink more water

during this heat-wave.

He wants to leave the bathroom light on and the

door open. But of course he doesn’t do that – his

natural frugality alone would prevent him, never mind

the reluctance to offend his host. The yellow light

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disappears then and the white light is there to take its

place, a calm steady effulgence of such a quality that

he thinks for a moment that he can actually see the

light streaming out from the mirror in long delicate

lines, streams that are then absorbed by the surfaces it

strikes. That seems to him to be a nonsense, until he

holds up his hand and sees that his skin is really

glowing. God, is this dangerous, like radioactivity?

But he feels nothing, absolutely no sensation where

the light strikes him. Then he thinks: maybe this light

works in another way.

Passing the mirror this time, he glances over. A

woman is reflected in the mirror. Startled, he turns

and looks up the stairs, expecting to see Josie’s wife

there, perhaps she too wanting to use the toilet.

No one is there.

The woman in the mirror raises her right hand,

palm out, in the universal gesture of greeting. Then

she signals for him to approach, her left hand coming

up to the join the right in drawing him over. He goes

right up against the surface of the mirror. The woman

is young, has long fair hair that falls down over her

shoulders. Her eyes are the kind of blue that is bright

by day and sapphire by night. She is wearing a long

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gown of a fine velvet coloured emerald green and

stitched with yellow thread.

A voice says, very low in a singing voice, right

up against his ear:

‘Doon do hool. Close your eyes.’

Instantly – entranced by the woman – he closes

his eyes.

Then the voice says:

‘Shool ar eigh. Step forward.’

Obediently, he steps forward, the voice coaxing

him: ‘Ar eigh, shool leat ar eigh. Forward, step you

forward.’

And it is only now that he remembers how he

has trained himself for this, to step through this

looking glass and to let himself go, to sink and sink

into the depths. But first, he must breath in the water,

to clear himself of any futile hope of survival. He

breaths deeply as the emptiness embraces him.

There is nothing to breath.

He won’t panic, having prepared himself for

oblivion. That is so, yet he is surprised by a sudden

need to cling to something. And he understands from

this blind urge to hold that there must be someone or

something here to embrace.

138

139

‘Open your eyes, dear heart, and tell me what

you see.’

‘I see a mountain slope in the distance. This

place is familiar, though I don’t remember ever

seeing it before. The mountain is not high, but it fills

the horizon before me. I am on a narrow path of

stone, with tall grass everywhere on either side. It is

warm and there is no wind. I cannot see the sun,

because the sky is covered with a thin layer of high

cloud. I am walking along this path, which at the

moment extends before me along what seems to be a

broad shoulder. For some reason, I cannot look

behind me, though I can look from side to side and up

and down without restriction. I am walking steadily

and feel as though I have been walking for a while,

maybe several hours. My legs are warm but there is

no tiredness. I am carrying a small bag slung over my

left shoulder. It’s a kind of duffel bag, and I am

holding the bag’s loop of thick cord with my left hand

to keep it steady on my shoulder. It is not heavy. The

clothes I’m wearing seem unusual. I think the trousers

are made of wool – a fine wool dyed deep blue – and

instead of a waistband or belt, there are what seem

like strips of thick fabric extending from the top that

are wrapped once completely around my waist – high

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on the waist, higher than I’m used to – and then

knotted thickly almost exactly at my navel. There is

no flies as such, instead the garment is open right

down to the crotch, from where the fold begins. They

are snug – which I assume is the intention – but they

are not comfortable. The shirt seems also to be woven

from a fine wool – a deep red in this case – and is

tight at my throat in turtle neck style. There is no

opening to the front, and I doubt the sturdy fabric

could have been drawn over my head, so I assume it

is fastened at the back. I don’t know how this was

done, because I cannot seem to be able to touch any

part of my body that I cannot see. It seems the same is

true of the bag I’m carrying. I cannot reach around to

it, nor – strangely – can I bring it around to the front.

As for shoes: I’m wearing what would in another

context be called an infant’s bootees. They seem to be

a kind of knitwear, using a thick yarn – this time

coloured a deep brown. Though they look pretty

coarse, and are tied tightly at the ankles with what

seems to be pink ribboning, they are not at all

uncomfortable. I’ve tried to check how they’re shod,

but I find I cannot break my pace and cannot see the

soles of either as I walk. But they feel very firm

underfoot: I cannot feel any of the irregularities that I

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perceive to be in the stone of the path. I have said that

a thin layer of high cloud blocks the sun, yet there is a

good even light cast upon the world around me. I can

see far down off this shoulder on both sides. The

curious thing is, given the height I appear to be at, the

surrounding moor is covered almost entirely with a

tall grass, now fully ripe, so that the land is uniformly

coloured beige, with little of no shadow. I am trying

to force myself to walk towards the edge of the

trackway, so I can get a closer look at the grass and

perhaps the ground under it. Ah, I can manoeuvre my

body, though it’s requiring a huge effort of will to

assert even a small influence. Getting close to the

edge of the track now. I am going to try to bend my

body so I can get a closer look. Uh. Wait. No, wait. I

should have changed direction before trying to bend. I

am walking off the track now and it seems that the

ground is very waterlogged. I’m trying very hard to

turn my body back towards the track, but I find that

the anxiety I’m experiencing is interfering with this.

Oh damn it. My left foot has sunk into the mire.

Luckily, my right foot is still on firmer ground by the

rocky path. Now I must try to pull my foot out. The

anxiety I am feeling still interferes with my will. My

foot is sinking so much that I am in danger of losing

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my balance. What will happen then? Christ, what am

I doing here? Why can’t I just step back? Ahh. My

foot just came up out of the boggy mess and I am

standing on the track now. Do I have to understand

this? I feel nothing either way. To be honest, I feel

nothing at all now. I have no inclinations, whether to

resume walking along this track and go back. Ah. Do

that, turn my body about. I am willing this as hard as I

can but nothing is happening. Is that because I am not

supposed to try to look back the way I have come?

I’ll try something else: I will will to walk forwards in

the direction I was going originally. Trying hard but

nothing happening. By the way, I notice that despite

the immersion in the muck, the bootee on my left foot

is perfectly clean. This is not real. How long has it

taken me to realise this? This place is not real. Is it

some kind of never-never land behind the mirror?

Like Alice’s Wonderland? Am I being tested? Am I

supposed to work out how to get this being I inhabit

to obey my will? Let me test this. I am telling the

being to walk forward, not trying to move it by force

of my will. No, that doesn’t work either. So, what do

I do? I don’t think there is a sun behind the apparent

cloud. I can see no bright spot in the sky before me

and I am casting no shadow. I would guess too that

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there is nothing beyond the mountain ahead and that

there is probably nothing behind me either. The only

detail I can see is what seems like a shadow far away

at the end of this trackway. Probably a doorway of

some sort. So most likely I was headed there.

Therefore, I should get going in that direction again.

But how to get this being to move? I’ve tried the

obvious ways, but now I remember that the foot did

pull back out of the bog. How did that happen? It just

happened. But I must have done something. What

was it? What did I do? I’m trying to remember. I was

panicking. Yes, I was afraid I would lose my balance

and fall over into the bog. And then? No, I can’t

remember. My foot just came up out of the muck. Just

like that. This is very frustrating. If this is a test, then

it looks like I’ve failed it. Better let me leave here and

go back to bed. I don’t know what to do. I mean, if

this was my own body I would just walk. I would put

one foot forward and… I’m walking. The body is

walking again. I feel relieved, but I am also annoyed.

Is there a trick to this? No. It can’t be that trivial.

Twice now I have somehow managed to get this body

moving, and I still don’t understand how I did it. And

I’ve just noticed this. The trackway does not run

straight, but follows minor undulations in the ground.

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The body is following these variations in directions

with the kind of accuracy any practiced walker would

achieve. That means this body is subject to some will

– if not mine, then someone else’s. Are you

controlling this body? Can I ask you that question?

No answer. Ah yes: you asked me to describe what I

see. Is that it? I mean, what I think or feel is of no

importance. Very well. What do I see? I see the same

mountain ahead of me. I see this stony track running

across what seems to be a broad shoulder – perhaps

extending down from another mountain behind me, if

there is anything behind me. What else? I see a

shadow at the end of the trackway, perhaps a door or

a gate of some sort. The sky: a layer of high cloud,

wonderfully white and glowing, though there may be

no sun behind it. The air is very clear and there are no

scents, fragrances or odours borne on the slight wind

coming from my left. And that is it. That is what I

see. Ah. Except that I now see an object flying quite

high in the sky and heading from my right towards

the mountain. It may be in shadow – except that there

are no shadows. Therefore, I think the object is black

in colour. It may be a plane – except that I hear

nothing. So it probably is a bird; a large bird,

considering the distance from me. Will I guess? A

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large black bird in a mountainous region would most

likely be a raven. So, I see a raven flying from my

right towards the mountain, and as I speak I see that

the bird is now beginning to descend. I’m beginning

to discern detail and it looks as though I am right. The

flying object is a bird and the bird is a raven. And

what’s more, it looks as though it is heading for the

very same door or gate that lies at the end of this

trackway. Now, isn’t that a coincidence? No, a slight

correction. I am all the time drawing closer to the end

of the track, as the bird descends closer to the same

place. I can see now that the bird is bigger than the

ravens of my experience – the County Wicklow

variety – and, more, that it’s wings seem to be

different. Would it be an eagle? A large jet-black

eagle? Now that is more interesting. You don’t get

eagles in the Irish mountains anymore, but here am I

seeing an eagle in this mountainous area. So this is

not some kind of fantasy based on my memory. And

as I speak, the eagle has landed at the dark spot and is

settling down on some kind of perch. Is it waiting for

me? Some kind of guardian of the sacred place? By

the way, this bird is beginning to slouch on its perch.

I assume an eagle would remain alert, head up and

ready for action. This bird has let it’s head sink down

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almost onto its breast. It may not be an eagle after all.

It’s more like those buzzards you see in westerns, in

the Bad Lands. And buzzards are often black. Does

this matter? I mean, what kind of bird it is. Do I have

to get this right? Hold on. There’s something else

now. The shoulder this trackway is crossing has been

narrowing, so that the land falls away more steeply on

either side. I can see a bright sheen way down below

on my left side, which I judge to be a body of water. I

can’t tell if it is a lake or a sea, but the surface seems

pretty calm from up here. I’m checking the right hand

side now as best I can. The land slopes away there

too, but not as steeply. The air is hazy down there and

the grassy slope just runs down into the haze. Strange

that it’s clear one side and not on the other, isn’t it?

Maybe not – the wind is coming from that direction.

Oh well, so much for symbolism. But I ask: what is at

the bottom of the other slope? More water? Am I on

an island? Ah, something else. I have been turning

this head from side to side fairly freely. How have I

been able to do that? Some kind of intention? Like I

want to do something – intend to do it – which

involves some motion of this body, and the body

conforms to that intention. Is that how it works? If I

want to turn around to see what is behind me, will the

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body simply turn about. Oh God. What a beautiful

sight! Do you know what I see? Let me tell you

anyway. The trackway I have travelled runs back

across the shoulder and then rises up onto the lower

slopes of the most wonderful mountain I have ever

seen. There’s a mountain in Wicklow that they call

the Sugarloaf, which is almost completely conical. It

is topped with a litter of quartz, so that it appears to

be sugar coated, hence the name Sugarloaf. This

mountain here, that I am looking at, seems made of a

crystal pure white, that sparkles constantly in the

brilliant light from the cloudy sky. And it is high, so

high, and yet it does not burst through into the cloud

cover. And do you know what I ask myself? Why am

I not headed in that direction? Why can’t I just head

off in that direction now? I want to, fervently, and yet

I know I cannot do that. I don’t know how I know

that, but I am certain I cannot do it and therefore I

won’t even attempt to. And yet I know equally well

that this body could bear me to the very peak of that

mountain. I feel like a child again, that feeling of

being dashed because I knew that something I wanted

to do could not be done by me. Not because it was

forbidden or because I feared it would hurt me, but

simply because it was inappropriate. I mean in the

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sense that it was not a suitable thing to do in the

particular way I existed in this life. I feel the same

about that mountain now. It would be inappropriate to

go there: it is not part of my destiny, as it were. Ahh.

That’s better. But I assure you – in case you cannot

see what I see – that it is the most beautifully majestic

and individual mountain I have seen. I will salute it

by raising this body’s right hand. And so it is done.

And now back to business, yes? And the body turns

again, pivoting on its heels with surprising grace. And

the bird – it comes to me now that it is called the

Orcle – is staring at me with what I assume is its

habitual baleful expression. I am not far from it now

and can see it in detail. The strange thing is that it

seems not to be feathered. Its skin is very smooth and

I judge from the creasing at the shoulders that it is

very thin. It reminds me of modern plastic, the sort

used to cover cheap furniture, you know, brittle and

shiny with a slicky touch. Even its wings have no

feathers. It reminds me now more of a bat than a bird,

except of course that it has a bird’s head and bird-

shaped wings. So what, you might ask. I tell you all

this in case you might want to know. Anyway, the

Orcle has shifted its position so that it now turned as

much towards me as the perch – which juts out from

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the wall that contains the doorway – permits. Then it

speaks! I don’t understand… And now this body

replies, in what seems to me to be the same tongue.

One sound requires that the tongue be fluted and air

driven out with great force. A very uncomfortable

sensation. And the bird appears to nod in reply. And

then it swings over upside down on the perch! It’s

hanging upside down, its arched wings only inches

from the ground – still folded, the head too still drawn

in against its breast. I’ve gone around to check: it’s

eyes are open but inert, so I think it might be dead. Of

course, that depends on whether it was alive to begin

with, doesn’t it? Maybe it has been switched off once

it has done its job. What happens now? I have no

understanding of what the bird and the body said to

each other. The fact that the bird nodded might

indicate that so far things have gone to plan. Let’s

pretend that they have. What is to be done next, then?

Why, of course, make our way through the opening in

the wall and on into the darkness therein…Except,

there is no opening in the wall. The apparent darkness

has been painted on – at least it seems as though a

large patch was painted using a black paint, which,

incidentally, was touched up with a grey highlight in

places in a very effective way. And guess what? The

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body is pressed up against this dark patch and is

trying its hardest to continue walking. It’s beginning

to heat up now, I can feel the sweat standing out on

its brow and the first trickles in the armpits and groin.

The breath is growing feverish, even little sobs

escaping. Nothing I try will stop it. Is this it, then? Do

I remain here until this unfortunate creature wears

itself out? I can do nothing for it: can I not leave?’

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‘Open your eyes, dear heart, and tell me what

you see.’

‘I see a lake, and it’s a beautiful lake. I am

standing on the shore of this lake and facing in such a

way that the view is divided almost exactly between

the lake on my right and the land bordering it on my

left. The lake seems to extend away to and possibly

beyond the horizon. In any case, it is lost in the light

haze over there. The water is calm and intensely blue

– even though the sky is obscured by high cloud and

the light is very diffused. The land to my left rises

gently to a wooded ridge about two miles away. The

land is unfenced, mostly open meadow with copses of

mature trees here and there. Some kind of animal –

most likely sheep – are grazing in the distance. I see

no houses or other signs of human habitation. There is

little or no wind, the air is warm and there is no sound

except for the occasional lapping of the lake water on

the pebbly shore. You could conclude from this that I

am in a very tranquil place, but the overwhelming

feeling I have is one of absence. Something or

someone is absent from here. I am trying to think

what might be absent, but I do not get even a glimmer

of an idea. Let me continue my description in more

detail. Much of the shoreline that I see is occupied by

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tall reeds. They are up to five foot in height, with

heavy dun-coloured seed-heads that stand out against

the overall beige of the now dying leafage. The slight

wind causes the seed-heads to sway rhythmically

from left to right, now towards the land, now towards

the lake itself. No, wait. I can see along the shore for

quite a distance. The reeds sway in unison all the way

into the distance – except at one point. There the

pattern of movement is broken, and the seed heads are

shaking rather than swaying. That suggests the

presence of an animal of some kind. So, we have two

kinds of animals now, sheep in the distance and a

small forager not too far away. And that seems to be

about it. I suppose I could go and check the trees to

see what kinds there are. Would that be of interest?

There doesn’t seem to be anything else to do. Well, I

suppose I could also count the sheep. There seem to

be more of them now. Yes. A large flock. They’re

grazing steadily across open grassland between two

copses. Even as I speak, two sheep have come out

from behind the rightmost copse. I’d say there are

about fifty sheep in view at the moment. There should

be a shepherd in charge. Should I go and talk to him?

Ah. I don’t seem able to move. Two things. I’m

standing in a foot of water about a yard from the

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shore. There are no reeds where I am standing. I’m

dressed in what appears to be an old robe – like a

monk’s habit – of some coarse material and dyed a

grubby brown. The water is clear, but the robe

extends right down to the ground. No, it seems to go

into the ground. The point is that I cannot check if my

feet are trapped under the water, either in weeds or

sunk in mud. I am making efforts to free them, but I

have absolutely no sensation there, nor can I see any

evidence of movement. I cannot even move my body

in any way! Oh, it’s worse. I don’t seem to have any

arms, either. What am I? Am I some kind of plant? I

don’t feel like a plant. How would a plant feel

anyway? Cold, I’d say cold, and sort of remote, like I

didn’t exist at all. But I don’t feel cold and I certainly

feel that I exist. The shock is surprisingly deep. I am

convinced I should be able to move, but there is no

way the thing I inhabit can move. How can that be?

How can I have impulses that are not appropriate to

what I am? Do plants suffer this frustration? Is it in

plants to want to move – to have the will to move –

and yet not be able to move? I think animals suffer a

kind of frustration because they cannot speak. What is

it like then to be an animal, burdened with an impulse

to speak and yet not have an organ capable of speech?

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Have you ever heard the dog barking in the night?

What is it trying to say? Does it want to speak out of

anger? Does it want to praise God? Who knows? And

how is it with plants? Does the seed that falls on

barren soil want to move over to fertile ground? Will

a plant die of thirst without making a mighty effort to

get to water? Do you know? Am I a real plant?

Would a plant want to go and have a chat with a

human being? And look, here comes the shepherd

himself. A little man with a tall crook, followed by

two frisking collies. I see his mouth working. Is he

singing? I cannot hear. Oh, I cannot hear! Why am I a

plant with these impossible desires? I want to speak

and I cannot speak. I want to listen and I cannot hear.

I want to walk and I cannot move. There the singing

shepherd goes, following the train of his sheep, his

faithful dogs at his heels. He does not even notice me

here. Am I just another tree among many trees? Have

I no quality that would cause that little man to pause

and glance at me? But how many trees stand in

water? I see none. Are there trees behind me? Am I

part of a copse of water loving trees? Are we

willows? But if we are willows were are my hanging

branches whose leaves stroke the water’s surface in

the wind? I see no branches. Am I a dying tree,

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drowning in water that has risen because of far off

rains? No. The reeds grow at the lake’s edges, and

look how they are strung out now along the edge of

the lake, their heads swaying in the silent wind as far

into the distance as I can see. Except in one place,

where they rustle unevenly, where some animal

perhaps forages. Wait. Has that animal drawn closer

to where I am? Is my memory sound? I think the

disturbed area of reeds is closer now than the last time

I looked. I feel this is true, though I cannot be certain.

Does it matter? And look, the shepherd has gone, and

with him his jolly collies and his own cheery singing.

He has followed his contented flock in behind the

copse to the left. Are they wending their way back to

the home pastures? Will the shepherd be with his wife

and his family soon? Will his dogs spend the night in

a shed close by the house and the pasture, ready to

warn if a predator approaches? Will the dogs be

content in their shed, or will they bark out of

loneliness and pine for the company of the man? And

I will always be stuck here, without motion, dumb

and deaf, suffering such desires that I cannot possibly

satisfy? Have I always been here? And have I always

suffered as I do? And have I always complained as I

am doing now? Yes! The creature among the reeds

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moves! The disturbance among the reeds is closer

now. The creature approaches me. And then? What

will happen then? Will the creature notice me? Will it

acknowledge my presence? Or will it just press on

past me into the woods at my back? Or does the band

of reeds resume at my back, and carry on to the far

horizon there? And will the creature dive back in

among them and continue his search there? It is the

frustration! Could any creature suffer for ever as I do?

I have no power! I can do nothing at all here. Oh,

except to feel and know. Yes. To know my absurd

desires and to suffer for that knowing. Why can I not

be a stone? Or a wave lapping endlessly on the shore

here? Why must I know what I cannot remedy? Ah,

wait. Sheep. More sheep have appeared over in the

meadow, coming out in a straggling line from behind

the copse to the right. They move slowly – as it their

wont – grazing the rich grass that is there before

them. Look how they can move and satisfy their

needs. Look and see how contented they are. That is

how I should be – at least that. Would I be content

then? No, of course not. I would wish to speak and I

would therefore need to hear. The rustle among the

leaves is closer. Should I fear what approaches me

there? I cry out for attention and when some creature

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approaches I grow fearful. What can I do? Nothing.

What will the creature do? Will it kill me? Eat me? Is

that what I am here for? Am I like the grass for the

sheep over in the meadow, just provender for some

animal? And – when you think of it – what are the

poor sheep for? Provender for some other animal.

Why complain then? We are all eaten and consumed,

so that one being becomes part of another being. And

still the sheep file out across the meadow over

between the copses. They stop to graze, sometimes to

look about, and sometimes they just stop – and then

start again when a companion sheep bumps into them.

They are not big sheep, yet they seem to bear heavy

coats of wool. They remind me of the crossbreeds that

wander over the Wicklow Mountains. Clever

creatures on the mountains. A sheep trail will always

find the easiest route, useful to know when a mist

descends. And the creature among the reeds is close

now. Am I prepared? Prepared for what? Perhaps I

am prepared. Yes. Now that gives me some relief.

Maybe I do know what kind of creature approaches

me and I will learn what this knowledge is when the

creature appears finally. Yes. And look now, but the

shepherd has appeared in the wake of his flock. A

small man with a tall crook, he is accompanied by

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two prancing collies. See how happy the dogs are, in

the company of their master, their work no doubt

accomplished. And look how the shepherd sings, his

mouth open wide, head up to broadcast his cheerful

melody to his animals. But I – I am sad to say –

cannot hear it. It would console me to hear him sing,

to know perhaps the words of his jolly song. Perhaps

it is about the love of his life, his contented home and

his family, about his fortunate simple life. But I

cannot say what he sings about, only that he appears

to me to be happy, his dogs lively in his company, his

sheep contented. And the creature among the reeds is

about to appear. I await its arrival with equanimity.

The happiness of the shepherd consoles me – perhaps

no more than a fugitive consolation where none might

have been expected. But now – and what appears is a

white bird, swimming steadily into view. A swan!

Not at first obvious, for this specimen is small, only

slightly larger than a duck. And it approaches me with

gentle strokes of its webbed feet, head down in a

characteristic way, and I can feel only the irony of

this encounter. What is more appropriate for a deaf-

muted thing such as I am, than an animal that is itself

mute? What good company we would be for each

other, united in silence at least. But another idea

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comes to me now. I remember a shepherd, a singing

shepherd, a small man with a tall crook, with two

zestful collies and a train of docile sheep. Is this the

same shepherd passing now over in the meadow? The

same dogs, the same sheep? I know they are. This

world is not real. I am an unreal being in an unreal

world. Those sheep, their guardian dogs and happy

shepherd walk for ever in a circle, appearing time

after time before me between the copse on the right

and the copse on the left. I am not real. This is a

world of senseless repetition, a child’s toy-world,

with a merry-go-round, an endlessly cloudless sky,

and lake-water forever lapping on an indifferent

shore. Even the reeds sway to some fixed pulse, every

seed head now rocking back and force in perfect time.

And am I therefore the still centre of this world?

Crying out in silence, listening intently in deafness,

walking to the far horizons in my immobility? Is this

not an unreal world? And yet, I notice the swan again.

It bobs on the gentle swell of the lake-water, webbed

feet stroking from time to time to maintain station –

first one foot, then the other. It faces me – it faces me

– long neck bent over, its eyes lowered as if out of

modesty. Its head is tilted slightly to the right – my

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right, the swan’s left. This tells me that this swan is

patient and that it will abide with me in its patience.’

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‘Open your eyes, dear heart, and tell me what

you see.’

‘The wind is strong today, coming from the

east, from the desert. This is the wind the curtain-

hangers detest and fear. I will explain. The wind from

the desert is always hot and strong, a whipping,

intense squeal of agitated air, which casts itself

against the high walls of the Palace. Only here, in the

great Audience Hall, a marvel of engineering –

colonnaded on all sides to provide a bright airy

Chamber for settling the affairs of our state – can this

wind be of any consequence for us. Now, it is the task

of the curtain-hangers that they erect the curtaining

needed to resist the winds, here on one side of the

Chamber, then another day along some other side.

Strong winds are their bane. Once upon a time, the

curtains – woven from our finest cotton – could

sometimes barely cope with the stronger winds. They

would flap and crack, the curtain-hanger all the time

frantically trying to contain them. Then an Engineer

proposed a system of double rails, the usual rail along

the top of the colonnade, but now also a rail running

along the floor. So the curtains could be anchored

securely against even the strongest winds – usually,

as I say, from the desert to the east. Fine. Except that

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the curtains were now found to rustle in a disturbing

frenzy, reminding many of the death throes of some

mighty animal. Sometimes this agitation was so great

that the curtain would suddenly give way with a truly

awful screaming tear. So, this situation continued for

a long time, even for a very long time if our historians

are to be believed. Then I had an idea some time ago.

The problem as I saw was that the curtains were too

light. It had been proposed many times that a system

of screens would have been better, which could be

erected as needs be. The question, of course, in this

case was: what kind of material would best serve as

screening? Wood, everyone said immediately. But

what about the light? everyone else asked. And that is

the one unspoken rule for us. The design of the

Council Chamber is intended to permit as much light

as possible. Any kind of solid screening would reduce

this light. Many of the courtiers shivered at the mere

idea of this possibility. You see, we are a race that

needs as much light as possible. Any restriction of

light is like a death to us. I decided that a proper

solution must be found. Lengthy discussions with our

Engineers led me to agree that – given that we must

have a translucent screening – all the most practical

solutions had been tried. So, a new approach to the

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problem was required. I thought long and hard over a

long time, but without any success. Then one time I

was watching a heavily laden boat descending on the

river that flows around the Palace. I was surprised to

see that the water flowed past this boat. In other

words, the boat – though fully laden – moved more

slowly than the river current. I made enquires and

discovered that what is called a sheet anchor is

extended to slow the progress of the boat. That’s

when I understood. You see, our Engineers had

approached the problem of the curtaining in terms of

weight, when in fact the solution lay in creating a

device that would simply dampen the effect of the

strong winds. Once I understood this, it was only a

question of making a few experiments to find the best

way of adding drag to the curtaining. And the

solution? An open mesh of cotton rope – dyed white

like the curtains themselves – suspended from a

second rail and attached at intervals by means of

tapes to the back of the curtains. You see? So simple

when you actually think of it. Now the winds do their

worst and our curtain flutter gently as though in a

summer breeze. And as a bonus, the motion of the

curtains has a fanning effect, which draws cooler air

into the Chamber. And the man on his knees before

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the King is beside himself with fear. I ask him why he

is afraid and he quails, looking as though he would

melt into the floor. I point out that he must have

known he would be punished for his crime. He

shakes, he shivers, he whimpers like an infant. I

repeat myself and this time he responds, nodding his

head in spasmodic jerks. And, I continue, you know

what the punishment is. This time he merely draws

his head down between his shoulders, his mouth

clamped tightly as though he might otherwise scream.

I point to the two Executioners in their black robes

who stand to one side of him, and remind him that he

knows what horrible tortures these two men will

shortly inflict upon him. And now he does scream

out, but some constriction in his throat reduces it at

once to a strangled whimper. Did you know know

while you were committing your unspeakable crime, I

ask him now, that you would be punished in this

manner. He blubbers in reply, spittle turning to foam

on his lips, and he slumps now in such a way that his

Guards must come and prop him up. I press him on

this point, keen to get at least this admission from

him. And though it is obviously hard for him to

speak, he knows – even in the extremities of his terror

– that he must provide some answer to this question.

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So he nods as best he can, a fitful gesture that

involves almost the whole of his body. I am

extremely satisfied to get this answer from him. I

speak in a louder voice this time, to underline the

need for an answer to this question too: “So why did

you do it?” And the man falls away into a fainting fit,

his eyes rolling in his head, what seems like a river of

sweat falling from his face. It is obvious that I will

not be so successful this time. The man is incapable

of speaking coherently. So I ask him my final

question, the key question I ask all of those brought

before the King for justice: “You believed at the time

that what you gained from your terrible crime would

be worth the punishment you knew would be inflicted

upon you. That is what all criminals believe. But, I

ask you, was it worth the horrible punishments that

await you this morning?’ The man struggles hard

against this question – despite his severely weakened

mental state. But they all struggle against this

question, wishing above all to deny it. And like all the

other criminals before him, he finally relents and

shakes his head, the admission inducing the familiar

sink of misery as they come to recognise their

delusion, this misery all the worse as they must

acknowledge how stupid they were in their delusion.

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This is the point at which these criminals should

experience shame. But few do. Our blindness

intrigues us more than our true vision does. The

memory of our desires never fails to enchant us even

as we avoid experience of what is hidden behind

those desires. So I tell the man – when he has

recovered his senses sufficiently – that he must try to

appreciate why the coming torments will be inflicted

upon him. Of course, his eyes flare all over again as

the terror repossesses him and again the Guards must

take his arms in support. I tell him in any case –

speaking for his benefit alone – that the gift of truth-

seeing requires a great deal of suffering, such being

the nature of our resistance to the truth. I further tell

him that he will only appreciate this fact in the far

future, when he has become a Sage. Of course, none

of this makes sense to him in his present condition.

Why would it? Like unhappiness, pain always

appears endless while we suffer it. But I am not a

cruel man, so I take the trouble to explain something

important about his coming punishment. I say to him:

“Do not resent the pleasure the Executioners take in

inflicting the pain and indignities upon you. Consider

that if they felt otherwise, then they would deal with

you more cruelly, for then you would have to pay

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them for the trouble they take with you.” The wise

man, in fact, would thank his executioners in the

knowledge that what they do can only improve him.

This I also tell him, patient with his distracted state all

the while. Then the King raises his hand to signal that

the man should be taken away. It is an undignified

exit, the man’s dragging heels leaving a trail of sweat

and blood across the glistening flags of the Chamber.

The courtiers, of course, step far back to allow the

Guards and Executioners pass with their charge, each

one filled with disgust to be in the presence of such a

loathsome and filthy man. And so the long day

remains ahead of us, the east wind rippling the

curtaining on the east side, a calm glow for us on each

of the other sides. The desert is not visible to us,

owing to the need to protect ourselves against its

wind. But I can tell you that it is like a great expanse

of hot ash, glowering under the molten sky. Nothing

lives there, has ever lived there, will ever live there. I

can see the Mountains to the north – purple as ever in

the bright haze – the source of the river which

surrounds our Palace. I can even trace the progress of

the river from the far Mountains, how it snakes across

the great stony plain until it reaches us, a mighty

flow, dark water but constant. And to the west? To

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our west there are the cultivated plains with their

grain fields and orchards, vines and villages basking

in the gentle glow of the fructifying light. People can

be observed in the fields, groups here, a lone farmer

there, and sometimes there will be an ass and cart on

the trackways loaded with produce. Sometimes, even,

when the wind is from that quarter – a sturdy wind

that always brings rain but which – alas – never

reaches us here on the furthest edge of that green land

– the scents and fragrances of the fruit and flowers are

borne up here to us. And then to the south. What is to

be said about the great empty ocean that fills that

quadrant? There is the river, not far away from us,

debouching into this ocean through its tidy, rock

rimmed bay. There is the dazzling mist upon the

water, waves that glitter like gems, a restless motion

that takes the ocean nowhere. Some can stand and

gaze on this watery waste with evident contentment.

But me? I fills me with an unreasoning fury. Why?

Why? I stand on the very edge of the precipitous

pinnacle of rock that supports our Palace and stare

down at it – and I seethe with a nameless frustration.

All that useless agitation, the waves that endlessly roll

towards the shore and smash themselves uselessly

against the rocks. And yet the river pours itself out

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into that ocean to no effect, for the level of the ocean

remains always the same. Some here argue that at the

bottom of the ocean there is a gigantic swallow hole

through which all the river water escapes. They say

that the water then falls away into a darkness, where

there is no light, no sound, and the water falls and

falls forever.’

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‘Open your eyes, dear heart, and tell me what

you see.’

‘It is black dark here. Utter darkness. I feel as if

I am laid out on a very soft bed, lying on my back,

arms extended. I think I should be frightened by the

darkness, but instead I feel comforted by it. The

silence, also, I find a relief. If it was possible, I could

remain here for a very long time. I could discover the

Truth here. Or, rather – now that I think about it – the

Truth would discover me here. That’s not a conceit. If

I could wait long enough in perfect stillness and

perfect silence, I think some part of me would open

and allow Truth to enter. And I wonder now what this

Truth would be like. Would it be new knowledge?

Would it be something very familiar, so familiar that

it is taken for granted? It would be better if the Truth

were a new knowledge. If it were something familiar

then I might be disappointed and find myself saying:

Is that all? Worse, though the Truth were familiar, I

might not – for the reason that it is so ordinary –

understand what the Truth is. That I would fear most

of all, I think, to have the Truth come to me and find

that I could not fathom it. Can you imagine that? And

I think now that perhaps I may already live in that

state. Is that it? Is the Truth already plainly exposed

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to me – and I don’t know it? What could I do in that

case? I could lie here and think for all eternity and

remain as unenlightened as I am now. Yes, it would

be better if the Truth were a new knowledge.

Astoundingly new. Surprisingly new. Wonderfully

new. I could then breath out in tremendous relief,

filled with the realisation that I had finally

encountered the Truth. What an experience that

would be! Like arriving at the end of a long journey.

The relief, the joy, the sheer exultation. Yes, but I

pause now. What if the Truth is terrible? What if it is

mighty in its meaning? What if Truth denied itself?

Ah. How so? What if the Truth is that there is no

Truth such as I assume it to be. What if Truth is not a

final revelation pointing to some eternal, unchanging

state or condition? What if the Truth was something

like a state of unceasing change, so that the Truth is

different at every instant? A constant coming into

being of Truth that never arrives at a final Truth? And

what if the Truth is simply a dark ending? If it reveals

a non-state, either death or an end to knowing? What

if I am the Truth now and not know it? Uh. I moved. I

moved. Wait. Not so. Yes. A kind of panic response. I

intended to raise my left arm, but everything moved

instead. How can I tell, you might ask. I know. After

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all, when everything moved, I moved too. And that I

know. I’m going to try it again. This time I will raise

my head. There. Everything moved again. This time I

felt a rotation that tilted me up from the supine. It is

still dark and silent. What is the point of this? Can I

make everything move directly? Yes, I can. I have

just rotated everything back so that I am again on my

back. What is this thing I’m calling everything. Is it a

being? An animal, say. And am I then something like

the will-power of this being? Do I control its destiny?

But I am blind and deaf. And how can I speak in

order to guide this being? I cannot simply create

motion in the being, can I? I’ve already tried to stand

up – as I understand it from my own state – what

effect did that have on this being? Did I put it in

danger? More. I think now that I might supervene

upon this being. What if the being has its own will, its

own instincts and activities? Do my motions then

interfere with the being’s own normal behaviour?

How can I know the answer to any of these

questions? Perhaps you will suggest that I try to ask

the question. I will try by asking the question inside

myself: Do I interfere in your life’s activities? Is that

a sufficient question? I will wait now in silence. I’m

sorry, but I am plagued with thoughts I cannot

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control. They are not thoughts I would acknowledge

in any other circumstance, they would be a waste of

time. I think, for instance, that this being might be

totally different from me. And then I think about

difference, about how different everything is, in any

case. I mean, how no two things can occupy the same

space and about how no one really knows what it is

like to be someone else. And I also think about how

difference terrifies me. How anything different from

me is so completely separate and distinct from me.

And now I think of how completely me I am, while

yet not knowing very much about myself. How is this

possible? How can I know that I am me when there

are parts of me that I do not know and might never

know? And I think – using an obvious logic – that

this last point is impossible. I must know everything

about myself – otherwise, how would I know it was

part of me? And here I stop, because I fill with a

greater terror. I am more afraid of myself than I am of

anything else different from me. I think that I am a

vast secret. Are these my thoughts? Might they not be

the thoughts of this being I inhabit? I have never

thought about difference and being afraid of it.

Without difference, I would have no consciousness –

I would be like a stone. And as for the identity of

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knowledge – is that how I should put it? – knowledge

breeds desire, and longing, and why should I desire

what I know if it is already part of me? Remember

now that I asked this being a question. Have I

received an answer? Do I appear as a difference to it?

Is that what all this metaphysics is about? How would

I feel if some god or demon took up residence inside

my head? And what if it took over my will? Yes, very

frightened, very angry. But here I am, inside this

being. How do I leave? I don’t know. But I will ask –

though I know I will receive no answer – What am I

doing here? Is this a test of some kind? Am I to reveal

myself here, perhaps tempted by total power over

another? Is that it? Am I to betray myself? Well, I can

do only one thing here: I can move this being.

Therefore, I will move this being. I say I will move

this being: but where will I move it to? I would prefer

that the being do something useful under my

command. I don’t want to set it walking about

aimlessly like a child’s doll. If I could understand the

being’s condition, then I might bring it to an action of

some benefit to it. Perhaps I might try again to

communicate with it. If I ask: what might I have you

do that will be to your lasting benefit? – how might I

know its answer? For instance, would it need to

175

indicate some feature of its environment – which of

course I cannot see. It might indicate a direction, but

again how will I know this? What if it asked me to

perform some unintelligible action. What if the being

can fly and indicates in its own unique way that it

wishes to fly – how will I understand it? What if the

action is so gross or cruel that I could not bring

myself to permit its performance. No. Stop this

speculation. I should wait in silence for its direction.

And if the same problem of difference should arise,

such that the problem of discreteness must be once

again taken into account, what am I to do? The

understanding of this problem edges all the time

towards some terrible revelation, such that on one

hand there is no difference and I am the same with all

that there is, so that any action is impossible or at

least not meaningful, much as lifting a hand only to

lower it again could be said to constitute an action.

And then on the other hand, we have a discrete

element, fully separate from what is the case here.

Then how can an action be performed such that the

absolute abyss that must separate the same – that is

here – from the different – that is there – can be

crossed? Do you think that I can resolve this

question? I cannot see, I cannot hear, and it is

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questionable if I can know anything of significance

here. I can only instigate actions in a being who is

totally unknown to me, actions that would be blind

and irrational, that might cost untold damage to the

being, to its world – if such a place exists – and to its

companions, perhaps even loved ones – if again such

beings exist. What am I being asked to do? I want to

act responsibly. I want to help this being forward and

I want to be sure that I can help this being in this way.

But how can I act responsibly when I don’t know? Oh

no – and only now do I think this: does all this

concern me, not the being I inhabit? Is this some kind

of test? A kind of moral test? Am I to be found

worthy or unworthy of some kind of advancement?

What if the best I can say is that I am trapped in this

unknown being and that I am not happy with this

situation? Oh, I have become so agitated that even the

slightest upset is being translated into motions. At the

moment, I seem to be suspended upside down, but

canted a little to my right. What have I done so far to

this being? Wait. No wait. Do I see a glimmer of

light? A dusty glow as though far off in the distance.

There is something here! I must concentrate now on

complicated movements. And all the time I must not

lose sight of that low glow. But the important thing is

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that I can see! Perhaps I will hear also, perhaps even

speak. Now I am righted and facing towards the

distant light. I have set the being in motion. The

motion is slow, though my strongest desire is to move

more quickly. I fear there might be impediments, like

rocks on the path, perhaps walls. Or even holes. What

if the being fell into a hole and couldn’t get out? I

would go mad with frustration. No. The being moves

very steadily, very smoothly. Perhaps it flies, or

glides in some way, wafting along just above the

ground – if there is ground. What I am most eager to

discover is the rate at which we draw closer to the

light, which should show itself soon as the light

strengthens. And the question I ask myself as the

being goes forward is this: how clear will this light

be? Perhaps there is no blindness after all. Perhaps I

am also the eyes of this being, even the ears – as I am

its will. And then – as I think of it – there is the

question of my ignorance. I have remarked previously

on the limitations of my knowledge – having no

organs by means of which I might learn. But in that

case I considered knowledge as an optional advantage

that might be of use to others; in this case here, you.

But if it is to be the case that I am the sense organs of

this being, then knowledge is not merely an

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adornment of a vain intellect, but a vital necessity if

this being is not to be shamed, or shunned, or

mocked, perhaps abandoned by its kind to a life of

misery. You see now what I mean when I say that I

am ignorant. What if on an occasion I speak and

complete nonsense issues from our mouth? What if I

sit when I should stand? If I am inappropriately

dressed, perhaps unaware that we have just got out of

bed and should not be seen out of doors in night

clothes? What if I smile and it is interpreted as a leer?

What if there is an impulse to touch that. No. No no.

This is nonsense. I gabble now. I should be quiet and

calm, observant and alert. I should permit events to

transpire and trust that the native wit of this being will

take us through what will be to me strange

circumstances. And yet I have no control. It is as

though there is no boundary, so that I can say what I

please and even – which comes to me now as I chatter

– do as I please. Yes. And it is true. The dim light

grows no brighter. I have propelled the being forward

at what seems to be a great speed and nothing

changes. Oh, mercy me. I am everything. I am the

universe. And I think now: if I want – if I will it –

there could be nothing at all. No. That is incorrect.

179

There would be one thing: there would always be me

willing nothing at all.’

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‘Open your eyes, dear heart, and tell me what

you see.’

‘I am in a small room. The light is dim because

some kind of heavy netting covers the only window,

which is in any case quite small. It is warm and

humid, even oppressively so. The air is filled with a

light fragrance that I have never experienced before. I

think is may come from plants outside, most likely a

strange exotic flower. The walls are painted an

uneven yellowish brown – like khaki – bright in some

places and very dull elsewhere. On the floor is an

arrangement of woven square mats, made from some

kind of rush. Underneath these I sense a floor of

beaten earth. The ceiling has been clumsily plastered

– so that in places the lattice work that comprises the

ceiling structure itself shows through – with what

seems to be a mud stiffened with, I suspect, animal

dung. The only furnishings are a small square table

and a simple chair set up against it. These are made

out of bamboo and expertly lashed together with

strips of some kind of leafage. The table is bare

except for a copy of a thick book printed with the

yellow paper typical of the Orient. The book seems

new, even unopened, and on the spine I can read the

title – Among the G’Dinka – and its author –

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Lieutenant Godfrey Adams Wellwright, Bart. I’d say

it is the report of some expedition into the hinterland

of the country in which I am situated. Am I supposed

to read this? Should I simply sit down at the table and

open the book to its first page? I don’t feel like doing

that. Actually, if I had the choice I would lie out on

the floor and sleep. Lassitude, not tiredness, you

understand. How am I dressed? Is that significant?

Leather boots, very well made and fitting very

comfortably, so perhaps handmade especially for me.

Socks are thick and woollen, green in colour – which

pleases me, for some reason. Then I wear short

trousers that come down to the upper tips of my

kneecaps. They are made of a quite stiff cotton fabric,

coloured – of course – khaki. An unpleasant material.

I would prefer good old moleskin, but it seems I am

obliged to wear these wretched pants, the seams of

which have already irritated my inner thighs. That is

not a good thing to have happen in this climate. The

skin breaks and one nasty or another worms its way

under the surface and then it is one kind of harsh

ointment or another trowelled on to eradicate it. From

what I can see, I am wearing a non-regulation shirt or

blouse, loose-fitting, which is wrapped about my

torso rather than buttoned in the God-Save-the-Queen

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British way. Sardonic, I know, but at least I am not

condemned to one of the Army’s shirts, with their

high stiff collars, big buttons for small button-holes,

and the real curse of my life here, deep, stiff, heavy

cuffs tightly fastened with two big buttons in small

holes. As it is, the blouse – it is a blouse not a shirt (in

fact a garment that would flatter any woman of

halfway decent proportions) – does not pretend to

sleeves even, rather a wide cut shoulder that drapes

out over the upper arms, and which can be wrapped in

such a way to expose the neck and upper chest to the

extent most suitable for prevailing conditions – closed

against the coolness of the rainy season, and

thankfully loose in the hot season, such as we are

enduring now. Would you be interested in the colour

of this blouse? They say that blue is the most

profound of all the colours. And in this case, that

opinion is vindicated. First sighted, it appears as a

deep – rather than dark – blue. Then the light strikes

the surface of the garment and at once depths within

the colour become evident, this time the blue of a

flash, but persisting here in a way that would startle

your eyes. Can blue be so bright? Yes. Blue can be

the brightest colour, the trick here arising from the

natural recession of the hue, how you are drawn to the

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colour rather than importuned by it, as by red or

scarlet. You will recoil from a bright red, but you will

investigate a bright blue. And even here in this room,

in the subdued light, the depths witnessed in this blue

are apparently without end, the brightness like a

succession of screens vanishing only to reveal an

even more intense light behind. But with this fabric,

such is the art of it that even as you are seduced by

the field of blue, your eyes will be drawn to the

golden spheres that dot it all over. Each is a simple

design: a circle composed of just twelve stitches,

three in a line for the north equatorial region, two

above them for the tropics and one at the top for the

polar region, this little pattern mirrored for the

southern hemisphere, three stitches for the equator,

two for the tropic and one for the pole. And each

circle is embroidered with a fine silken thread of the

purest dye, and arranged in an apparently random

spread across the blouse. So you see how the blouse

mimics the heavens above, but lit preternaturally in

its entirety, as though in the care of some great being.

And what would you think of such a people as made

this blouse, that they do not easily comprehend the

dark? Do you understand this? What if there are those

who cannot see darkness? Who do not know

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darkness? For whom – unlike many, for whom light is

only partial and intermittent – a light pervaded all

things all the time? Well, this blouse was made by

such a people. And as I speak there is a polite rat-tat

on the only door in the room – which I failed to

mention to you in my description of my surroundings.

No matter. There is the diffident rattle on the light

wood of the door (which shakes the door on its loose

fastenings) and of course I go at once – having

nothing else to do, other than read this thick book of

exploration – and open it. The man in the passageway

is obviously a servant, very dapper in that Indian way,

very white dhoti and kurta – though the latter kitted

out, I fear, with many buttons down the front – and

bristling moustaches very mannish also in that Indian

way. He says, with a respectful bow, gleaming dark

eyes never leaving the blue blouse for even an instant:

“The Commissioner is asking to see you, Sahib.” I

should say, in the debonair style I affect here, that he

should tell the Commissioner that I will be along

presently, except that I happen to realise that I don’t

know the way to the Commissioner’s presence. So I

say, in a friendly, though off-the-cuff, way: “Right.

Hang on there, will you, and I’ll be with you in a

nonce.” This means that I have something to do –

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more pressing than meeting the Commissioner. I turn

about in the room, looking for something to do. There

is only the table and the chair, the heavily curtained

window and the now open door, and the book. I take

the necessary step that brings me to the table’s edge. I

bend as though seriously intent, and open the book at

a random page, numbers 456 and 457, as it happens.

There is an illustration of a heavily forested hillside, a

track cut into it diagonally from bottom left to top

right and a caption that describes the scene as the

Road to Attabal. The text informs us that this road is

the most important highway in the G’Dinka country. I

cough a little cough of understanding and close the

book, straighten up and turn towards the door again,

saying loudly: “Right, my man, now you may take me

to the Commissioner.” The servant is delighted to

hear this, face splitting into a huge grin – teeth very

white and strong – his bristly moustaches bristling

even more. And all the while his bright dark eyes are

fixed upon the heavenly blouse. Nonetheless, he

sparks into action, getting the door open again

forthwith and leading the way with many a backward

glance. The passageway is short – which surprises me

for some reason – the same khaki-coloured paint

being applied to the walls in the same slapdash

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manner, the same matting underfoot. Another door

ahead, upon which the servant taps lightly. A gruff

voice replies from beyond the door, which permits the

servant to open that door ajar and say: “Excuse me,

Commissioner Sahib, but the Lieutenant Sahib is here

to see you.” The person inside responds: ‘Oh is he?

Very good, Kumar. Please show him in, will you, like

a good fellow.” And the door is pushed open as the

servant goes through, turning then to bow low to me –

his eyes, as you might expect – and I saunter past and

on into the room. What had I expected? A palatial

colonial get-up? Well, not a room not much bigger

than the one I had just left and with few extra

furnishings either. Not even a potted plant. The man

was seated behind a table, now he has stood up and is

extending his hand towards me. A small man, mutton

chops extensively grey, very pink mouth and glacial

blue eyes. His hair is suspiciously dark – suggesting

some modifications, most likely at the suggestion of

his wife – and light, combed forward to cover too

high a brow. He says to me, his smile very beguiling:

“Ah my dear Sir, so glad to make your acquaintance

at last.” He points to a plain bamboo chair situated

directly to the front of his table. “Do sit down,

please.” When I do so, he leans forward across the

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table – not imposing on me, however it might seem

otherwise – and smiles again, his twinkling smile this

time, and says loudly: “My, but you do look

remarkably recovered from your ordeal, you know.

What I was told of your condition when you arrived

here, well really, I did not expect you to be up and

about for months.” Now his smile changes to a beam,

a surprisingly glassy expression on this man, as

though he has said his piece and might have been told

to expect a response from me at this juncture. So I

oblige, saying “Ah, as you know yourself,

Commissioner, the facilities here are excellent.” And

I too smile my charming smile, even allowing a hint

of swagger in my manner: “And perhaps the reports

on my condition were exaggerated, you know.” The

Commissioner does looked fazed by this last offering

and seems hard put to find a reply. What he does do

then is glance behind me towards the servant, who

loiters by the still-open door, and saying in a more

jocular tone this time: “Well, well, and we have you

here safe and sound, in any case, what? Perhaps now

you are ready for a small tiffin?” Before I can answer,

one way or the other, I hear a swish of good clean

cotton cloth and feel the evacuation in the room as the

door closes behind the servant. Have I said that this

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room is much like the one I had left to come here?

Mottled walls, matting on the floor, ceiling as badly

plastered, even the one window, heavily curtained

alike and the low even glow it permits in the room.

The Commissioner looks pleased to be alone with me

– no servants to eavesdrop, no doubt; perhaps no

spies either, given the situation in the colony. He sits

now eyeing me in a benign way, as though he might

have good tidings for me. But his lips have changed

texture and tone in some subtle way. His mouth had

been vaguely cherubic – no doubt in keeping with his

general plumpness – but now his lips have reddened

somewhat and become extremely smooth, the sort of

mouth a certain type of man likes to see on choirboys.

This disturbs me, though without good reason – I

think I am reading too much into this individual while

knowing next to nothing about my relation to him. In

any case, he is smiling now, a tender quality in his

eyes, long eyelashes pale like those of a cow. And

then it is his hands that I notice, suddenly drawn to

look down to where they rest on the table. They

sitting comfortably on the table, held upright opposite

each other but fingers loosely intertwined, the thumbs

playing with each other, circling and circling about

each other. I am reminded of a wickerwork gate, for

189

some reason, and I find I am staring at this apparent

gate with some fascination, believing this image and

expecting this gate to open at any second, to reveal

some surprise for me. And the Commissioner sighs a

really long sigh, part a kind of sadness, part also – I

sense – relief that we can move on to another stage of

our encounter. And of course he does not open the

little wicker gate of his fingers: oh no, what he does is

to raise his hands altogether from the table. And on

the table? Would you like to guess? Yes, as might be

expected – once you know the script: there is a large

book, yellow pages of a Bombay print, and on the

spine the legend: Among the G’Dinka. Only now, the

author is listed as Lieutenant Godfrey Adams

Wheelwright, Bart. Which, I presume, is who I am

now. Well, the Commissioner is pretty satisfied with

this performance. I duly stare at the tome, as if to say:

Oh golly. This seems a sufficient response, for the

Commissioner now unlinks his hand and lowers the

right one until he can pat the book with the tips of its

fingers. He smiles with a fond indulgence and says

with a genuine appreciation: “Quite a work, Sir. If I

may say so, that is. I am not an expert in these areas –

what with learning the languages and reading up

comparative literature – but it seems from what I

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understand of this” – tapping the book’s cover again –

“that you have achieved something quite

remarkable.” What am I say? I don’t know what he is

talking about – at least not yet. So I blow a little

proud, then say – with a due modesty covering for my

ignorance, “Well, as you know, Commissioner, work

of this kind is only as good as its subject matter.” The

Commissioner smiles broadly upon hearing this. “Oh,

I do, Sir. That I do.” Now he takes a deepish breath,

signalling thus that the pleasantries are over. He open

the book – apparently at random – at the very page I

had opened in the other copy of the book back in the

other room. He studies the illustration for a moment,

sucking air between his teeth in an irritating way. The

illustration is the other way round for me, and I

amuse myself for the while by imagining that I am

standing at the top of the path and so looking down at

the studious Commissioner. Then he starts and looks

up suddenly, fixing me with his piercing blue eyes,

and asks: “What I don’t understand, my dear Sir, is

how so many experienced men could be lost in the

desert.” Why is this always the first comment? I say

to him, “There was no water where water was to be

expected, Commissioner.” He will nod to this, his

mouth tightening in disapproval. I expand: “These

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cisterns had never failed. The guides and camel men

assured us of that. Remember, Commissioner, that

their lives were at stake too.” The Commissioner

relents somewhat upon hearing this. “Yet why didn’t

the Colonel take appropriate steps when the first

cisterns were found to be dry? At least, Sir, he should

have reported back to Command.” “To what end,

Commissioner? The natives allowed that those

cisterns could fail, but assured us – doubly assured us

– that those further into the desert could not. The

Colonel chose to believe them.” It is obvious that the

Commissioner is reliving the horrors of that

expedition, such as he had read it in my report. I say

on the back of his horror, as it were: “There was, of

course, the point of no return, Commissioner. But, as

you no doubt have read, we were overtaken by that

fierce storm just before we reached that point. And no

one knew of the existence of that ravine.” I am

overtaken myself now by a powerful feeling – a very

strange experience when there is no memory

associated with it – obviously related to that terrible

day. I say, my voice nicely shaken with emotion: “I

was lucky, Commissioner. My servant was a

numbskull, so it was in character for him to lead me

in the wrong direction.” I could smile here at the

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wonderful irony of this, but that would not be

appropriate to the occasion. Instead – more than a

little hypocritical? – I continue in the same vein:

“Imagine how I felt, Commissioner, after the storm

had passed to find my path blocked by the mangled

remains of three hundred men and boys, one hundred

camels and all our food and baggage.” The

Commissioner duly imagines this prospect. He says,

his voice dry with emotion, his lips pale and dry:

“And then you made your way alone out of the

desert?” I shrug, an instinctive self-depreciation now

to counterbalance my callous bemusement: “Part of

the way, Commissioner. I simply headed south and

south and south. Until, that is, after my servant

dropped dead and I was almost insensible, when the

G’Dinka came over the ridge in front of me.” The

Commissioner is shaking his head now, eyes

suddenly honest and clear, lips once again a smiling

cherry in tone: “My my, Sir, but you are a man lucky

to be alive. Is that not so?” I must nod in an

appropriate manner to this – though having no sense

of being lucky to be alive. But I do say: “Still,

Commissioner, it was our only way into the highland

fastness of the G’Dinka.” The Commissioner nods

vigorously in agreement. “Yes, yes, I do understand

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that very well, Sir. Even braving the Gorge from the

north – as you did – has its dangers. It is quite

impossible to penetrate upriver by means of it.” I nod

to this – echoing the Commissioner’s wholehearted

engagement with the story, but of course without

sharing in it – and add: “Well, Commissioner, the

G’Dinka prepared me as they were best able.” The

Commissioner understands this: “And even so, Sir,

you took quite a battering, you know. They gave you

up for dead when your little boat appeared floating

down the river. It was a miracle, Sir, nothing less than

a miracle that you are alive today to tell the tale.” I

feel the relief at once – eager, of course, to share it –

and I allow the Commissioner to settle down after his

exertions. I wonder when the refreshments will arrive.

A cup of Darjeeling would be very welcome just now.

The Commissioner has slumped a little in his chair,

even going so far as to rest his temple against the

forefinger of his right hand, gazing blankly at the

open pages that are under his gaze. Then he starts up

and looks more closely at something on one of the

pages. When he looks up there is a look of honest

curiosity on his face, pale eyes child-like, mouth very

tender. He asks me, completely out of the blue: “You

say here that this is the most important thoroughfare

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for the G’Dinka. Where does it lead to?” That is a

good question, but I do say, “To the Grove.” The

Commissioner looks blank – as he might well do in

the circumstances – and then asks – as might also be

expected: “The grove? What on earth is that?” I shrug

and withdraw myself as best I can – now that I know

what I am going to say: “It’s where the One True God

lives.” The Commissioner does not belief his ears, of

course. He gapes in an awkward stupid way at the

illustration in the book. I can see a thin stream of

spittle working its way out of the corner of his mouth

and come to dangle with an elastic bounce. Now he

looks up – sucking the drool back with a audible

slurping noise – and blurts out, eyes now moist: “The

One True God? But you say nothing of this in your

report, Sir.” I shrug again, though I’m less concerned

now with the Commissioner’s reaction, seeing that

the opening shot has so thoroughly flummoxed him:

“The G’Dinka asked me not to.” Well, the

Commissioner may have been stomached by the first

bit of news, but he is recovering pretty quickly now:

“The G’Dinka asked you? My dear man, who are

these natives to make such a demand of us?” Now I

shrug again, but this time it is a rhetorical gesture, as

much as to show that a difference of opinion is

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looming: “In fact, Commissioner, I have to agree with

them.” The Commissioner is shaking his head now,

which I know is another rhetorical gesture: his way of

disagreeing with me without seeming disagreeable.

He points to the illustration, his tightly pursed lips the

colour of beetroot, and declares: “You did not think

that such a madness was worth reporting? I mean to

say, Sir, have you ever heard of another native tribe

make such an outlandish claim? You know very well,

Sir, that these peoples are animists and that they

worship stones and the like. Did you not think that a

claim such as this was so unusual that it absolutely

must be part of your report?” Now I take a deep

breath. As the Commissioner was speaking I came to

see something of what I know on this subject. Am I to

tell this man all of that? What’s the point? I mean, it’s

not true. I agree with the Commissioner. The chances

of finding a primitive tribe in these mountains

believing in such a thing as the One True God is

absurd. Yes, yes, that may be so, but in any case I say

to the Commissioner in reply: “Actually,

Commissioner, they don’t simply believe in the One

True God. In fact, they don’t believe in anything. No,

Commissioner, the G’Dinka say the One True God

lives in the grove as their guest.” The Commissioner

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throws up his hands in an effete gesture, head

drawing back, the mutton chops bristly in an

unpleasant over-hairy way: “Ah now, my dear

Lieutenant” – he darts a quick look at the the top of

the right hand page open on the table – “Wheelwright,

Sir, you play a joke with me. I am as open to humour

as the next man, I daresay, but you must admit that

you border on the blasphemous now, do you not?” I

draw back, intimidated by the big word, blasphemous.

I can only say – less wicked humour than might seem

here: “Not if it is true, Commissioner.” The

Commissioner glances once again at the illustration in

the book, then closes it over with a sturdy thump. He

does not look up as he speaks now: “I tell you, Sir,

that it is not true.” And I nod in agreement – for I do

agree with the Commissioner here – but nonetheless

say: “I am telling you what the G’Dinka told me,

Commissioner.” “Oh indeed,” the Commissioner

rejoins immediately, eyes a wonderful sulky blue

now, “and I tell you, Sir, that these tribesmen are a

godless people and fit only for the fires of Hell.” I

assent to this with the slightest shrug of my shoulders,

but find even so that I must say: “If perhaps,

Commissioner, you would let me amplify, then you

might better understand what the G’Dinka mean

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when they say that the One True God is their guest.” I

pause here, needing some sign of affirmation from the

man. He is sitting a little slumped now, eyes

downcast, red lips pursed in petulance, obviously

very unhappy with the course our interview is taking.

There is a moment of utter silence before the

Commissioner manfully pulls himself together and

looks up to engage my eyes. He nods, the petulance

gone from his mouth but a stormy quality still in his

eyes: “Very well, then, Sir. I must in any case provide

the High Commissioner with a full report of your

adventure.” I sigh openly to show my relief, glad that

he is making the final part of my task that bit easier

by his co-operation. “I asked the G’Dinka if I might

visit the One True God.” I need here pause while I

placate the Commissioner’s open show of horror at

my seeming levity. I do this simply by spreading my

hands out on the table, which has the desired effect.

So I continue: “They were unhappy to refuse my

request – you see, a guest has, in ordinary matters,

total control over the G’Dinka people, the basic

principle of their justly renowned hospitality. And

when I asked why I could not make this visit, they

told me that as I was a polluted being I could not

endure the presence of the One True God. I was very

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cast down to hear this – I value myself as a pretty

decent sort of person – but they assured me that no

human being could enter the presence of the One

True God. It seems that all human beings – regardless

of creed or colour – are polluted. My next question I

daresay is the one you would have asked if you had

been in my place. Well, Commissioner, I asked them

how they knew that the One True God was actually

domiciled in their Grove. So they gave me the

following explanation. There exists high in the

mountains on the edge of their lands a large forest. In

this forest there is a small rocky amphitheatre

accessible only through a long narrow gully. Now, in

this clearing there is a pool of clear water fed by pure

springs from deep within the earth. The pool is

surrounded by fruit and nut trees that have a common,

curious characteristic, that all four seasons are present

in each tree at all times. Thus, a portion of an apple

tree, for instance, will be bearing ripe fruit while

another part will be in flower, another part green with

new fruit and a final part quiet and without leaf. The

same process occurs among the nut bearing trees as

well, so that the smooth level sward of sweet grass is

at all times littered with ripened fruit and nuts. These,

the G’Dinka say, provide the One True God with

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sustenance. Again, the pool affords the One True God

with liquid refreshment and the means he might need

for cleansing himself. You might ask, what happens

to this water – that is, the water the One True God has

touched – can it simply be released into the world at

large? No. The G’Dinka say the pool overflows into a

deep rocky channel that very soon disappears into the

ground. So it here that the One True God passes his

days, amply provided for his wellbeing, secure in the

knowledge of the protection of the ever-vigilant

G’Dinka. Now, according to the G’Dinka, all this

would count for nothing as far as we are concerned if

the One True God could not be observed at all times.

So, again according to the G’Dinka, a fish lives in

that glorious pool, a small golden fish that spends all

its time swimming about and gazing without cease

upon the being of the One True God as He dallies in

that Grove.” Well, I have to report that the

Commissioner is not happy with this story, not happy

at all. He says, expostulating in his timid fury: “Sir, I

beg you, but this is utter nonsense from start to finish.

Who ever heard of God feeding on fallen fruit? Or of

Him washing in a pond of cold water? I am very

surprised, Sir, that you take the trouble to repeat such

arrant lies. These tribesmen are savages, Sir, without

200

the benefit of the Book of God or indeed of any

common sense. Who knows what fantasies ravage

their frail minds in their frightful ignorance. Or

indeed what demonic power might work upon their

deluded and defenceless souls.” I stand up – the only

way of stopping the Commissioner is his flight of

righteousness – and raise my hands in a conciliatory

gesture, saying into the sudden quiet: “They are a

kind people, Commissioner. You see how they

restored me to health and then made the best

preparations for my safe return to my own world.”

There. I have said it all, yes?’

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‘Open your eyes, dear heart, and tell me what

you see.’

‘I think this is some kind of ship’s cabin. It’s

beautifully appointed, pale wood – perhaps oak –

panelling. The furnishings, too, are of the same wood,

all edges and corners carefully rounded. Yes, I am on

a boat – though I feel no ship-like motions, such as I

have experienced them – because I notice that all the

little framed prints are screwed tightly to the panels

and that the lighting is also secured against the walls,

the shades held firm by brass bracketing. The carpet

is woollen, of a tough fibre, but coloured

predominantly in what I know to be French Blue,

which responds very well to the low, yellowed light.

More evidence that I am on a boat of some kind is

provided by the fact that the table in the centre of the

room is provided with a raised edge designed to

prevent objects slipping from it in times of storm.

There are four people seated about this table, two men

and two women, arranged so that the each person

faces another of the opposite sex. They are

comfortably seated in plush chairs, each of which has

padded armrests – which all the sitters use. They are

playing some kind of card game. It looks like

Twentyfive from here, but I suspect it is a lot more

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complicated. One of the women, especially, seems in

the toils. She is biting her lower lip furiously as she

studies her cards – and, I only now notice, those of

the man opposite her, which are laid out neatly in a

row on the table. This man, in fact, is in the process

of saying across the table to the woman: “Oh get a

move on, Gertie. You can always win the next one.”

There is an element of irony, even mockery, in his

voice. The woman, for her part, throws up her eyes

and stares fiercely at him. The woman has sandy red

hair, very light in texture, braided and pinned about

her head in a complicated way, so that the long fringe

lying lightly on her brow is the only free hair on her

head. The effect is both of an extreme tidiness and a

rather provocative restraint. Her eyes are a kind of

vivid green I have never seen before; in fact, which I

wouldn’t believe could exist outside an artist’s

palette. She has a beautiful soft mouth, though the

rouge has become dry and cracked. She is saying with

the kind of helpless spite that charms men: “And I tell

you, Ronald, that I could not bid to save my life.” The

man is very amused by this – flushing warmly as he is

charmed – and he says with a mocking taunt: “Well,

Gertie, my dear, it’s not your life that they are after,

but my money.” Now the other two at the table look

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up. They have been studiously studying their hands

while the other couple bantered. They smile benignly

at the red haired woman, and the man says, laughing

with his mouth so open that his yellowed teeth can be

seen through the thick moustache: “Better Ronnie’s

filthy lucre than your lovely life, eh, my dear?” The

second woman – Mrs Beaton – should no doubt pass

some remark now, but she has her eyes closed again,

her altogether lovely head – with its dark wavy hair

and bright red ribbon – nodding to the beat of the

foxtrot coming from the radio over on the drinks

cabinet. And of course it is the first man, Mr McDrew

– his dark hair gleaming with the brilliantine he so

liberally uses that I see it sometimes trickling down

behind his ears – who will comment on this omission,

the stickler for the group dynamics. “And Mrs Beaton

of course who would rather trip the light fantastic

than…” The whistle of the intercom distracts me, I’m

afraid. It’s the Mate, who asks me to come to the

Bridge for a moment. So I must leave the party, but

before I do I top up the glasses of my guests, whisky

for the men, sweet sherry for the ladies, all accepted

with a smile and a word of thanks. Though our ship is

large, the living quarters are inclined to be on the

tight side. Two people of average girth would have

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trouble passing in the gangways, though we are saved

that problem because not many use them. I am

probably the only person to regularly negotiate these

passages, excepting the Purser and ship’s slavey

slopping out. Here is a secret, just here: a small

drawing of a house on the side of a low hill, sheltered

by old maples, and a flower garden to the front. This

is my home, where my wife and my son live and

await my return. It is just one of the many little

pictures attached to the oak panelling throughout the

ship, and no one but me knows the significance of

this one. It cheers me to pass here – as I do several

times in the day – and it helps me carry out my duties

with good humour. The Bridge can be a curious place

at times, especially if you don’t understand this ship.

For instance, though the evening is wonderfully clear

– the sun setting over to the left in a sparkling spring

sky – and the river today running smoothly, Jocelyn is

on the right lookout armed with the powerful eighty

by one forty glasses, dressed as though expecting a

storm. Why? you might ask. Standard regulations.

The weather on the river can change with frightening

speed, one moment calm as of now, the next a

typhoon-like storm striking us from almost any

quarter. And, you might ask even so, why the huge

205

binoculars? Well, though the surface of the river is

clear in all direction right now, quite large objects can

suddenly appear during some of the changes in the

speed of the current – after a storm usually – washed

down from the mountains upriver. So you see, we

must be prepared for that eventuality as well.

Anyway, Mr Harding – my First Mate – has saluted

me and I in turn must salute him. He is bent over the

large chart on the Chart Table behind the helm, his

trusty brass dividers as ever in his right hand, his

large befouled ebony bent shank eddying smoke in

his left. I say, to allow him to explain: “Everything all

right, Mr Harding?” The Mate is very earnest,

conscientious to a fault even, and it is then that he

will straighten up to face me, adjusting the brass wire

spectacles on his nose with the small finger of his left

hand – the pipe kept fully upright through long habit

– and he replies as he often does, “Well, Captain,

everything’s hunky-dory, except.” Here he will pause

and scratch the short hair just above his left ear with

the mouthpiece of the pipe – the one dirty habit of the

Mate that I cannot reconcile myself to – and will

glance momentarily out to the nearest far horizon

before continuing. “There’s too much southing,

Captain.” He would continue except that one of the

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Deputy Helmsmen – whose name I think is Jack –

comes onto the Bridge, fixing his flies and in the

middle of a yawn. Seeing me, of course, puts an end

to the yawn, though not the fly fixing. He nods

companionably to us both and says to me: “Evening,

Captain. Fine evening for us, ain’t it?” I don’t usually

indulge my crew, but right now is an exception. I

know I have blanched – the Mate has looked away

rather quickly and is studying the various dials on the

sensor board set into the bulkhead behind the Chart

Table. Jack calls out from the helm – required when

taking over or resuming at the helm: “Bearing two

eight two. Vector net of drift is two six three.” The

Mate nods to this – scratching his temple again with

the mouthpiece of his pipe – and turns back to me.

“Have you not noticed the swell in the river,

Captain?” As it is not something that I need to notice

– as the Mate has it – I say nothing, so leaving it to

him to expand. The Mate steals a meditative glance at

his pipe – held in his left hand against his breast – and

then glances out over the river. “Happened some days

ago, Captain. Reckon there’s an underwater channel

along here. Pretty tight, too, if you ask me. Speeds the

current up, as you can imagine.” I nod to this and

reply: “Well, Mr Harding, no survey has ever come

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out this far.” The Mate acknowledges this at once:

“Aye, Captain. But it’s robbing us. Every minute,

Captain.” I glance forward over the river. The sunset

is golden now and the surface of the river glitters as

though composed of diamonds. It’s one of those

sweet sad moments: buoyed up by the beauty, cast

down by some unpalatable truth lurking there. I sigh a

big sigh and say: “Well, then, Mr Harding, you carry

on as best you can. I daresay we’ll soon be across this

channel.” The Mate lowers his eyes and replies with

less conviction than I hoped for: “Aye aye, Captain.

And it is forward, for sure. The men are game for

that, anyway.” It’s always a relief to leave the Bridge.

There is this curious vacancy in the crew between

ports, as though they only depart and never arrive. I

can pause again in the cramped passageway and

contemplate the little sketch of my home. The sun

always shines on it here – though this may not be the

case in reality – a rising sun as the house faces east.

So much of my life is wrapped up in that sweet place,

my darling wife and my darling son waiting together

there for my return. You can see, perhaps, that I have

never really left that place, that even as we struggle

here in the middle of the great river I am always

basking in that sun in the company of my family. My

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son would be attending school by now, my wife

dutifully escorting him there and back each day,

proud of our offspring and keen to do the best for

him. I cannot help my feelings. I know this is

probably the most important expedition ever

undertaken by mankind – and that I should be proud

to lead it – but each moment I think only of the day I

will return to that house and see my wife and son run

out to greet me. I know it is a hopeless dream. I know

that while we toil out here at the boundary of the

world back there everything changes continuously.

My son grows up and my wife grows old, he

becoming a captain of a ship like me and she dying at

her appointed hour. Oh what of it? So back in the

cabin and immediately Miss Prentice throws me one

of her warm smiles and asks with her customary

banter: “How does she go, Captain Prosser?” I am of

course obliged to be always courteous to the

passengers, so I touch the brim of my cap and bow

slightly before replying: “She goes very well, Miss

Prentice.” And it is Mr Bolster who retorts – who

seems to make it his business to provide a running

commentary on our activities here: “And why

wouldn’t she, Gertie? She’s in our Captain’s very

capable hands. Isn’t that right, Captain?” I bow in Mr

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Bolster’s direction – as required – and reply as

urbanely as I can manage: “With the help of my

officers and a first rate crew, Mr Bolster.” And Mrs

Beaton tosses her dark hair, the red satin ribbon

flashing in the low light: “What modesty, Captain

Prosser. It does become you.” And this is a

compliment that I must acknowledge, bowing

towards that excellent woman with more than official

dignity. Mr McDrew is dealing out the cards. This I

notice because Miss Prentice has leaned forward – so

much so, indeed, that her bosom presses the table’s

edge – and says in a jolly tone: “I hope I am better

served this time, Ronnie.” Mr McDrew of course

smiles widely at this sally – never taking his eyes off

the cards he is sharing around one by one: “As ever,

my dear Gertie, it is all in the hands of good Fortune.

What she decides will be final.” Mr Bolster touches

the small pile of banknotes beside his left elbow and

smiles a tighter smile – his teeth being what they are

- saying somewhat too loudly in his excitement: “Oh

now, Ron old son, but I’d say that Lady Fortune is

smiling on us. Would you not agree, Betty dear?” Mrs

Beaton does grace Mr Bolster with a rather tight

smile of her own, then leans forward to consult her

little book. I confess I move closer to the table at this

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point – the pretext being to check the players’ glasses.

Mrs Beaton has taken the slender gold propelling

pencil she uses and is totting the figures, the pen held

very competently in her long slender fingers. I have

said that Mrs Beaton leaned forward in order to carry

out her exercise: and the lace that borders the pretty

scarlet blouse she wears has fallen forward somewhat,

rewarding me with a glimpse of her exquisite orbs,

milk white and so smooth. She says, nodding in

confirmation: “I’m afraid there is no hope for you this

time, Gertie. The figures are quite against you.” Yes,

glasses do need filling, so I take up the whisky and

sherry decanters from the side table – whisky in my

right hand and sherry in my left – just as the radio

falls silent, only a thin trickle of subtly varying static

in its place. I’m surprised by this, for I had not

noticed the radio while it played its endless stream of

coquettish dance music. At this point Mr McDrew

says in a firm voice: “Two Hearts.” Mr Bolster

responds almost immediately – gripping his cards

with both hands, I notice – and speaking in an even

louder voice: “Pass!” But the surprising fact I notice

as I approach the table is that Mrs Beaton – who

invariably nods away to the beat – seems not to have

noticed that the radio has fallen silent. She is still

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nodding to some inner beat, no doubt the habit so

ingrained as to be a second nature by now. Now Miss

Prentice speaks, a tremor in her voice even though

she is trying hard to be firm: “Double.” Instantly Mrs

Beaton says, even as Mr McDrew hisses his

frustration: “Redouble.” I top up Mrs Beaton, eyeing

her meaningless hand for the want of something to

do. Miss Prentice says, a more habitual gentleness

returning to her voice: “Oh, Ronnie, you know you

would have hissed if I had said anything else

anyway.” It’s Mr Bolster who intervenes here, his

chortle barely disguised: “You have to have some

trust in your partner, Ron old son.” Mr McDrew takes

this as an admonishment, for he replies, running his

free forefinger around the tight collar of his shirt:

“But she always bids up, Jason. She will not stop to

measure first.” I am pouring Miss Prentice a top-up of

sherry at this point, and she looks up and gives me

one of my favourite smiles, wry but without a hint of

irony. Her eyes twinkle among their fair lashes and

she asks me teasingly: “Would you be a kinder

partner, Captain Prosser?” A captain is used to getting

many propositions and in this case it is not difficult to

extricate myself: “I’m afraid I don’t know how to

play this game, Miss Prentice.” Her face opens with

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delight, the many freckles standing out against the

flush spreading over her skin: “Oh, I will teach you,

Captain Prosser.” Of course, this merits some

amusement, Mr McDrew’s snigger especially loud,

but Mrs Beaton extended titter does surprise me,

considering that we are discussing what is only a

game. However, Miss Prentice is adamant: “No, I will

teach you how to play the cards, Captain Prosser.

That is not difficult to learn. As for bidding, I am

quite sure you could manage yourself very well at

that.” Mr McDrew is glaring at Miss Prentice – the

oiled wavecrests on his dark hair gleaming in the low

light – and once she has finished he raises his free

hand and announces his next bid to what seems to be

a seriously intended dramatic effect: “Four

Diamonds!” Mr Bolster barks, without even a pause

for thought: “Pass.” And so it is Miss Prentice’s turn

again. I notice that her hand seems full of Diamonds

of all denominations. She hesitates this time – an

unexpected caution that probably owes its origin to

my presence. I turn to serve Mr Bolster with his

ration of whisky, but take care to nudge dear Miss

Prentice in the most casual way possible. I am

heartened when she calls out, very firmly I might add:

“Double.” Mrs Beaton, of course, calls out:

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“Redouble.” Suddenly, Mr Bolster stands up and then

sits down again – he begins brushing down the front

of his frock coat as though in blind reflex – asking

with some consternation: “By golly, is the radio not

working?” My reaction is to look across at Mrs

Beaton – whose head, as I have previously said, is

nodding away to some imaginary foxtrot – but she

seems not to hear Mr Bolster. I say quickly – to

forestall the moment when she does realise that her

music is not actual: “Ah, we are midstream now,

Ladies and Gentlemen, and no doubt have passed

beyond the range of the home transmitters. I daresay

the broadcast from the other side will be picked up

very soon.” I make a little bow – my way of avoiding

eye contact – and turn to leave before any awkward

questions can be asked, but adding as I go: “I will

check with my First Mate and see how long we must

wait. Thank you.” Another little bow and I am out in

the gangway. I will be accused of a certain moral

cowardice in this matter. But what can I do? I cannot

answer questions when I don’t know either just what

we are doing out here in the middle of this strange

river. Here is the picture of my home back onshore.

See? Set in a beautiful garden, with gently rising

slopes covered in deciduous woods behind and a little

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path of silvery flags leading towards us here outside

that image. I ask: Is even this house real? Do I have a

wife and son? And then, if I do not: what am I to

understand about these curious facts? I think now of

the wife who is Mother to a Son who will become in

the main particulars like the Father. Am I to

understand some truth in this? The Mother like a Gate

through which the Father passes in order to become

the Son, and who in turn becomes himself the Father

who will beget the Son with the Mother. Well, if I am

to understand this, then I am sorry: I do not

understand. More, I feel in myself no hope or

anticipation that I will ever understand. And to be

completely honest with you: I thought my task – my

journey, or whatever it is you are subjecting me to –

was coming to an end. I am crossing this river, amn’t

I, on the way at last to what I have already called the

Other Side? So, let us forget the mother and child bit,

and I suppose forget the card players back there, too –

though I admit I find the sweet Miss Prentice – Gertie

– very attractive company. I will go on now and see

what lies in store for me on the Bridge. (I notice there

are a number of Bridges in this fantasy. Do you have

a sense of humour?) So to the Bridge and I see the

Mate bent over the chart on the Chart Table, brass

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dividers in his right hand, odorous bent shank in the

left hand that rests on the raised rim of the table. The

man at the Helm I do not recognise – a gigantic black

man who seems dressed in ragged underclothes.

Outside, though, it is blowing a very fierce storm, the

river whipped into a frenzy of choppy waves, spray

hurtling against the thick glass of the Bridge itself.

And Tim Robinson – recognisable anywhere by his

long gingery beard – is acting lookout this time, bent

against the force of the winds, his eyes unwavering,

intent on the surface of the coming water. Now I

notice – to my surprise – another man, this time on

the port lookout. It is Sheffield, so small and light that

he needs to be strapped to the rail to keep from

blowing away. His oilskin is pressed against his back

and his face is completely hidden by the flapping

brim of his sou’wester. “Aye, Captain, and so it is.”

The Mate looks more depressed and overcome than

usual as he straightens up before me. He points out

leftwards with the stem of his pipe: “We have lost all

westing, Captain.” He clamps his thin lips more

tightly together – as though to prevent any further

speech. But of course he must make a full report. “We

are fighting this storm, Captain, to keep our position.”

I shrug – knowing even as I do it that it is not the

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most encouraging gesture I could make in the

circumstance – and ask: “Is there anything we can do,

Mr Harding?” The Mate actually puts the stem of the

pipe into his mouth and draws upon it – the first time

I think I have ever seen him do this – and a great

spume of very dark smoke rises from the filthy bowl.

Inhaling some of this dirt sets the Mate coughing in a

reluctant grumbling sort of way. “Well, Captain, the

men are working four hour shifts at the oars and I

believe that can be maintained indefinitely. The off

duty men fish – the River, you will be relieved to

hear, is very well stocked with fish – and so our stores

should be sufficient for a very long time.” I nod to

this and then make a show of looking behind me to

where the little man is looking-out. “And why is old

Bill on watch, Mr Harding?” The Mate straightens up

even more – drawing himself up to the very last inch

of his six foot six height – and makes a movement of

his mouth that I can interpret only as the nearest I

have seen the man make to a smile. “Well now,

Captain. You know the legend as well as I do, I

daresay. Mr Sheffield is on the look out for the Fall.”

I swallow very audibly and look down at the Mate’s

much annotated chart of the River. How am I to take

this news? I mean, the Fall? What can I say to the

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Mate that will not betray me? So I ask: “How far are

we from the Fall, Mr Harding?” The Mate sizes me

up with those icy blue eyes of his. I am nervous all of

a sudden and wonder what would happen if the veil of

this fantasy was torn away. Would there be anger?

Would everything vanish in a puff and I return to

some kind of heavenly oblivion? The Mate nods very

slightly and I realise that he is humouring me, the

man of skill taking the opportunity to emphasise the

advantage that the man of knowledge has over the

man of power. He says very curtly: “One hundred and

fifty three years, Captain.” Which of course is a long

time and so the Fall is very far away. Equanimity

comes very easily to me and so I can say, almost as a

remark: “Very good, Mr Harding. You will do your

best as always, no doubt.” But at the bulkhead I

suddenly remember: “Oh, Mr Harding, the passengers

have remarked the loss of the radio signal.” The Mate

has his back to me already – bent over his chart – and

all he does is nod his head once.’

218

‘Open your eyes, dear heart, and tell me what

you see.’

‘I see a room, more an office, really. Potted

plants, one of which I know to be a rubber plant.

They are all very well taken care of, gleaming leaves,

nice dark soil – no, compost, I think. Actually, the

pots themselves are pretty attractive too. One I

especially like. It has a high crimson glaze and glows

very brightly in the light from the high window

nearby. Then there is a fine blue pot – a very pure

cobalt blue. The glaze here is webbed with fine

fractures: which means either that it is a very old pot

– and so no doubt very valuable – or else it is a cheap

one, bought perhaps for its fine colour. The rest of the

room? The floor is bare of carpet, composed of what

appears to me a well made parquet that is maintained

with some skill. I think the word to use here is

lustrous. The wood is not varnished, more likely

French polished. It is a joy to gaze on. What else?

The walls are covered with a satin-like material,

coloured pink with a promising red overtone. Very

plush indeed, and one of the few artefacts I have

experienced that make me regret not being very

wealthy. The ceiling is simply painted white. I can’t

evaluate that. Given the high quality finish elsewhere,

219

shouldn’t the ceiling also be treated? The trouble is

that I cannot think how that would be done. Perhaps

some colour other than white, say a fine pastel of a

faintly violet blue, say an accurate gentian. Would

that be overdone? Well, it could be toned with a thin

line of gold set as a border some inches in from the

wall. I tell you, heaven is decorated in gold and

gentian, and if you tell me it’s not, then I say it ought

to be. A row of three tall windows run along the wall

to my right, each divided into eight – two by four –

panes. There is no curtaining, but the effect

nonetheless is very elegant, the white strutting

standing out in the faint shadows it creates. Ah. The

artificial lighting is something of a disappointment.

Perhaps it is rarely used here – that is, if this is an

office and not a domicile. Very functional. In each

corner of the room – dimensions, by the way, about

twenty feet on a side – there is a lamp standard made

of some kind of bright metal, aluminium or stainless

steel, with the brushed finish I think they call satin.

About six foot tall, each sports an over-large squared

shade coloured a lurid orange. They remind me of

something ridiculous, except that I cannot be bothered

remembering what. In the centre of this room there is

a large desk, facing me where I have entered the

220

room. It too is made of the bright metal and finished

with the satin brush. Now here the effect is more

successful. Yes, from where I stand – and so seeing

only the blind front and one side – it does resemble a

large water tank, perhaps designed for specialist use

in a laboratory. But the surface – and especially

where the light from the windows strikes the table

directly – there rises a rich silvered sheen that has an

effect on my sensibility that I cannot fully describe. I

feel pierced when I even glance towards the table,

pierced as though by a cold steel knife of incredible

sharpness, so that the loose warm puddings that form

my material body seem to detach from me and leave

only a strange naked lightness. It is not an altogether

pleasant sensation – hence my difficulty in fully

describing the sensation – and I feel some horror

lurks in the nakedness I experience. I would say there

is a lack of some kind disclosed in this experience,

but I do not want to try to say what this lack is. The

first word – to be frank with you – that came to me

was trust, which I immediately converted to love,

which was the point at which I realised I could not

fully describe the sensation. There is a presumption in

the use of these words that completely over-states the

situation. And my reason for saying this is simple:

221

after love came the idea of anger. All this is a good

rationalisation of exposure, even over-exposure –

vulnerability. The failure of trust leading to the

morality of love – that one ought to love in any case –

and then on to anger that I should be put in this

situation. Do I admit to a failure here? I think I do.

Can you understand this: the experience of

vulnerability is never balanced by a counter-

knowledge of that to which I am vulnerable. There is

the inevitable recoil: who or what am I to trust?

Please don’t ask me to trust in God or the like, entities

of which counter-knowledge is not possible. What do

I mean by counter-knowledge? I have a hammer in

my hand, the counter-knowledge of which is the nail I

will drive into the wood. If I must trust, then I will

trust only what can be trusted. If I must love, then I

will love only what can be loved. In other words, they

are transitive states. And as for the anger. Ah, that

must wait. A door beyond the desk has opened. A

woman enters. I think immediately that this must be

you. I’m tempted to add at last, but I don’t feel that in

me, so it must be a flourish. I want her to be you and

yet I am indifferent to the answer. She has not

responded to me in any way – seems not to be aware

of my presence – so I’ll assume that she is not you.

222

Describe the woman. Quite tall – she is in very high

heels, but bare-footed she would be about my height –

tall and slender. Her legs are especially beautiful,

long and elegant, clad in black hose, patent leather

shoes with an ankle strap, an A-line skirt that comes

down to mid-thigh and made of a black satin-like

material that shimmers like jet in the light from the

windows. She has shoulder length blond hair, set in

loose ringlets, and heavy with expensive

conditioning. Her blouse is that kind of silver lamé

that I dislike intensely. I suspect that here the metal

threading is genuine silver, and the material hangs

close to her body without clinging – the selling point

of this kind of material as it serves to show off the

torso of tall, small-breasted women to its best. There

are no rings on her fingers, and only a tiny silver

watch on her long slender left wrist. She is inspecting

one of the plants – what I think is a kind of fig – that

sits in a large green-glazed pot just inside the door.

Now she looks up at me and smiles. Her face is small,

her mouth especially, her nose narrow and somewhat

pointed, but her eyes are very intense – surprisingly

so in an office worker – of the kind of amber that is

called snake-like. She is wearing too much lipstick –

bright red, of course, and there is far too much

223

mascara for so small and shallow a face. But her

smile seems genuine, for even her eyes have lit up.

She is probably a naturally friendly person, approved

of, a trusted employee in a subordinate position, in

this case here the secretary of a senior manager or the

like. But she grimaces quickly, and only now do I

realise that I have not responded to her in any way –

preoccupied as I am with giving you a full report. So I

duly smile at her and say, lamely: “Hello.” That helps

reassure her – she touches the forward bangs that lie

against her cheek with her left hand – and says: “You

must be for the interview.” Her nails are very long

and red, fingers bony and blotched to a degree painful

to behold – like twigs on a dying branch. I nod, not

knowing what she is talking about. She steps across to

the desk, raising her knees to cope with the high heels

– and I notice that her knees are bony too, the caps

seemingly small and narrow under the dark gauze –

and presses what must be a button set into the desk’s

top. The pip that sounds is very melodious, though

perhaps pitched too high for my ear, like the tweeting

characteristic of a very small bird. A voice answers,

coming to me as no more than a rattle of static. The

woman says, obviously in answer: “Yes, Signore, it’s

him alright.” She glances up at me as though to

224

confirm what she has said, her long lashes batting

twice in the short interval that it takes the voice to

rattle a response. “Yes, Signore, I will send him

through at once.” She straightens up from the desk,

twisting her shoulders while she reaches into the neck

of her blouse to pull the bra strap back onto her

shoulder. It’s a very elegant movement, the long

fingers moving swiftly with both precision and grace,

and all the while she looks down towards the desk,

lips pursed in thought. I am at a loss during this, so I

take a step across to the nearest window and look out.

I am for some reason intensely curious about the

situation of this office and by extension the whole

building. We seem to be on the third or fourth floor,

looking out onto a broad expanse of carefully

maintained lawn. In the distance there is what seems

to be a high boundary wall build of a reddish stone,

crenellated throughout the length that I can see. In the

centre of the lawn – about a hundred yards away, I’d

say – there is a lone tree. A strange, unreal tree, trunk

perfectly cylindrical, crown perfectly spherical, the

dense foliage all of one hue, a bright green that I have

never seen on a tree. Oh, wait. Now there is a small

bird, pure white, sitting up near the top of the tree. I

assume it was within the foliage and has just now

225

hopped into sight. Now it is flapping its little wings.

And now – yes – it sings. I’m afraid you will have to

hear this bird’s singing for yourself. One word: liquid.

It makes me happy, very happy – as though such

birdsong could exist only if some better reality also

existed. Now the woman says – I’m surprised to find

that she is standing directly behind me: “The Signore

will see you now.” When I turn, she steps back

quickly and moves away towards the door beyond the

desk. I say anyway, wanting to express something of

how I feel: “What beautiful birdsong.” And the

woman jerks her head forward in some kind of reflex,

her small mouth pursing tightly, but she does reply:

“Birds always sing in Paradise.” She presses a panel

set into the door and it opens away from us – in spite

of the fact that it had opened inwardly when she

arrived – and though I want to reply – the word

Paradise putting me on my guard immediately – I

simply step across the threshold. Because I had acted

so quickly, I look back – uncertain because of the

speed of these events – and see that she has thrust her

right hand into the waistband of her skirt and is

frantically pushing her blouse down, an expression of

utter vacancy on her small, round face. My unease

has been increased by this sight. Obviously, this is

226

just another of your settings. Paradise? Why does it

resemble something from a medieval Book of Hours?

Why can’t you create something more straight-

forward? If you want me to do something, then you

will have to create a world in which I can understand

what is going on. Anyway, I find myself in another

heavily decorated room – no, chamber. Do I need to

describe this one? Well, the ceiling here is not white,

at least that. The colour is what they call wine red,

actually a very fine red here. The material seems to be

more granulated than the satin they used next door,

perhaps linen. The walls are peach satin, a large – no,

magnificent – sofa-settee type seat occupies the

length of the wall facing the windows – also three in

number. This sofa is coloured orange, remarkably

garish, and is festooned with bright blue silk

cushions. The desk in the centre of the room is an

exact replica of that of the secretary. This desk,

however, is piled high with paperwork, files and

folders, thick books with many paper markers. There

is a man on the far side of this pile: at the moment I

can see only his bald pate. The view from the window

matches that from the other room – I was prepared for

it to be different, but it’s not. Now a voice issues from

behind the mountain of paper, a pleasant voice, deep

227

and rich, and it says: “Be with you in a half minute,

sonny.” I notice now that the ceiling has been

highlighted with what could be best called a brilliant

brilliant white. I’m never sure how white and red

balance. They seem to rob each other. And

considering the colour of the walls here, a mixture of

red and white would give you this peach. Not very

satisfactory, is it? Ah, the man behind the desk has

stood up. I can see part of his face, at least. Very

handsome in a dignified way, his skin is brown and

textured, eyebrows thick and even – black, of course.

His mouth is the colour of wine, but there seems to be

a faint yellowy pallor on his cheeks. Now he looks up

at me. His eyes pierce me, so light in colour as to

appear lit within. He says: “Make yourself

comfortable on the settee, young man. I’ll be with

you in a moment.” So settee it is. Sometimes you

can’t be sure what it will be called, couch, sofa,

settee, even divan. Anyway, here am I, seated on the

settee. Not very comfortable. Feels like tightly packed

horse hair, good for a few hundred years, I’d say –

that’s irony, by the way. The seat itself is cambered a

little too steeply for comfortable sitting. I’ve managed

get my bottom on the inner incline with my feet still

on the ground. How long must I wait? I mean, what

228

else has this character to do here? And here he comes

now, just as I speak. He toddles. He’s not much more

than five feet tall, with an average sized torso but

short legs. A comical effect here, I am afraid. There’s

this handsome face and quite wide chest, then the

little legs that have to trip along to keep up. I don’t

mean to be cruel – he seems a fine self-respecting

person – but I think that I am just a little bit bored.

Anyway, he is negotiating the settee. He has a large

file clutched by his left arm, and he is trying to hoist

himself up onto the seat. Not very successful. He

must content himself with a half seat/half lean against

the outer slope of the seat. He does all this with the

greatest composure. Now he smiles. How white his

teeth are; how they gleam against the rich ruby of his

lips. And his eyes, they flash on me again, and I see

this time that they are a very pale tawny. He has

opened the file at the first page – what appears from

here to be a completed application form. The rest of

the file is composed of a thick wad of handwritten

sheets. Now he looks up again and says to me in his

firmest tone, his eyes very direct though benevolent:

“We always look for one particular entry in these

forms, young man.” He points to a line about half

way down the application form. “Only a word or two

229

is needed, you know. That’s all we need. We base our

judgement almost solely on what is entered there.” He

turns the file so that I can see the form more clearly.

He taps his forefinger on the line as he continues:

“And what have you written there, sonny?” He bends

forward as though the writing there is difficult to

make out. “I quote you: see appended summary.” He

looks up at me again, the very faintest amusement

entering his expression: “Appended? What’s wrong

with attached, sonny? Or included, enclosed. Why the

pedantry?” I don’t answer him, of course. I haven’t a

clue what this man is talking about. He lifts the entire

file for me to see, then rifles through the handwritten

pages. The writing is small and very regular, black

ink, nothing but pages of dense prose. There must be

well over a hundred pages of this. The little man says

as he finally lets the file fall back onto his knees: “I

mean, we take such great care with the translations.

We never want to be misinterpreted. Look, for your

idiom we chose the heading Proclivities. Was that not

sufficiently clear? Two or three words to describe

your tendencies, that’s not too much to ask of a bright

young man like yourself. I mean, you are used to the

idea of forms and the accurate completion of them.

Are you an optimist or a pessimist? Do you worship

230

God? Do you like girls? Do you kick ball? What kind

of cereal do you have for breakfast? Anything like

that. Just a few words is all we require.” He now hefts

the file in a kind of look-at-this gesture. “I mean,

sonny, this is a farrago of nonsense. Even Hegel

himself would have bitten his nails to the quick had

he to peruse it. Do you know how many documents I

must read in a day? Look around and see for yourself.

And I am expected to patiently study every little

scribble that is put before me.” He hefts the file again,

this time in an obviously dismissive way. “Well, I’m

sorry. I could not make head nor tail of what you

were going on about, sonny. You couldn’t even spell

quintessentially correctly. I really cannot tolerate this

anymore. I am very sorry if this disappoints you. A

lot of work went into your report, but someone ought

to have been on hand to guide you.” The man turns

the file over on his knees and sets to trying to force

the Treasury tag through the hole in the stiff card.

There isn’t enough free play in the tag to allow this,

which exasperates the man. He turns the file over

again and this time tries to free the application form

from this end of the tag. No success here, either. Now

he is stamping his foot on the floor in annoyance –

which is rendering his perch on the settee very

231

precarious. Finally, he loses all patience and simply

tears the application form out of the file. This he lays

carefully beside him on the seat. Then he eases

himself on to his feet and goes over and drops the file

– with all the manuscript pages still attached – into

the waste basket by his desk. He comes back to the

settee – not once looking in my direction – and takes

up the application form, which he now brings over to

his desk. I cannot see what he is doing behind the

stack of paperwork, though I do hear the rattle of

pencils in a box. Then silence. Then the door on the

far side of the desk – the top of which I can see from

where I am perched – opens and closes again, closing

with a resounding bang. It seems the man has left the

office. I’ll check if this is the case. Yes, I’m afraid it’s

true. He just walked out with saying a word to me

either way. Here is the application form. The name is

Karl Jensen Süchermeier, with an address in a place

called Steinberg-sur-Marne. Do you want to know

more? He seems very well educated. Mannheim and

Trollings Bad. Can’t read much else, handwriting

very cramped in a style like Fraktur. Ah, the man has

pencilled a comment across the top of the form. This

is what he has written: tongue not as loose, DG. I’m

sure Karl Jensen would find that very impertinent. Oh

232

well. Did I fail here? What was the test anyway? So,

what do I do now? I’ll cross to the window to start

with. Do you already know why? Well, there is the

tree with its spherical crown of too-green leaves and

it brown-brown tubular trunk. The grass is bright too,

perfectly uniform surface, no weeds or other

extraneous growths – not even a daisy. Is this real? Is

there some place in all creation that is like this? I wait

for the bird to appear. I wait for the little white bird to

sing for me again, your bird of Paradise. How long

must I wait, Princess of Never-Never Land? Must I

await your pleasure, or can I wish the bird into

existence myself. What if I say that I want the bird to

appear now? What…?’

233

He tries to remember – shivering suddenly in

the cool air – if the light had been on or off. He can’t

remember. Using the banister as a guide, he finds he

can climb the stairs easily enough. The trouble is the

landing, but he has grown used to the dim light –

stronger here where the window is – and can discern

the faint glow of the white painted door. He remains

surprised at how chilly it feels, but tells himself that

the temperature can drop sharply out here in the

country.

Even the bed is a lot colder than he expected,

the sheets stiff and tightly tucked in. He turns and

turns about to get comfortable, telling himself all the

while not to do that – the bed will never warm up that

way. He he finally ends up in a scrunch – though he’s

reluctant to give in to this – arm laid along his side to

warm it.

There is the moment when he tells himself that

he will never get back to sleep and then promptly falls

asleep.

It’s light and he is dragging his arm out from

under the covers – his first act any day, an anxiety lest

he has overslept – before he knows he is awake. His

watch tells him it is just twenty five past one. He

wonders if he wound it last night. Obviously not, but

234

yesterday – as he begins to remember it – was a busy

day, to say the least. Not knowing the time disturbs

him. He’s in a strange house – someone else’s home –

where he needs to be on his guard to do the correct

thing. Is it early morning or late in the day? Listen, he

tells himself. He lies back and listens. A dog barks

somewhere far away, otherwise almost complete

silence. This is the country, he tells himself, no

traffic, no background rumble to denote up-and-about

daytime.

Then he remembers: I nearly died yesterday. He

sees the ocean, the incredibly bright light, his own

blindness. Why did I want to die, he asks himself, as

though some other part of him might have had this

strange notion. But the memory in any case leaves

him feeling lost, disorientated, wondering in a vague,

logical way how one lives on after evading suicide.

He realises he doesn’t know.

Best policy in this situation is to do something:

he decides he will slip down to the kitchen and check

the time. He can set his watch and then he can

consider what to do next. He listens carefully out on

the landing but hears nothing at all. What had he

expected? Snoring, low voices, telltale rustling? No,

he realises. He is expecting something completely

235

different. It’s bright enough on the stairs for him to

see the heavy drape and so to remember that some

kind of mysterious mirror stands behind it. He cannot

take his eyes off the drape, trying to work out the dark

pattern embroidered on the deep rich green

background. But it’s not possible, too many folds in

the curtaining.

In the downstairs corridor, he cannot remember

which of the doors along to the right leads to the

kitchen. He tries the first one and looks in. A man

with greying hair is seated at the table, an accounts

book open before him. He is darting back out into the

hall when the man looks up. The man’s face suddenly

animates, astonishment like an eruption there, and he

says, ejaculating in a hoarse voice:

‘Good God Almighty!’

He cannot retreat now, his native rectitude

keeping him from the mighty temptation to pull back

and avoid what might be a very tricky situation. But

the man has scrambled to his feet already, pushing the

chair to one side in an instinctively careful way. He

now approaches him with a smile near to joy rising

into his features:

‘Holy God, is that you, Oisín?’

236

It’s the name that breaks some barrier deep in

him. Tears spring to his eyes. He finds that his own

voice is equally hoarse, his mouth all at once dry, as

he asks:

‘Josie?’

Then he realises that the man is Josie: ‘Good

God, what’s happened to you?’

The man stops at once, getting himself in hand

very quickly. He says:

‘Look, Oisín, you come and sit down at the

table.’ He takes him by the elbow and leads him

deeper into the room, pulling out the nearest chair and

guiding him gently until he is seated. Then he takes

his seat, pulls his chair forward and lays his hands flat

on the table. He nods as though getting a bright idea

and jumps to his feet.

‘Wait there, Oisín. I think we could do with

more tea.’

The man darts off into the next room along the

hallway. He sits on for a moment, completely numb –

one part of him supremely elated by some nameless

realisation, another part enduring an anti-climax in a

stolid unthinking way – until he suddenly wonders

what the time is. He gets up and follows the man into

the kitchen. Of course there is no clock on the range,

237

nor on the gas cooker that sits in the corner alongside

the range. But there is a large alarm clock on the high

shelf that runs along the wall above the cookers. It

tells him it is about twenty past nine. So he sets his

watch accordingly, then winds it with quick practiced

to and fro rotations.

The man – who seems not aware that he has

followed him into the kitchen – is ladling tea into a

large aluminium teapot. The iron kettle on the range

is bubbling away. He says to the man’s back, the

tenderness in him like a flame he might blow out over

the bent figure with its grey hair and worn face:

‘And how are you, Josie?’

The man waits until he has poured water from

the kettle into the pot and placed it on the range

before answering:

‘Same as ever, Oisín.’ He turns around. There

are tears in his eyes. He shakes his head with the

emotion. ‘Oh but all the better for seeing you, man.’

The emotion is like a contagion in him too, and

he replies simply:

‘What happened, Josie? What happened to

you?’

The man smiles with a kind of happy irony: ‘Oh

no, Oisín. The question is, What happened to you.’

238

This is his first intimation that he is involved in

a real event. He is momentarily very frightened,

feeling as though he has no past and that therefore he

will not be able to handle the situation he is now in.

The man is shaking his head with a growing

wonderment, the happy irony still playing across his

face:

‘Oisín, everyone thinks you’re dead, that you

drowned in the sea around here nineteen years ago.’

His mouth falls open. For an instant he believes

what he is hearing, and wants to scream with the

frustration that sweeps him as he considers the notion

that after-death existence might be no different from

life itself. But then some other part of himself – the

dry practical part that has always trudged around in

his wake – prompts the question:

‘What year is it?’

‘Nineteen eighty eight.’

This, of course, makes no sense. There is

momentary anger that something may have been

taken from him. But he knows instinctively that this is

not true. If anything, he feels very replete – where

loss might be expected. Yet he feels as though an

earthquake has riven a chasm between two adjacent

points. It is this insight that he most easily

239

understands, seeing in the image of the chasm a very

good idea of what has happened – even though he

knows nothing at all about it. This chasm is dark, but

he knows – once again with an instinct that seems

without knowledge – that the satisfaction he is

experiencing has its source there. At once, his mind

fills with flashing images succeeding each other at too

great a rate, and he knows that if he could grasp what

lay in this dark abyss he would understand

everything. This insight fills him with a truly fantastic

happiness – as though the greatest temptation could

be acceptable under these circumstances. Yet the

overwhelming desire to surrender to this complete

knowledge is at once resisted by some force that

seems to rise from his gut, which triggers a physical

reaction, so that he clenches his right hand into a fist

and slams it down on the range.

The man is looking at him with a surprisingly

knowing air, as though he understands something of

what is going on inside him. So he says, the mock

formal tone he used as the pain-in-the-neck of Third

Year coming out of nowhere:

‘Would it surprise you to know that Paradise is

dark?’

240

The man frowns, then nods. ‘Why not?’ It is

obvious that he is temporising, for he nods once more

– which acts like a punctuation mark – and asks:

‘Can you remember anything?’

The question is like a challenge, and his

response at first is to pass another smart remark – this

time about memory – but this is cut across by the

insight that while the Wisdom of Paradise is true, it is

also largely irrelevant.

It’s the feeling of relief that surprises him, when

he expected – as he only now realises – more anger,

this time arising from rejection. And the relief is

sweet, stirring up that state that is so familiar to him –

that hovers between self-pity and sentimentality – but

which he now feels free to indulge to the utmost.

‘About what?’ He is not temporising on his part:

he finds that dealing with the man is very different

from how he is relating to what he feels left over

inside himself. It is as though what he knows to be the

real world is covered at every point by what can be

best called a crust of ice. And it is the hardness of this

crust that baulks him, not the coldness of the ice.

The man has taken the teapot over to the sink

and is now tipping a short stream of the brown liquid

241

into it to test the tea – though perhaps also an

instinctive libation. He says over his shoulder:

‘Can you remember anything of that night? Can

you remember anything happening?’

He follows the man back into the little breakfast

room, tantalised of a sudden by the fragrance of the

tea.

‘Only that I got up to go to the toilet and then

went back to bed. And woke up this morning, I

suppose.’

Back at the table and the tea is poured. The man

pushes the breadboard his way, then the bowl of

butter and a jar of a dark homemade jam. Only now

does he realise how hungry he is. The man watches

him with satisfaction.

‘Nothing happened when you went down to the

toilet? Nothing at all, Oisín?’

The insistence here alerts him. He stops eating

and drinking long enough to ask:

‘And what might have happened, Josie?’

The man catches his eyes and holds them.

‘The curtain over the mirror was drawn back

when I got up this morning. First time in years that it

was pulled back, Oisín.’

242

He returns the man’s stare – jaws locked in mid-

bite – and finds he is struggling with a deep feeling of

resentment, a feeling that threatens to deepen to an

intense jealousy.

The man seems able to read this play of

emotion, for he begins to speak in a hasty, chatty way

that is uncharacteristic:

‘The only person to move that curtain ever is

Máirín – you’ll remember her as the young girl in

O’Neills bar last night, Molly. She’s living in Dublin

now. The curtain hasn’t been moved in years.’

He hears all this clearly enough, even nodding

when the girl is recalled for him – but not noticing

how the man plays down the rupture in time. Yet he is

also fully engaged in a struggle with the unreasonable

jealousy that burns him up, aware as he does that this

possessiveness has always lurked beneath his habit of

disavowal. The man, for his part, can see this also, so

he continues, temporising:

‘You remember I told you how she liked

poetry? Well, she has become a very good poet. She

published her first volume of poems last year. It’s

very important for the people of this area.’ He pauses.

‘But I think she wants to be famous now.’

243

He takes a deep breath and says – something in

him snapping open so that the strong feelings

evaporate in a second – taking the opportunity offered

to evade this jealousy:

‘It would go to her head. Didn’t you warn her,

Josie?’

The man shrugs. ‘The truth is, Oisín, the poor

girl doesn’t really know what she wants. This is just

another straw to lift her out of…’ The man breaks off

and leans forward to draw closer: ‘Do you know what

shame can do to a girl, Oisín?’

He nods, and as he nods he feels an immense

calm open in him. It is like an opening out in him,

like a new broad world – a desert world but still in the

roseate cool of the morning – extending out behind

him. He says out of this imperturbable calm:

‘Is she courageous?’

The man is surprised by this question.

‘Courageous? They’re a very conservative

people, Oisín. Tenacity is a virtue among them. That

can often seem like a courage.’

‘But she has no commitment, Josie, has she?’

The man nods in assent. He returns to staring

again.

‘You’ve learned a lot, Oisín.’

244

He is startled to hear this, as though some secret

has escaped him – and escaped him very easily, too.

But he shakes his head instead and says with

equanimity:

‘It’s like a map of dispositions, Josie. Except

that the map is never true.’

The surprising thing is that the man just nods at

hearing this, as though it confirms some intuition he

has. He asks him:

‘Do you understand that?’

The man smiles in his more familiar way,

though a trace of irony even so:

‘I understand the bit about the map never being

true, Oisín. We’re all bent by circumstances.’

He has eaten his fill and the teapot is empty. He

says:

‘I’ll have to go home to see how things are.’

The man stands up, as though in anticipation of

his departure, while yet saying:

‘It’s nineteen years since you were home,

Oisín.’

He stares uncomprehendingly on hearing this.

He left home no more than forty eight hours ago.

The man makes a facial gesture that reassures

him. ‘Your family had a Requiem Mass said for you

245

up in Tullycross. Everyone was there. Then your

brother came to see us during his honeymoon, about

seven years ago. He told us your father died about ten

years ago now.’

He says, still uncomprehending: ‘Justin is only

seventeen.’

Now the man becomes bleak, choosing this

moment to end his temporising:

‘He’s in his mid thirties, Oisín. Probably has a

family – your nieces and nephews.’

There is a part of him that sinks down and cries

– raging that so much has been stolen from him – but

there is also the part that knows that something has

been achieved, even if what has been achieved is

unknown. But he asks nonetheless:

‘And mother?’

The man shakes his head. ‘I don’t know. I could

make enquiries.’

He shakes his head in turn. ‘No. Don’t bother.’

He knows better than to add that it would be

irrelevant.

There is nothing to explain.

He stands up and steps towards the door. The

man goes to open the door immediately, asking:

‘Would you go across to England, Oisín?’

246

He knows it doesn’t matter where he goes, or

what he does. He nods.

‘I have an old friend in Bedford, from the Navy

days. He has a business there, much like mine. He’ll

fix you up with a National Insurance number. You

shouldn’t have any problem after that.’

Out in the corridor, he goes down and lifts the

drape over the mirror. The surface is a kind of mica,

glittering vividly even in the low light that reaches it.

The man asks, nearby: ‘Why did you come

back, Oisín?’

He straightens up and lets the curtain fall back

into place. He shrugs. ‘It’s all the wrong way round.

That’s how I see it, anyway.’ He turns and points

towards the side door at the end of the corridor.

The man nods and goes forward to open it. They

go across the yard and out through the gate in the

surrounding wall. The man says:

‘Those are the fruit trees. You can see how they

have grown, Oisín. Mostly Coxes and Conference

pears.’

It’s a cloudy day, the ocean in the distance dark

but flecked all over with streams of foam.

The woman is bent over a row of carrots,

pulling them out of the ground by the bunch and

247

laying them out in a creel. Her thick mop of silver

hair flies above her in the wind.

The man at his back says:

‘She’s made a lot of this place in the years,

Oisín. I think it’s because we have no children. It’s

not for the money, anyway. But she likes the trees a

lot. She says they attract the birds.’

248

Part Two

In the Land of the Wise

249

The alarm clock goes off at a quarter to seven,

as expected, and – already awake for a while – he is

quick to switch it off. There is no need to wake her

before time. He has already reabsorbed the

remembrance of what day today is. Each morning for

the last week he has gone through this painful

process, and it has become no easier with the

repetition. It is strange, he thinks in his detached way

– sometimes he must even remind himself what

emotional response is appropriate to a given occasion

– that part of the problem is that there is something

here that simply cannot be understood. There is a fact

that he can describe pretty exhaustively but which

even so is not thereby made fully intelligible. And as

for the appropriate emotion, he cannot find one this

time. Where emotion might be felt, there is only a

void – as though the proper feeling is either not

available to him or is too vast for him to contain

without harming himself.

Or he might be singularly indifferent – he must

consider that possibility too.

The cold jolt of this thought moves him. As

always, he touches the prominence of her hip – as

though it had some talismanic power – before easing

himself out from underneath the covers. He looks for

250

his slippers in the grainy dawn light – looking intently

though they are where they always are – all the while

the warmth from his wife’s body spreading out from

the fingertips of his left hand till it is as though it

radiates throughout his body.

This will get him through the day, as it does

every day.

The light has been left on out on the landing

again. Does it every time, no matter how often he is

told. He crosses to the door facing and pushes it open

– always left ajar for some reason – and asks in a low

voice,

‘You awake?’

‘Yes, Dad.’ The voice always cut through him

with the razor warmth of profound anxiety. He cannot

believe that this boy is alive and continues to stay

alive from moment to moment.

‘Just after seven.’

The boy knows this, of course, but he

nonetheless answers: ‘Thanks, Dad.’

He is always reluctant to withdraw: the light

from the landing at his back like an intruder that

sunders some hidden unity. But withdraw he must,

turn and head for the stairs, though calling as he does:

‘After seven, Sarah.’

251

She won’t answer, of course, reigning as she

does in the safety of her tower. He could say

something more – he does sometimes – but this is not

the day for that.

There’s enough light from above for him to see

his way back to the kitchen, swinging as he always

does, like a child, on the banister pole around into the

back hall. He’s reluctant to switch on the main light –

too bright fluorescent – but he knows the children

will complain of the murk if he uses the cooker spot.

He tells them that it will help them use their eyes to

see rather than just look – a distinction that is

unfortunately lost on them.

Now there is the mobile phone. Switched on, it

might clamour with call-outs: then again it might be

silent – remote and silent, as he tends to see it. This

morning it is silent, and for once he does not feel the

implied rejection here – that no one has need of him.

He tosses the phone back onto the work top, and

by reaction he runs through the jobs that are planned

for today: two preliminary set-ups, the clear-out over

in Milton, the survey out by Sandy. A day of work, no

more. He feels there should be more: something

should happen to mark out this day from all the

others.

252

Anyway, the kettle must be filled and switched

on; the table must be laid. He baulks at the fourth

place and then goes ahead as usual. She might want

something. His impulse is to turn on the radio for the

news but he knows a scramble will develop over the

remote. Teenagers would show only the mildest

surprise if the world suddenly came to an end. Can he

at least try to hear the headlines, he wonders, the need

for an update on the state of the world a usual first

anxiety.

Must be prepared at all times for what might

happen.

The hollow thump of two feet landing on the

back hall floor announces the impending arrival of his

son. He prepares his face for the face he will meet –

wondering as ever if this is insincerity or just a

concession to his youth. He likes to believe it is the

latter, even though he suspects this is because he

hasn’t the conviction to be honest with him.

A sign of this – which he always notes – is that

he never speaks first. The trouble with this ploy is

that his son doesn’t speak either. He just takes his

place at the table – his movements habitual and

robotic – sliding sideways onto the chair and reaching

at once for the carton of orange juice.

253

And another sign is this: he will study his son’s

tie with a curiously self-pitying helplessness. He has

tried several times to show him how to make a

Double Windsor knot – much as his own father had

shown him, standing at his back and going slowly

through the motions of knotting his tie for him – and

his son has always stood apparently dumbfounded

before the sight of the manly symmetrical knot in the

mirror. Only once did he try to explain, saying, ‘But,

Dad, they don’t look like that!’ So the boy graces

himself with a tight asymmetrical knot that gets

jammed up against his throat, no attempt made even

to button the collar of the shirt.

He could weep for the pathos of it, seeing his

son recede from him to become someone more

ordinary, less careful of himself – that is, less loving

of himself – a man that will plod all unknowing

through his mediocre life.

Self-pity: he knows this is how he is handling

the greater pain, but a symptom nonetheless of the

feeling he has today that he is losing control of

something he believed until now he did control. He is

at a point – hand on the work-top picking up the

vibrations of the heating kettle – where he might

actually get to face this situation, when his son –

254

reaching now for the cereal box – asks him in that

tone of disinterested inquisitor he always uses:

‘Dad, did your Dad love you?’

He answers immediately, the wit he usually

keeps hidden in the household piercing through in a

burst of emotion and annoyance:

‘My mother said he did. Told me that a number

of times.’

He is pleased to see his son for once perplexed,

the cereal box partly suspended over his bowl, an

uncharacteristic frown on his placid face. But he

recovers quickly and sets to pouring out a ration of

the golden bits from the box. Then too much sugar

and very little milk. Then he says, spoon at the ready:

‘Mom said that you work for all of us. Is that

the same?’

He is consternated at the mention of mothers –

though his son seems completely unperturbed – yet

finds that the wit in him will not relent:

‘Did you ask her?’

The boy is so surprised by this question that he

looks up:

‘Ask her what?’

He decides the best thing to do is sit at the table

and begin his own breakfast.

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‘If I loved you?’

The boy stares at him incredulously. He throws

his head up in disgust:

‘Noooo. I wanted money for Half Life Two and

she didn’t want to give it to me.’

Now it’s his turn to be bemused.

‘What’s that got to do with loving?’

The boy pauses in his feeding frenzy and looks

up momentarily.

‘Nothing.’ Pause while he squints up at the

ceiling. ‘I was just thinking.’

He simply stares at the boy, completely

flummoxed.

‘So why did you bring up all that stuff about

that game?’

The boy shrugs, frighteningly detached:

‘I don’t know. Just thought.’ Now he looks

closely at him. ‘Did you love your Dad?’

‘Yes.’ He is surprised by his own intensity. The

boy seems not to be.

‘What did you like about him, Dad?’

Now it is his turn to shrug, a reluctance to admit

this intimacy, even to his own son:

‘Being around him, something like that.

Knowing he was there, I mean.’

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The boy nods to this with deep satisfaction.

‘Was it like on the telly? Playing games

together? Like being pals.’

And now on the heels of the wit comes the irony

– also so careful excluded from this household for so

long:

‘You’re kidding.’ Then more reflectively: ‘We

shook hands once.’

‘Why?’

‘When I finished school I went for a holiday to

an uncle over here. I think he thought I might not

come back.’

‘Why wouldn’t you go back?’

‘He thought I might get a job over here.’

There could be more, but now he remembers

that his daughter has not shown yet. Then it clicks. He

can move very silently over the carpeted floor,

equally so on the stairs.

His daughter stands at the closed door, hands by

her sides. Her school uniform hangs as always off to

the right – too big on her still narrow shoulders – her

dark hair a wild bunch up in the air. He breaths the

word, an involuntary outburst aiming to reassure her

and head off the panic that sooner or later will erupt

in her:

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‘Sweetheart.’

She swings about to face him, shock on her

face, eyes red from the retained tears. She gulps a

breath. He folds her into his right arm, and she –

almost his height now – bows her face into the angle

of his neck and shoulder. He holds her across the

resistance of her shoulders just so, but tightens when

he feels her convulse against him, her puppy breasts

surprisingly hard against his ribs. He whispers ‘There

now,’ over and over, the traditional pointless

consolation of his own family of use here in this

inarticulate moment.

Then she quietens and steps away – he releasing

her on the instant – trying to clear her nose with the

least amount of sound. He steps back, turning towards

the stairs, saying:

‘You’ll need to hurry if you don’t want to be

late for school.’

He must pause on the stairs until the tremor in

his legs subsides, worrying again about the loss of

control.

What if they all descend into a mindless

hysteria? How could they ever get back from that?

On the stairs above him, his daughter asks with

some concern:

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‘Are you okay, Daddy?’

Instantly, he is himself again. He throws her a

backhand wave and continues down the stairs with his

usual rush, swinging out into the back hall as always.

He thinks that this is how it works: one of them will

always observe from the outside, exercising the

control needed at that moment.

The boy is working his way through a huge

sandwich of thick bread slices and a slab of yellow

cheese. Seeing his father, he stops gorging and

empties the content of his mouth with a sharp

backward gulp – a gesture that reminds him uncannily

of a busy cormorant – so that he can ask with pent up

eagerness:

‘Why would you want a job over here, Dad?

Did you not like Ireland?’

He checks to see if his daughter has followed

him into the kitchen – he has difficulty addressing

both children simultaneously, as though they each

spoke a different language. She has not – no doubt

washing her face in the loo under the stairs.

‘No, it’s what he thought I might do.’ He wants

to say more, but he knows the boy is hopeless at

following a narrative – forever asking what’s

happening on the telly.

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The boy is digesting this answer, obviously

trying to imagine the man who had this thought about

his son. The remains of the sandwich is sagging

dangerously in his hand, the cheese especially renting

along clean curving lines.

‘And you didn’t want to do that?’

He takes his place at the table again and tries to

remember what stage of his own breakfast he had

reached. He can’t remember, but evidence suggests

that he should empty some of the cereal bits into a

bowl and eat those.

‘No, I was going into the Civil Service when I

came back. It was just a holiday. Eat up your

sandwich.’

The boy looks at it, then drops it onto the plate

before him. He groans inside: his son is a terrier when

he gets hold of an idea.

‘Didn’t your Dad know that, Dad?’

He tries the raised brows trick – which

sometimes works – then he goes ahead and starts into

the cereal. The boy is studying a point on the ceiling.

‘Then he knew you’d be coming back after your

holiday, didn’t he? Like if I went to stay with Aunt

Grace you wouldn’t think you should shake my hand,

260

would you? Mean I would be back in a few days, isn’t

that right?’

He’s getting exasperated with his son’s

momentary obsession. It keeps him from dwelling on

something more interesting – though he doesn’t know

what this is. He should tell him to stop, but of course

he can’t – he couldn’t hurt his child’s feelings like

that. So he says:

‘Well, maybe he just wanted to do it, Alan.

Maybe I had reached a stage where he felt he should

do it.’

The boy’s eyes light up and he can see from his

vacant stare that the wheels of his busy brain are

whirring away.

His daughter enters very silently, but he knows

the instant she is in the room – like a radiation that

precedes her that he is sensitive to. Her eyes, too,

have a glazed quality and for a moment his heart

misses a beat as he wonders what exactly she has

been doing.

The boy pipes up loudly: ‘Like you was grown

up, Dad?’

He cuts across him with a naked abruptness:

‘You were, Alan, You were, remember that, will

you.’

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The boy blinks and repeats in parrot fashion:

‘You were.’

‘You were what?’

This is a genuine anger he feels, hating as ever

any sign of popular English culture in his children.

His daughter intervenes: ‘You were a dickhead,

smarty.’

He is always surprised by how sensitive his

children are to each other. Family life for him was an

immersion in a group identity of such power that he

has no memory of most of it. Family life here for his

children seems an exercise in acute exposure. Only

his tacit support for his son and Moira’s for Sarah has

kept them from collapsing into the habituated sullen

defensiveness of many of the children he encounters.

He can now get a whiff of the cigarette his

daughter has just smoked. Well, he thinks with forced

resignation, I smoked once. But his anger is in any

case deflected by her cheap jibe – for once unable to

make allowance – so he remarks as a barb of his own:

‘Settled your nerves, have you?’

His daughter is pretty but can often look ragged

and drawn, especially – as now – when she neglects

her hair. He of course now feels the dart of pity for

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her, the pity he hides very carefully for fear of giving

himself away.

It’s the boy who saves this particular occasion

by saying plaintively to both his father and his sister:

‘But they all say you was. How can I be

expected to be different?’

He is blinking at the last sentence his son has

uttered, so it is for the sister to say in retort, sharp but

well meant:

‘You can say what you like, Alan. Those idiots

you hang out with wouldn’t notice.’

The boy is bridling, so now it is his turn:

‘You haven’t eaten yet. Look, it’s half past.

You’ll keep us all late.’

And she comes to the table with the forced

dignity that for once does not dismay him, relieved

she can handle the particularly bruising encounter

they have just had. She has the careful way of her

mother – that he had thought in the beginning was

part of her Scottish heritage – movements that seems

initially cautious, even timid, but are really persistent.

The boy now says – having just finished his

sandwich and disposed of the mouthful or two of cold

milk that is the only beverage he permits himself:

‘Well, I can’t say amn’t like you, Dad, can I?’

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He’s surprised that the boy has noticed, but he’s

matter-of-fact about it:

‘I only say it around the house.’

The boy perks up, obviously thinking he has

trapped his father:

‘But it’s not right English, Dad!’

How lethal irony can be among innocents:

‘Well, Alan, it’s more correct than aren’t or

ain’t.’

The boy looks as though he has hit a wall, so he

presses home his point:

‘Would you say are not I? And I don’t know

what ain’t contracts.’

Is that cruel, he wonders, seeing how crestfallen

the boy is. He glances quickly at his daughter, afraid

suddenly that she might gang up on him. She is eating

the cereal bits with mannered gestures, eyes

downcast, the mincing style hilarious in other

circumstances. He would laugh, but the truth is he is

afraid of his daughter – and afraid for the most

dangerous of all reasons: he is vulnerable to her.

Anyway, his son has halted his progress across

the kitchen to the back hall and is looking back

towards him as though taking one last glance at a

favourite scene – perhaps a wonderful mountain

264

somewhere. He is as though peering against a bright

light. He asks, as earnest as he ever is:

‘Will you shake my hand when I grow up,

Dad?’

What can he say, awash with the best of loves –

of the same for the same, little different from self-

love. He raises a hand to distract the boy’s ardent

gaze and answers with only the barest trace of irony:

‘Of course, Alan.’

This commitment braces the boy, who now

leaves the kitchen at full canter, with his father calling

after him:

‘Make sure you clean your teeth properly.’

He has heard Moira singing this out regularly,

so he thinks it will establish a continuity for the boy.

His sdaughter, meanwhile, has finished her cereal and

is pensively chewing the last morsels, her bright eyes

fixed on him. He wonders what it is she could say to

him. The possibilities seem many. He decides a little

cunning will be needed. He says, to pre-empt her:

‘Why don’t you brush your hair?’

He’s surprised it so easily works: she seems

seriously taken aback. He presses his point:

‘You have your mother’s hair. You don’t see

her letting her hair go, do you?’

265

She makes a gesture with her mouth, that could

signify impatience, or even uncertainty. He is

unnerved to find that he cannot read her, thinking

ironically that though he knows his daughter, he does

not understand her. Even so, he is unwilling to cause

her discomfort:

‘I mean, don’t you ever brush it?’

She makes the same gesture again – if anything,

more emphatically this time – and heaves a breath.

‘I let Debbie brush it last Easter.’

The intimacy surprises him and leaves him

wondering what could be so significant about tidy

hair.

‘And?’

‘We went swimming afterwards.’

He’s incredulous. ‘It must have taken your

friend ages to brush it out!’

She shrugs. ‘Didn’t like the way she did it. Too

tarty.’

He nods at this. ‘Then how do you like it?’

Now she makes an expression with her mouth

and eyes, a sort of grimace that could indicate

bafflement or intense surprise.

‘Oh I don’t know, Daddy.’

266

And now he is genuinely surprised. ‘You’re

afraid to brush your hair. Is that it?’

She squirms and takes a slice of bread from the

packet. But the thought intrigues him.

‘What is it, Sarah?

Should he press her? Hasn’t she a right to her

own feelings in this? To escape this dilemma, he

decides he should continue with his own breakfast.

His cereal bowl has been used, so he pushes it to one

side and fetches a slice of bread onto his plate. Tea.

Out of a habit that has never died, he turns to look

back at the cooker. There never is a teapot drawing on

a warm ring. He gets up to and takes a teabag from

the box on the work surface beside the cooker, asking

his daughter:

‘Do you want some tea?’

No one in the house drinks tea. The children get

their caffeine from other sources, and Moira? He

wonders once again how she can survive without the

stimulation. At home it was the main defence against

the oceanic lows that often engulf the island. He had

assumed that the East of England didn’t need that, but

of course that is not true. Freddy, when he comes,

will makes a mug of the strongest for himself, even

though he swears he has had breakfast.

267

The kettle boils and the tea is – well, not made,

more just there in an instant – tannin very effective at

colouring water.

It seems his daughter has been waiting for him

to return to the table. He has laid out a slice of

cheddar on the bread and peppered it, when she says,

‘Don’t know how it should go.’

This he understands at once. He is surprised to

understand, then delighted that he can grasp

something so important about his daughter so quickly.

He nods to show her that he understands what she has

said.

‘Maybe brush it out and then see which way to

put it.’

He can see at once that she is not capable of

even that. He has an idea. It seems initially to be very

inappropriate from a number of angles. What would

her friends say, for instance. But the idea is so

compelling that he just blurts it out:

‘Eat up your breakfast and then I’ll brush it out

for you.’

She is startled, of course. Her expression is one

of camp amazement, derision, and something very

close to the delight that the idea had given him.

‘You? You can’t do a girl’s hair, Daddy!’

268

He compresses his mouth as much as to say

Why not? then says it anyway:

‘Why not? Hair’s the same for boys and girls.’

She is as excited as he has seen her since

childhood, when she could get very excited.

‘But boy’s don’t do girl’s hair, Daddy!’

Now he shrugs, still wanting to appear down to

earth:

‘Men do hairdressing. Women cut my hair.’

Now she has to relent without appearing to want

to do so. She stands up and makes as though to start

rushing about.

‘It’s too late. We’ll all be late.’

So he stands up too, regaining the slight height

advantage. ‘No we won’t. It’ll only take a few

minutes. Go and get the brush and comb Moira

bought you for Christmas.’

Her absence allows him to finish his breakfast,

the bread unusually dry on his palate, the tea cooler

than he likes. Being alone in a room haunted by the

ghosts of past family life is not pleasant, the

impressions so powerful that it seems some of them

will spring into actual life around him. He is

dismayed by the regret that fills him – it bodes no

good. He fights the sense of omen with the

269

knowledge that the past is dead anyway, past joys and

pains all vanishing into the one oblivion out of time.

His daughter doesn’t notice his distress, her face

for once flushed, eyes bright, the brush – with the

companion comb pressed into its filaments – held out

to him. There is such a strong consolation in this that

he winces. He can sit her down in a chair by the table

– she at once still, her hands resting on her knees –

and position her head as he wants it with neither

resistance or comment from her.

‘Scream quietly if this hurts.’

She immediately hunches down. He draws the

brush lightly across the top layer of her hair at first, to

ease her.

‘What do the hairdressers talk to you about?’

‘I don’t go to the hairdressers, Daddy.’

Of course. So he tries another line:

‘If I were a hairdresser, I’d talk to you about

politics and how well the economy is doing.’

She of course is astonished to hear this.

‘But no one would want to hear about that,

Daddy. You’d have to talk about the tele or pop

music.’

270

‘Oh, I don’t know, Sarah. Be a good moment to

get them to think about philosophy. You know, about

what we are all doing here.’

‘Well, Daddy, a poncey hairdresser you’d be!’

She has started twice as he works through some

recalcitrant knots, but as he hoped, the weird chat has

distracted her.

‘Why not? Stimulate the mind while I cut the

hair. Probably drop by the library on the way home

and get something by Hegel or the like.’

This strikes a chord with the girl. She turns her

head so she can look up at her father:

‘You know, Daddy, sometimes you are another

man altogether.’

This insight startles him. He bluffs to hide his

fright:

‘Now who’s being poncey?’

The door to the back is pushed open. He knows

who it is, but looks across anyway – a way of

breaking this uncomfortable exchange with his

daughter.

‘Morning, Freddie.’

‘Morning, guv.’

The girl says even so:

271

‘See it in your eyes sometimes, Daddy. Like

you only put on a front here.

‘Something to eat, Freddie?’

‘Naw, guv. But I’ll fix a mug of tea, if that’s

alright with you?’

The same routine each morning, and the

Cockney with his handsome Roman head will make

himself a mug of the strong tea, and then he will

retreat out into the back again, where he can enjoy a

smoke along with the tea.

The girl says, when the Cockney has left: ‘He

never looks, does he?’

‘Just being discreet, Sarah.’ He taps her on the

crown of her head. ‘Think he should fancy you now

that your hair is all done up?’

She puts her hands to her head, feeling all over

the buoyancy of her tidied hair.

‘Nooo, Daddy. He never looks any time.’

He presses the brush into her raised hand. ‘Now

you style it the way you want.’

She is out of the chair in a dash to the mirror out

in the hall. He can see that she is pleased, preening

herself energetically – even to the extent of

straightening her school uniform and tightening the

sash about her waist. She bobs her hair, but makes no

272

attempt to change it. She turns and looks back at him

in the kitchen:

‘It’s nice, Daddy. Really really nice.’

His smile is wan, seeing how old-fashioned she

looks just now, hair in what seems a sixties back-

combed bouffant – her hair is both so thick and fine

that he could spin it up into such a gossamer mound.

But she does look radiantly pretty.

‘Really pretty, Sarah.’

How could he underestimate how much regard

his daughter could have for him? She is thoroughly

thrilled to hear him compliment her. She rushes down

the hall and plants an impulsive dry kiss on his cheek,

then runs away again and up the stairs.

He follows her to the bottom of the stairs,

caressing the spot on his cheek where she has kissed

him, and calls after her:

‘And tell Alan to get a move on, will you. It’s

nearly eight o’clock.’

And he thinks as he goes back to the kitchen:

she’ll be alright. It’s like that with children, he

suddenly realises: you send the sons out into the

world as though they were going to war, but

daughters you release into the wild.

273

The kitchen is a mess, especially the table.

Has Alan eaten? he wonders suddenly, the morning

so far a blank for now. He recognises the anxiety at

once, starting the day, getting Freddie out to the van

and away to his work. The kitchen will have to wait –

Moira’s absence like a page torn out of a novel, the

plot becoming uncertain – who will clean up the

house today, get meals prepared, greet the children

back from school?

And once again the shock hits and the

momentary rebellion – that what is happening is not

true, that Moira is going in today for tests that will

almost certainly prove that she has advanced cancer

of the womb. It is a profound weakness to plead

against the facts, but plead he does: Oh God, let none

of this be true!

It is only worse afterwards, the facts implacable

now that he has made the greatest plea: the course of

their life is fixed solid, like a stainless steel tube down

which they are being flushed to deep pain, anguish, a

relentless suffering.

He makes it to the back, sees Freddie turn

towards him immediately, small mouth opening,

glancing down at the same time at the cigarette butt in

his hand:

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‘Sorry to hear about the missus, guv.’

He is taken aback to hear this. And the intensity

in the man’s eyes when he looks up – that frightens

him.

‘When my Lizzie’s Mom was poorly, she

locked herself in the cupboard until the coppers found

her. Right sick she was too, guv, what with nothing to

eat and crying all the time.’

The man stops to draw on his cigarette, but it’s

obvious that he is not to be interrupted.

‘No Daddy, see? Only her and her Mom, and

she poorly in the end.’ He stares at the ground, then

continues: ‘So I said to her, I’ll never leave you Liz,

you can count on that.’

The man now looks up at the blue sky above,

breathing deeply to contain his emotion.

‘A girl needs her Daddy, guv. Saw that with our

Janice too, indoors with him stroppy-like and him

reading the paper and paying her no heed. The old

man had a quick hand with us boys, no lip see? Told

me once that if a girl don’t know her own father then

she won’t know any man. Funny old coot, guv. Cried

me eyes out when he passed away.’

Now he gives a deep snuffle, grabs a last pull on

his butt and then tosses it out into the garden.

275

He dislikes Freddie when he tosses his dirty

butts out among the roses like that. Never shows this,

of course. The question would be: what else to do

with them? Ash tray? Ciggy bin? It’s not the cigarette

itself – he had smoked himself once upon a time. No,

the seemingly indestructible tips, with their tar stains

and old saliva. Sees them sometimes blowing about

the garden, unwanted and useless. But he asks:

‘Do you have children yourself, Freddie?’

The man grimaces and shakes his head. ‘Can’t

have any, guv.’

He nods in neutral acceptance. What to say?

Saved the trouble? Missed out on joy? The irony

increases as his redirected hostility finds an outlet in

fantasy: What’s it like to become extinct? He says:

‘Only a third of the adult population is involved

in reproduction, Freddie. Did you know that?’

The man is scornful – of course – which at the

very least should burn away some of his resentment.

‘No harm knowing that, Freddie.’ He wants to

say more, and struggles briefly to prevent it coming

out – but out it comes: ‘Your soul might be more

important, you know.’

276

If he could blanket the man with instant

forgetfulness, he would. But the man smiles the first

smile he has ever betrayed here to his boss.

‘That’s what my Liz says, guv. She’s Catholic,

see?’

The man’s face takes on a momentary glow –

remarkable to see on a face typical of Italian religious

art, his small mouth pursing like a cherub’s. He could

only smile to see this:

‘Looks like your wife will save you yet,

Freddie.’

A risky thing to say in another circumstance, but

seemingly apt here – given the smile that flashes

across the man’s face.

Now the familiar chug of Roland’s scooter can

be heard coming along the laneway outside the yard.

The man’s face stiffens again. Same old response.

Barry castigates him for tolerating this situation, for

putting up with a tradesman’s poncing. Well, maybe,

but Freddie is a good, dependable plumber who gets

in and does his work.

‘It’s not that bad, Freddie. It’ll be for another

few months only, till he finishes his course.’

277

The man squirms with conflicting emotions – an

amusing sight to see in so pragmatic a man in other

circumstances.

‘It ain’t that, guv.’ He gestures back towards the

laneway. ‘Him. Not a proper mate, if you know what

I mean. Gets in the way, like.’

The door to the lane opens. Even without the

bike gear, Roland is an imposing youth: with leather

jacket and full mask helmet, he looks like some Grim

Reaper of the future. He is fumbling with the thick

bike gloves, helmet bobbing as he tries to see

everything at once.

It’s hard to resist the irony – which at least

keeps an easily misinterpreted amusement at bay:

‘Nice to see you again, Roland.’

Anyway the gloves are off, and the youth has

made his way at the same time to stand beside

Freddie. His voice booms within the helmet, a belter’s

voice:

‘Morning, guv.’ Then a cumbersome bow to the

man beside him. ‘Morning, Freddie.’

The man winces, making as if to duck aside –

fearing perhaps that a large hand might be laid on him

in greeting. But the youth is now occupied with a

278

struggle to remove the helmet, which he achieves

with a combination of body and head twisting.

His smile is huge, big teeth the colour of pure

ivory against his black skin.

‘My, you’re happy this morning, aren’t you,

Roland.’ He has no sooner passed this compliment

than he knows the answer – having heard it more than

once from the Cockney.

‘I’m not happy, guv, I’m cheerful.’

Nothing to be added to that, so he nods towards

Freddie and asks:

‘Will you get the Harding job finished today?’

He knows he will – and Freddie knows that he

knows he will – but this is part of the ritual that will

get the plumber and his mate into the van and out of

here.

‘Sure, guv. Reckon there’s six hours left in it.’

The youth has meanwhile divested himself of

the biker jacket and is now standing beside his master

in matching outfit: Brightly clean white tee-shirt,

faded denims and yellow faux-suede work boots.

What can be said about this? He had remarked once

something about the flattery of imitation, but the

Cockney simply refused to wear it.

279

‘Okay.’ This marks the end of the morning

ritual – like a secular Amen – and all that remains is

for Freddie and Roland to climb into the white Transit

and get out of here.

Alan says at his back: ‘Hey, dad, it’s twenty

past and you’re not even dressed yet.’

‘Never am, Alan,’ he snaps back, instantly

chagrined at his weak control.

Roland looks enormous in the cab, he thinks

idly as a distraction. He knows Freddie is not a racist

as such, more Cockney clannishness. The legend on

the side of the van flashes by: TRAINER &

WOODBINE, the smaller lettering more of a blur.

Each times he sees the title of their firm, he recalls the

flip of the coin that gave him precedence, something

Barry has never – as a tradesman – really reconciled

himself to.

His son is standing amid the mound that is

Roland’s bike gear, his grey school jacket nicely set

off with the wine piping. He is observing, as often

before: ‘But, dad, he only has a little scooter.’

‘It can be a long way from Queen’s Park to

Bedford.’

His son squints up at him from under the absurd

little school cap he is obliged to wear:

280

‘Where’s Queen’s Park?’

His daughter answers from over by the garden

door: ‘Down by the station, stupid.’

Alan starts, squinting even more narrowly up at

his father: ‘Oh, that Queen’s Park.’

‘Yep,’ he replies shortly, glad something of the

lesson has been recognised. ‘That Queen’s Park.’

‘But that’s not a long way away!’ The boy is

scandalised to be tricked in this way.

He draws back, caught out by his son’s literal

mindedness as usual. But his daughter is not so

daunted:

‘It is for some, smarty. Don’t you know

anything at all, little boy?’

The boy now gets a glimpse of what the others

are getting at, evidenced by how he begins to step

gingerly away from the black youth’s belongings.

Freed of their encumbrance, he peers up at his father:

‘Isn’t he big, Dad? He’d make a great boxer,

wouldn’t he?’

His sister snorts her derision and he himself

decides to give up. He heads towards the door to the

house, pointing over to the Land Cruiser as he goes:

‘You two get in the wagon and wait for me

there.’

281

His mobile is bleating away on the kitchen

table. His heart drops: Barry.

‘Morning, Barry.’

‘Why don’t you carry that fucking phone around

with you, Dave? That’s the idea, you know.’

‘No place to carry it at the moment, Barry.

Anyway, what can I do for you this fine morning?’

‘Has Freddie left yet? The Harding woman has

been on to me twice so far this morning.’

‘Yes, he’s gone. Why don’t you tell her that

we’re paid by the job, not by the hour?’

‘Naw. She wants it in by Saturday for some

party she throwing. Christ, Dave, she must be seventy

if she’s a day.’

‘Freddie’ll be done by three four. You could

start before that, say about two?’

‘Has he still got that black with him?’

‘Easy, Barry. The kid’s a good worker. He’s

keen. Isn’t that what counts?’

‘Lazy sods, only good for fucking, if you ask

me.’

‘Sure, okay, Barry. Anything else for now? Got

to get the children to school.’ Not a nice thing to say

to Barry, but he needs to shaft him in some way.

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‘Grace says she’ll be over before ten to collect

Moira. How is she, Dave? Pretty tough on her.’

‘I’ve let her sleep on, Barry. The day’ll be long

enough as it is.’

‘Oh, Dave, it’s tough, mate.’

‘Yes, it’s tough.’

The very intensity shakes him. He doesn’t like

the word tough, preferring think of hardness, of

something that will not give way for him. Something

to suffer, not to battle – as though some victory could

be gained here.

And the state of the kitchen dismays him,

rendering him for an instant helpless. It’s the missing

character again – the one who maintains the

background. Then he realises that he will need to go

into the bedroom. Now the dread is in his bowel –

even a sudden spurt of acid there – and he knows he

fears death as something that both threatens him and

in which he cannot believe.

It’s the sundering that he fears, the moment of

the breakaway, when he will lose his bearings. Is

there any love other than self-love, he wonders with a

sentimental bitterness.

So he plans his movements: first to shower and

shave, then collect clothes from the bedroom, then

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dress on the landing – then away out of the house. He

doesn’t ask himself if it will be that easy. He knows

that with a trajectory to follow he can endure most

things.

First reaction in the bathroom is: who will clear

up after the children? How have they been allowed to

get so careless with things? Did Moira clean up after

them every day? And never a complaint. What

attachment this indicates – not need, he suspects, but

the kind of dutifulness that could not be questioned:

for then so much else would come into question.

He can shower and shave in six minutes, for

him a miracle of habit. And then it is into the

bedroom. The first thing immediately is the dim light

– curtains of course still drawn – and then there is the

curious odour, part sweet, part sour, and another part

like that of an exotic fruit too strange for a temperate

palate. He thinks of rot, of rapid decay and starkness,

and is momentarily angry that the human world can

contain such a complexity as this odour. Then he

recognises the odour, cued for him by the stale

remainder of the ammonia that has become

increasingly noticeable in his sperm. Yes. This is

what they smell like eight hours after the event, his

wife’s ripeness too much like death, his own presence

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like a cheap attempt to expunge it – as though his

sperm was a cleansing agent.

He views the long hump on the bed with

something unpleasantly like a revulsion that tries to

disguise itself as pity.

And even as he suffers this series of insights, he

can feel the abiding affection for his wife, for her

capacity to cooperate, to give support and to take

support. In any case, the curious odour is frequently

present in their room, only he has usually discounted

it as something – like the soiled clothes and used

crockery down in the kitchen – that will be cleaned

away.

Cue getting dressed – now about a minute

behind schedule – and it is like a secret hand guides

him, knickers and socks, black wool slacks, pale

yellow shirt, French navy linen jacket, and the wine

Italian shoes with the brass dongles. He’s bemused,

wondering ironically which tie is to be selected,

though finding that no tie is indicated. He dresses on

impulse every day – but not Casino wear for

providing estimates to overage swingers.

Actually, he looks very well. So well, in fact,

that he goes back to the bathroom and gets out the

vintage aftershave – bought for him in Paris ten years

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ago and still potent. It’s only when he is half way

down the stairs that he realises he did not check his

wife. Three minutes behind now – the children will

grow impatient, bad enough to have a long day at

school before them. Everything tells him that he can

go ahead, that his sleeping wife would not have been

aware of his presence.

He is wholly in agreement with this tendency –

even taking another step down the stairs. Then an

insight that fills him with dread: he is terrified,

absolutely terrified. He knows he is walking away

from what frightens him, and also knows that once

begun, this journey away will never end.

There is a truth in this unfortunate woman’s

impending departure and he must go back and face it.

And so it is back up the stairs and into the bedroom

again, a quality in him that he takes for granted

coming to the fore now: his courage, coming as it

always does – when he absolutely needs it, and rarely

otherwise.

Pity. It’s an abstraction to him as he looks down

at the still bundle laid along the bed. The sadness of

his wife, her devotion to her family as a bulwark

against the mystery of that abiding sadness. She was a

woman and could never understand what that meant.

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He asked her once if she thought that she wasn’t

really a woman, and she had nodded tightly, an

admission that she was very reluctant to make. And

yet he could tell her honestly – now that the occasion

for admitting this was available – that he understood

perfectly how he was a man. Asked, he expanded:

being a man is like being a plough, how a plough is

always thrust against the earth and yet never limited

by that fact. A man is a work-piece, a tool.

She had cried when he told her that, telling him

that she pitied his condition. He had said nothing

more, just nodding. What he didn’t tell her is that

while a man is real, a woman is not.

Now he can bend over her enwrapped body and

press his lips into that zone just underneath her ear, a

spot he favoured for the softness of her flesh there

and the strength of her particular odour.

‘Sweetheart,’ he whispers into her ear, and then

stands back to watch the delight appear on her face –

she all unconscious of her momentary happiness on

this day of days, when she will hear sentence passed

upon her.

Leaving the room, he thinks – not unkindly –

what a burden women are to men. And on the tail of

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that thought – very close to being a conceit – comes

the awful truth that he had wished to avoid.

He didn’t love his wife, didn’t care for her. He

would be relieved when she died.

That is not the truth, he knows, just an oh-so

cynicism that has an unpleasant edge of wit. The kind

of truth, in other words, that hides a worse truth.

He couldn’t love any woman.

And even that was not the truth, really no more

than a final gesture to shield the bare fact that he was

alone, and that there was no chance of that loneliness

ever being assuaged.

He’s at the bottom of the stairs by now, and he

stops and looks at himself in the coat-stand mirror

just behind the front door, marvelling that the

TRUTH has not reduced him to a gibbering wreck.

Can he really be that sardonic under these

circumstances? Yes, he can.

But the question is – and it is the question that

does rise in his mind now: How does he know this?

He sees himself smile beatifically. He is

amazed, filled with the kind of genuine wonder he

never expected to have available to him.

I know something.

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That’s what he realises, and in this realisation he

knows he is ultimately invulnerable.

Of course, in the next instant it is as though he

has had no such insight. He is thinking that he is

getting very late and that one of his children will

come and censure him. The way is out through the

front door – not the quickest, but he really doesn’t

have the courage now to face the mess in the kitchen

again.

He is always surprised by the unfamiliar

familiarity of the front of the property. The driveway

running slightly downhill to the padlocked front

gates, the modest semis that line the avenue down to

the main road. Men come to maintain the hedging

fronting into the avenue, to weed the drive and cut the

grass. Even Moira’s love of gardening will not bring

her around here and thus under the stare of the

avenue’s other inhabitants. Even now – so early in the

morning – he feels exposed, doubly so today in his

bright clothes.

Well, he does pause on the doorstep – as he

needs to take his bearings after his momentary

distraction – the fragrance of the aftershave eddying

about him in the gentle summer air. He looks up at

the sky. Blue sky, sun behind him on the other side of

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the house, yet warmth rising here in the shade. And

he thinks how indifferent natural things are: the sky,

the sun, the plants growing in the garden. This last

thought sets him walking along the pebbly path that

runs round the house. There is Moira’s little

gardening shed – little more than a lean-to set against

the house wall, constructed to her own design.

Shelves for young potted plants, a work top – on

which her green gloves, the handy implements she

uses, especially the remarkably expensive pruner –

that she liked to refer to as her secateurs – are laid

about in a casual manner. There is even a young plant

lying on newspaper, soil about its roots still damp –

obviously dropped there the evening before as she

headed inside to prepare dinner for them all.

Will she come back here? Melancholy thought,

the garden suddenly like a remainder – everyone

telling him how she loved to garden. And as he

imagines friends and relatives – glass in hand at the

funeral breakfast here in the house – looking out

windows at the utterly pointless roses or dahlias, he

himself surveys the spread of rose bushes with their

big yellow and red blooms, the cross poles marking

where the dahlias will come on for the autumn

display. What is it with flowers, he wonders with his

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trademark sentimental bitterness, when they are

already dying even as they open?

Then he rounds the house to the garage and sees

that the Land Cruiser is missing. Sudden fury. It’s as

though somewhere deep inside he expected this. And

he knows what has happened. He’s angry enough to

hurry up and run through the garage out into the lane

– where the black wagon sits quietly purring, his

daughter’s eyes locking onto his via the rear-view

mirror. He wrenches open the driver’s door. He

splutters – actually splutters – grief suddenly

engulfing him again.

He daughter’s look is defiant, then defensive,

then unreadable – like she is trying to tell him

something by pushing him to a particular limit.

It’s the son who breaks this particular impasse

by piping up from the nether regions of the back

seats:

‘Look, Dad, Sar could do it all on her own.’

He is about to get into the wagon, but stops

himself out of an obscure sense of caution. He breaks

his stare with his daughter, while saying:

‘If a child had been in the way, if another car

had come through the laneway, what would you have

done?’

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He sees his daughter wilt before him, the

perception of deflation remarkable in that her

demeanour seems not to change one little bit. He

won’t press her to answer – her response has been

sufficient.

‘That’s what driving is about, Sarah. Not just

changing gear and driving in a straight line, but what

to do when the unexpected occurs.’

Now he does get up into the driver’s seat. He

switches off the engine.

‘You’ll start driving lessons on Saturday. And

you will not drive this or any other car until I say so.

Agreed?

She nods, matching his flat tone in how her eyes

follow the inclination of her head. And he thinks,

watching her with some admiration: That’s my girl.

And then to the boy lost behind the high headrests of

the front seats:

‘Alan, will you run in and fetch the mobile for

me.’

Delighting in the integrity of his daughter

causes him to think for some reason of his partner,

Barry, which in turn of course reminds him of the

mobile phone lying abandoned on the kitchen table.

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The boy is gone like a shot, his scramble well

placed for such an airhead. That is very satisfactory

too, the boy on the ball even if he can’t read the cues.

To his daughter – sitting demurely in the seat beside

him, knees together, folded hands resting primly on

them – he says:

‘Where did you learn to drive?’

She has been looking forward on down the lane

towards the young poplars that line the big industrial

field beyond, and she keeps her eyes in that direction

when she replies:

‘Jason’s father got him an old Escort to bang

around in. We’re all using it to learn.’

He thinks she is shy with him for some reason,

but can’t think why. He shouldn’t try to coax her –

it’s too hard to resist:

‘The people in the area can’t be too happy with

that.’

Now she does flash him a glance – of entreaty,

if he’s not mistaken:

‘Oh no, we do it on an old road out by Clapham.

There’s no one around there.’

And he thinks suddenly: Do I trust her?

Meaning, he realises, that he could be jealous of her

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friends. Even so, his question arises out of a genuine

curiosity:

‘God, how many of you are there?’

She ducks her head, turning her eyes away from

him:

‘Sometimes there are loads of us, then

sometimes only a few.’

He finds he is smiling and remembering his own

obsession as a teenager with personal relations, his

fear of the anonymity of groups.

‘Sounds like party time.’

Now she smiles too, a sense that both have

crossed some hurdle:

‘Yes, it can be fun.’

Then the boy is back in another well-timed

scramble, his narrow hand appearing between the

headrests bearing the wretched phone. He takes it,

checking by reflex to see if his son bites his nails.

There is not much relief in finding that he doesn’t –

he doesn’t seem the nail biting type. But once in his

hand, the phone starts its low-power bleating. By

reflex, he hands it to his daughter and then starts the

wagon, saying – as though his phone is not ringing

for him:

‘Must get a move on. Getting late for you two.’

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His daughter answers with what is obviously her

trademark ‘Yes?’, severe and not at all welcoming –

as though she too hates the mobile phone. She listens,

then says:

‘Daddy is driving us to school, Uncle Barry.

Will I get him to ring you back?’

She puts the phone on top of the dash.

At the bottom of the lane, they find that the road

has a new layer of field muck running in broad

streams down its centre. This always irritates him –

he has an irrational fear of skidding out of control

here, even though he knows they stand a better

chance of getting stuck in the viscous mess. So it’s

along the roadway in third, and he asks – for

something to say to cover this unexpected delay:

‘What stage are they at, Alan?’

The boy can be felt jumping around across the

back seats, even though he answers immediately:

‘How would I know, Dad? I’m not a farmer.’

The girl retorts:

‘Thought you knew everything, birdbrain?’

There are no hedges, of course, and they can all

see the fields of what look like very green grass

extending to the flat horizons on either side.

‘So what is it then?’

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The boy scrambles around again: ‘Looks like

wheat, Dad.’

He looks over at his daughter: ‘See?’

Now the boy becomes excited at the sight of the

gigantic tractor towing a tanker through a distant

field.

‘Spraying, Dad.’

‘Well, then, don’t open a window.’

Now the sight that never fails to disturb him is

coming into view. The farm house is substantial,

paved driveway, an old iron plaque on the gate that

identifies the farm – a name that still appears on the

local OS map. But the house stands completely alone

in the flat land – the grain crop growing to within a

few yards on all sides – with only a by now fragile

lean-to shed that once sheltered the farmer’s car.

No trees, no bushes, no flowers.

Only the machine operative’s van stands in the

driveway, back doors ajar, a blue plastic barrel to one

side with a funnel lying on its top.

He says – as he has often said over the last ten

years driving past here:

‘In Ireland, farm houses are sheltered behind

trees.’

296

He used to be asked why, but neither of his

children bothers to ask anymore. If anything, the sight

of the vacant house acts as a trigger that sends them

into a definite kind of pre-school reverie – perhaps a

spiritual preparation for the rigours of the day ahead.

And so it is, down on through the fields of

industrial grain to the feeder road that will take them

into Bedford proper. And he too slips into his usual

daydream – faint images of some past places,

hillsides in summer, intimate demanding landscapes,

like juvenile loves outgrown. He can sweep the

wagon through busy roundabouts – many other faces

about lost also in morning glaze as they too run

through the familiar routine – and line up neatly at

traffic lights. He is aware of what passes before his

mind’s eye, but does not note them, though faintly

aware that he would miss them if they failed to come

as they do.

The boy is gone from them as soon as he stops

at the school, running away with his silly cap askew,

his skimpy tie flapping, an enormous backpack

swinging about off one shoulder. His mates are

waiting for him to one side at the gate – one lad

gangling tall, one fat, another wan. They fold around

him, shoulders bouncing off shoulders, heads down

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together, humping their awkward packs all the time in

a frenzy of pulling, swinging, bobbing – all the time

drifting away into the deeper reaches of the

playground, where God knows what kind of jungle

law obtains.

He is moved by the sight. He says to his

daughter – resting her rather prim yellow briefcase on

her still adjoined knees:

‘He’s a grand little fellow, all the same.’

He expects her to sniff competitively, but no –

she shakes her head as she too watches her brother

and his chums disappear into the surging mass of

morning-high children:

‘Oh he’s alright, daddy.’ Then she looks around

to face him. ‘You shouldn’t worry so much about

him. I’ve seen him – he can take it.’

This is as good an entry as he is likely to get

with her, so he asks very directly – risking it at this

point of departure:

‘And you, Sarah? How will you make out?’

He is surprised to see how wan her smile is, not

uncertainty, really – and it is this that truly surprises

him – a kind of deep-seated reluctance, as though she

is not very interested in the life drama that is coming.

And he is quick to accept this, nodding, and to which

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she responds at once – as though the words are

prepared:

‘I’m like you, Daddy.’

It’s not intended, but he is sensitive to the

presumption he finds here, and he decides to continue

in the vein of candour:

‘Perhaps not the same for a woman, Sarah.’

And he knows how true this is even as the

words are uttered. He thinks at first that the feeling is

one of sadness, then sees that it is an almost callous

objectivity. He can view his daughter’s life as a

trajectory of denial – not being a woman and

impossible to be a man. He says – initially as

consolation, but then understanding better, as fact:

‘There may be more to being a woman than they

tell you.’

She is genuinely interested to hear him say this

– so much so that he quails before the prestige he

must have for her, afraid of influencing her for the

worse. Then she moves to leave the wagon, briefcase

gathered to her breast with one arm, so that he is

prompted to add:

‘But I’m afraid I don’t know what it is either,

Sarah.’

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She has descended to the roadway, but she

glances back – her eyes both veiled and very bright,

some kind of cleverness suddenly evident. It’s a

quality that disturbs him. She says, her smile belying

the strangeness in her eyes:

‘Why would you, Daddy? You’re a man.’

And she too is gone from him. At once she

seems sucked into the throng at the gate – he hears

her name called – and what had been the familiarity,

even intimacy, of her as his daughter is lost as she

becomes another lost consciousness responding to the

demands of an alien realm.

It hurts to see her go – with the other hurt of the

other loss looming, as though in tandem – so that he

reaches across and lowers the window and calls her

name.

She turns back towards him instantly – his

daughter again, the story of their familial relationship

seeming to play across her changing features as

recognition re-enters there.

He shouts to her out of an impulse that he trusts:

‘If you bump into Alan at lunch time, will you see

that he drinks something?’

She grasps this immediately, the prettiness back

suddenly – shining back to him like sunlight – and

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she waves one last time before losing herself in the

crowd.

And he is relieved he remembered that at the

very last moment, convinced that his son is puny

because he is afraid of water.

He can’t remember why he had planned to go to

Milton Keynes. It’s going to be that sort of day, he

knows, when he will wander around in a total funk.

Like a rudderless boat – this thought comes to him

with more than a hint of mockery. But he can get

away with this, providing it doesn’t happen too often.

Barry really hasn’t much understanding of what he

does, contenting himself with the bottom line which

pays his salary and dividends. Only say inventory or

chase up in Barry’s presence and watch him go pale

and look for a door out.

He finds he is near the Luton road, with no idea

how he got here. He is tempted to run back to the

office and store off the Ampthill Road. Spend the

morning talking to Susan in the office. He thinks she

is the most fascinating person he knows. Nothing is

more real than Susan and her world. Her words are

like bricks; her every thought is a certainty. As for her

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gestures – these he watches carefully, especially when

a third party is about. Even Barry – mighty Barry

descending from his big blue Range Rover must

observe her niceties. No swearing, no sitting on the

edge of desks, no mugs, no backbiting. What he most

likes about her is that she brings out a hidden niceness

in himself. He is prissy in her company, even

fastidious – though he must be careful that this does

not exceed her bound of plainness. There are times

even when he gets glimpses into what it is like to be a

common Protestant, with moral rectitude and severe

fairness before God. He thinks it is like being in a

waiting room and not knowing what to expect, so on

your best behaviour just in case. Yet, for all her

certainty, he knows she is not confident, suspecting

that she nurses a Calvinist anxiety that she might not

be among the Elect. Instead of the Saviour

descending in resplendent Glory to invite her to join

the Blessed Company, there might be a nondescript

messenger angel come to tell her that she is out of

luck. Then there would only be more waiting, this

time for all eternity, waiting for ever without hope.

By the time he understands that Susan would

not be good company on this day he finds himself

over near Biggleswade, coming onto the A1. The time

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is half ten, and he wonders how he could drive around

for an hour and a half without being aware of it.

A mobile phone is ringing, which surprises him

– there is no else in the wagon. Then he remembers.

He’s experienced enough to check the caller id. Not

Barry.

‘Hello Grace.’

His sister in law has a voice that is kind to the

mickey-mouse speakers of mobile phones. ‘How is

she, David?’

It’s a voice that is kind to him too – she can be

gentle with him in a way that would frighten her own

husband.

‘We left her sleeping, Grace. It seemed the

best.’

‘Uh?’ She is shocked, then she recollects

herself. ‘She’s probably awake by now. I’ll ring her.’

And ends the call.

Now at the A1, he remembers the café north of

the town. Coffee; stop driving: these are the

imperatives here of flight. He has that feeling of

transgression he hates, that completely undermines

him – leaving him the stranger in a strange land,

wanting only to crawl under a rock. He knows this

indicates exposure for him, his fear that someone will

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ask him a question he cannot answer, questions about

his age, about his family.

But today is different. He wrenches the wheel of

the wagon to pull over. The driver behind gives a

warning beep: busy road. He waves the mobile phone

and the driver now flashes his lights in approval:

driver pulling over to take a call – care for other

drivers, even if a pedestrian or two might get

squashed in the process.

He’s alert enough to try the landline. Sure

enough, Grace is there, sounding flustered. He speaks

without introduction, a sudden anger escaping him:

‘What did you expect us to do? Get her up to do

the housework? Leave her to mope around till you got

there?’

He doesn’t like manipulating – if only because,

like lies, it muddies the waters in which they all swim

– but for once he is aggrieved enough to put someone

on the defensive.

‘It’s Barry, David. What’s got into him this

morning? Did you say anything to him?’

‘Well, he’ll be upset too, won’t he?’

It’s the strangest thing how mismatched the two

couples are. Barry who makes Moira passionate, and

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David who makes Grace sweet are connected instead

so that Barry bullies Grace, while David uses Moira.

‘But he knew I was supposed to be over there

before ten!’

He can push her no further, the sense of cruelty

very strong here: ‘Did she answer?’

She lets out what seems to be a strangled cry:

‘No! And I let it ring out until the Voicemail came on,

David.’

Is it fright? If it is, then it frightens him too:

‘Oh. She’s probably in the shower, Grace. Look, just

you go over there now.’ He remarks the locution even

as he speaks, hearing how he did pick up some of the

language old Bruce used with his daughters.

‘Oh David, are you sure?’

He imagines her walking in on the bloody scene

of her sister’s impulsive suicide, but he knows that it

could not be true.

‘No, Grace, it’ll be fine, you’ll see. She’s

probably wondering where you are?’ He pauses,

calculating the wisdom of what he wants to say now

to distract her: ‘What time is the appointment for?

Eleven thirty isn’t it?’

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She does seize on this, though her voice drops

as her natural timidity comes to the fore: ‘Yes, it is,

David. I’ll do as you say. I’ll go now, immediately.’

‘That’s it, Grace. She’ll be fine. Probably

running a bit slow herself anyway.’

This locution might be more Irish than Grace

can handle, but she says in a rush:

‘Yes, that’s probably it. She does tend to switch

off. I’ll go now. David. Thank you for ringing back. I

needed to talk to someone. Thanks.’

He recoils at the intimacy in her voice, though

he thinks he manages to mask it:

‘No, go ahead, Grace. She’ll be glad to see you.’

And she’s gone and he can release a long slow

pent up breath.

Now he remembers where he is, finding himself

parked up on some pavement, the grass verge ahead

disfigured by other heavy tires. Fragile-seeming

semis line the footpath, nondescript gardens, a small

TV screen flashing behind a net in the window

nearest. Traffic is light – even though it is an access

route onto the A1 just along the way – and he

wonders as he bullies the wagon into the passing

stream why people are prepared to suffer the minor

indignities. They’re probably a tax on happiness, but

306

experts should be able to predict when such people

will go to war.

Julie is behind the counter this morning, which

pleases him. A fat lady, mordant yet full of hope, who

always remembers him despite the infrequency of his

visits. She asks, reaching for a mug, ‘Is it tea, today,

Dave?’

He shakes his head with more irony than he

normally reveals – Julie loves irony:

‘Coffee, if you will, Julie. Strong coffee.’

‘Ah,’ is all she says as she swings about to get

the jug, her justly famous cleavage – famous despite

the ravage of certainly more than forty years –

swinging by his gaze.

She plonks the mug on the aluminium top and

asks curtly – her sharpness always a sign of her

engagement: ‘Something to go with that?’

Other men will flirt at this point, but he always

plays her straight, though of course it is hard to resist

the invitation:

‘One of your Danish buns today, I think.’

She likes this – he knowing instinctively how

the word bun plays for her, fatness as a plenitude that

is an end rather than a means, the kind of inertness

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she craves. Giving him his change – her large hand

with its broad neat nails more handsome than might

be expected – she smiles a momentary fond smile for

him and says in a less public voice:

‘Hope it works through for you, Dave.’

He can only fumble with the change, mug in

one hand, the bun on its little plate awaiting him on

the bright metal top. He nods, too, in the knowledge

that he only comes to this little caff when he has

something on his mind. It is one of the few places

where he can be what might be himself, yet where no

one will suddenly ask him an awkward question about

his past.

Except, of course, when a man lowers his little

paper and tips him a nod:

‘You’re looking spruce, guv.’

He is completely thrown here, approaching the

man and not knowing who he is. Then the dark bushy

eyebrows twit his memory and then the name, a

trucker they have used on occasion to cart away waste

from their sites.

‘The day that’s in it, Jack.’

This doesn’t mean very much, but then it’s not

supposed to. The man tosses his head again, please to

be remembered.

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‘Hope it’s a good one for you, guv.’

He keeps moving past the man, aiming for a

vacant table over by the back wall, away from the

fuss and noise by the windows. He gets the table,

finds it clean, lays out the food and eases himself into

a chair. When he is finally seated, it is as though the

whole earth has come to rest with him. And it is a

strange thing with men, how they group together

while each remains apart – how content men are to be

together, as though they are bonded at some deeper

level than everyday consciousness.

‘Going to a wedding, Dave?’

How he comes back to reality tells him how

deep his reverie had been. And one of the effects of

his momentary insight is that he smiles at the man

now wedging himself in a seat on the far side of the

table.

‘Going to see an old dear about a Jacuzzi, Ron.’

‘Didn’t think you were into that kind of

pulling?’

‘The gear? Nice, isn’t it? That sort of day, Ron.

Not as obvious as your kit. Where did you get that

jacket?

‘Daughter spent a month in Natal. Brought this

back for me. The real thing, too.’

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‘Where the hell can you go on safari around

here?’

They break gaze at this point, neither feeling

either a winner or loser. The man on the other side of

the table drinks his tea, then rub his dry hands

vigorously.

‘Glad I’ve run into you, Dave. How’s biz?’

He bobs his head.

‘Just purring along, Ron. Like everyone else, I’d

say. Right?’

‘Right, as you say. But listen, Dave, bit more

serious this. Come September or thereabouts, could

you take on a big contract for most of the winter?’

He shivers, suddenly chilled. His one great fear

during the last dozen years or so was that he would be

forced to take the business to the next level: head

office, accountants, sales staff, financing.

‘What kind of big, Ron?’

‘Say a million, Dave? Would you be up for

that?’

He dreads Barry hearing about this. Barry

slavering with greed yet raging against Ron Bearing,

the crook.

But he smiles, happy just now that he can

exercise irony to its fullest extent:

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‘Is that gross or net, Ron?’

The answering smile is leery, wide, very well

measured.

‘Good old Dave. No flies on you. Tell you

straight. Contract will be for one and a quarter about.

Large estate over near Cambridge, middle of

nowhere. But there’s a mill in it for you and Barry,

don’t worry about that.’

‘Twenty percent. Isn’t that a bit higher than

your usual?’

‘It’s the funding, Dave. No, I mean that.

There’ll be a lot of squeeze on it. But I’m allowing

for that.’

‘Fine, Ron, but you know Barry. This will drive

him mad.’

They both laugh at the idea, both enjoying the

idea very much.

‘Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Dave. I’ll send

you over the tender details. You look them over

yourself and tell me what you think. Leave Barry out

of it for now, yes.’

That seems a good idea.

The man gets up, pulling at the too tight jacket,

the belt especially obviously too high on his midriff.

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‘You think seriously about this, Dave. Right?

This is a big one and I want people I can trust in on

it.’

Irony? Oh yes, but he finds that he can

understand what the man is getting at.

‘If I tell Barry a mill and there isn’t a mill, Ron,

you know he’s liable to kill you.’

The man smiles that wide smile of his again.

‘He won’t be the first anyway, Dave.’

Then the parting shot, the ambiguity that had

been suppressed coming now to the fore:

‘By the way, I see Barry has got himself a pretty

boy apprentice.’

‘Oh, Esposito?’

He remembers his daughter’s recoil when she

saw him first, whispering sugar lips as she passed,

her face stricken that beauty could subvert her too.

‘He’d be better off with the buck nigger Freddie

has. That kid likes to work.’

‘True. But he won’t listen to anyone.’

‘That’s Barry. Well, take care of yourself, Dave.

Give her one from me too, won’t you.’

He has to laugh at the idea. ‘And good hunting

yourself, Ron.’

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And dread on the A1. Is there a song about that?

he wonders. How many drive these roads with their

hearts in their mouths all day long and in the end find

there is nothing to worry about. Today everything is

slipping beyond my control: my wife dying, my

partner about to go insane with greed, my children

loose in a merciless world. And me, he wonders:

where am I headed?

The mobile phone answers by starting its small-

time bleating. He pulls over to the hard edge, finding

himself running up against a Jaguar coupe, the

occupant gesticulating in a frenzy as he shouts into

his kiddy-toy piece of gear.

Barry.

‘Why the fuck don’t you ring back when you

say you will? I’ve been waiting over here for an hour

to hear from you, Dave.’

‘What’s the problem, Barry? I thought that job

was pretty well finished.’

‘Hey, what? The lady is saying the spec is

wrong. It won’t fit.’

‘What won’t fit, Barry? You measured the job

and they signed it off, so what’s the problem?’

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‘She says it’s wrong, Dave. She’s wetting

herself here. They have this party on Saturday and her

sister has come from Australia.’

‘Hold on, Barry. They signed for what they

have. You’ve done it to spec, haven’t you?’

‘What do you mean? I’m not going to get

something like that wrong.’

‘Alright. Here’s what we’ll do. What’s Esposito

doing? Can you get him to look busy for an hour?

Can you do that?’

‘Sure, sure, Dave. There’s a lot of trim to be

done.’

‘Right. So you shoot back to the office and get

Susan to copy the spec. Right? Then you take that

back and tell that old bag that your CEO says that if

full payment is not to hand by Friday, they will be

sued in the courts for attempted fraud.’

‘What the fuck, Dave? I can’t tell her that.’

‘Well, tell her husband.’

‘No, he won’t come out. Says he’s no good at

business.’

‘Jesus, Barry, will you just do what I tell you.

We don’t have time for this.’

‘Hey, Dave, what’s got into you? It’s not like

you to be mean.’

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‘Barry, I don’t have the patience for this

stupidity. Now, just go and get a copy of the spec –

and the bill, while you’re at it – and put them under

her nose. We’ve done the work and we want to be

paid, that’s all.’

‘Okay, Dave, I’ll do it. But you’re going to owe

me a drink after this.’

‘What? And have Grace lay into me for getting

you drunk?’

‘Hey, why not? Thanks, mate. Talk to you

later.’

And why worry anyway? You have to go with

the flow, otherwise you get shunted into a corner. If

we can’t handle it, then at least we’ll know that.

The mobile phone rings. Where do you stop on

the A1? As luck would have it, there is a lay-by

coming up. He ducks in among the big artics to find a

quiet few yards.

Grace. He braces himself, heart plummeting, not

wanting reality just now.

‘Grace.’

‘Oh, she gone in, David. Oh she’s so brave. You

should have seen the room. Everything white. I was

so frightened for her.’

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‘Grace, Grace. Moira knows what’s coming.

The medical staff went over it with her.’

‘I wouldn’t be able to do it, David. They have

this chair. No, I would kill myself first.’

‘Grace, hold on, Grace. But you said you

wanted to do this for her. Remember? You said you

knew what it was like.’

‘Oh no, David. Not like this. They’ll be cutting

her up right now.’

He waits while she sobs loudly into the tiny

microphone of her mobile, watching a big Mercedes

rig with Polish plates come up in the wing mirror, the

exhausted driver hunched forward in his power-

assisted cab. Even passing at no more than ten miles

an hour sets the wagon rocking.

‘Oh, David. It wasn’t like that with Alasdair.

You’d want to see that chair, David. They can turn it

any way they want it.’

He wonders why the Pole is not on the M1, and

thinks immediately of drugs. Local delivery, he very

sensibly corrects himself. But why stop here then?

He watches the driver descend from the cab and

cross over into the trees there. Having a pee. That’s

all. No English, so couldn’t ask for the jacks.

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‘She said they would give her an anaesthetic to

kill the pain. I didn’t ask about it. It’s a local

anaesthetic, isn’t it, David? She’ll know what they’re

doing to her.’

‘Grace, Grace. Please stop for a moment. Now,

where are you? At the hospital?’

‘No, I’m out in the car. I can’t stop crying,

David. It’s so sad, so sad. I never thought I’d see my

big sister like this. Oh, it’s so sad!’

‘Please, Grace. It doesn’t help Moira if you

break up like this. You know she thinks it important

that you are supporting her. You’re her family, Grace.

Now here’s what we’ll do. Stay where you are and

I’ll come over and we’ll have lunch together. No,

there’s nothing for you to do at the moment and

you’ll be better able to handle things after a good

lunch. Will we do that?’

‘Alright, David. I’ll calm down. How long will

you be? Do I have time to go inside and tidy up?’

‘Yes, of course, Grace. Take your time. Give

me about twenty minutes.’

And what difference would it make? Another

couple of tradesmen, and so another couple of mates.

Larger office, more staff. A manager. Susan couldn’t

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manage an office. She can run one, but that’s not the

same. And then we’d have to stay in the game at that

level. I’d do it for a year or so and then sell the

business as a going concern. What then? No wife.

Sarah at university, Alan away at school for his A

Levels. That’s only two years away.

But the opportunity must make some sense.

Why now, at this cusp? Grace and Barry are going to

spin out of it any day now, since the death of their

boy. You can see it so clearly. And me? Moira will be

gone by next summer and the children will be going

out into the world. That’s the only use for the extra

money, the children.

That’s the only way it makes sense.

Christ, where is she? The carpark is huge and

there are a lot of cars in it. He sees her waving over

by the hospital entrance, sensible enough to wait

outside the carpark. Oh Jesus. Every time he sees her

he gets the same image: Leaning over the sink in her

kitchen the way she does. He presses up against her,

pulls up her skirt and shoves his dick in between her

thighs, up and up until she relents and lets him in.

Then she sags, and he knows she has submitted and is

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consequently deeply humiliated as ever by what she

sees is the impersonality of the sex-act.

This he experiences every time without fail.

Then of course his trousers are too tight, and he

has to wiggle and shift to sort it out. She walks

towards the wagon, smiling up at him, squinting

against the bright noonday sun. He sees how slack she

looks today, soft all over like a jelly.

He leans over to open the offside door for her.

‘Can you manage there, Grace?’

‘No trouble, David. Barry’s jeep is even worse.’

He notices once again how she always has her

hair cut too tight, as though exerting control there if

nowhere else. She’ll lean over and kiss me on the

cheek, as she always does – the sort of person who

shows the affection she feels without looking for

exact reciprocation.

‘Thanks for the offer, David. Generous as

always.’

He preens, aware even so how she likes to

praise him, to make him feel good.

‘Come on, let’s go somewhere nice. Do us both

good.’

He wants her to stay quiet, to stay off the

subject of the day.

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‘Do you know anywhere, Grace? I mean, where

you’d like to go to today.’

He glances over, thinking as a kind of defence:

Does she know how I watch her? She is putting the

seat belt under her breasts – as she always does – so

that the left one is pushed up while the right one sags

in the light bras she always wears. He looks away

almost at once, reflecting that if it wasn’t that he’s

known her for nearly seventeen years, she would

probably seem merely stout, even fat.

‘There’s the restaurant over by Wilden.’

‘God, not that hotel, Grace.’

‘Which? No, I think this is part of a pub over

there.’

‘Right. We’ll head over that way and see what

we can find.’

Now he makes himself busy driving, knowing

how Barry hates it when she talks while he’s driving.

Yes, but also knows that she knows he’s the opposite.

He thinks: She’s waiting for the moment, I know she

is. I think once we leave town. What can she say?

She’s said it all already. That’s why I always bring

her on. Moira holds things in for ages. I have to pull

the stuff from her.

320

‘They do provide such good service, though,

David. They were really amazing this morning.

You’d think she was their only patient today.’

His hearts sinks, but only to where he expected

it would be for the coming duration.

‘Well, good service helps everyone.’

A good business slogan: he’s relieved that some

irony is available to him.

‘I mean, everywhere was so clean and bright.

Oh, and she was so brave, David. She looked so well,

too. She said the extra sleep in helped, you know.

That’s was very kind of you, David.’

‘She’s my wife, Grace, for heaven’s sake.’

‘You wouldn’t think to look at her that anything

was the matter. Do you know what she was doing

when I got over there? Vacuuming the stairs. I said,

what are you doing that for, Moy? You should be

getting ready for your tests. And you know what she

said, David? She said, I have to help the others out.’

Caught up in her familiar narrative trick, the

burden gets home. He can feel how close the tears,

the weeping and wailing, the anger are to the surface

in himself, too.

She takes him by the arm that rests on the gear-

shaft and says earnestly:

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‘Dad always said she was selfless. He called her

his angel.’

The heat in his loins is already stale, a warmed-

over effect that disgusts him, like an unsuccessful

wank. He says, loosening the wagon up on a clear

stretch of road and hearing the rising wind fretting

panel mirror stanchions the way it does:

‘She hates to get it wrong, Grace. Too many

watching her.’

She stares across at him:

‘But she always gets it right, David. You should

know that.’

He knows he is smirking – more than the wagon

being fretted at the moment – but it is an inward

smirk, relieved that he has managed to cool the air

between them.

‘I’m not criticising, Grace. I know how good

she is at managing things. After all, she’s been

managing me for a long time now.’

Now he does his silent laughing his head off

routine, indulging himself in the irony for once. She

is studying him again.

‘I forget how bad it is for you, David. You two

have been so close. I have often envied how you get

along together so well.’

322

‘Well, you know, Grace, we both work at it.’

A signpost for Wilden is coming up. He doesn’t

know this way in, but decides to try it anyway. The

clatter of loose grit under the wagon causes him

momentary unease, then the little road runs forwards

under some young trees – perhaps poplars to replace

the elms of sainted memory – and he is glad to

concentrate on driving for now.

She says, raising her voice though the sound

level in the car has not increased at all:

‘I’ve often said that to Barry, you know, David.

Co-operation, I mean. He’s old fashioned, I suppose.

He believes he has to lead, even if he doesn’t know

where he’s going.’

And it hits him again – despite pushing the

wagon at speed on this tight road – and he wants

more than anything at that moment to screw his sister

in law, goaded to lust by her passivity. Bend her over

and ride her until they both fall over.

And then loathe her.

‘But he does mean well, David, even though

you tease him all the time. He’s not as bright as you.

Not as confident, either. But he’s good at his trade.

Even you would admit that.’

323

He wonders what in Christ’s name is going on

inside himself. He thinks it might be a reaction to

Moira dying, some kind of assertion of the life

principle or the like. Yet he knows he will never do it,

that he would not even so much as flirt with her. Yet

he can even now clearly see her when he first met her,

sitting a demure sixteen year old younger sister in the

family front room, and he amazed at how inviting a

lap she had even then. How the boy would linger

there – even Alan leaning in against her thighs when

he could.

‘Oh, Barry’s a great worker, Grace, no doubt

about that. We wouldn’t be here without him.’

And then he sees it: how she has no children

now, and how like her sister she too soldiers on,

taking the blame whether justified or not for the death

of their son. He thinks he should say somewhere

about this, to reassure her before she remembers what

is happening today. But she responds quickly,

pressing a chubby though handsome finger – nail

trimmed and varnished red to professional standards –

to her lower lip:

‘No, David. It takes the two of you. The way the

two of you work together. Barry is ambitious, you

know that. He wants to be a big builder. But you are

324

different, David. I think you are just passing the time,

you know.’

He glances across at her, startled, and she

catches this and smiles fully with her red lips:

‘Oh, don’t be so surprised, David. We’re not

fools. I remember the night you arrived from Ireland.

Daddy was expecting you, too. You’re not a

tradesman, but you turned out to be a good

businessman. We don’t know your past, David, and

none of us have ever asked.’

She reaches and touches the arm that rests still

on the gear-shaft:

‘But you are different, David. Something

special happened to you once.’

The strangeness of hearing her say these things

leaves him as though at a remove from his body. He

resists it, though he knows that the displacement is

real, that he has felt its presence for over seventeen

years. But what would be the point of giving way?

There is nothing there now.

Luckily, they are approaching their destination,

so that he can ask rhetorically:

‘Is that the place, do you think? My memory is

hazy.’

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And he wonders, Why today of all days? Why

remind me of one loss when I am facing another?

‘Yes, this is it. Can you get parking?’

There is room, squeezing in by the business Jags

and management Vauxhalls to get over near the exit.

Inside there’s a lot of red velour and jobsworths’

relief. He can’t be too sarcastic, though, as he gets a

few nods and even a couple of quizzical glances:

taking his partner’s wife out for a cosy little lunch.

They are offered a booth, but he is diplomatic

and suggests – bearing Grace’s girth in mind – a table

by the window overlooking the beer garden, a

veritable sea of blue plastic awning. Food, too, is by

the way, the fish for both and – an impulse on his part

– a bottle of the house Chablis.

Settled – which includes opening the top button

of her blouse – she says:

‘Perhaps medicine has advanced, David.’

He stares at her momentarily, wondering what

she is getting at, then remembers how she takes on

this public air, where she becomes super objective,

even throwaway. Nothing very unusual in this, except

he happens to know what the private Grace is like,

and will need to suppress the interplay of

326

embarrassment and pity that will assault him over the

duration.

‘Well, Grace, they say everything advances over

time, so I suppose medicine will be swept along too.’

He knows she won’t hear this.

‘They had only one little machine for Alasdair,

you know. It measured his blood, they told me. Just a

tiny amount too. And we would have to wait in a

waiting room watching television.’

The wine arrives. He is dismayed it has been

served so soon, for him an indication of how long

they might have to wait for their food proper. She

dickers at first about whether she ought to, then drains

half a glass and says she needed that.

‘It might depend on the complaint, Grace. That

time when Moira was carrying Alan, a lot of tests

then. She was in and out of the hospital.’

He can see her visibly sag as the alcohol takes

hold of her. He braces himself.

‘Strange thing growing up, David. Did you feel

strange to be grown up?’

He temporises: ‘What a strange thing to think

of, Grace.’ But he cannot avoid being kind to her, his

sympathy for her strongest just when she is at her

silliest. ‘I found being ten strange.’

327

‘Ten? Oh, ten was alright. I didn’t like the

periods at first. They were very painful for me,

though they never seemed to bother Moy.’

The wine is hitting him too now.

‘For me it was the first pubic hair. I noticed it in

the bath and decided I would cut it off when I got out.

I forgot. And then there was a second and a third, and

I just let it all happen.’

‘What was the worst for you, David? I mean, as

a man, a boy?’

The wine is surprisingly nice. He pours them

some more.

‘I got pains in my groin. Testicles, really. That

was very uncomfortable.’

‘Did you have sex fantasies? Boys are supposed

to go mad for sex.’

‘Fantasies? Yes. But they weren’t sexual.

Romantic, really. More like daydreams. I used to

daydream about going on long journeys with a girl.’

She is staring at him with genuine interest.

‘How very touching, David. What was she like,

the girl?’

He is very surprised to be remembering this.

‘Niceness. A sort of constant companion.

Thinking back now, she seemed to have long hair,

328

maybe dark. But I might be adding that in. We were

just very close. No sex at all. In fact, Grace, we never

touched each other.’

Their food arrives. Both sit well back, both in a

mild stupor and so afraid of knocking something

over.

‘We had a motor bike of sorts. It was really a

scooter, a big one, like the Heinkel that was around

then.’

She screws her face up suddenly. ‘What’s a

Heinkel? Never heard of those over here. Was it an

Irish bike?’

He stops everything completely. Oh damn, he

thinks. One moment of relaxation and I do it. The

only thing to do it lie. She will forget the word.

‘Ah yes. It was pretty old-fashioned. German.

Probably why you didn’t have them here.’

She nods to this, looking a bit stupefied. He too

feels the deflation. They eat. Then she looks up and

asks:

‘What was the motor bike like?’

‘How do mean, what was it like? It had a

windshield and protection for the legs. Is that what

you mean?’

329

She has been drinking the wine in little gulps

while he spoke, her eyes riveted on his mouth.

‘No, I mean did she sit up behind you with her

arms around your waist?’

He shakes his head – the wine showing up a

weariness he had not suspected in himself – but hides

the irritation with a wry response:

‘Where else would she sit, Grace? On the

handlebars?’

She seems unaware of the latent sarcasm: ‘But a

car would have been better, David. Why didn’t you

dream of a motor car instead? That would have been a

lot more comfortable, and she could have sat beside

you, where you could look at her.’

He wonders if she would notice if he cut this

line of conversation, then plumps in any case to do

that:

‘What did you dream of when you were a

teenager, Grace?’

She shrugs, the small residue of wine in the

glass she holds splashing up:

‘Getting married, of course, David. What else

do girls dream of?’

He smiles to counterbalance her defensive

irony:

330

‘And what was the man like? The one you

wanted to marry.’

His smile hasn’t worked, for the shape of his

question obviously embarrasses her:

‘What do you think? The usual Prince

Charming, beautiful, rich, attentive.’

‘And what happens afterwards?’

She looks again at the glass and then looks at

the fork she holds in her left hand, seeming surprised

to find herself at lunch:

‘We live happily ever after, of course.’

‘But what did you do together, Grace?’

She wilts now under the directness of the

question. She puts the fork down beside her partially

eaten lunch. Then she puts her hand flat on the flesh

below her neck, that is exposed by the loosely

buttoned blouse. She presses the flesh until the joints

in her hands are white.

It seems to him that she is trying hard to keep

something from springing up out of her, out of her

chest.

‘Do? We did nothing, David. There was nothing

to be done.’

331

He would smile at this admission of the futility

of teenage romancing, but instead he experiences an

eerie chill.

She is staring at him with an expression that

seems merely plausible, but which he knows –

knowing Grace – is her attempt at sincerity:

‘We’d live in a Palace and sit all day on our

thrones, wearing crowns and draped in heavy robes

against the cold.’

This strikes him as so strange – in the sense of

original – that he can only stare back.

‘Why is it cold?’

She shrugs, the expression of false sincerity

giving way to a more genuine simplicity:

‘It just is, David. I don’t know why.’

‘But why don’t you make the place warm. It’s

your fantasy.’

She’s startled by this proposal:

‘You just can’t change the dream like that. If it

was warmer everything would be different then.’

He can only nod at this. She gestures – only

becoming aware that she is holding the glass when

wine sloshes up onto the back of her hand. She drains

the glass, places it on the table, then says, gesturing

332

again before drying her skin with the napkin

provided:

‘The way it is here, David. The way men are on

the go all the time. Even some women are like that

now. You see? Everything is too frantic here.’

He thinks what she has said is very childish, the

way children sometimes want everyone to shut up and

stay quiet. He thinks she is really quite stupid behind

it all. He wonders if that is why he has these mad

lusts for her: she would not know what he was really

doing.

‘Do you want coffee, Grace?’

At least he has managed to keep her off the

tears.

‘What time is it? I have to get back by three.’

‘No, it’s only about twoish. Have coffee. It’ll

clear our heads.’

She puts her hand flat on her chest again.

‘Alright, David. Whatever you say. I’ll go and

freshen up.’

She sways slightly between the tables. He

notices that a surprising number of the men follow

her with their eyes. He makes him think that she

might actually be more voluptuous than fat. Or maybe

333

she provokes mad lust in all men, the sort of impulse

most men are wise enough to ignore.

When she leaves the room, more men than he

might have expected glance over at him. He cannot

read their expressions: it might be envy, or it might be

contempt for exploiting a hard-up woman just for the

sake of a cheap ride.

Anyway, he orders coffee for them both, and

then on impulse orders a whisky for himself instead.

He hates feeling tipsy – especially with a long day

still ahead of him. Better the irritant of too much than

the sag of too little. He thinks to order something for

Grace too, but knows that she will have a hard

enough time coping as it is.

As she returns, he sees what it was that the other

men were looking at. Diaphanous summer dress over

silk slip is perfect for suggesting curve – without

exposing the less than perfect volumes that underlie

the agreeable curvature. Grace has curves on her

thighs and hips, even down her full stomach, that

point like road signs to the one destination. He smiles,

suddenly dippy with a weird fondness for her over-

large presence, while gazing – as he often does – at

how her breasts sway in their too lenient halter.

334

She says – a whiff of the piercing floral perfume

she prefers – even before she has sat down again, an

arm in under her thighs to keep her dress from

creasing:

‘You know you were Moy’s prince Charming?’

She sees his whisky and in reflex checks the empty

wine glass at her hand.

‘Do you want something more?’

He can see that she is more than ready for a

vodka and white, can see her already settling towards

the giddy foolishness of intoxication.

‘Should I?’

He glances across at the bar, at the clock there –

no doubt at least ten minutes fast.

‘Hospital at three?’

She’s miffed, but too good humoured to let it

work on her.

‘What have you got to do?’

‘See an old lady about a jacuzzi.’

She suddenly laughs loudly – obviously having

decided to get what fun she can from her present

state.

‘In that gear?’

He looks down at himself, remembering how he

is dressed. He looks around the bar, conscious now of

335

how the situation with Grace might look to casual

bystanders.

‘The day that’s in it, Grace.’

She’s flirtatious now, tossing her head at him

knowingly, very arch because she’s not used to

behaving like this.

‘That’s not what your old lady will think, is it?’

He can field this with no trouble.

‘Well, you know yourself what these people are

like. Whatever they may do at home together, they

don’t want other people to think they are loose.’

He tries the whisky, realising even before he has

sipped the liquid – which he in fact dislikes – that this

is not a good idea. Gin would have been better, but

Grace would certainly have wanted her vodka and

white if he had got himself a gee and tee.

She is meanwhile drinking the coffee with as

little enthusiasm. But it perks her almost at once:

‘Anyway, David, as I was saying. Moy thought

you were her Prince Charming. Did you know that?’

He shakes his head, wary of where she is going

to take this.

‘Well, you were. She dumped poor Reggie so

fast. Did you know that?’

336

‘Oh, I knew she had a boyfriend of sorts, but I

didn’t know much about him.’

‘Soppy sort of boy, you’d say, David. Worked

in the Council. His father managed the Corn

Exchange for years.’

He shrugs, choosing this idle moment to take

another mouthful of the whisky.

‘Poor Reggie, he was broken hearted. Packed up

and went off to his uncle in Australia.’

He finds himself on the defensive:

‘Can’t have been much in it if she did that,

Grace.’

She laughs, her expression suddenly tight:

‘Oh ho, don’t be so modest, David. She fell for

you the moment she saw you. She cried half the night

afterwards. Did you know that?’

Now he finds a good moment to finish the

bloody whisky, hating the growling sort of mood it’s

putting him in. She watches him, her face still tight,

an uncharacteristic glint in her pale eyes:

‘I was mad about you too, David. But of course

I was too young then. I was furious when Moy

dropped Reggie.’

He puts the empty glass down and gets to his

feet.

337

‘Have to pee.’

There is no problem with walking – except

when he hears her saying, over and over: ‘cried half

the night’, when he finds himself weaving slightly.

He would have cleared off if he had known that.

He thinks of the baggage involved here as he pisses.

What she must have felt but didn’t know.

‘Ah, Dave, old boy. You’re looking very spruce

today.’

He’s surprised to see their accountant at his

elbow, busy unzipping his flies.

‘Stanley, how are you? Day that’s in it, Stanley.

Moira’s over getting some tests in the hospital.’

‘Oh nothing serious, I hope.’

‘We have to wait and see. Anyway, Grace is

keeping her company, so I thought to give her a break

while they’re busy with Moira.’

‘Good idea. Wouldn’t want to hang about the

hospital all day, would she?’

Then the accountant is gone and that regret

strikes him again: how he wishes it was only a

question of waiting and seeing how some tests turn

out – when normal life could resume.

Tears fill his eyes, as hot as the whisky on his

throat. How he hates regret; how honest it is in its

338

futility. How it does nothing for you except be there

like a bearer of bad news.

He can wash his eyes, drink tap water, flatten

his hair, but can do nothing about the haunted look –

the face he thought he left behind so many years ago.

He’s going back to having nothing, to the kind of

existential loss he seems to have been born with.

She looks hardly much better, slumped a bit in

her seat now that the caffeine has passed on. She is

looking at him with large eyes. He cannot face her

immediately, so he turns off and goes to the cash desk

at the end of the bar, by the exit. A momentary

wobble as he decides how best to pay, cash or the

business card. He thinks the latter will look best,

either nooky at company expense or some domestic

service not listed in his job description.

She says as he approaches – standing up, so that

her eyes are now perforce elsewhere:

‘You know, David, but you always leave me

thinking for days afterwards.’

He shifts her chair before she attempts it herself,

seeing how she crouches slightly even so to

manoeuvre out from between the table and the chair.

‘Well, Grace, shows what you are capable of

anyway.’

339

This meant to mean precisely nothing – but he is

glad that the moroseness has not taken him over

completely. She turns and waits till he comes up by

her side, when she links his hanging arm loosely.

She’s doing this out of a reflex – he’d seen her do it

with her father leaving the pub in the evening when

still unmarried – but her breast does press his arm,

flattening against him in its unique softness as they

shift about while negotiating the tables on the way

out.

‘No,’ she continues during this exit, her head

down as she watches her feet. ‘It’s because you think

so much. Because you think, David. Left to myself, I

just daydream.’

There’s nothing he needs to say to this. In any

case he’s fully occupied getting them out of the place

in good order – and also monitoring the response of

the remaining diners to them, now that some

suggestive intimacy is on display. It might be a stupid

fear – betraying in reality his ignorance of the deeper

mores of those he dwells amongst – but he does know

at least that here, as everywhere else, appearances

count.

340

For appearance sake, he now smiles a relaxed

smile – a smile as between intimate friends – and says

awhile:

‘Where’s the difference, Grace.’

And she replies, the words coming from her at

once – even as she tries to skirt an errant chair

without toppling over:

‘You remember your thoughts, David. I forget

my daydreams.’

His response to this insight is more

spontaneous, though he is very careful not to seem

patronising, throwing his head up in surprise and

beginning another smile which becomes an

exclamation of appreciation. But he waits until they

are out in the open before saying – even as she is

negotiating the steps down to the car park:

‘That’s very acute, Grace. I’ll remember that.’

She stops – now down on level tarmacadam –

and turns to him without letting go of his arm, so that

her bosom comes up against his chest, the comforting

compress of her breasts pressing in against his

diaphragm:

‘And I’ll think of my Prince Charming for days,

David.’

341

He badly wants to disentangle and step back –

but is profoundly afraid of upsetting his sister in law,

bound as he is to her in so many crucial ways:

‘Don’t let Barry know. Whatever else.’

She leans her head towards him, eyes hooded

but her lips pursed fully. If it is an invitation to kiss,

he has no intention of taking up the offer. Yet the lust

does shoot up through him, the knowledge that even

the slightest movement of the arm trapped by her

hand would push the desire beyond all control.

And then he finds that he can turn back to one

side as a sort of rebalancing, so that he can slip away

from the impending disaster. She relinquishes at once,

so that he can continue his retreat – even a backward

glance to feign uncertain footing – all the while

rubbing his hands together out of relief. The lust

drowns him, the impress of her body still warm and

fragrant, the knowledge of what he could be doing

even now so powerful as to tempt him to relent – for

once in his life let the program go hang and just take

the fruit from the tree and not worry about the

consequences.

It’s the image of the fruit on the tree that takes

his interest, seeing her and her automatic sexuality

just like a ripe red apple available for plucking. Of

342

course, this causes him to think about her breasts and

the memory he has of their amorphous pressure. Yet

there is no gravitational pull in this image – he is

experienced enough in duping his own drives not to

be surprised here – so that he can now concentrate on

getting them both to the wagon, sitting in its bulky

isolation in the afternoon car park.

First thing onboard he does is fasten his own

seat belt. Then he opens the off door for her and

busies himself with locating the ignition while she

gets herself in. He times it so that he will only turn at

the point at which it would be appropriate to remind

her to belt up. But it happens that she is just waiting

for him to turn: this allows her to throw herself upon

him as best she can.

The seat belt that binds him to his seat saves

him now, the stiffened strap keeping her bosom at bay

while preventing her from deploying her right arm

about his shoulders. Her left hand does land

dangerously close to his groin, but an adroit twist and

her arm comes to lie across his thighs down by his

knees.

Once she has some position against him, she

goes completely quiet. He peers down as best he can,

but sees only how thin her hair already is. Like her

343

father, he thinks, and imagines her bald at forty –

when pathos brings him a valuable moment of calm.

What to do? The roadway is not far off and they

do look like a snogging couple, alcohol having made

them impatient. Tricky, very tricky…

Then his mobile starts its plaintive bleating. She

starts, raises her head, eyes swimming in the swoon,

and says:

‘Marble, David. White marble.’ Suddenly alert,

drawing back and staring at the phone sitting above

the dash, a smile on her lips:

‘Isn’t that very nice?’

And he thinks in reflex – even as he reaches for

the phone: Cleaner than clean.

‘There you are, Dave. Where the fuck is

Freddie?’

‘I don’t know. You tell me.’

‘He’s cleared off, mate. That’s where he is.’

He sees her mouth Barry?, but he raises a

peremptory hand and stares hard at her. Obediently,

she sits back in her seat and sets to buckling up the

seat belt.

‘What’s Roland doing, Barry?’

‘Oh, he’s clearing up.’

344

‘Then what’s the problem? Freddie is paid till

this evening for that job. He did us all a favour in

getting it done early. And you know Roland will

finish up there. You’ve seen him do it before.’

‘He ought to be here, Dave, and keep an eye on

that boy.’

‘Barry, Freddie knows his mate. And you do,

too. So what’s really eating you?’

‘I just don’t like seeing the men making free

with our time, that’s all, Dave.’

‘No it’s not, Barry. There’s something bothering

you.’

‘Come on, mate. There’s nothing bothering me.

Freddie can’t slip off like that and leave the

apprentice in charge. That’s not right.’

‘Jesus, Barry, don’t you have anything better to

do today? How are you getting on there?’

‘Yeah, that’s alright, mate. We got that in

hand.’

‘Look, Barry, I told you before not to bother

with Roland, didn’t I? So forget about him now. He’s

Freddie’s concern and you know Freddie’s not likely

to slip up. Isn’t that right?’

345

‘Alright alright, Dave. But I was pretty pissed

when I got here and saw that boy on his own here. I

mean…’

‘Barry! Leave it, mate, just leave it. Okay, now

tell me, did that old dear this morning cough up.’

‘No problem, Dave. You had her well taped,

mate.’

‘What was the problem, anyway?’

‘Wrong colour.’

‘It wasn’t the wrong colour. They close it from

the catalogue, didn’t they?’

‘She said it was green and that they had ordered

blue.’

‘Did you not tell her it was aquamarine?’

‘Sure. So she gets her husband to check his

dictionary. The dictionary says it’s blue-green. She’s

still not satisfied. So she goes next door and brings

this other old lad in. He starts to tell us about an

evening in a place called Locarno. That’s when the

husband gave me the cheque.’

‘You should be in better humour, Barry. After

that, I mean.’

‘Huh, batty old buggers, the lot of them. Don’t

know their arse from their elbow.’

‘Bye, Barry.’

346

It’s now a quarter past two. She’s dozing in the

seat, sagging against the door, a faint whistle though

her rounded lips. He realises he has sobered up,

except of course for the dread dullness – the dread

afternoon drag.

So he starts the wagon up with a wrench of the

key. She’s awake immediately, leaning over to check

the dashboard clock.

‘Plenty of time, Grace. Get you there in fifteen

minutes.’

It’s one of those moments – and coming today

of all days – when he has the impulse to throw off

what he feels is the disguise he wears here. Drop

down again to that day by the sea over thirty six years

ago now and start out from there. Going nowhere, but

alive to himself in a way he no longer is. Every

breeze counting, every bend in the road a possibility:

no hope but consumed by expectation, as though the

world is always the site of revelation for those who

allow themselves to look.

He can feel that even here now, trundling along

this Bedfordshire back road. The copse up on that low

rise to the left might contain who knows what. That

stony track he has just passed might lead down into a

glade containing, again, who knows what. For these

347

few moments the world is alive for him and

strangeness presses at him from all sides, images of

fairy folk and elves, trolls, dragons, ghosties – images

from books and the cinema pouring up from his

memory.

It’s like a repression has been momentarily

lifted and what he would like to think comes to the

fore.

She says, peering forward as though to hurry

them along:

‘They should be finished with Moy by now,

don’t you think, David?’

It’s a jolt for him: reality springs back at him as

with a vengeance for daring to turn away from it. She

continues, speaking her rising worries in a vacant

voice:

‘I hope it went alright, I really do. She would be

so sad if it’s bad news.’

He can see already how this will go. Grace’s

capacity for an annoying kind of defeated crying will

make him cringe, which in turn will make him angry,

all his own buried pain being vented on her. So he

says, as brightly as he can manage – to force her back

into a semblance of English public discourse:

348

‘Speaking of Prince Charming, Grace, do you

know there is an old Irish tale about him?’

Once he sees her go into public listening mode,

he continues loudly – as though shouting over the

quiet rumble of the wagon on this minor road:

‘Well, a long long time ago there was this

Prince, whose name was Oisín. One day he was out

hunting with his friends in the woods of Crumlin – a

place near Dublin – when this young woman with

long fair hair came up to him riding upon a snow-

white horse. She told him that she had heard about his

beauty and fame even in the fairy world and had

come to invite him to go with her to live in a land

where he would remain forever young. So Oisín

springs up on the horse behind her and together they

set off to the Land of Youth.’

He pauses at this point, both to allow her

comment – should she want to – but also to negotiate

the wagon onto a busier road. Once on the way again,

he glances over at her. She responds too brightly,

smile almost a grimace – he has never seen her so

glassy – and replies staccato:

‘No fine, fine. It’s really very interesting,

David.’

As the story itself is not the point, he presses on:

349

‘Anyway, there comes a day when he tells the

Princess that he would like to see his homeland again.

She is very surprised that he is homesick, but she is

willing to allow this. She presents him with her snow-

white charger to travel to Ireland, but warns him not

to place a foot on the ground there – otherwise he will

not be able to return to the Land Of Youth.

‘So he mounts the horse and travels across the

sea to Ireland. He finds the land greatly changed. The

people seem smaller and their lives seem less happy –

even their houses seem meagre. One day, he chances

in the valley of Glenasmole – which is near Dublin

too – to come upon a group of men trying to move a

large rock. He is filled with pity for their puniness –

one man of his generation could have tossed the rock

to one side with little effort – and offers to help them.

Unfortunately, the saddle girdle snaps as he lifts the

rock, with the result that he falls from the horse. As

soon as his foot touches the ground he feels himself

shrivel and weaken, until in a moment is no more

than a bent old man.

‘The Princess’s horse immediately takes fright

and gallops away back to the Land of Youth, leaving

the poor enfeebled Oisín behind.’

350

He estimates it will take him a further four or

five minutes to reach the hospital. He hopes the

pathos of the story will keep her occupied for the

duration. She – for her part – does not move, her eyes

fixed on the road ahead.

Then she opens her mouth, and closes it again –

obviously deciding not to say what she has planned

on saying. He is tempted to make a comment, hoping

that way to draw her out. However, she takes a deep

breath and asks, eyes still ahead on the road:

‘And he dies?’

‘Yes. A monk – Ireland had become Christian in

the meantime – took care of him during his last days.’

She breaths out a long sigh.

‘How long have you known that story?’

‘Since childhood.’

‘Why would he want to come back, David? It

doesn’t make sense. Why would he want to come

back?’

‘It says that he was homesick.’

Now she does look at him:

‘Homesick for what?’

They have reached the hospital. Relieved, he

can afford to be flippant:

351

‘I assume for the land of his fathers. No one

finds that part strange, Grace.’

She’s already unbuckling the seat belt, pulling

at it with irritation when it catches.

‘Well, I do.’ She glares at him. ‘Would you do

that? I mean, would you give up eternal life for this?’

She sweeps her hand around the congestion of cars,

the flaky fifties buildings, the squat chimney made of

the London brick the town is famous for.

He backs the wagon in not too far from the

hospital entrance. He finds he is shaking slightly, and

realises at once that his wife could be somewhere in

the offing – maybe even standing in the entrance

awaiting her sister’s return.

He realises also that he doesn’t want to meet her

here and now.

Once the wagon is stopped, she gets down onto

the tarmac. He leans over towards her – incidentally

getting his head down out of sight – noticing that her

dress is very creased:

‘Tell Moira I had to push on to see a job. I’ll be

home early. Tell her that I hope the tests went well.’

His throat catches just as he finishes speaking.

She says, squinting against the glare of sunlight

on the surface of the car:

352

‘What did they do in the Land of Youth, David?

Did he get bored with her?’

He’s glad to keep on this subject:

‘Don’t know, Grace. The story says nothing

about what they did. But I saw a picture once of them.

She played the harp and sang and he sat and listened.’

She looks down at the ground, shaking her head

in confusion. Then she looks at him with

disappointment, though a glint of anger in her eyes –

perhaps she suspects him of sending her up.

He should leave it now – close the door and get

out of there – but he has an impulse to find out at the

very last moment:

‘What would you do, Grace? I mean with your

Prince.’

Her face is completely blank:

‘A man would be bored even in Paradise?’

He makes a quizzical expression, very

noncommittal to hide his relief that he might be

getting away with it. Reaching for the door handle, he

says perhaps too briskly:

‘Nice lunch, Grace. Hope you enjoyed it too.’

He sits up and glances across to the hospital

entrance before he can stop himself.

353

Only a very old woman dressed in black there, a

younger man dressed also all in black fussing over

her.

He is both relieved and disappointed.

The hangover has gone back to growler mode,

temples throbbing – which he knows is due in part to

the glare of sunlight on the roadway surfaces – a

pointless irritation like an itch he cannot scratch.

Over-wound – that’s the word he has for his

condition, either everything too big now or too small.

Anyway, it’s like he can no longer fit in, so that what

had seemed to him as forbearance is now coming to

appear as nothing more than a passivity that arose

from a loss of direction.

He drives out of the town on one of the roads

leading to the A1 and it is only when he reaches open

countryside and is spinning along in a fairly fast

procession that he becomes aware that, underneath

this preoccupation with his irritability – which he sees

is more like picking at a scab than anything more

meaningful – he is trying to imagine how Grace must

be thinking about her Prince Charming. He senses her

puzzlement very completely, knowing – as she

probably does not yet know – how real a man is,

354

being one himself. And he also knows – an

understanding born of experience – that she will

remain trapped in her wishes for this man, able to

conceive her fantasy man being only what she wants

him to be.

The clock on the dash catches his eye: three

o’clock precisely. He is jolted: is the truth known

now? Does his wife know now? Then – as a very

definite evasion – he remembers that he has a call to

make. It’s easy on this side road to fetch up on the

pavement, phone held up for all nearby residents to

see should they be glaring at the wagon now blocking

the right of way. The folder is where he put it the

previous evening – organised the night before

because he could not trust himself on the morning of

this day of days – with the customer’s contact number

highlighted for just this moment.

‘Yes?’ The voice seems annoyed. Then ‘Yes?’

again, more steely now, fully prepared.

He’s used to all kinds of responses: ‘Ah, Mrs

Green? This is David Trainer – director of Trainer

and Woodbine? – you plan installing a Jacuzzi?’

‘Ah.’ It is like an ejaculation. He can hear some

kind of commotion in the background. ‘That’s right.

Oh, they said you would call.’

355

‘Well, that’s right. Look, I’m in the vicinity this

afternoon and I thought.’

‘When?’ A muffled sound and then a beat beat

sound. She’s muffled the phone by laying it against

her chest.

He waits, vacant, poised for anything, anything

at all – intrigued by the fact that her heartbeat is very

rapid.

‘Can you wait until about four, Mr Trainer? I’m

tied up at the moment.’ There’s a pause. He waits to

see if she will surrender to the ensuing silence.

She doesn’t, so he says: ‘Sure, no problem, Mrs

Green. I’ll be there around four.’

He realises that this is the best thing he has done

all day. In fact, he should have done it earlier – an

effective antidote to all his moodiness. In fact, he is

so cheered that he decides to banish the aftermath of

the lunchtime alcohol by means of sugar and caffeine.

This is escape – and he knows it is escape – but the

lunch with Grace has shown him just how fragile his

own state is.

Time enough to fret, to crack up, to lose his

nerve.

356

This could be this morning’s caff, but it is

another one further north along the A1, tucked into a

lay-by near Sandy. He has just sat down in front of a

pot of strong truckers’ tea and a large cream bun

when his mobile rings. Now he is like half of the

clientele here, beverage going cold while he looks at

the ceiling or walls and talks loudly.

He knows it is Barry’s number but all he can

hear is static and someone hooting with laughter in

the distance. He’s reluctant to speak first. Paranoid

about mobile phones, he wouldn’t be surprised if

someone else was using Barry’s ID for some kind of

scam.

‘Where are you, David?’

It’s Barry alright.

‘Having a pot of tea in a café. Where are you?’

He can hear the hooting again, this time

accompanied by a much deeper voice – as though an

infectious panic is spreading.

‘Listen, mate, you’re going to have to have a

serious talk with Freddie. Do you know where he has

spent the last two hours? Backing horses.’

‘So what, Barry? It’s his money. He’s earned it

honestly. He can do what he likes with it.’

357

‘But he’s just won FIVE HUNDRED

POUNDS!’

‘Well, good for him. Maybe he’ll have the

decency to buy you all a drink. How about that?’

‘Fuck it, Dave, this is working time you’re

talking about.’

‘For goodness sake, Barry. From the sound of it,

it’s not every day that he wins that kind of money. Go

on, help him celebrate.’

‘But there’s work to be done here.’

‘Is the site cleared? If it is, then you can start in

tomorrow. If need be, we can all dig in to finish it by

Friday.’

There’s a pause now. He gulps some tea but

won’t risk the bun. As though acting on some

intuition, the laughter is drawing closer and sounds as

though it will engulf Barry pretty soon.

‘Have you heard from Moira, Dave?’

The change in tone completely throws him. He

is suddenly aware of the bitterness of tea he has just

drunk. He is very frightened, his knees cold and

shaky.

‘No, why should I? Grace is picking her up

around now, isn’t she?’

358

His own question disturbs him, that feeling

again that things are slipping beyond his control. Too

much looseness today.

‘She’s just been on the phone, Dave. I don’t

know what she was talking about. She said they’d put

her under. I mean, they’d put Moy under. I don’t

understand, mate. What was she talking about?’

He’s cold all over now. Goose pimples along his

arms, tremors even in the big muscles in his chest.

Holy God, he thinks, it’s happened already.

And all he can think then is: I’m not ready for this.

Please God, I’m not ready for this yet.

But he manages to say, only the faintest tremor

in his voice – that may not be heard across such a low

quality network:

‘They probably had to extend their

investigations, Barry. That’s the way these sorts of

things go.’ And he thinks now with that kind of dread

certainty that cannot be gainsaid: It’s gone all the way

through her. Oh poor poor Moira. And he could

easily cry now for pity, but instead he says – to get

off the line and back to himself:

‘Look, Barry, don’t worry about that now. I’ll

check with the hospital. You go and have that drink

with Freddie and the others. Go on, you hear?’

359

‘Okay, mate. Whatever you say. But you get

back to me as soon as you know anything, won’t

you?’

‘Sure. See you, Barry.’

His throat is such now that not even a tiny insect

could wiggle through. The bun on the plate looks

revolting, the slick of the too-yellow cream filling

him with an unreasoned dread. Even so, he is very

thirsty, a hot dryness extending from his throat down

into his gut. He determines to drink more tea, aware

as he does that he is keeping some bad news at a

distance for the moment. Balance, he has to get

balance – the image of a small boat struck by a huge

wave coming as from nowhere.

It’s the old terror, the fear of breaking through

some protective screen, while yet knowing nothing of

what lies beyond – except that it engenders a

profound terror. He sees himself starting up in the

workaday caff and screaming out his unreasoning

fright. How he would be calmed, ambulance called,

tranquilised, put to bed – yet that fear still there just

beyond the frontier of enforced quiet, waiting for the

next time he loses grip on himself.

And the old dodge of self duping works as ever

it does, how that fearful element inside himself can be

360

distracted by the images he puts in place of the reality

– much in the way the moving image now works for

us all. This is good, because it means that he can

drink the tea and the caffeine can perk him up. There

is a moment when it seems pain and panic might slip

through, but he is sufficiently girded by now against

the mere-ness of reality that he can tell himself with

habitual callous realism that he has learned nothing

new.

He knows his wife is dying.

Yet the price of gaining command of this fact is

greater than he expected. He sees himself in a

denuded world – the sense of how one can live

through life as though already dead, the whole sorry

mess as though already history. It’s not that the pain

is gone, it is only that he does not feel it any longer.

No, the pain is there as knowledge now – so that

instead of the curative bleed of feeling, the source of

the pain stands before him like a destination he

cannot avoid. He might kill the feeling, might even

momentarily forget the cause of the pain, but he can

never un-know it.

His wife will always be dying. Even after she is

dead, he will be haunted by this pain – the realisation

that his wife is dying.

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It’s not that he is a coward. He is simply afraid

of losing control. Yes, he can run and rerun this

scenario – imagining himself suddenly distraught and

screaming at the sheer implacability of his knowledge

of his wife’s impending death – but there is still the

danger that this could actually happen. He could

never act freely again, would always need some kind

of support, one drug or another.

He knows that he must now stand up and walk

out of the caff. He charts his course, noting one

obstructing chair, even vectoring the waitress loading

a sandwich and pot of tea onto her tray. He will walk

one step at a time.

If this is what his independence requires – for

the rest of his life if needs be – then this is what he

will do.

The mobile phone begins its wretched bleating.

He sees Grace’s ID and groans inwardly.

‘Grace.’ The word comes out with surprising

ease. There is even a flicker of his habitual erotic

response to her.

‘David.’ She sounds surprisingly calm, her

voice as though newly scrubbed. ‘They’ve taken her

into the operating theatre. The nurse says they need to

conduct more tests.’

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He is nodding, over-reacting to his own sudden

composure: ‘Well, that might be expected, Grace.’

‘I saw her going in.’

The pause causes his heart to sink, knowing he

might not be able to control her over the phone.

‘Don’t fret so, Grace.’

‘No, David, you don’t understand. There was a

whole line of these doctors behind the trolley. They

were talking away to each other. Some were even

laughing, David.’

‘I think it’s a teaching hospital, Grace. It’s good

that they can learn from Moira’s condition.’

‘What do you mean learn? You didn’t see Moy

on that trolley. She didn’t know me. She looked like a

thing.’

‘Oh, Grace, don’t take it so much to heart. They

mean the best for her.’

‘You don’t understand, do you? Barry was the

same. You men explain everything away. You make

everything into something else. That way you don’t

have to hurt.’

God, he thinks, I have never heard her so livid.

He stands up, phone to his ear in that familiar

way, and people do make allowances for the fact that

he – dressed up as someone of significance – is taking

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a call on his mobile. The open air is wonderful, and

he takes time to breath deeply.

‘David, David, are you still there?’

Out under the open sky he can talk up without

his voice booming back at him.

‘I can hear, Grace. For a start, Grace, my wife –

your sister – is dying of a cancer that may well have

riddled her body by now. What you are seeing today

is a formality, a kind of appeasement that allows us

all come to terms with the fact that Moira is dying.

Some of the people you saw talking and laughing

may die too soon of cancer too. Perhaps someone

they know already has done so. The best we all can

do is cope with the situation as best we can.’

Silence. Hissing airwaves, echoing perhaps

through an etheric infinity with all the other airwaves.

‘Thank you, David.’

‘No doubt you’ll do the same for me one of

these days. You keep an eye out for her now, won’t

you?’

‘Yes, I will. You’re a lovely man, David.’

He looks up at the clear blue sky and while he

exults in the sheer joy of being alive and well this

afternoon, he also remembers – and without any

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irony, for once – just how he had felt only a few

minutes previously.

And he thinks – with only the faintest irony –

life lasts a long time. No doubt about it.

He has been in most types of houses in the

region, large and small, old and new. Best one was

out in the Fens one winter’s day, blowing a gale as he

drove down this winding little road – reeds and water

alternating on both sides in a seemingly random way.

He had been given the address over the phone as

Bugger St Anthony, but discovered that the place was

called nothing like that and – what’s more – his

destination was described as a castle on the lonely

little road sign that led him down this country lane.

On arrival he found an old stone house half sunken

into the earth – a result he later learned of the

draining of the fens back in the seventeenth century –

protected against the rampant elements by no more

than old thorn hedging. The man who came out to

greet him was old, but still tall and debonair, and

dressed against the weather in a jacket that hadn’t

seen wax in a generation. He is immediately taken

around the back and shown a muddy hole today filled

with dark agitated water. This, the old man says,

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sweeping his arm out, is where he wants the pool. He

was the son, lately returned from a season in

California, intent on importing the best of the Beverly

Hills culture to his patrimony.

Cost a fortune – mostly the core drills and

engineering that had to be bought in – but promptly

paid in full.

This house now on the outskirts of Sandy is

done in East Anglia Hacienda style, with heavy

Spanishy tiling overlaying the parsimonious building

style of the area, like a holidaying Englishman with

an overlarge sombrero and fake mostacho – fine

somewhere Latin but embarrassing at home.

The front door is open.

He finds the little red doorbell and presses it. He

hears nothing within the house. The air flowing from

the hallway bears a particularly pungent air fresher.

What to do? Anyone else would simply use his

mobile to ring the lady of the house, but he doesn’t

use his mobile in that way. He calls out Hello there!

Still silence.

A toilet flushes in the recess of the upper floor.

A voice then from above – unseen behind the plants

that crowd the landing at the top of the stairs:

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‘Oh hello. You must be Mr Trainer, is that

right? I thought I heard something. I’ll be down in a

mo. Why don’t you go through to the kitchen at the

end of the hall.’

This is something he is reluctant to do. An

invitation like this appears to him as a temptation – as

though his character is being tested. He steps into the

hall. The print on the wall just inside the door is very

pretty, a scene he judges to be south German or

Austrian, with the pastel delicacy of colour long

associated with kitsch art. There is a trackway

running away between upland meadows, graceful

young poplars lining the way off into the distance.

The lane is leading up into a mountainous region,

violet forest and yellow-green pastures with snowy

heights tinted gold by the afternoon sun. A young

woman waits by a gate into the meadow on the right.

A young man approaches leading a tall work horse,

but bearing a posy of violet summer flowers in his

free hand.

‘You didn’t get very far, did you?’

The woman has stopped part of the way down

the stairs – just where they begin to broaden – and has

one foot on the step below the other. Her dress being

very tight, this can’t be a very comfortable thing to do

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– in fact, the hand she has laid on the rail may well be

maintaining her balance.

He has just realised that he is not looking at a

print, but at an original painting executed in some

medium unknown to him.

‘How old is this?’

The woman smiles and resumes her descent in

such a way as to draw attention to the fact: she very

carefully looks down at her feet, bending forward

very slowly, and then moves the foot above until it is

on the step below the other. The fabric of the dress is

stiff, there is an audible sibilance as layers of silk

move against each other.

He remembers Olivia Chambers and her tight

dresses, said by the bitches in their group to have

been borrowed from her older sister – who led a life

that no one could speak of openly. Jiving with Olivia

was heaven on earth, both becoming angelic for the

duration. Only two boys danced with her: himself and

Charlie Corkery. Charlie’s style was somewhat flashy

and mechanical, all his spins and twists coming in a

predictable sequence, leg gyrations just a waste of

energy. Olivia got very little from it, except perhaps

some useful practice. His own style, on the other

hand, sought for something like a conversation,

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between himself and his partner, and between them

both and the music they danced too. Good jive music

always had a second voice and the beauty of dancing

was to catch and interpolate that voice by means of

extra swings and catches, much as a good singer can

grace a line of melody. The world of dancing is

divided into two kinds of dancers: those who treated

it as sexual foreplay and those who danced. Those

who danced knew that dancing was better than sex;

that it was the perfect mode of communication

between boys and girls, that it turned them into

angels. The only pity is that the power of dance fades

early, leaving men and woman with only sex as the

means of communication.

‘About two hundred years.’ She has come down

into the hallway. The light from the doorway flashes

along her dress, the gaudy red flowers that decorate it

bursting up into flames. ‘It’s been in Sam’s – that

short for Solomon, by the way, not Samuel, so don’t

go calling him Samuel – family for generations.’ She

laughs, her teeth toothpaste-white against her red lips.

‘None of them were ever near the Alps, you know.

Stuck out in the marshes of Lithuania, like the rest of

us.’

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He says, overcoming his ambiguous reaction,

part repugnance, part pure fascination:

‘The colours are very fine.’

She has put out her right hand to him, very

handsome with red nails and a number of heavy rings.

‘I’m Rosie, Rosie Green. What’s your name?’

This is definitely not necessary for a successful

business relationship, but he does not want to spoil

things by going stiff:

‘It’s David.’

‘Nice to meet you, David. At last, if I may say

so. You have a lovely voice on the phone.’

To which there is no rejoinder.

She seems untroubled by his silence, for she

points in the direction of the back of the house and

asks:

‘Shall we have a drink, David? Get to know

each other.’

And then the kitchen, which is what she called

it. Very expansive – modern playground type – a lot

of culinary equipment along the wall, very large and

heavy table taking up the centre. The table is groaning

under the weight of all kinds of gear. He sees an iron

scales, the weights stacked by size in the traditional

manner, and what seems to be a brown paper bag of

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white powder pressing down that side of the scale.

Then there is a large wooden breadbin – BREAD on

its side in cheery red Gothic – but quite a lot of

crumbs and debris littering the table roundabout it.

And there are some medium sized jute sacks, filled it

would seem with very wholesome looking vegetables

and fruit, onions extremely large, a big turnip sitting

all naked on its own beside them. Then there are the

plates – plain white, very wide with fluted edges –

and plain cups and plain saucers. And a tray of

cutlery, piled up with knives and forks, variously

sized spoons, cutting and carving knives, long forks,

wooden spoons, sharpening tools, whisks.

She says, interrupting his bemused survey:

‘I’d say good old gin and tonic, David.’ She

shakes her head with laughter once he has looked up

at her. ‘I can see you in the bar before the recital,

downing the gee and tees to clear your head for the

coming event. You’re like that, aren’t you, David?

You know, an observer? I mean, rather than a

participator. Not likely to get drunk on whisky and

yell your head off at the end, are you?’

He wants to take a deep breath, the sort of

breath that puts everything on hold for the duration.

But he cannot, afraid that he might inhale something

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suspect at the same time. But he can ask, not as

forthrightly as he would have wished, but nonetheless

getting it out in time to stop her:

‘Just some water, please, if you will.’ He can’t

control the increasing formality – it’s a sure sign that

he is afraid of this woman.

‘Water, David. Why of course.’ She moves with

surprising speed off towards one of the gigantic steel

fridges that stand in the corner over by the door

leading out into the garden. She is very lean, the dress

hugging her body like superior body armour.

Actually, he realises – with both surprise and relief –

she doesn’t have much of a figure, no arse, small

hips, skanky legs. Only what seems like an assertive

bosom saves the day for her.

She is now busy at the far end of the table – the

stones in her many rings flashing various colours in

the light from the windows down there – and she fills

a cut glass tumbler with bluey water from a heavy

porcelain flask, then adds ice and a thick slice of

lemon. She approaches him with a curious solemnity,

her lower lip pendulous, heavy gold earrings

obtruding in rapid swings from among her golden

locks, even the heavy chain about her neck swings its

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coin-like medallion to a brisk tempo upon her breasts.

She is saying:

‘I know you’d be content with a mug of tap

water, David. You have the kind of indifference that

people like to call modesty. But you will appreciate

what I am giving you here. This is pure glacial water,

hidden deep in the earth for over twenty thousand

years. Vacuum packed – they don’t allow even

modern air near it. The lemon will protect it for a

little while – time enough for you to have the benefit

of it.’

He has been treated in many homes during the

course of his business, and he has heard far whackier

rationalisations than this. Despite himself, he is

actually more than a little touched by the woman’s

gesture and the trouble she has taken with it.

He raises the heavy glass to her back – she is

now preparing another drink, this time over at a

counter that is packed out with a great variety of

bottles, a chopping board and an ice bin. The

cupboard above the counter, he now notices, contains

rows of different sized glasses on several shelves.

‘Thank you. I do appreciate this.’

She is approaching him now, the glass in her

hand containing a pale greenish liquid and some kind

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of oil, which she is stirring together with a slender

glass rod. Slices of fruit – which he thinks is a lime –

churn about in the wake of the rod.

‘You know, you should have considered a

career on the radio, David. I listen to the radio and I

can tell you that an effective male voice is something

of a rarity. I can see you introducing music

programmes. On Radio Two, though, rather than

Three – you’re not the Peter Pan type, more the type

to like a good fuck after a hard day’s programming.

Am I right, do you think?’

She has stopped talking because he has been

stepping backwards at a steady pace until he finds

himself in a room other than the kitchen. The woman

does frighten him – and for the familiar reason: he is

unsure of how he might react to her. He has never hit

a woman – actually, until now he has never even

considered doing so.

He drains the wretched water in the sharply

chased glass and looks for a place to put it. Business

is business, but he has never before felt he must

prostitute himself for it.

A picture on the nearby wall attracts his

attention. It is an oil – he recognises this time that it is

an original work – painting of what seems to be a

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young man in an exotic setting. The main colour is an

attractive rose red – that may or may not be the faded

residue of some brighter crimson – that has been used

to create the heavy robe that covers his shoulders. The

youth appears to be naked under that robe – a hanging

arm providing cover for his privates – and he is

stooped as though crushed by its weight. He has long

black hair, that has been allowed to sweep out over

the robe, a matt tone to the detail that strikes him as

faulty. There is no obvious light source, but the hair

of such a young person should have some sheen. The

hair looks like dull boot polish. But the quality of the

youth’s skin is entirely different. He steps closer and

shifts so that no glare now falls on the painting’s

surface. The rendition of the skin of the youth’s face

is a miracle of tone and detail. The flesh is sickly

white in character, a blue tingeing around the corners

of the mouth and the forward flanks of his nostrils.

This indicates either a chilled condition or a specific

undernourishment that has thinned his blood. Yet

there are delicate flushes to his cheeks – the toning

here a subtle blending of a flat red and very cold blue

– that indicate sickness and feverishness. This flush

reappears on the youth’s temples – the flatness of the

flesh, usual on the temples, here contains slight

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recesses, no doubt due to the youth’s condition – so

that the sickly flush is both accentuated at the leading

edges of the temples and shaded in the recesses. Both

details indicate the remarkable patience – and no

doubt perseverance – of the artist. How is a cold but

vivid red heightened? Remember that it is the flesh of

a sickly person – perhaps impending mortification

also – and that the light will penetrate to the upper

layers of this flesh. And so it is, a thin flash of a

dulled – but still bearing a residual light – flat yellow,

perhaps one of the paler ochres, which is then drawn

forward at some stage in the drying process over the

flush towards the recessed area. This is then met with

the shadowing agent, in this case again one of the

more brown ochres, which in its turn is drawn out

from the recess towards the brighter edging at some

stage during its process of drying.

‘Ah, David, but you have a good nose for art,

haven’t you?’

He swings about, startled by the cut in her

voice. But she is smiling, her glass held to her lower

lip in a way that suggests that it might be a habit with

her.

‘Sam believes that that little picture is one of the

finest ever produced in Europe. Don’t ask me who it

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is by. Apparently some jobbing artist in the city of

Memel in the seventeenth century. Sam will tell you

that an ancestor of his had this portrait made. Do you

know who he is?’

He has stepped away from the painting, feeling

as though he has been intruding on someone’s privacy

– though without knowing whose.

The woman takes the merest sip of her drink,

then smiles a wide smile that creates deep creases

across her face, especially in what is deep flesh

around her mouth and nose.

‘Well, I’ll tell you, for you won’t ever guess the

right answer. I mean, I couldn’t – though maybe I had

better reason than you ever will for getting the right

answer. In any case, I still find it hard to credit. So,

for what it’s worth, you have been studying a most

peculiar representation of your namesake, David.’

‘Kind David, you mean?’ He blurts out, not

believing her as she expected.

‘The very person. King David of Israel. I mean,

I never would have believed that myself either.’

He has stepped towards the painting again,

emboldened by her confidence:

‘I don’t know much about his life. Was he ever

in that condition? Perhaps before he became king?’

377

She too has drawn close to the portrait, bending

so that her head is now close to his. Her perfume is

very subtle, unfamiliar to him.

‘Well, David, he had a pretty eventful life. Saul,

the outgoing king – as it were – had it in for him.’

He finds her features very attractive from close

up. There is a definition now that makes them appear

strong rather than just big. Her lips, especially, look

as though they could cater for vigorous kissing.

He moves away, holding up the empty glass –

as though this was his motive.

‘Oh, put it anywhere at all, David. Tilly will

tidy up in the morning.’

The anger in her voice relieves him. He is good

at managing anger. He is searching the highly

polished surfaces available to him for an appropriate

place for the glass, saying somewhat absently:

‘Perhaps it’s not that David.’

She has followed him out into the room, among

the sofas and armchairs, coffee tables and lamp

stands.

‘There is no other David.’

She reaches suddenly and takes the glass from

his hand with a sure grasp and plonks it down on the

nearest surface. The glass rings out.

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He smirks deliberately.

‘Then your husband’s ancestor was fooled.’

‘Sam’s my cousin, not my husband. And we are

not fools, David. I assume he got what he asked for.

He certainly would not have paid for it otherwise.’

He feels a bit of an eejit now, having

miscalculated the situation. He remembers how he is

dressed for the day and how it might look here. He

recognises that the time for business has arrived, but

he cannot resist one last thrust:

‘Then what does it mean?’

She looks down into her glass in such a way that

her face appears more angular and hence forlorn.

‘It means what it says, David.’

He opens the folder he has been carrying in his

left hand and asks:

‘What kind of work do you want us to do, Miss

Green?’

She can switch very quickly too. She turns and

begins to thread her way through the furniture

towards what he sees are a pair of French windows.

As he follows, she says back over her shoulder:

‘You’re not English, are you?’

‘No. I’m Irish.’

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She throws her head up and makes a sound that

is as close to a chuckle as he has ever heard.

‘But you don’t do whimsy, do you? I mean,

Irish whimsy comes across very well on the radio.’

She glances back at him, sharing the barb behind her

amusement. ‘No, I think you prefer the ironical, don’t

you. The sort of man who is always disappointed by

life. Isn’t that right?’

He makes sounds of sorts at her back, easy

enough with this new line of banter – especially as it

seems that some business will be forthcoming here.

Then it’s out through the French windows and

onto a terrace in the open air. Good to be out in the

open again: he breaths a deep appreciative breath.

The air is scented with all manner of flower scents.

She says, putting her glass down on the flagged

ground out of the way beside one of the open doors:

‘I think the original owners intended some kind

of traditional English country garden. Hollyhocks and

stock everywhere. And roses – my God but there was

acres of them.’

All he can see from where he stands is some

hedging that delimits this side of the terrace. But there

is a large sculpture of sorts between himself and the

hedge. He indicates with the folder.

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‘May I?’

She brightens immediately.

‘Oh goody, David. You’ve found something

else here to admire, have you?’

It’s hard to work out what the sculpture is about.

He is impressed to discover that the material is a pure

white marble, seemingly flawless to his layman’s eye.

‘What is it?’

She laughs, coming up close to him – perhaps

intuiting that he might be more tolerant of this out in

the open – where he can run away to one of the

horizons.

‘Oh no, my dear. You have to work this one out

for yourself.’

He glances at her. He should be nervous of the

intimacy in her manner, but he’s not. In fact, he likes

the closeness this time.

‘Can’t see how I can do that.’

‘Oh, David, at least try.’

He wants to bend forward over the sculpture –

to look down on it from above – but finds that the

folder is preventing him from bracing himself at his

knees. She sees this and steps around and takes it

from him.

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He is surprised that the marble is immaculately

clean, no moss or lichens, no staining. The first

impression is of a bowl about three feet in diameter

and about a foot and a half in depth that serves to

form the base. Rising from this bowl then is a ring of

thin struts that support what seems to be a reclining

human figure. The struts hold his interest, though he

is keen to move on to the human figure. Bending

lower to peer in under the figure, he can see that there

is a veritable forest of these struts arrayed all over the

surface of the bowl, and they act to support the figure

above. Each strut – so far as he can discern – has been

carefully worked to create the impression of some

kind of undulating, sinuous element. He thinks at first

that they might be leaves of a fantastic flower – but

then it hits him that they are intended to represent

water, flowing water.

He is stunned, so stunned that he stands upright

with a snap. He says to her in wonder:

‘Water?’ Looking down again, he can see the

water: the translucence of the marble so perfectly

conveying the impression of water cascading back

down from the figure. ‘Holy God. Who made that?’

She is smiling broadly – her mouth heavy and

plain when she smiles like this – triumphant. She

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reaches and touches the carved figure with the

forefinger of her right hand.

‘Sam claims it was carved somewhere in

Bessarabia about two hundred years ago.’ She makes

what probably is a characteristic moue – that twists

her mouth up on one side – her more usual self

coming to the fore now that she has this intimacy with

him. ‘But I have my doubts.’

‘Bessarabia? But that’s the back of beyond.’

She nods with delight, glad to see him roused up

at last, if only in amazement.

‘Well, I think that’s where it was found. Sam

says it was bought by some relation or other and then

taken into Germany.’

He accepts this, his wonderment evaporating

very rapidly, and turns back to study the figure now.

He is disappointed by what he sees. The figure

seems poorly carved – the surface pitted in places as

though the result of some careless chiselling. Even

the head – which he finds now he has been looking

forward to studying – has very little detail. There’s a

pudgy nose of sorts, shallow pits where the eyes

would be, and only a line for the mouth.

He shakes his head and she says immediately –

obviously expecting this response:

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‘Look closer, David. Please.’

He is struck by the appeal in her voice, and

looks up at her:

‘The painting inside was the same. Wonderful

skin but poorly detailed hair.’

She has his folder pressed in against her breasts,

hands crossing it as she grips it from opposite sides.

There’s a vulnerability in her he has not seen before,

an openness that might have been natural to her

before some experience closed her down.

‘Don’t keep judging what you see, David. You

should allow that the artists knew what they were

doing.’

He finds his hands are shaking. He realises how

much he fears the personal – how fragile people

really are. He hesitates, wanting now to spite her by

walking away from the sculpture and so back on to a

terrain he understands and can control.

But she says, unable to withdraw from him now

that he too is open:

‘David, have you ever thought about who really

gains from a work of art? My family have spent

fortunes on art, even though they don’t understand

most of it. And you, you look only for beauty. You

pretend to more, as though understanding the skill

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behind the work is learning a deeper truth. Has it ever

occurred to you that the person who gains the most

from the work is the artist himself? What if art is only

a kind of leftover from some deeper experience, like

the husk the nut grows in or the chrysalis from which

the butterfly emerges?’

He steps away from the sculpture in such a way

that he increases his distance from her also. She

doesn’t move, only raises her voice:

‘What if the purpose of art is to engender – to

the extent possible – the artist’s primary experience in

those who are interested in art, in the reader or the

listener or the viewer? What if that’s why people are

interested in art – because they crave the deeper

experiences it embodies – even though they’re not

always aware of this?’

He will walk away in about ten seconds, he tells

himself. If he tells Barry that the job wasn’t on, he

will not question him. He never does. He will walk

away in five seconds.

‘Oh, David, don’t be so wilful. You know that

this figure means a lot to you. Please – for your own

sake – come back and learn from it.’

He is shaking again and tears have started into

his eyes. He is shaking his head. He has never

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revealed himself to another, and he doesn’t intend

ever doing so. What would be the point? They would

see only what they already know about themselves –

the secret that they too kept hidden deep within

themselves.

‘David.’

The appeal in her voice cuts into him, coming to

him like a truth.

He turns immediately, curious to see what a

sincere person can be like.

Transparent. As though in looking at her he sees

something about himself. Not a reflection that shines

back at him, but really a knowledge that this isolated

woman has of him, and no doubt of all men.

She smiles, then shakes her head.

‘No, David. Not me. Come and look again.

please.’

He walks back to the sculpture. He looks at the

poorly executed figure – as though simply following

her command – but finds himself immediately

plagued by a curious self-consciousness. It is that

kind of consciousness that is composed entirely of a

reflection in his mind of what he sees as happening in

himself and the world around him. It is a

consciousness so consumed in this reflection, that if

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he attempted to walk – for instance – he would

immediately fall over. His will would be trapped in its

own self-reflection, so that any impulse of his will

would merely lead to an echo of that impulse, so that

the agent of the action would be left bereft of further

instruction.

The carved figure becomes a grotesque

reflection of itself, and that reflection is again

reflected, so that almost at once it is as though the

figure is being echoed through an infinity. It becomes

intensely livid, its very inertness masquerading as a

meaning, a significance.

He cannot find that meaning, of course, so that

what has always threatened him now seems suddenly

to be real. He is trapped in something like a question

he is asking, that he has been in the act of being asked

for many years. And what might be the answer hovers

always on the horizon of his asking, always waiting to

makes its reply. The only trace he can ever discern of

it is a kind of lightness, both bright and rising at the

same time. And he knows this, at least: that what can

be lifted by that answer is a mighty oppression he is

so used to enduring that he has no awareness of it.

Except, of course, in the longing that has always

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pushed him onwards, a longing for what he does not

know but of whose existence he is certain.

He turns away from the sculpture. She comes to

his side, looking closely into his face.

‘What did you see, David?’

Oh, the irony that fills him now. He says

simply:

‘Nothing new, anyway.’

She is crestfallen. She bites her lip hard, her

strong front teeth digging into the flesh of her lower

lip.

‘You must have seen something, David. I mean,

the statue is there.’

He tilts his head sideways to express the

amusement in his irony.

‘I’m afraid your Bessarabian sculptor didn’t

know either.’

She pulls back from him. She still clutches his

folder to her breast.

‘So you don’t think it’s about the birth of

Venus?’

He is surprised: ‘Who?’

She shows a curious relief at his reaction:

‘That’s what everyone says it is. You see the seashell

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underneath and see her rising from the waves.’ She is

genuinely surprised. ‘Don’t you see that?’

He steps back and studies the sculpture whole

again.

‘Except for the water, it is a pretty poor

version.’ He looks at her, the lucidity in him like the

result of a cleansing. ‘It never even crossed my

mind.’ Now he is surprised by this realisation.

‘Honestly, I never thought of that at all.’

Now she uncoils her hands from the file –

letting it fall by her side in her left hand – and she

smiles a huge smile, all mouth and her super-white

teeth.

‘Well, then, David, I have a nice surprise for

you. Come here and look at this.’

When he comes close, she reaches and takes his

hand in hers. He makes as though to recoil, but the

warm assurance of her hand comforts him almost

immediately. She leads him around to the far side of

the sculpture and, pulling up her dress with the left

hand that holds the folder, she kneels down on the

stone. He won’t kneel – he doesn’t have to – but

crouches down beside her. She points towards the

marble at the base, at the point where it curves out of

sight. There are a short series of concussion pits in the

389

surface, as though it has been beaten deliberately with

a blunt instrument.

‘Now watch this.’

She lays the folder on the ground – she still

holds his hand in her firm grasp of her right hand –

and with her free hand she overshadows the area

adjacent to these gougings. There is a play of light

and shadow on the surface. She continues to shift her

hand carefully until the light and shadow play

resolves into what seems like a series of etchings that

run up to the site of the gouges.

He crouches in closer, balancing himself against

the base of the sculpture with his right hand. He can

see that the first set of cuts form a rough letter M.

Then he discerns the letter A, and after that – when he

has used his own hand to shift some shadows over the

area – the letter P. There are some further etchings,

but they make no sense to him.

He stands up, disengaging his hand from hers as

he does. ‘Is that the name of the sculptor? Or part of it

anyway?’

She stands up too, rubbing her hands over her

knees to dislodge grit.

‘No. I don’t think so. Let me tell you, David. I

have a friend from school at Cambridge. She studied

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those markings for me. They took photographs using

coloured light. What she discovered was that the

fourth letter is gamma. You know, the Greek letter G.

She said that what we have are the first four letters of

a word, the rest of which was erased in a rather brutal

manner.’

‘MAPG? Is it all Greek?’

‘Yes. But the third letter is R, so that the four

letters are MARG. Can you guess what the full word

was?’

‘No. I know no Greek.’

‘Well, when Alice told me what the letters

where I immediately thought of about the only word

in Greek that I know that begins with those letters.

That is margaritees.’

He says immediately, knowing what the name

means, a smile broadening his face:

‘Pearl? Jesus, who would have thought of that?’

She smiles with him, equally delighted.

‘Yes. The pearl. Isn’t that a good title for the

work, David.’

He nods emphatically and she asks him, a

sudden sharp tone in her voice:

‘And what does it mean, David?’

391

And he says without thinking: ‘A rebirth.’ Then

he adds, still unthinking: ‘It hasn’t happened yet.

That’s why the figure is unclear.’

And of course he feels exposed afterwards for

having spoken without some preparation. And of

course he immediately doubts what he has said,

finding the word rebirth in some way incorrect. Any

other time, he would have shut up at that stage and

got on with the rest of his life in the hope that the

moment of exposure would be soon forgotten. But not

this time. He goes around her and stoops to pick up

the folder. Straightening up, he finds he is behind her,

with the sculpture further beyond. This is as he

planned. He says:

‘It’s not a rebirth, actually. I said that just to fill

a gap where, to be honest, I am ignorant. I know what

the sculpture means – I can even appreciate why the

sculptor concentrated so much on the water effect –

but I don’t know how to describe it.’

She has turned to face him by now, so that he

can ask pointedly:

‘Do you?’

She returns his gaze with what otherwise would

be for him a daunting candour:

392

‘No. I have studied it for hours at a time, David.

All I understand is that in some way the pearl

dissolves into the figure that rises above it. But I don’t

know who the figure is.’ Now she gestures towards

him: ‘But you said it hasn’t happened yet.’

He is surprised to hear this, then he remembers

it is true. Then he also remembers something else,

and so he says – again without making preparation:

‘The figure is not real. It is how the being that is

born here perceives himself. That’s the clue you

need.’

How sure he is of what he has just said. He

knows it is true because he once experienced it –

though he cannot remember when.

She has turned back to face the sculpture.

‘And the water, David?’

That’s an easier question to answer:

‘It is what we can perceive of the process,

because’ – he hesitates, feeling himself suddenly

moving onto entirely new ground – ‘that happens in

us.’

He stops, the implications of what he has just

said rising in him like a kind of mythical dragon

rising out of a sea. She too is jolted. She swings back

to face him.

393

‘You mean that this can happen to us?’

He shakes his head immediately:

‘No, not to us, in us.’

She is momentarily incredulous, then filled with

wonderment:

‘Like a birth? What you said earlier. But you

mean even in men.’

And he thinks spontaneously, thankfully

without any accompanying impulse to speak it out:

the woman must be within. He doesn’t know yet what

it means, if only because it proposes a vista for him

that is simply too good to be true. He doesn’t want to

fall into the trap of wanting to know the impossible,

which is the reserve of faith.

But she says into the extending silence – a

chatty quality in her voice as though she means

merely to fill up that silence:

‘I can understand that. I’ve always thought that

women are just men with wombs.’

He looks down at the folder in his hand and

says, without looking at her:

‘And what work do you want us to do for you?’

If there can be a choice between hot anger and

cold anger, then he would prefer anger to be hot.

Now, however, the anger that comes from her is ice

394

cold. He feels it palpably as a kind of cold steel saw

that slices right through him. But hot or cold, he can

withstand anger – an index of his fundamental

detachment from the world around him. He opens the

folder and looks at the two or three sheets of headed

notepaper there:

TRAINER & WOODBINE.

He is secured by the sight of the heading, and

wonders abstractly – as he has done before – why

they never got themselves a logo to go with it.

‘What’s wrong with saying that? Other men just

laugh when I say that.’

He breathes deeply in a sudden reaction, almost

a sob in his throat. He looks up at her, then his mobile

phone rings. The folder falls from his hand, the sheets

of paper fluttering free.

Grace. God, he thinks, not just now.

‘Grace.’

‘They’ve finished with her, David. With Moy, I

mean.’

He is nonplussed, not able to make the

connections. He finds he is looking at the marble

sculpture, admiring its brilliance in the full afternoon

sun. There is something about it that nags at him, a

feeling that he had been led all along by the woman.

395

‘What?’ is all he can say.

‘But she’s still out. They plan to keep her in

overnight, David. They say she will be fine in the

morning.’

‘That’s good.’ Again, this is all he can say. He

is trying to see how the woman led him.

‘Look, we had planned to pick up the children

from school. I’ll do that anyway and take them out to

Brick Hill. You could come out later. It would be a

good idea if they stayed with us tonight. Alan can

have Alasdair’s room and Sarah can sleep in the guest

room. And you could stay over too if you like. There

are the other spare rooms. You could take one of

those. That would be no trouble.’

He sees the solution just like that – even as his

sister-in-law tells him with a rush the plan she had

already worked out in detail.

‘And maybe, David, you would drop in and see

Moy when you’re finished your work. She might be

awake by then, you never know. She would like that.’

Having the solution clears his mind

wonderfully, so that he picks up on the last thing

Grace has said.

396

‘Yes, that’s a good idea, Grace. I’ll certainly do

that later.’ He wonders if this sounds alright, not too

detached.

He thinks abstractly: I’m in Wonderland.

‘Alright then, David. I’ll see you later.’ There’s

a pause, which allows him to note that the woman has

walked away beyond the sculpture towards the gap in

the hedging that obviously leads out into the garden

proper. ‘By the way, David, do you know where

Barry is? His phone is switched off. He doesn’t often

do that.’

Oh that. He can be candid: ‘Freddie won a load

of money on the horses. I think he’s treating them all

to a drink.’

‘Oh no, David. I hope he won’t try driving

afterwards.’

‘It’s the day that’s in it, Grace. Freddie’ll look

after him, don’t worry.’

‘But will Freddie give him whisky.’

‘Oh, you know him, Grace. He’ll have him

sucking shandy through a straw.’

He hears her explode with sudden laughter –

remembering all her father’s disparaging remarks

about that beverage. It just remains for him to say,

‘It’ll be fine, Grace. You’ll see.’

397

And cut the connection before she can reply.

The woman is standing at the edge of the

terrace, one foot out on the tidy grass, the folder again

in an embrace against her breast. He decides not to

tell her. It’s not something she needs to know. He

takes a last look at the sculpture – seeing it complete

now and understanding so clearly what is being said

there.

He suddenly feels so strong and sustained. It is

concentrated somewhere in the pit of his stomach.

The woman’s smile is wan, very

uncharacteristic: ‘Something is wrong, isn’t it?’

He thinks: do I owe her anything? But he says

anyway:

‘My wife is in for some tests today.’

She looks at his clothes immediately and says

‘Oh’ in a way that warms him, as though she could

engage with this situation if he let her. So he says out

of the softness the warmth engenders:

‘It’s cancer.’

She nods, then looks at the ground, biting her

lip. He thinks this might be a bit hypocritical, but she

says:

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ She glances at his

clothes again in such a way that he makes him think

398

that she knows what the reality is. Then she says,

continuing: ‘I meant about the sculpture.’ She glances

over at it, in case he misunderstands.

The warmth in his breast seems misplaced now.

This could make him angry – not so detached where

his own feelings are concerned. In any case, he’s not

willing to reveal the understanding he now has of the

work, so he glances around the terrace in an openly

evasive way.

He sees the jacuzzi over in the centre of the

right half of the terrace. His irony is shafted at

himself, a businesslike way of defusing the tension he

feels rising between himself and the woman.

‘So it’s not a hip bath that you want?’

She has to smile – at least – at this, which

relieves him.

‘Oh no. Sam had that installed a few years ago.

That’s where he and his chums spend their evenings.’

She turns away from him and starts out onto the

grass, raising her voice as she moves away. ‘Don’t

know how they can bear it. A man’s willy looks

awful refracted through a couple of feet of warm

water.’

He laughs out at her tone, following her out

through the break in the hedge.

399

‘Aqua?’

‘Ha. Sam ordered it over the phone. Said

afterwards he didn’t think aqua looked like that.’

He sees that the garden extends a long way

back, though the full extent is hidden by an

arrangement of young yew trees around what he takes

to be the centre of the garden. His first thought is that

Moira would love this place. His second thought is

the memory of the woman’s apparent hostility to

roses, which wouldn’t please her. But he says, still

deliberately trailing her – so that she will not return to

the subject of the sculpture:

‘Big garden.’

She swaggers for a step or two, saying with the

nearest to complacency he has heard yet from her:

‘The trick is to avoid clutter. You know, little

pathways here and there, different flowers and bushes

in clutches all over the place.’

She suddenly stops and turns to face him – the

folder is still in her embrace. He suspects that she

might be using it to maintain some kind of contact

with him.

‘We lived near Paris when I was very little. I

had a friend. She was an aristocrat and lived in a huge

chateau further down the road from us. The garden

400

there was even bigger than this. And do you know

what? It had only grass, lavender, yew and some

rosemary. Nothing else. No roses, forget-me-nots, or

any of the other fluttery little things they fill their

gardens with here.’

She turns away again. ‘Now, follow me down

here and I will show you what I want you to do for

me.’

He knows there is an imbalance now between

them, and he knows also that their relationship is no

longer business-like. He watches her straight-down

body in its casing of heavy silks cross the grass as

though it was a wet marsh. He pities the laboured

quality in her, how for some everything is easy and

for others they are not.

How could he engage with someone like her,

when he loses patience so quickly?

But he does say – feeling insulated by the fact

that her back is to him:

‘I don’t want to hurt your feelings, if I can help

it.’

She walks on for longer than he expected before

turning round.

‘You’re a beautiful man, David, and I am sure

your wife is also beautiful. Do you have children?

401

Then I’m sure they are beautiful too.’ Her face seems

heavy, but deeply coloured like an old and valuable

vase. ‘Geneticists says that you people of these

islands have been here for up to twelve thousand

years. That’s what they mean about homelands. My

people – my family – have been on the move since

the time of the Babylonians. We are like chameleons,

taking on local colour wherever we settle for a

duration. For me, I found a home in that garden I told

you about.’

She turns away again and follows the ring of

yews around until she can pass through a break in

them. Following her, he notices that a path runs

across through the grass to this opening. The pass is

edged on both sides with flowering lavender. The

path appears to run all the way out to the edge of the

garden.

It is warm within the confines of the yew circle.

The woman is standing under a tall bramble bush,

which he sees as he draws closer is in fact a huge rose

bush. The flowers are white.

He can now see that three other pathways

converge within the circle – so all four paths coming

from the four quarters. Lavender bushes line both

sides of each path. The quadrants between the

402

pathways within the circle are planted with very

young rosemary bushes. He had wanted to scent the

lavender, but he finds the air within the circle is filled

with the invigorating fragrance of the rosemary.

She is waiting for him under the rose bush.

‘In the centre of the garden I told you about

there was – and no doubt still is – a tall fountain that

dated back to sixteen thirty three. It didn’t shoot water

up in the air like some public park fountain. Oh no,

David, water simply bubbled up at the top and then

cascaded down from tier to tier to fall into a small

basin that was only slightly wider than the bottom-

most tier, about six feet across. All day and night for

over three hundred and seventy years that fountain

has bubbled up like that.’

She turns and looks at the thorn bush at her back

with distaste.

‘What I want you to do is rip this monstrosity

out and replace it with a French fountain.’

He gapes, not sure which word dismays him

most, rip or monstrosity. An outsider himself, he is

careful to reserve his opinions.

‘Oh, we’ll try and transplant the bush.’

‘I don’t care what you do with it, David, so long

as it goes from here.’

403

And he thinks with a lift: Moira will know.

‘That’s fine. Installation won’t be the problem.

Do you have a particular fountain in mind?’

Now – at last – she relents, no doubt happy with

the fact that the fountain will be installed.

‘Last year, I came upon a foundry just outside

Narbonne – in the Midi? – where they still make

fountains in the style I want. The one I ordered – they

only make fountains to order – will be delivered in

about two months time, which will be early mid

August. Will that be alright for you?’

He looks around. ‘Is there rear access?’

She nods.

‘And the French crew will do the assembly, I

assume.’

She shrugs – not sure – then nods – she’ll

arrange that.

He’s surprised at how much he looks forward to

this. He’ll be fighting with Barry for control of this

job.

He smiles for her, able to share her pleasure in

this: ‘Then why not?’

She literally jumps with her joy and presses the

folder in so tightly that it buckles under the pressure.

404

Then she runs up to him and takes his left hand in her

right and squeezes it tightly.

‘Oh thank you, David. I hoped the moment I

saw you out in the drive that you would do this. I

knew you were the right man to do it.’

He is a bit overwhelmed by the intensity of her

response, but he covers for this by easing the bent

folder out of her other hand. He looks over her

shoulder to where the rose bush still stands. With only

a little prompting of his imagination, he sees the tall

fountain – cast iron with understated filigree work

painted a modest green – and can easily set water

cascading down its founts, a multitude of glittering

streams tinkling in the bright summer air. And at once

the simplicity of the arrangement makes sense, only

the yews to make him uneasy – finding in their red

berries of death some element he does not understand.

He can disengage from her now and turn away,

abashed and sober to the point of dullness. She

follows him, coming up to his side as a matter of

course.

‘I will place some seats by the yews, so people

can come and sit in the company of the fountain.’ She

looks at him: ‘Will you come?’

405

He smiles for her, disingenuous: ‘Perhaps I’ll

know too much about it to be easily enchanted.’ He

can be wry enough – even under these present

conditions – to see the irony in what he has just said.

He waits for her response with interest.

She is nodding with bowed head, her left arm

constantly grazing his adjacent arm. He knows she

will take his arm at the first opportunity.

‘Oh, I don’t know about that, David. I’d say you

are aware of the workings of most things. It’s the

aesthetics you have the problem with.’ She glances at

him with a sly intimacy: ‘Isn’t that right?’

They are back out on the grass again, heading

directly towards the house. The nearest pathways are

diverging from them, heading away towards the

corners of the garden.

‘Why are the paths arranged in an X?’

‘To keep Sam and his cronies from wandering

in the wrong direction.’

‘Oh, there’s more to it than that, surely.’

Now she does link his arm, her long hand

surprisingly reassuring where it holds his forearm,

just below the elbow.

‘I want to make it as distinct from the house as I

can. I want this garden of mine not to feel like a back

406

garden. I don’t want people going to sit by the

fountain just to have a smoke.’

‘Are you making a shrine of it?’

She’s startled by his suggestion. ‘No, not a

shrine. But I want it to be a special place, David.’

‘I’ve always thought that places are made

special by what they contain. I mean, if your fountain

has a special significance, then it won't really matter

where is it placed.’

She quails a bit at this. ‘I want to make the

fountain special. It will be significant – as you term it

– for me, David.’

They’ve reached the terrace again and he knows

it is business time now. He needs to extricate his arm

from her grasp first. To cover himself, he says – off

the top of his head:

‘My wife told me once how plants are like

fountains. Take a tree. In the spring it will grow

leaves and flowers. The flowers will fall to the ground

and fruit will take their place. Then the leaves and the

fruit will fall to the ground in the autumn. And all the

time the fallen flowers, leaves and fruit will be

breaking down into humus, so that they will provide

nutrients for the tree in the future. See?’

407

He has drawn away from her and has found a

pen in the inside pocket of his jacket. She is looking

at the ground, completely bemused. He had not

expected this, but he takes advantage of the pause to

scribble out an outline of the job to be done, itemising

it – as he usually does – by imagining the various

stages of the work involved. This doesn’t have to be

very accurate – Barry will flesh out the details – just

enough to get the client’s initial agreement.

Except that he can’t remember the date: ‘What

date is it, do you know?’

She looks up, her face strangely twisted: ‘What?

The date? Oh, the seventh.’ She continues to stare at

him – something he is aware of, even though he’s

busy filling in the date and the woman’s name.

‘Excuse me, David, but what was the point of what

you’ve just said? I mean, what are you implying?’

He’s letting his mind wander – now that his

work is finished here successfully – still with the

mood of his wife among her flowers on the long

summer evenings.

‘I’m implying nothing, just comparing your

water fountain to a plant. Don’t you think that

poetic?’

408

Only now does he realise that she is actually in

a very angry mood.

‘But what’s the bloody point, David? You mean

something by that. You don’t just shoot things out off

the top of your head.’

Yes. He can allow that, but the problem is: he

doesn’t know what he is getting at. He wants to say

something to placate her, but cannot see how he

would get it by her in the temper she’s in now. So he

says – still caught in that summer evening mood:

‘Moira once explained to me that the function of

plants is to allow some force in the Earth reach up to

the Sun. This force achieves this by stacking what she

called earth crystals on top of each other, which then

allows it climb up towards the Sun.’

He watches her face change with an inescapable

glee, from anger to confusion to amazement to

something like panic, until she interrupts him:

‘What kind of bloody nonsense is that? What

kind of force, David?’

He knows he can play this in a number of ways,

shutting up altogether being the best one. But there is

a compulsion in him, still gleeful and masquerading

as a kind of revenge for what he had had to listen to

from her.

409

‘She said it was a force that had become

separated from the Sun and was trying – using plant

life – to return there.’

She has calmed somewhat – a recognition here

that he was not trying to fool her – and now merely

frowning heavily:

‘But how did that happen, David?’

He relaxes too, a semblance of their earlier

conversational style appearing:

‘Well, if you think about it, the result of the

separation is the production of the plant’s seed. That

would be an explanation. My wife is something of a

mystic when it comes to her flowers, but I would

assume that the separation – I mean, if there’s any

truth in the notion – would be there to serve some

purpose, which in the case of plant-life seems to lead

to the generation of more plant life.’

‘But how did it happen, David? The separation,

I mean.’

‘I don’t know. I’m only repeating something my

wife has said. She follows some esoteric theories,

very organic. German, I think. I’ve read some of the

stuff and from what I understand of it, this power

seems to be in water – operates through water, that

is.’

410

He looks around him, seeing on one hand the

aqua coloured Jacuzzi and on the other the marble

sculpture that so took their interest. He thinks it looks

pretty wonky from where he is now standing. Wonky

as in unfinished. But he is actually thinking about

water and this leads him on to the curiosities of the

shire’s planning laws.

‘Do you have planning permission for this

fountain?’

She’s startled out of some deep reverie.

‘Planning? Don’t need planning for that. But the

water, we got planning permission for that.’

‘Water? What do you mean?’ He’s bothered by

this – they’ve never sought planning for water use:

what if it is needed?

‘No. There’s a stream down at the bottom of the

garden. Quite a nice one, too. I want to take the water

supply from that. Apparently, we can do that if it is

on our land, but only if we take so much.’ She smiles

for him, well out of her earlier bad mood. ‘The

fountain won’t take much – besides, David, the water

can flow back into the stream afterwards. That can be

arranged, can’t it?’

‘I’m sure it can.’

‘Oh, that’s good.’

411

Her answer this time is so vacant that he looks

around to see what has taken her attention. She

staring over at the sculpture.

She senses his attention almost immediately.

She points over to the sculpture. ‘Even Alice and her

colleagues thought it was only a Birth of Aphrodite

sculpture. Do you know that? They worked out that it

was probably made in Roman Dacia at the end of the

Empire. Some barbarian invasion probably

interrupted the work.’ She looks over at him:

‘But you don’t think that, David, do you?’

He does his braced look, partly to indicate

surprise at the question, partly to indicate surprise that

he should be thought to hold the answer to the

question. It’s a very plausible gesture, one that fools

nobody, least of all the woman.

‘Well.’ He drawls the word to temporise. ‘What

you said about art being what happens to the artist. I

mean, rather than what he actually makes. Yes?

Could that theory be extended to include the notion

that some element of the artistic activity could remain

within the artist?’

She looks slightly flummoxed, not expecting the

complicated argument. He is surprised – on his own

part – by how easily he understands it himself. Once

412

stated, the idea chimes somewhere deep within

himself.

‘I’m not sure I know what you’re getting at,

David?’

‘Fair enough. Try again. Most people seem to

think the sculpture is unfinished. But have you

considered the possibility that it is incomplete? I

mean, rather than simply unfinished.’

She turns away to study the brilliantly lighted

marble. He gives her a moment to settle into her

concentration, then adds in a relatively low voice – to

indicate that he does not need a response:

‘What if it needs something in the viewer in

order to be complete?’

She is startled by this idea, but does not turn

away from the sculpture when she responds:

‘What could that be, David?’

Again he waits, a growing conviction that the

woman will not be able to provide what the work

requires.

‘Can you allow that the sculpture itself will – as

it were – call out from within the viewer what it needs

in order to complete itself?’

He steps back a pace and then another, glancing

over his shoulder quickly to ensure that he is headed

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towards the house. He is certain – but how, he doesn’t

know – that he would learn nothing new from

completing the sculpture himself.

She must have felt his withdrawal from her, for

she turns suddenly and stares at him – as though to

stop him moving any further.

‘Don’t leave me like this, David. You have to

explain yourself.’

He shakes his head, glad to see how easily the

finality can be reached. ‘Give yourself a chance to see

for yourself. That’s the best. Direct experience is the

best, Rosie.’ He lets her name slip out deliberately, a

consolation masquerading as an error.

Uttering her name acts as a magnet that draws

her to him. Her dark eyes are clouded, her mouth set

and strong.

‘And you’re saying that the figure is complete?’

He hadn’t thought of that. He nods, impressed

by how quickly she could move forward from the

finality.

‘And so that is what would be seen?’

He frowns, unable to keep up with how she can

leap from insight to insight so fast. Now she smiles, a

brave rather than a sad smile:

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‘Like an infant, but profoundly restricted? And

– I can’t get the other word, David. Can you help

me?’

They have reached the open back door of the

house. He pauses to let her go before him. The word –

when it comes – is preceded by what he can only

describe as silent thunder: how he inwardly responds

to loud thunder as it sounds in the world:

‘Powerful, Rosie. Most powerful.’

She bows her head, her arms hanging limp at

her sides, indicating thus how beyond her this

experience is.

The first thing he notices in the wagon is the

time: quarter past six. He finds this hard to believe,

but the mobile phone confirms: 18:16. Two hours.

He’s rueful at the wasted time this day, while

remembering initial meetings that took longer and for

less worth. He needs several minutes to orient himself

again to the special quality of this day.

Moira undergoing tests, which have taken a

long time, which have rendered her unconscious,

from which she is recovering in hospital, and whom

he must visit soon. No sooner has he settled back into

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this ongoing reality than what seems now like the

alternative reality he has inhabited for the last two

hours leads him to ask himself: What on earth was

that all about?

Was it the strangeness of the woman – probably

cooped up alone in that house with all her ideas

twirling around in her head – or was it something in

himself that brought it on? It’s an honest question to

ask himself. He remembers her breathlessness when

he rang her, and realises that he probably interrupted

some energetic activity. Sex, most likely, he realises,

remembering the sexual charge in her when they first

met. He does not resist the ensuing fantasy, seeing

how well made she is for energetic sex and how well

– given her strong temper – she would respond.

Knowing he is a sexual coward, he has no

problem handling the usual aftermath of this fear –

which of course is the compensatory fantasy. As in

other areas of his life, he is adept at fooling his

instincts in this way. As it is, his caution has probably

netted them ten grand, at least. Had he succumbed to

her, he would have crawled away on his hands and

knees, broken in some vital way.

He glances across at the house and sees that the

woman is watching him through one of the large front

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windows, standing openly with her arms akimbo. She

gives him a little wave when she sees him look over.

He nods, waves, starts the wagon up and drives off.

And he thinks – the wagon accelerating down the

narrow lane so that pebbles clatter against the

underside – what a fine woman. Sort of ancient and

sad, too much knowledge.

Still, good business in it. What will Barry make

of the fountain? What will he make of the woman?

Will she test him against the sculpture? Then he

remembers the Cambridge job. The million pound

contract with Bearing. When did he say that would

start? September? Yes. The fountain job should be

finished by middle August. But the expansion of the

business? No. Let that follow the work. Let’s see

what Ron is offering first.

The quiet country road he is racing along is

coming to a crossroads with another quiet country

road. No signpost. He usually follows whatever road

he finds himself on until he comes to a signpost to

someplace familiar. He stops the wagon, annoyed to

be potentially lost, but also pleasantly surprised to

find himself in the middle of nowhere in

Bedfordshire. He hadn’t thought that was possible.

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Not a house in sight, only large industrial-grade fields

and a copse or two on the horizon.

For the sake of the novelty of it, he gets down

from the wagon and steps out into the exact centre of

the crossroads. Not a car in sight. He listens.

Birdsong, that slightly off-centre medley of chirping

and outright song typical of a warm summer

afternoon. A sign of an irrelevant busyness, while the

big boys of the world do the real thing – like servants

singing down in the scullery while we are at High

Tea.

The dippy thoughts please him, glad for a

moment to drop out from reality again. The world

stretches out all around – nature to itself for the nonce

– and he feels himself spread out in sympathy

towards the bright horizons and up into the high blue

sky. At once the memory of high hills comes back to

him – buried for many years now – and the sense of

belonging. The word surprises him. He would have

accepted the words possibility or even freedom, but

belonging seems even now an ambiguous word to

use.

A sharp toot out on the road alerts him. A van

has come from the right and is sitting now a foot

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away from him. He waves companionably and steps

back. The driver leans out as he passes slowly:

‘You lost, mate?’

He waves again, finally reluctant to re-enter into

collusion with these people and their barging

pragmatism.

The driver is momentarily suspicious – probably

sensing his reluctance and taking it badly as a slight –

but the habit of barging pragmatism reasserts itself

and he points forward and says:

‘Bedford’s on this way, mate. Great Barford

back that way.’ He points up the way the wagon is

facing: ‘Don’t know what’s up there. Cheers, mate.’

And the van is gone in a spurt of dusty pebbles.

Something he has never let happen before in his

new life here seems to be happening now: he’s

ducking it. He thinks he could drive on and on,

heading towards Holyhead. He could reconnect with a

reality he lost so long ago on the day – he remembers

now with a habitual irony – men set foot on the

Moon.

Will he do this? He doesn’t know, but he lets

the impulse – the impossible yearning – guide him.

He gets back into the wagon and drives through the

crossroad and along the road that goes nowhere. He

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drives slowly, observing himself and estimating the

strength of the impulse, to see if it strengthens or

weakens. That’s the thing he understands about

desire: sometimes you can fob it off with fantasy –

when you know where it will lead to – and sometimes

you give it its head, if only to see where it is going.

Most often, desire is banal, and he suspects that all

desires are at root expressions of one fundamental

desire, and which itself seems no more than the

banality of wanting to go home again.

Anyway, he’s a few minutes on this road –

industrial farming on either side – when he gets this

sudden but strong urge to pee. Though it seems to

come out of nowhere, it makes sense to him, three

hours since the afternoon tea and the hurried exit. He

could stop anywhere along this road – the constant

clatter of grit underside tells him it’s not much used.

But today being today, he decides not to chance it –

all he needs now is a truck up the arse of the wagon

and his wife lying abed in hospital awaiting his visit.

He sees there is a line of young trees running away to

the left just up aways. If there is a little parking space

there – and there is: a grassy verge where the

industrial grade ditches give way momentarily to

something like an old-fashioned hedgerow, set amid

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which there is a narrow wooden gate. He thinks it

might be part of one of the old pathways that

crisscross the countryside – handy that he can nip up

the track and relieve himself at his leisure.

The wagon will tuck in from the road on the

verge. The engine off and the first thing he hears is

the gentle rustle of the leaves overhead. He is invaded

again by that memory of belonging – as it calls itself

today – and he thinks in a rapid fantasy how it might

have been here two or three generations ago, with

only shank’s mare of a summer evening and an

immersion in the country so profound that you would

only be aware of its lack, never of its presence. You

would walk with the trees, the birds, the sun, the

warm air – they would be like clothes you wore,

feelings you had, sufficient because trusted implicitly.

And the little gate is painted green, bright

varnish that seems new. The iron clasp is painted

black, again all bright and shiny in the fine evening

sun. He raises the clasp and hears the swish of the

grass as the gate swings open. There is a bird singing

further up the path, the notes so loud and liquid.

Stepping onto the faint track of trodden grass is like

stepping into another world. The air is cooler, yet

more languid, laden with the freshness of vegetation

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and the scents of unknown plants. The light also has

become more diffused, yet clearer now that the sun’s

rays trouble his eyes no longer.

He looks up the pathway with an apprehension

that surprises him. All his life he has been fascinated

by the word glade. Sometimes, in the mountains, he

would descend into a narrow valley – following some

stream down as a matter of convenience – and

suddenly he would plunge from the bright, clear and

dry upland world into a more shaded environment,

the murmur of birds, the rush of water, and a pensive

green light that seemed always as though to permit a

glimpse of another reality, of strange creatures and a

life unabused by error.

This is a glade, he decides. It runs flat and

straight under a loose canopy of the young trees,

enough dappling light to keep the shadows at bay.

The only thing missing, he reflects, is water – which

he doesn’t expect to find here is such a flat country.

Yet, no sooner has he this thought than he hears the

gurgle of water. There is a stream – running deep and

narrow through the taller grass off to his right.

The sight of the flowing water prompts his

bladder, but he decides he must move deeper along

the path. His own wonder induces a shyness in him, a

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reluctance to pollute this place with his waste water.

But pee he must, so he crosses to the other side of the

glade till he reaches a boundary fence – a wooden

three bar fence freshly painted green. Here he can arc

the urine out into the adjacent field and watch it

splash the unknown crop-plants and the dry earth that

bears them.

So then there is the moment of relief as he zips

up, that bird up the path still trilling the air with its

liquid notes, the cool, languid air still embracing him.

He turns to leave, sees the bulbous nose of the wagon

down just beyond the gate – all aglare in the sunlight

– but it is as though something deeper along the path

draws him. Really, he ought to go. He must visit his

wife, then he must drive up to Brick Hill for his

dinner and to see his children, and then he must

prepare for tomorrow and the new possibilities

opening for the business.

No, there is nothing he can do to convince

himself. A different reality calls him – and he knows

he is not a stranger to the other world. He may never

have seen a fairy or a pixie, an angel or a demon, but

he has been part of that world all his life – and

suddenly he understands: part of himself has always

been in that reality.

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This recognition allows him to see more clearly.

There is another world, without the pain of this world,

that stands in a way before this world – as a kind of

antechamber – and which also in its turn stands away

from another world more wonderful again. And yet,

even as he sees into this greater reality, he is aware

that both the intermediate and ultimate worlds –

dazzled by the perpetual light and bliss – are inferior

to the world he inhabits, this world of pain and

sorrow, confusion and terror. This is not just a

conviction for him. Thinking the fact immediately

establishes the fact in him. He knows it is true, and he

knows it is true because he is incarnated in this world.

Truth happens. For him on this momentous day,

that is the final knowledge. In a world where nothing

can happen – no contingency, no polarity – there can

be no truth, if only because truth is not needed. In a

world of identity – such as Heaven is – no knowledge

is possible and therefore no truth is required. Only

where change can occur could truth be possible –

truth as something realised at this instant that could

be changed again in the next instant to become

another truth, another state of affairs.

How long could this reverie have lasted? In any

case, the song bird sings again and he is startled to

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discover that the bird is now singing directly above

his head. Glancing back in momentary alarm, he finds

that the wagon is further away now – he has been

walking deeper into the glade. As for the bird, he

could reach and touch it if he wanted to. He sees by

its familiar red breast that it is a robin. He’s not

surprised – the bird’s curiosity is insatiable and some

say it is nature’s gossip, passing the news up and

down the land.

It sings out again – its little body pulsating with

the effort – and he is so close that he could even hear

the sibilance of the fluids in the creature’s throat.

But seeing the little bird in his present state of

mind confounds him. In a world of accident, how

could a creature as complex as this bird survive

without itself dissolving into a myriad of accidents.

The truth then must reside in that which persists

beyond mere circumstance. His emphatic response

surprises him – NO! Everything in this incarnation

perishes, sooner or later – everything is subject to

accident.

The bird’s singing is further away. He has

continued walking along the path. Before him now he

sees that about fifty yards away the glade opens into a

clearing. The light is dimmer there, the trees older

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and with large spreading crowns. He recognises them

as beech, the silvery bark, the rustle of their compact

leaves. And he finds that the stream runs along the

centre of the glade – the pathway he has followed

petering out at its edge – the water flow in a shallow

channel and more spread out.

He can cross the stream with ease. The grass

underfoot is remarkably soft and bright, dotted all

over with little periwinkle. Another bird sings here,

very high up among the foliage, a sweet steady song

that he thinks might be that of some finch or other.

Already it feels as though he has dallied here for a

long time, memory of the afternoon more faint that he

would have expected. He looks at everything about

him, all the time expectant while in fact wanting

nothing, pleased merely to loiter here for now on a

fine summer’s evening. Even the pressure of his

anxious thoughts has eased considerably, little more

than a faint babble at the edge of consciousness.

Following the stream, he discovers that it issues

from a small pool – he could easily jump across it –

of very clear water. One side of the pool – to his right

from where he stands by the head of the stream –

there are the remains of what may have been a wall.

He doesn’t know what kind of stone is typical of the

426

area, but the surviving structure is composed of fist-

sized rocks mortared together in a jumble, the rocks

smoothly rounded from the action of water at some

time. Dull and mud-coloured, the rocks glimmer

indifferently in the low light – not at all pleasant to

look at. Still, the ruin intrigues him. He pushes back

the bushes that edge the pond so that he can work his

way around to it. A lot of stone lies in the grass there,

but the area directly behind the wall is a huge thicket

of bramble, rearing way above his head. The light is

poor, but there is enough for him to discern glimpses

of other walls, to grasp that a building stood here

once upon a time.

He backs out along the bank of the pond,

wondering why a building should be built so close to

its edge, where flies would be a nuisance in the

evenings. He has the answer almost at once – more an

intuition than an inference: he stands at the edge of a

well, no doubt sacred way back in the past. And

hence the footpath from the road, and hence – and

here he stops. Who maintains it now, the painted gate

and fencing?

He takes a stabbing deep breath, as though

relieved by some realisation.

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A woman stands on the bank opposite him,

looking directly at him.

He cringes in shock. First he thinks that this is

private property, the woman taking an evening walk

on her land, staring at him as an unwelcome intruder.

He can see a gap in the circle of trees over to her left,

hidden for the most part from his view by the thicket

of ruin and bramble, her home no doubt down a path

through there. He would raise his hand to reassure her

and utter an apology – but he sees that she is crying.

He is powerfully affected by this fact. No doubt

the contrast with his own summer-evening bliss has a

part in this. It is not an evening for crying and it is not

a place for crying – dappled light in the depths of the

clear water – where the spring water enters – birdsong

near and far. But he sees that the tears run down her

cheeks and drop onto her velvet gown. The effect on

him is like a trituration in his breast that sets his heart

quivering. Even his breath is reacting, reduced to a

short, shallow panting. It’s a though he will cry in

sympathy with her. But this automatic response is

being subverted by another feeling, a strange anxiety

that he might die at any moment – his heart as though

shaken to pieces by the relentless grinding in his

chest.

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Now he wants to speak in order to console her.

He calls across, almost English in the disinterested

tone:

‘Can I help you?’

She raises her hands so that her palms can be

seen, the sleeves of the gown falling back to reveal

her long slender wrists. She speaks, then raises her

hands to cover her face.

He cannot hear what she says. He frowns.

Except for the intermittent birdsong, it is quiet in the

clearing, the gurgle of the stream very subdued.

Obviously she spoke, but he did not hear her.

So he calls again:

‘I’m sorry but I couldn’t hear you. Can you

repeat what you said?’

He hates this: wanting to help but seemingly

inept at the very start.

She continues to cry into her hands. He wonders

now if she might be deaf. But she spoke in reply to

his first question. Yes, but perhaps she merely saw his

lips move. An unease grows in him – more like the

tumult in his breast moving down his body into his

gut. He has the fear that she might be mad in some

way, perhaps an outpatient on ameliorative drugs. She

might walk here for exercise, crying all the way down

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to the road and back. This fantasy occupies him while

he stands and watches her cry into her hands. He sees

her treading the faint path through the glade – her

path, he realises – past the holy well and back to her

home, where someone cares for her. He imagines an

old mother – engrained guilt arising from some

terrible incident in her childhood – caring for her,

making sure she’s dressed appropriately for her little

walk.

The woman lowers her hands until they are held

out towards him as though in beseechment, palms

uppermost. Still the tears flow from her lovely eyes –

irises grey-blue, whites sparkling despite the weeping.

She is speaking again, a steady movement of her lips

– glistening pink-red though he’s sure she wears no

make up. Her head nods gently in emphasis and her

golden tresses sway back and forward on her slender

shoulders.

His feeling by now is an absurd one: he should

fall on his knees, down on the soft grass in his elegant

trousers. He fights this impulse, within an ace of

laughing out at the absurdity of it. But he thinks –

despite himself and the clash in his feelings – of how

beautiful the woman is. Even as he admits this

admiration, she moves as though to step forward, and

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he sees how slender her hips are, how long her waist,

and has no problem completing this imagination with

long slender legs, tender flesh under smooth gentle

skin, and sighs like the merest of winds.

He steps forward – right to the edge of the pond

and directly across from her – his hands rising in

imitation of hers. The temptation to leap across the

pond is very great, the motive very ambiguous. He

wants to help her but he also wants to do something

that would most likely end up as rape. To control

himself – the pathos of taking advantage of the

distraught woman remains too strong for him – he

shouts out, the rhetorical nature of what he says very

evident:

‘I don’t know what you are saying. I really can’t

hear you. Are you looking for help?’

But everything he says only fuels his desire to

cross over to her side of the pond. He wants to help

her. He wants to embrace her.

He wants to love her.

There is enough of his habitual irony remaining

to cause him pause here. Love? Yes, and he sees what

it means. Like a path without complication, like going

in a door, always going in through that door, always

departing and never arriving, and all the time a light

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so fulgent, so complete, all the time shining without

any shadow. And he thinks out of his irony: it’s like a

willing death.

And he realises this: without the screen of irony,

he would not have seen the love – he would have seen

only the passion, the desire.

By now he is gaping at her, staring at the person

who is setting off these lines of wild thought in him.

And while he gapes and she cries her heart out, he is

all the time reflecting:

She is beautiful. She is so beautiful!

And now she stops speaking and buries her face

in her hands again. Her golden hair falls forward over

her shoulders, cascading along her slender arms. This

is finally too much even for his well-practiced

caution. If this is a moment of abandon, then he is

aware that he has longed for this moment, when all

calculation and doubt can be suspended at last and

certainty – whether real or deluded – can be donned

like a suit of armour.

All he need do is take the step across the pond

that will bring him to her side, where he can embrace

her and swear to protect her for the rest of his life.

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He lifts his foot – still teetering on the edge of

his madness, still not completely sure he will do it –

and he hears, as though spoken close by to his right:

‘Shool. Shool ar eigh.’

He freezes. He understands at once. He shouts

out in his joy. He loses his balance and fall back on

the ground, hitting his head heavily against the soft

turf. There is shock and confusion – terrible fear, also,

the fear of making the mistake that has haunted him

for much of his life – but also the clarity of

understanding that he has finally arrived.

He finds he is staring at the canopy of trees

above the clearing, noting how the foliage thins out

towards the centre – furthest from the individual trees

– so that something of the evening’s blue sky can be

discerned and the slanting sunlight can throw

glancing light on to the leafage there. This should be

an incidental scene – given the momentous event he

is engaged in – but some quality there holds his

attention. The word that takes his attention here is

tenuous. He has the idea of a thin thread that stretches

across an infinity of space – that is, a place with no

characteristics – but which yet is durable beyond a

time in which it might endure. Then he knows that

this idea speaks only of separation – though the fact

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of separation can only be grasped through the

understanding of connection, a tenuous join. And

only by means of the recognition of separation can

the more fundamental fact of completeness be

grasped. And it is this line of understanding that

brings him to see that the feeling of incompleteness,

that has plagued most of his adult life, has always

implied that the completeness he craves already

exists.

Lying flat out on the grass, he is filled with the

wonder of being whole.

The certitude he feels here astonishes him: once

you perceive your wholeness, then you recognise that

it is impossible to be anything other than whole. And

if he is whole, then…

He sits up.

The woman is nowhere to be seen.

He scrambles to his feet, in part panicked by her

absence, in another part understanding calmly why

this is so. He thinks to cross the stream and follow the

path he is convinced goes off to the right behind the

bramble thicket and out through the gap in the trees

over there. If he hurries he will catch her.

Of course, he does no such thing. He pauses at

the edge of the pond and stares hard at the spot where

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the woman had stood, as though the very intensity of

his stare would bring her back to phenomenal

appearance. Yet he knows this will not work. It’s the

vision of her he misses, not her reality. Even in

memory of her he can sigh so beautiful, and with a

beauty he knows her image merely represented. The

longing is more intense than he has ever before

experienced, but at least he knows now that it is a true

longing.

He nods to himself. There is a virtue he has

practiced all his life – patience – and again he now

knows that this too is true. He knows now he can

afford to be patient.

He steps back from the pond, a deliberate

symbolic act. He thinks what he must do before he

can see her again. He must bear his wife to her death.

He must bear his children to their maturity. These are

commitments that he cannot shirk – integral parts of

his real life regardless of what spiritual truths he has

realised.

Now he is taken up in a solemnity he has not

experienced since childhood. He blesses himself and

obeying a very definite impulse he presses the palms

of his hands together. Another strong impulse is one

that prevents him from thinking about what he has

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just done. The act, he feels, must stand by itself in this

moment and then be allowed to recede as he moves

forward in his life.

It is a marker, a covenant. It is not an act of

faith. It is a statement of acceptance of a truth he

understands but cannot point too. He could say: there

is another part of me – which makes me whole –

which I cannot see or experience directly, but which I

now know exists.

And that, he tells himself with uncharacteristic

severity, is that.

He turns to leave – sighing with something like

relief – and follows the stream away from the pond.

He can see the nose of the wagon away down on the

road, the path running down to it through the green

air. But at the point where he should cross the stream

– where it veers to the left towards the line of trees

there – he pauses. He’s afraid in case the Looking

Glass still exists here. What if he steps through and is

gone from this world for another nineteen years? He

won’t risk it. He follows the stream over to the trees

and then pushes through the undergrowth till he

reaches the green painted fence. He climbs over and

drops down into the field beyond. The ground is dry

and throws up a cloud of fine dust. The crop – of

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what his son has told him many times is sunflower

from which sunflower oil is extracted – runs in an

unerring straight line down to the road. He follows it

down, dust covering his fancy shoes, his sharp slacks

and in time coating him all over, settling on his

eyelids, getting up his nose and into his mouth.

By the time he gets to the hospital his more

rational mindset has taken over. He wonders just what

he has been doing all day. He tells himself in reply –

acting as an advocate for the world of practicality –

that he has been struggling to come to terms with his

wife’s mortality. He doesn’t believe this, of course,

but he knows he’ll need a cover like this to get him

through the next hour or so.

The sun is losing intensity as the evening draws

on, its light already bronzing the air. It seems to him

at first – walking across the carpark – that even the

hospital had settled down after a good day. Then, first

one ambulance and then another come flashing into

the compound and head over in convoy to a brightly

lit entrance away to the right. A group of people come

rushing out the main entrance, one of them

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gesticulating wildly and screaming at the top of his

voice.

The dread that hits him seems familiar and

shows him how successful he was that day in evading

the awful fact that his wife is already dying. Yet, the

dread also serves to highlight the single fact that has

kept him going today: it’s not me this time.

A woman sits lost in gloom on a metal chair by

the reception. She has already pulled her hair awry

and one leg of her tights is twisted between knee and

ankle. A little boy sits on the floor at her side, noisily

playing with a plastic car. When he goes to speak to

the receptionist, he finds the words croak on the dust

in his throat. He must repeat himself, speaking this

time too loudly.

He would use the lift, except that a thoroughly

dispirited little man in a dark dressing gown is

waiting for it, flanked by his equally depressed wife

and daughter – all of whom stare up at the floor

indicator with exactly the same expression. The stairs

are quiet and deserted at first – which gives him an

exaggerated comfort – but then he meets a thin young

man who sits on the cool concrete with his face in his

hands. Then he meets an old man drinking from a

milk carton, who asks him for a cigarette. Then he

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must work his way around a couple who might be

having sex. The woman is sitting back into the man’s

lap and he has wrapped the skirt of his dressing gown

about her thighs. The man rests his head sideways

against the woman’s back, eyes open and staring at

nothing. The woman is grazing her lower lip with her

big front teeth, her hands folded peacefully and

resting on his hands in her lap. He thinks afterwards

that they might simply be comforting each other.

The corridor leading to his wife’s room is

empty, completely deserted. The corridor is not

overly institutional, though it is painted in the

prescribed pacifying and comforting colours,

separated here by a thin line of a jazzy maroon

running elbow high along the walls. It is clean and

tidy, in fact bare of all hospital paraphernalia,

excepting two red fire extinguishers, one large and

the other small. There are only two notices – both

discreetly coloured a flat blue. One reads no smoking;

the other reads quiet please: recovery area. And it is

quiet. He passes closed doors – panels of frosted glass

in each, chrome number plate above centre – and

hears no sound whatsoever. Realising this, he realises

also that he had been expecting dread sounds,

retching, crying, low moans of pain and despair. But

439

not a sound anywhere. Except – now that he has

stopped listening so hard – the low hiss of water in

the clad pipes that run along close to the ceiling.

He can even see the evening out through the

clear glass panel of the emergency exit at the end of

the corridor. There is a broken lines of the town’s

houses along the horizon – interrupted here and there

by the froth of vegetation – sharply etched against the

brilliant evening sky. And he thinks then: Is everyone

here dying? Then it’s like he has stepped to the very

edge of the world. He realises that no preparation can

be made for this moment. It’s like as a child, you

brace yourself for the dread moment and then burst

out crying just when you have most prepared yourself

to be strong. And he is surprised to find that imminent

death is like that – an edge, just an edge. What had he

expected? Growing darkness, a sense of imminent

doom, fear and more dread. But there is only this

edge. Like one of Alan’s computer games, when he

had somehow dropped out of the prepared

environment and found himself standing before a

huge pale blue blankness. He had run to him for help,

panicking in case he could not get back into the game.

With a curious impish irony, he has pressed the W

key and watched as the boy’s avator stepped over the

440

edge. The boy had asked how long he would fall, and

he had replied:

‘How long will the computer last?’

The sensation of falling was real to both of

them, even though nothing on the blank screen could

indicate this.

It relieves him that he can characterise the edge.

For a moment he can bask in the distraction of the

memory, then it’s back to the dread and anxiety. But

the moment of respite has given him some distance

from these feelings. Rationally, he proposes for

himself the analogy of death being like falling asleep

– one moment you are awake, next moment you are

asleep. There’s no consolation for him in this: he can

see immediately that dying cannot be like falling

asleep. When you fall asleep, the rest of your being

remains alive, as it were. And now he thinks with a

more true dread of all his bodily functions closing

down, his other levels of consciousness fading away.

He remembers the appalling sense of weakness that

nausea can induce and the kind of terrifying

vulnerability that accompanies a fever. He realises

that dying must include elements like this. And what

about the terrors they induce? The weakness, the

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vulnerability, helplessness, loss of orientation, loss of

understanding.

He finds he is standing in the middle of the

corridor, trembling in a way he has never done

before. He realises he has never been really weak,

never really vulnerable or helpless. That’s what he

identifies as the real dread of dying: the experience of

the loss of all these defences that in effect have come

to define him. To be bereft of all the strategies that

have kept the world at bay.

The idea is too much for him, so he thinks with

his habitual irony:

Well, they say you can’t take anything with you.

He can step forward again along the corridor,

safe in the knowledge that he has both had this insight

into death and that he has also managed to overcome

it. This comforts him, knowing he will be proof

against against his wife’s fears of death – both

protected from contagion and able to console her in

moments of crisis.

He is lulled by this feeling of security. He

identifies the door to his wife’s room – the second last

on the left – and braces himself for what might greet

him in there. But in this momentary respite, another

image enters his mind. Idly, he sees what seems a

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stone sink full of water, clear water. Then the plug

disappears and all the water begins to rush down

through the swallow hole. He watches the water

gurgle and spin – as though eager to get away – with

the kind of dumb fascination it is very hard to guard

against. The water is almost all gone before the point

is made.

Death is like this. You are the sink and the water

is what you regard as your life. It just flows away like

that and leaves dead you behind.

There is now a curious horror to this vision –

the utter helplessness and despair of the final

conscious moment. Here is an experience that will

never result in either a memory or knowledge – an

experience that will never be possessed.

How long would such an experience last?

Minutes? Hours? Days?

The shiver starts at the crown of his head – hair

crawling with sudden chill – and then works its way

swiftly down his spine and into his legs. He must lean

against the wall, gasping for air as his lungs seem to

tremble like jelly. It’s all he can do to keep his gorge

down. The sensation of being drained is vivid, the

horror arising from the urgency with which he is

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drained – the intolerable feeling of being abandoned.

It is implacable, remorseless, ruthless, impersonal.

Dying happens – that is about as real as it can be

for him. It’s like Christmas in childhood – hard to

believe it is going to happen and then it does happen.

Like the first date that gets you hot hot – can it ever

happen? – then it’s the next morning and the rest of

your life.

Once again, stray reflections save him from too

much reality. He gets his breath back – remembering

that date and the anticlimax of easy availability – and

in no time finds that he is standing in front of the door

to his wife’s recovery room. It’s painted a flat, non-

committal blue. It is chipped on the opening side – all

the trolleys and gurneys being barged through,

bringing patient after patient – though the paint

surface is intact.

This is the moment he has dreaded – how to

produce the appropriate response to what he finds as

his wife’s condition. But the aftermath of his memory

of the easy conquest date – the stray reflection that no

woman’s breasts in reality can ever match what a man

anticipates, while any woman’s body far surpasses

any male fantasy – is distracting him, so that he

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simply pushes the door open and steps through in the

room.

He sees his wife stretched out on her back,

asleep and snoring gently. There are no tubes, cables,

no ticking machines, not even a simple bucket by the

bed. She is only lightly covered on this warm

evening, so he can see also that there are no abnormal

swellings on her body, no braces or protectors, no

special disposition of her limbs. She is simply

stretched out on her back, legs together, arms at her

sides.

He jars the door while trying to close it quietly.

He whirls about but finds her unchanged. The

familiarity confounds him. He left her this morning

sleeping peacefully and finds her this evening

sleeping peacefully.

There a chair by the bed, beside the little cabinet

that holds a single glass of water. He sits in it, sitting

not two feet from his wife. The ease entering his legs

surprises him at first – then he lets himself enjoy it.

This is the release he is getting from seeing his wife

far from illness and far from death. The thought even

comes that he might take her home with him right

now – carry her down to the wagon in his arms – take

her home and put her into their bed. Then he thinks

445

why this won’t be done. Then he thinks of internal

investigations and of course remembers his sister-in-

law’s hysteria earlier that day.

Illness and death wriggle through on the back of

that memory and come to sit with him in the room.

And it is just at this moment he realises that a familiar

odour pervades the room. For one blessed moment he

cannot place it, which allows a whole shopping list of

possible sources for the smell, real and imagined. But

then he remembers having experienced it this very

morning – in much the same context as now – and a

really hideous idea trickles into his mind.

Does his wife smell like this? This sweetish-

sickly odour of an inoffensive but malign presence?

He had thought it just a by-product of his wife’s

aging, much as he regarded the increased presence of

ammonia in his own gyp as a result of his own aging.

He is taking refuge in this line of memories, a

familiar ploy as he adjusts to the fact of this odour

and what it signifies. And all the years that smell had

been in the room in the morning and Moira no doubt

opening a window to get rid of it.

He stands up abruptly, unsure what to do but

convinced that he can do something now that it’s too

late.

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All those years? What? Ten years? And this

cancer was eating into her. Did I knock up against it

while we had sex? Did I break pieces off it, that

slipped away into her body to establish new colonies

elsewhere?

And even this apparent mounting anger is only a

cover for much worse – a cover for the fact that they

lived as a loving couple with this alien presence –

eternal growth amid encroaching mortality. And he

thinks with the sort of bitter irrelevance that

sometimes comes to him – when the mere intellectual

in him takes over: People chide God for the existence

of evil, but who is to blame for the errors, the faults in

the basic life process? A man kills my wife and God

will put him in hell. A cancer kills my wife and what

happens? Is God not responsible for Nature, for

incarnation? Can’t he take the blame for anything at

all?

Even as he rants he knows that it is a childish –

helpless – thing to do. Is this how it ends, he wonders,

unable to control the vicious irony of his grief: so

desperate that he can only blame a God he doesn’t

believe in for this mess he finds himself in.

He catches sight of his wife, laid out asleep in

the bed. In pity he asks himself: Shouldn’t I have at

447

least raised a query about the smell. But how? Ask his

wife to see a doctor because she smells? He has

enough experience of woman to know how

fundamental the sense of smell is to them. What is the

first counter selling inside every department store?

No! He says it to himself with such force that he

shakes his head a number of times, a melodramatic

touch that serves purely to vent some of the emotion

bottled up inside him in this quiet recovery room. No

man could say that to his wife, no matter how

objectively the problem could be approached.

This line of refuge ends abruptly and again he

feels that helplessness. He stares at his wife, at the

familiarity of the form the quilt embraces so lightly.

Suddenly, he sees his wife as someone apart. The

cancer that causes him so much anguish is her cancer.

The impending death he fears is his wife’s death. At

first this line of thought appears to him as just another

refuge from the reality in this room. She will

experience the dread, the pain, the encroaching loss.

It is she who will die away into that unremembered

emptying.

He breaths a big comforting sigh. Then he sees

himself alone. How much of his reality was provided

by his wife? The house, the garden, food, clothing, all

448

the restoration she undertook every day to keep the

disintegration at bay. Each day was like a new

beginning because she toiled ceaselessly to make it

appear so.

The alone-ness he feels is not loneliness or even

being alone. It is more like how you might feel if you

were told the bus you awaited had been cancelled,

that element of being left bereft. Then it was also like

being told that you were no longer needed as a

supernumerary, that the principal had moved away –

that sense of abandonment, though with little to lose.

His initial response is the usual recoil, the impulse to

grab at some presence or other. He notes – for

instance – that he can see the evening out through the

wide window of the room, seeing the golden sky in

slivers through the slats of the blind. And he would

take a new interest in the furnishings, how the chair

he had sat on is covered with a cheery fabric, but how

the dent in the table lamp’s shade is not hidden away

from sight. He’s not alone if he is judging things –

either for their beauty or imperfections – passing his

time in that case as God does.

Thinking of things to be company with soon

takes him back to that afternoon, and into his mind

springs the word: pearl. He pictures a large pearl

449

made of clean white marble. It is not the actual

sculpture that took his interest, but a kind of prototype

– how that piece of marble, the sculpture, might have

looked before the artist’s imagination and his chisels

had separated out its parts.

It takes him a while before he realises that he is

no longer lonely. The pearl completely fills his

interest, so that in a sense he becomes the pearl. And

the pearl changes shape, no longer a simple sphere, it

is now extruded on one side, so that it takes on the

form of a fruit like the aubergine. Still it glows

brightly, though if anything more intensely again at

either extremity. And the region around the centre

changes subtly. It’s like a layer just under its surface

is dissolving and becomes as translucent as water, so

that the object at its centre becomes visible.

His initial response is to focus on this object –

forgetting the wonder of the pearl itself – but even as

he does a fear rises in him. It’s a curious fear: he is

powerfully drawn to the little object and yet he knows

it will in some way be the death of him. He realises

he is like a moth before a candle flame. And it does

happen. As he draws closer and sees that the object is

in fact a living being, he feels a part of himself dim. It

is not a death, more like the extinguishing of his

450

personal consciousness. And he knows that when he

reawakens he will not know himself either – it will no

longer be possible.

The shock here is so absolute that he simply

abandons the vision. Then it is like it never happened

and he is standing near the foot of the bed, looking at

his prone wife, who sleeps peacefully. A quiet

moment, then, and afterwards the love he feels for his

sad devoted wife fills him with its uncertainties,

agonies, guilts, desires, and most of all the

temptations he has been so careful to avoid. Tears

spurt into his eyes, hot and uncomfortable, and he

gags a little on the tightness of his throat. But of

course it is not all bad. The acceptance of the pain at

the beginning here is like a propitiation, so that deep

private joy and pleasure he has experienced through

the years living with his wife will not attract envious

demons. Ask for a word to describe the core

experience and it is, simply, companionship. The

mutuality of consolation, support, and most of all

approval. He feels the last especially in terms of his

wife’s approval of himself, an approval given

constantly despite the fact that many a better man was

known to her. His own approval – as might be

expected – had a different character. He approved of

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his wife for his wife’s sake, for the sake of her morale

and personal confidence.

Where his wife saw only death at the end of her

relationship with him, he saw – until this afternoon,

anyway – only a temporising after an existential

failure, death in a way only a final step in that failure.

Now? He does not want to be cruel – even in the

privacy of his own mind – but he sees now that she

was no more than a stand-in, a place-holder. Nor does

he want to be ungrateful. His wife may have been a

substitute, but she replaced what he had believed was

no longer attainable. She replaced a mighty loss and

had yet received his silent gratitude for every minute

that she held him in abeyance against the emptiness in

his soul.

He asks himself if he loved her. He knows he

did, sustaining her in turn even though it was not

something he could possibly do for himself, lacking

the faith for it. He had watched go her from wife to

mother to housekeeper, on one hand, yet stood by her

silent as she sought to penetrate – through her work in

the garden – the mystery she felt confront her. And

when she took up the mysticism she found in her

German authors, he stood by her here too. He saw the

limitation of her here, the pervasive modern obsession

452

with technique and mechanics in place of the absent

Author. Only once did he try to show her that it was

the intention behind the machine that counted, that

purpose must exist in Nature to explain its coherence.

And if the purpose of a human machine could not be

read directly in that machine – the human, not the

mechanical, intention – so it must also be likewise

with Nature. And he had concluded that if his wife

could not lift her vision to the purpose of Nature, then

that must be because she was unable to do so.

And herein lay his charity: he would carry her

over the abyss she sensed but could not see. Carry her

over to a moment like this, when she could admit that

her death had begun and so this particular journey

was over.

The mobile phone rings. He’s surprised to find

that it is in his jacket pocket, having no memory of

putting it there.

Grace.

‘Yes?’ He is noncommittal, fearing what he is

about to hear.

‘Daddy!’

‘Sarah! What’s wrong, sweetheart?’

‘Can we go home soon, Daddy?’

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The surprise is something he can let float away

above his head. Even so, he is off-balance – looking

down at his dying wife and listening to his lively

daughter at the same time daunts him. He says for the

sake of saying it:

‘But aren’t you staying over in Brick Hill? Your

Aunt Grace told me that was the arrangement.’

His daughter has moved in some way, so that he

can hear the shouting in the background. He estimates

that she must be up near the front door, ready for

flight.

‘Is that Uncle Barry I hear?’

‘Oh Daddy, he’s in a vile mood.’

‘Is he drunk?’

‘Oh no, Daddy. Freddie wouldn’t let him near

the whisky.’

‘Is Freddie still there?’ He grabs a glance at his

phone screen: quarter to eight.

‘Oh no. That was ages ago. Uncle Barry just

started giving out after dinner.’

He’s collected now. It’s a happy coincidence

that his daughter should ring when she did.

‘Where’s Alan?’

454

‘He’s here beside me. He wants to go home too.

Here.’ The phone is being moved, she saying from a

distance: ‘It’s Daddy. He wants to talk to you.’

His son blurts out, ‘Hello, Dad. Can you…’ then

more rustling and it’s his daughter again:

‘It’s just not nice, Daddy, hearing him scream at

Auntie Grace like that.’

He can hear his son expostulating in the

background, complaining that he is not being allowed

to speak to his Dad.

‘Well, I’m at the hospital. I’ll probably get out

to Brick Hill in about twenty minutes time.’

His daughter’s voice shoots up the register:

‘Mommy! Oh, Daddy, how is she? Can I speak

to her?’

‘No. She’s asleep and I want her to go on

sleeping. But she seems fine. She’s looks very

peaceful.’

‘Ah, is she, Daddy? Auntie Grace said they cut

her up. Did they cut her up?’

‘No, Sarah. Nothing like that. It was just an

internal investigation, that’s all. Now, I’ll finish up

here and then come and collect you two. Make sure

you’re ready by the time I get there, won’t you.’ He’s

happy that they are all going home tonight, so he

455

thinks a little mischief won’t do any harm. ‘It’s

getting late and there’ll be a lot to do when you get

there.’

His daughter is shouting again – it sounds also

as though she might be jumping up and down too.

‘Oh, we’ll all help, Daddy. Alan will clean the

kitchen and I’ll do the bathroom. We promise.’

‘I believe you, Sarah. Just make sure you’re

ready when I get there.’

He finds he is staring at his wife’s face as the

call ends. It is different, though he’s not sure how it is

different. She has her father’s angular quality – which

comes out as pretty in his daughter – but it is as

though the flesh of her cheeks has changed in some

way, maybe slipping down slightly. In fact, she looks

more like her father than the woman he has known for

fifteen years.

Is this a sign? he wonders. Has some part of her

already departed? Is that how it works – some part

signing out early, its job done?

Yet the familiarity of her is overwhelming, even

as he allows this absence. That’s what he will miss,

the sheer familiarity of her – a thread running through

a life that didn’t mean very much to him otherwise, at

least until this afternoon.

456

He bends down and places a light – but full –

kiss on the recess just above her nose, where the third

eye is, or used to be. He doesn’t know why he does

this, or why he should remember that piece of

folklore.

She reacts by frowning slightly.

He thinks he might have wetted her and that the

cooling of her flesh might disturb her.

He wipes across the spot with the pad of his

thumb, first one way and then the other – like making

the Sign of the Cross, he realises.

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He recognises the village only by the name over

the Post Office: Letterfrack. The little bus stops

further along the road, outside a ranch-style pub. The

driver has a word for everyone getting off. People

waiting for the alighting passengers come forward too

for a quick chat. They all speak in low civil tones, as

country people do. He thinks idly that there is some

kind of law working, how closely people connect is

related to the density of the population: fewer people,

the more they connect; more, then less, until in great

cities no one talks to anyone.

He can understand the impulse to connect after

an hour travelling through a land composed of

mountain, lake and bog, with few houses and only

one little village. Yet he feels no compulsion himself

to talk to anyone. If anything, the desolate land makes

him morose and introspective, though not

uncomfortably so. A land for the melancholic,

unintrusive yet abiding. He thinks there would be

only a few like him here, isolated farmers, querulous

in company but fantastically talkative one to one.

The bus lurches off again. He tenses and takes a

grip on his backpack, knowing he will be getting off

soon. Here is the turn-off he expected, the little bus

accelerating to take the sudden incline. The houses

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they pass look old, windows thickly netted – probably

like that for a century of more now. Like where he

grew up in Dublin. Houses in the streets around with

calm faces year after year. Properly maintained,

hedges trimmed, nets clean, paintwork renewed

regularly, yet only see some nondescript woman once

or twice a year as she darts down to Mass early

Sunday morning. Within the houses it is the same:

quiet air, old furniture highly polished, no dust and

only an faint odour of lavender or mothballs. Perhaps

drapes still in the hall to cut down the draught.

Evening newspaper on the kitchen table, a religious

magazine with monochrome cover, cross on the wall

with a little flickering red light at its foot, Jesus Christ

hanging there almost dead.

‘Creggauns.’

The driver is looking back at him, an honest

interest on his face. One by one the few remaining

passengers take their cue from him and turn to look

too.

He registers that the bus has stopped at the

entrance to a lane running away to his left. Aware of

the collective curiosity, he makes himself busy

gathering up the backpack. He thinks they are

probably wondering what in God’s name a stranger is

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doing heading in there so late in the evening. He gets

the pack onto one shoulder, then smiles what he

means to be a hello-goodbye smile, thanks the driver

with a murmur, and hears “God be with you” even as

the door slides shut behind him.

It’s only as the bus disappears around a bend

that he thinks that – on the contrary – the people on

the bus may well have known why he travelled here.

How would they see him: One of the deluded? One of

the elect?

He stands on the side of the road facing into the

lane as he thinks this. The sun is still shining brightly

in the summer sky over to his right, but the air is

already chilly-fresh from the nearby ocean. A bird is

singing in some May bushes down along the lane,

seeming to fill the huge sky against the surrounding

silence. There is that once familiar clean quality of

upland air.

He breaths deeply, sobs on the sharp cut of the

air in his nostrils.

It’s good to be back.

He gets the second strap of the backpack onto

his other shoulder, struggling to drag the textured

surface of the strap’s padding up over the textured

surface of his jacket. The pack lies against his back

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like a lover, all soft and yielding. Ruefully, he

remembers the bruising on his collar bones after a

weekend’s hike, sturdy leather straps then long-

lasting but demanding.

So there’s no excuse now but one step forward

and then another. The laneway seems to darken as he

enters it – perhaps the overreaching bushes on either

side – but he knows the darkening is occurring for

another reason. He is determined to be detached and

philosophical. He knows that what happens will

happen and that he can do nothing any longer to

affect the outcome.

It is as though he has already died.

He passes some cottages standing along either

side, each with a beautifully maintained little garden,

little cars in driveways to the side. He doesn’t

remember seeing these the last times he passed here,

nineteen and thirty eight years previously. He had

arrived in a daze and had left nineteen years later in a

daze. The journey to England he cannot remember,

only Josie guiding him onto the train in Galway and

putting the tickets to Bedford in his hand. And at

Bedford this man with the same build and colouring

as Josie McClain had come forward and asked him if

he was David Trainer. And that was that. All the

461

years he had not once dropped that disguise. He had

married, fathered children and become a successful

businessman, and all the time it had been a lie, a

cover for a truth too wonderful to tell.

He finds he is in a cold sweat. It’s relief, he

knows – it’s like he can step back thirty eight years

and try again. He is aware that he could fail again –

but at least he is getting a second chance.

A man steps out of the gloom under some trees

and asks him:

‘Are ye losht?’

The man is tall and gaunt, though he knows he

is probably wiry in a rangy way. The cloth cap on his

head looks as though it always sits there, the peak

tilted up in an alert way. He sees that there is a

cottage behind him, down off the roadway and almost

completely hidden in its sheltering foliage, weak

electric light glowing at the door.

He knows the man is asking him what his

business here is – as though he is some kind of

guardian of the place. But he also remembers that

Josie’s in-laws keep bloodstock on land here. So he

walks on up to the man and says:

‘Good evening to you.’

462

This is not a deliberate Englishness – it is how

he speaks in any case – but he has decided to try to

intimidate the man so that he can determine the

balance between them.

But the man is used to tourists: ‘This is near all

private land, sir.’

He likes how the man says sir – the promise of a

knife in the back – a vituperative hatred of parasitical

hierarchy still strong in him. So he says, pointing

back down the lane – drawing it out on purpose:

‘I’ve just got off the bus.’ Meaning, of course,

that he knows where he is and why.

The man nods. But he doesn’t move out of his

way.

Just then, a little boy appears in the lighted

doorway and calls out in a piping singsong:

‘Daddo, daddo, where are ye, daddo?’

The man starts and turns around to the child,

calling back in the gentlest tone:

‘Ye go away back into the house, Michael. Tell

Mammy I’ll be back in in a minute.’

The child turns at once and runs back into the

house.

He is moved by this incident. ‘I’m going to see

Josie McClain.’

463

The man himself has been affected by his

interaction with his son. He offers the nearest he has

to a smile:

‘So you’re the man from England?’

He nods.

‘Will you know your way?’

He nods again. ‘I’m sure I’ll find it. Just out

along this roadway, isn’t it?’

‘Aye. But be careful at the bend. Keep right

along there. Don’t go up the track with the gate on it.’

He nods again, aware that all his nodding is a

way of stopping himself from blurting out some wild

confession to the man. He knows that even if the man

knew what he was talking about, he would admit

nothing. That he can grasp intuitively: it must be left

unspoken, like a spell that can be broken.

So the man touches his temple with the flick of

his index finger in salute. It is as though an ironic

gesture, but again he knows enough to recognise an

acknowledgement here. And he nods again as the

man steps back to the side of the road – for all the

world as though a gate were being opened.

And yet the man shows no envy or resentment.

There is only a little more hedging along the

roadway – all of it brightly flowered Fuchsia – and

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then the atmosphere lightens and the lands seems to

reveal itself. The roadway runs across open ground

before him – but with a shallow curve rather than the

bend the man led him to expect. The trackway does

run on away near the start of the curve – though more

to his left than straight ahead. He wonders why he

was warned about it. He would not be tempted to take

it. He can see that it runs up to and then around a

rocky prominence – which no doubt borders the

ocean there.

A man is coming towards him on the road,

walking – it would seem – as fast as he can with a

limp, a walking stick helping him favour the gimp

leg. He can now see the house and its surrounding

trees, not more than a half mile away by his

inexperienced estimation.

The man is staring at him as he approaches,

thick grey hair flapping in the light breeze. He thinks

this might be another guardian, or perhaps a guide in

some obscure ancient ritual.

The man smiles – a genuine warm smile – and

raises the stick in greeting, calling out in the quiet air:

‘Oisín!’

He is stopped in his tracks. Of all the scenarios

he had rehearsed for this moment, none of them

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included an old man with a limp. Tears run from his

eyes before he can stop them.

‘Josie? Josie McClain? Holy God, man, what’s

happened to you?’

The man runs right up to him and throws his

arms about him, pinioning his arms in by his sides.

He holds him tightly, head pressed in against his

shoulder. Then he steps back and looks him up and

down.

‘You’ve come back, Oisín.’

He can see from how his face contours that the

man is not used to expressing joy. That doesn’t bother

him too much – who is? It is the oldness of the man

that moves him – a feeling in him akin to

helplessness. He cannot stop the tears.

The man understands him, though, for he says

with a gentle affectionate sympathy:

‘It’s only old age, Oisín. I’m in my eighties, for

God’s sake.’

He still can’t grasp something about the man.

‘But it can’t be fair, Josie.’

This he can suddenly understand: how those he

loves die on him while he feels eternally young.

The man reaches and links him with his free

arm to pull him along the road towards the house.

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‘The old age is fine, Oisín, if the life behind it

was worth while. And, you see, mine was a good

one.’

He allows himself to be drawn along – in truth,

he finds relief for the moment in letting someone else

lead him for a change. It allows a weakness come to

the fore, a passivity that he has always tended to –

except that the world wouldn’t grant it peace. And the

receptivity that the passivity engenders certainly

seems like an exposure – how like a wound it is, a

locus of pain.

They have settled down to a pace comfortable

for both, so that he is now linked in a companionable

way, conscious that he can do his friend this service.

‘The bus usually comes by at about a quarter

past, Oisín. So I thought I’d walk down to meet you,

just in case you might go off the road back at the

O’Neills’ land.’

He waves over in that direction with the stick.

They see that some ponies have come into view,

grazing steadily in the rich pasture.

‘Your neighbour had already taken the trouble

to warn me, Josie.’

The man laughs knowingly, picking up the

irony: ‘Ah, that would be Martin Heanue. Sure that

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man is like a terrier, Oisín, but he means well.’ He

shakes his arm to hold his attention. ‘They say they

are one of the oldest families in the area, do you know

that? They were here when the Conneelys and

O’Flaherties arrived.’

The idea of receptivity as an open wound

intrigues him. He’s aware that an element of

masochism is involved – self-pity as bad conscience

for being forty two when he should be sixty one.

Even so, he also knows that this guilt is acting to

screen a worse feeling – the terrible fear that

something might be seriously wrong in his situation.

It’s only now – as he approaches the final test of

a conviction that has kept him functional through his

adult years – that the possibility that rather than a

straightforward madness, he might be enmeshed

already in an evil.

The man at his side laughs – obviously very

happy to have him as company – and says:

‘Mind you, some of the Heanues claim to be

descended from a Spanish aristocrat who survived the

wreck of the Armada.’ He waggles his arm again as a

way of sharing his humour. ‘Still, there might be

some kind of folk memory in this. The earliest

inhabitants of the country are said to have come from

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the Iberian Peninsula, so it’s not strange to hear them

make a claim like that.’

He would never mention this idea to anyone.

The devil belongs in the same category as fairies and

ghosts – superstitions of the ignorant. Yet the idea of

the seductive spirit woman haunts him. And the idea

appals him. He couldn’t possibly be fooled by such a

being. If he had thought for even an instant that his

experience at the crystal mirror had entailed evil, he

would have drawn back immediately.

He did not want what evil might offer. Not

eternal sex, not complete knowledge, not immortality.

As an ordinary human being, any of those states

would destroy him sooner or later.

The man is pulling him off the roadway to the

right onto a narrow track with a grassy ridge running

down its centre. He is saying:

‘I don’t expect you remember much of this road,

Oisín. We travelled by car before, if you remember.’

He can see the house now not far off, the track

running almost straight up to it. He finds he is

trembling, goose pimples running along his warm

limbs. The man can feel the trembling:

‘What’s the matter, Oisín?’

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The question has a rhetorical ring, the man now

looking at him in a watchful way – as though

expecting this kind of reaction.

He is asking himself – with already a desire for

what should be the answer – if he could have felt so

wholeheartedly for something evil. He just cannot

believe this could be the case. Evil can’t be like that –

it must be other than himself, it must be different in

the way something offered is.

He temporises with a look up at the sky and a

slowly released breath. Then he says evasively – he

cannot admit to thinking about the devil and

temptation:

‘Oh, you know, Josie – it’s been a long time.’

He begins to cry like a child.

The man tightens his grip on his arm and draws

him around to the side of the house. Upset as he is –

that childhood feeling of losing his way

overwhelming him – he still notices the little white

roses in the tall bush by the front door. And it is like a

moment from his childhood – upset at some incident

in the classroom – when he had noticed a little bird on

the window ledge outside and had envied its freedom

with an almost hopeless intensity. All the roses will

be dead in a week, yet they exist briefly with the kind

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of innocence that seems to him just now to be worth

an eternity of human awareness.

He is surprised how consoling this insight is –

he finds himself calming very quickly to a peculiarly

lucid relief, feeling how the earth would be after rain

in the dry season. Even the world around him is very

clear now, the yard to the side of the house so familiar

to him. He looks into the shed – but finds a compact

blue car where once an old tractor had mouldered.

But the gate opening in the wall to the fields is the

same. He crosses and looks through. The sun is

lowering to the north west, light brilliant on the inlet

beyond the fields, the trees in the orchard to the right

sombre. No one works the fields.

‘Your wife not out this fine evening, Josie?’

The man grimaces. ‘Mary died about six years

ago, Oisín.’

He swings about, conscious of barging through

some country etiquette:

‘Oh I’m sorry to hear that, Josie.’

Nothing more he can say that would not betray a

curious indifference that lurks within him. But the

man nods and smiles a flat smile to acknowledge that

any response under the circumstances would be

inadequate.

471

‘I looked out one moment and there she was,

working away. Looked out again a few minutes later

and she was slumped over on the ground. Brain

haemorrhage. She was gone by the time I got down to

her.’

The man’s eyes mist with the kind of

inarticulate pain that moves him deeply.

‘My wife died nearly two years ago. Cancer.’

The man nods, obviously consoled by the

balance of feelings.

‘She had cancer of the womb, but her blood was

poisoned in some way. She died so quickly, you

know.’

He feels himself falling back on the English

impersonality that had maintained him after his wife’s

death. But the man says, looking at the ground:

‘So young, Oisín.’

He is surprised to hear him say this. In fact, he

is startled. He says quickly:

‘She had some tests and they said that she could

survive for several years after treatment. But then the

blood problem came up suddenly. Couldn’t take up

oxygen.’ Now he remembers the man’s comment.

‘She was only forty three, Josie.’

472

The man nods again, eyes still lowered. ‘Well,

Mary was eighty. She had her innings, I suppose.’

He sees his wife speechless in the face of death.

Only her eyes reproached him.

The man says, for the sake of saying something

conclusive, ‘Ah, well.’ He turns about and pushes

open the door into the house.

He thinks even as he looks down the familiar

little corridor, lit suddenly by the slanting sun’s rays:

Ah yes, the house.

And the curtain, deep green exactly as he

remembers it. There is an anti-climax in seeing it

again, and a fundamental disbelief in what he knows

about it through experience.

The man, too, has stopped just beyond the

curtain and is also looking at it. He says with a kindly

smile:

‘It’s still here, Oisín, as you can see. Still hidden

away.’

He takes a deep breath, part emotion and part as

though preparing to do something decisive. He asks:

‘What do you know about it, Josie? You’ve

been living here for years now.’

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The man touches the tip of his nose in a

revealing gesture – whose meaning, unfortunately,

escapes him.

‘Well, Martin Heanue’s father, Michael – when

he was alive – called it shlee djerre an dowinn. Do

you understand that?’

He nods. ‘Something like the way to the end of

the world?’

The man nods. ‘Something like that. But I’ve

always understood that it refers to a place rather than

a path. More like World’s End. I remember a pub in

England with that name.’

He steps back until he comes up against the

jamb of the door leading outside.

‘I don’t understand that, Josie. I mean, I don’t

see the sense in that.’

The man shrugs patiently and looks down with a

sad, enduring expression.

‘That’s what Michael Heanue called it. And if

you went down and asked his son, Martin, he would

tell you the same. That’s how they know it, Oisín.’

He wants to edge back out of the house

altogether. He is frightened but he doesn’t know what

frightens him.

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The man has not moved, still looking at the

floor with his sad expression. But he does say in a

lilting voice:

‘Do I dare disturb the universe?’

He is startled to hear this, annoyed by the

portentous tone as much by the pretentious language.

But the man only smiles with what seems to be

release.

‘T.S. Eliot. I told you years ago to read poetry.

It might have saved you a lot of anguish. That poem

by Eliot, Oisín, is the greatest thing ever written in

modern English.’

Now he is annoyed that the man is made so

happy through his love of poetry. He snaps:

‘I still think it’s about the obvious, Josie. What

counts is what is done, not what is said. To me, a

poem speaks of what has not been done, about a

failure to act.’

And he steps forward again into the corridor on

impulse and at once the word enters his mind:

Transgression.

And then he understands the evil he fears,

seeing it in the fire of his awareness – how the pain

tempts him all the time to avoid it. It’s like crossing a

threshold – to understand that about evil. It indicates

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that the pain is meaningful – why people do such

terrible things to avoid it.

And he crosses the threshold by drawing the

curtain over. The surface of the mirror is reflecting

the glow of the sunlight in the corridor, its surface

textured like a finely woven woollen cloth. But the

surface is itself dark.

The man steps back, swivelling about on the

point of his stick. ‘Ah sure, leave that for now, Oisín.

I’ve made us a bit of dinner, so come you in and have

it with me.’

He does manage to check what he sees as his

stupid disappointment – as though that other world

can’t wait to have him back. When he drops the

curtain and looks up, he finds the man gone from the

hallway. He goes to the first door, but it won’t open

for him. The man calls from the kitchen, and when he

passes in, he sees that the kitchen and the little dining

room have been knocked together into one sizeable

space. The kitchen seems unchanged – after so many

years – but the area with the table and chairs is

cheerfully papered in yellow with raw pine kitchen

cabinets along two of the walls.

‘We did it about fifteen years ago. We

discovered that this was the original kitchen and that

476

the naval officer has split it up because he didn’t want

to eat his breakfast in the kitchen, among the

servants.’

He nods appreciatively. The air is full of the

powerful smell of fried meat, which acts to remind

him how hungry he is.

The man has lain his stick to the side of the

range and is pulling open the oven door. ‘Go you and

sit at the table, Oisín. This is all ready for us.’

And so it is. Large white plates with lamb chops

and a pile of cabbage, then a bowl of boiled potatoes

in their jackets to set between them. Lastly he brings

a carton of milk and fills the glasses for them.

He hasn’t eaten a meal like this for many many

years. It’s enough to take his mind of his troubles.

Peeling still hot potatoes is a challenge – he notice

how the man skims through this preliminary

operations with ease and seemingly no sticky fingers.

The cabbage is muscular, deep green, its goodness

running through him like an elixir. But it is the meat

that prompts him to speak in its praise.

The man smiles, happy to see him back on the

rails again:

‘Reared on Leiter Hill over there behind you.

The real thing, Oisín. The O’Neills still send me a

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weekly ration. Chops now, as you can see, because

I’m on my own here.’

Then they work though the meal in silence.

Once a space is cleared for them, the man gets a

covered pan from the oven and distributes more chops

from it, draining the fat and juices from the pan

evenly over each of their plates. Plenty of potatoes

left, too, to soak up this gravy.

When the edge of their hunger has been blunted,

the man looks up and observes:

‘You made a good go of Bruce Hunter’s old

business, Oisín.’

He makes a moue – a carnal expression under

the circumstances:

‘Well, there were some good men there too,

Josie. Good tradesmen, I mean. Barry Woodbine

married old Bruce’s other daughter. He has the

business now, in fact. Good at his work and wants to

get ahead.’

The man nods, appreciating this. ‘And what

about you, Oisín? You married his eldest.’

‘So I did. Moira. A fine woman. We had two

children, you know.’ He finds his voice is fracturing

as the world of Bedford – English and pragmatic –

clashes with an earlier world, more lenient and

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porous. In reaction, he tends to the impersonality of

the English. ‘The eldest, Sarah, is eighteen. She’s

starting at Sussex University in the Autumn. There’s

a bit of a story here, Josie, that you might like. She

applied first to Cambridge and had to stay overnight

there before a day of tests. She didn’t get in. When I

asked her why, she said Not enough coffee. She drank

her usual cup of tea, while everyone else seems to

have drunk a jug of coffee apiece. Anyway, she

seems to like Sussex. She calls it left-field. I think

that means Hampstead intellectuals. No harm, she’s a

bit of a bluestocking herself. And then there’s Alan.

He sixteen now. I’ve arranged for him to go to a

boarding school near Bristol for his A-levels. People

think he is a bit stupid, but he learns by soaking up

knowledge, so he’ll need more time and space to

absorb the course work.’

He stops with a dart of guilt – talking too much.

The man stops eating long enough to say:

‘Go on, Oisín. I’d like to hear about your

family.’

‘Well, I don’t know what’s going to become of

him, Josie. There’s an aspect of the culture he’s in

that I cannot fully grasp. It’s easier with Sarah, if only

because she herself keeps it at a distance – which I

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can understand. Alan could turn out to have a really

useful life, but then again he could be just another cog

in the machine. I can’t tell.’

‘Does that bother you?’

‘It does for his sake. I would like to think he is

alive to his life – if you know what I mean – than just

dying as though he had never lived. But I can’t do

that for him – make him aware, I mean. Sarah has

always goaded him, but he seems just to absorb

everything she throws at him.’

The talk has made him a little sad. The man

recognises this.

‘We never had any children, Oisín, as I think

you may remember. So Mary’s niece, Molly, came to

be a sort of daughter for us, especially when she had

such a rough time of it at home. But it’s a funny thing

about country people. They have exact ideas about

how their lives should be lived. How they should

have a mother and a father, brothers and sisters, and

how they should grow up and become parents too,

with children of their own. With Molly, her relations

with her family are riddled with failure. Mary and I

came to be substitute parents for her but she could

never be happy with that, because we were not her

real mother and father. Don’t misunderstand this,

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Oisín. The affection was there. I treated her in the

way my father treated me, the way he took an interest

in what I did and supported me all the time. As for

Mary, she would cry each time Molly left to go back

up to Dublin. It was just not the real thing. It hurt me

sometimes to see how she would go and stand right

up beside her father whenever he happened by the

house – in for a minute to get something. Or how she

would help her mother as though nothing had ever

happened – I mean, that they had let her down so

badly.’

He sees that the man has made himself grumpy

and suspects that the truth of his relations to the girl is

more complex. He says in an offhand way, as though

offering a kind of explanation:

‘Didn’t you say something once about the blood

ties that bond these people together. Was she closer to

your wife, Josie?’

The man nods submissively to admit this.

‘Oh, I suppose it was the poetry, Oisín. I was

very proud of her. But her commitment wasn’t very

strong – I don’t think she had the culture for a life of

poetry. I mean, she wrote a truly fine cycle of poems

about the Famine, but she didn’t know what to do

when the silence came. Inspiration is very hard to live

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with and you need to understand what is going on.

You have people who write any old rubbish just to fill

up the gap. They can’t abide the waiting – the

emptiness. I think she expected some kind of fame

would fill the gap. Now she’s just like the rest of her

family, mad to get money any way at all. I thought

she had got beyond the hunger, but she hasn’t.’

The man stands up, raising himself stiffly.

‘Let’s go into the other room. I’ve a fire in

there. We’ll have a drop of whiskey before bed.’

He gets the man’s stick for him, asking as

though having the stick in his hand prompts him:

‘Why the limp, Josie? Can’t it be fixed?’

The man doesn’t want to take the stick, though

he’s leaning on the guard rail of the range for support.

‘It’s the hip again. Had it replaced years ago and

now it’s worn out. Can’t fix it now – I’m too old for

the operation.’ He pushes away from the rail and

steps forward slowly. ‘I’ll be alright in a minute. It

can be very stiff when I stand up. But I can get

around the house without the stick. But what you

could do, Oisín, is get a couple of glasses from that

press over there.’

He gets the glasses and then follows the man out

into the hallway, lit golden now by the setting sun. He

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has a far memory of the room they enter,

remembering especially how the setting sun had

shone brilliantly in through the tall windows then, just

as it does now. The man says:

‘It’s changed a lot since you last saw it. We had

to get rid of the hanging in the hall. The moths had

eaten it all. Maybe you don’t remember that. There

are more books in here now. Sort of accumulated over

the years. I read a lot now.’

The man eases himself into a big old fashioned

armchair of deep brown leather and waves to the

companion chair beside him. The bottle of whiskey

already stands ready on the little table that sits

between the chairs and the fireplace, where a big coal

fire is blazing.

The man pours the whiskey and sits back in

such a way that he can see that this is where he

spends his evenings. A small pile of books – oldish

hardbacks and newer paperbacks – sits on the floor on

the far side of his chair. The shelves that fill the

recesses on either side of the breastwork are filled

pretty completely with books.

With whiskey in the glass in his hand, he

realises he is not looking forward to drinking it. Even

the smell bothers him, his gorge unsettled, a tension

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already across his brow. He knows he is in no temper

for its fiery effect. But the man raises his glass and

takes a good sip. He has to do likewise.

The man looks into the fire:

‘It’s strange how little you can teach people.’

The effect of the whiskey is almost

instantaneous. One moment he is sitting – edgy with

residual shock – and then the next he is as though

shot through with a kind of illumination. The coal

fire, for instance, has a palpable quality, as though a

master painter was drawing the licking flames for his

benefit with consummate skill. And seeing that he can

see how the fire is coming into being for him, he can

understand how easy it is to maintain the chair he sits

in – with its odour of old bull leather and crunch of

horsehair – the darling walls of the ancient house

itself, even the phantasmagoria of the evening outside

that runs exactly to order.

And he thinks then – once the initial charge has

passed – this is how I would have felt here a

thousand, two three thousand, years ago. Then he

wonders how he can be drunk on a mouthful of

whiskey.

He looks over at the man – who still stares

morosely into the fire – and asks:

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‘Did you never try to write poetry, Josie.’

There is a surprising amount of irony in this

question, but behind the irony there is an intense –

and loving – interest that he would never admit to.

The man smiles and he can see that he too has

gone through a kind of charge and is now ready – and

happy – to bask also in its afterglow.

‘Ah, poetry, Oisín. Do you know, man, but

every time I sat down with a pen in my hand all the

poetry I ever read would come crowding into my

brain. No, Oisín, the sad truth is that I have nothing to

say.’

‘Do you not find that strange: to love poetry the

way you do and yet not be able to write it?’

‘Not at all. I don’t think it’s that unusual. I knew

a man once who loved music but loathed the idea of

playing an instrument. He thought it was the most

boring thing he could do.’

The subject seems to die there and so they both

empty their glasses and the man sits forward to refill

them.

Then the man says musingly after they have

sampled their glasses:

‘Still, there’s another thing with poetry, Oisín.

Molly’s work, for instance: the people who liked her

485

poetry never buy poetry, and those that buy it had no

interest in her work.’

He has no answer to that, so he drains his glass.

His gorge has settled but the headache has worsened

– probably due, he thinks, to the glaring light on the

bus journey here. The man, too, seems to have

nothing to add, and he, too, drains his glass. He sits

staring into the empty glass and asks in a low voice:

‘What have you seen here, Oisín?’

Once asked, he realises he has waited a very

long time to hear that question asked. Even among

those completely ignorant of his experience here, he

had lived always in the expectation that he would be

asked this question.

‘To be honest? I saw a woman in a mirror.

That’s all. I remember nothing of the nineteen years I

was away. Something did happen – maybe a lot

happened – but I have no memory of any of it.’ A

bitterness rises in him – which he does not like –

more a self pity, he knows. It’s the failure of Heaven

that creates the longing for Heaven.

He takes it upon himself to reach for the bottle

and pour them some more whiskey. He is almost

drunk – and he knows he will be in a stupor later –

but a defiance drives him.

486

The whiskey tastes awful, a dirty, scrambled

taste. He watches the man sip his whiskey, tipping his

head back carefully. He asks him:

‘Has anyone else ever come here, Josie?’

The man straightens up, stares into the fire and

breaths deeply.

‘A man came once – from Scotland, I think –

but he seemed very disturbed. Mary wouldn’t let him

in. But there is a story from the days of the Naval

Officer. Old Michael Heanue told me. His father,

Martin Mike – the Heanues alternate Michael and

Martin as names for their eldest sons, called Mikey

Martin and Martin Mike in turn.’ The old man smiles

and he smiles too. ‘Anyway, the story is that one day

a young man from over near Dundalk turned up at his

door and asked to be shown the Scathán Geal. So

Martin Mike brings him up here to the house and

explains to the Naval Officer what the young man

wants. The Naval Officer takes the young man into

the house and shows him the mirror. Then he leaves

him there and comes out again and stands chatting

with Martin Mike for a while. When they go back in,

the young man is nowhere to be seen.’ The man

smiles the nearest to an ironic smile he has ever seen.

‘And he was never heard of again.’

487

The thing with whiskey, he is only now

realising, is that after the revulsion and the rattiness, it

leaves you in a state of peculiar lucid delusion. This is

the only way he can account for the feeling of very

strong resentment that has invaded him. He is

appalled that some other man has dared intrude upon

his kingdom, his Princess.

He shakes his head at the word Princess. The

man sees this, watching him acutely:

‘What is it?’

He has intended to cover for himself, but instead

he says in a rush of release:

‘The day my wife went in for her tests – about

two years ago – I saw that lady again.’

Lady? He inwardly cringes, yet his legs are

shaking. If the man makes light of this, he will get up

and walk out of the house. And he is cool enough in

that part of himself to observe that now, at last, he is

truly exposed.

But all the man does is watch him closely – as

though he understands something of what is

happening. He – for his part – cannot resist the urge

any longer:

488

‘It was at what once would have been a holy

well. In Bedfordshire. I wanted to have a pee. She

cried, Josie. All the time.’

And that is it. The tears run from his own eyes.

He puts the glass down on the coffee table – as

though its job was done – and lets the sheer misery of

it flow through him. All the patience, the withholding,

the restraint, the endless watchfulness, the care he

lavished on those he should have loved outright. His

life from the age of twenty passes before him as a

series of ciphers that merely fill up an emptiness he

knows can be filled, but not by anything in the outside

world he encountered day after day. He remembers

his wife looking to him, his daughter and his son, too,

looking to him as though he was an answer for them.

And all the time he knew the truth – but could not tell

them because it was too absurd – that they only

looked to him in order to see something that was

within each of them. He was caught always in a

dilemma with them. He wanted their love and regard,

even though he knew it could not be true.

But this – he knew now – he would have done

for them: had it been possible, he would have brought

each one of them to what they sought, even though

489

this would mean he would lose the love that kept him

reasonable and sane.

He realises he would do it for anybody – if he

knew how.

But you can do it only for yourself.

He snuffs back the mucous in his nose and

wipes his eyes. The man is still watching, lively

interest in his eyes. So he looks him back and says:

‘It was only after that event that I became aware

of the strange images and ideas that seem to float

around in my head. Here’s one, Josie. What do you

think of reincarnation? My wife had some mystical

books about gardening, but one of them was mostly

about rebirth.’

He pauses to let the man speak, but he merely

stares at him as though mesmerised.

‘Well, fine, Josie. With reincarnation comes the

idea of karma. Do you know what karma is? Well, I’ll

tell you. It’s the fact that every action is true, and it is

that truth that judges a human being’s life. Every

action has consequences for the actor. We do what

has been done to us. And here is an image that has

hovered in my mind for years. I’m on a boat and I am

watching a woman playing cards. She is showing me

her hand, which is full of diamonds, but I am really

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looking down at her breasts, which are white and very

soft. It’s not really erotic. In fact, I think the

important detail is the suit of the cards in her hand.

But I don’t understand it.

‘Another idea, Josie. There is something inside

each one of us. If we could connect with it, then

something really significant would happen. I think it

would transform each of us. And the funny thing

about this idea is this: We would become true and the

world outside would become not true. And another

thing: our sensitivity to pain will be increased many

times over and we will not be able to escape this

suffering. Oh, of course we will try. And we will be

so powerful individually that any one of us could

destroy this world in order to end the pain. And we

will hate each other and desire the annihilation of

every other individual, even though we cannot be

destroyed ever. And this will happen, Josie, even

though no one will want it to happen – once they see

what it entails. It cannot not happen.’

The man lowers his head now, as though with

reverence or even dismay. Then he looks up again.

His eyes are rheumy with the whiskey. He says:

‘Good man, Oisín. I knew you’d be the man to

do it.’

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He is very surprised by this response – even as

he is appalled by the paranoia of his vision.

‘Do what, Josie, for God’s sake?’

‘Why did you come back, Oisín? Can you

remember what you said?’

He cannot, but is sure even so that he was

wrong then.

‘No? You said one thing that I well remember.

You said that the map is never true.’

He sits back deep into the armchair and breathes

a long slow breath, feeling something like the clarity

of relief. He knows he will fall into a stupor if he

stops this kind of thinking.

‘Did I? I must have meant something like this,

Josie. What might be called the Wisdom of Heaven is

not true. This universe of change changing changes

the truth constantly.’ He smiles with a wicked gaiety

at the clamour of his words. ‘The Wisdom of Heaven

does not change. So what the Lady in her Other

World told me was irrelevant.’

‘Is that why you left, Oisín?’

‘I don’t know, Josie. Maybe I believed that the

spiritual woman should learn from the carnal man.’

He stands up, taking care that he does not

stagger or fall again. He looks down at the old man –

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his shrunken body lost in the big chair – with a kind

of bitter love, the feeling that affection moves him

even though he knows it is utterly futile.

‘But I don’t think it works like that. I think the

birth – or whatever – of the other being is what it’s all

about. The Lady’s Wisdom is like all knowledge –

locked in the past and left behind by truth.’

The man puts his glass on the table and grips the

arms of the chair. He bends at once and helps him to

his feet, instinctively repulsed by the thinness of the

arm he holds. The man sways, then shakes his head.

‘That was a lot of drink, man.’

He shakes the thin arm. ‘What was needed,

Josie.’

‘So why do you go back?’

‘What else is there? This Lady – as I call her –

is part of me.’

‘Will I have to do it?’

‘I’d say so. In another life, maybe.’

‘And this is some kind of preparation?’

‘It’s a pretty fearsome experience, Josie.’

‘Then God bless you, Oisín.’

493

He’s awake. He wonders why he has such a

thumping headache. He cautions himself against

moving until he has worked this out.

When he remembers, it is as though he is being

tipped down a sluice into some dark depth. The sense

of motion is so real that he tenses against the urge to

puke. He thinks:

Oh my God, what have I done? What kind of

blind stupidity has taken me over?

Now he remembers some of the stupid things he

said to Josie, blind boastful words. He will think I am

mad.

Am I mad?

I have walked away from everything. I have no

wife, no income. My children live in someone else’s

home.

How can I go back from here? What am I to do

in the morning? Go back to Bedford and confess to an

insanity?

I believe in this Lady from Never Never Land. I

thought I would go back there to be with her – like in

the fairy tales.

I’m crying. Oh I am mad, I really am mad. How

could I tell anyone about this madness?

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How do I go about having myself examined?

Go to a doctor and tell him I have this delusion about

a fairy Princess. No, he would say I was grieving for

my wife and give me a course of sedatives, tell me to

take up my life again.

He finds he is willing to sit up now, thinking as

he does about his poor sad wife and that hopeless

expression on her face that last day.

He is sitting on a bed, fully dressed. A door ajar

allows low electric light seep in. He finds that the

headache is augmented by a hangover. Whiskey, he

remembers, hating the dirty whiskey hangover that

permeates his whole body. He thinks he should try to

sleep it off – knowing at the same time that he won’t

be able to sleep, too alert now with anxiety.

I have to do it, he tells himself, which means he

will have to stand up and go to the door – to start

with.

Bracing with his hands, he swivels his body

until his legs hang over the edge of the bed. Then he

simply slides himself forward until his feet touch the

floor. He stands. There is a momentary dizziness –

even a frightening sense of dislocation and unreality –

then it’s like a wiper clears his head. Still the

headache and foul sensation in his stomach, but his

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mind has cleared wonderfully. He tries a few steps

away from the bed, and nothing changes appreciably.

He finds there is a bedside lamp and switches it

on. Thankfully, the light is low. He sees there is a

second door in the room. As he expects, there is a

toilet and shower in here. He sits down and forces an

evacuation – knowing this will relieve his gut – and

pees only fitfully. Then he drinks a lot of the tap

water – regardless of whether it is safe or not – and

washes his face and hands elaborately until his head,

too, feels less oppressed. His back pack is by the bed.

He can comb his hair in the mirror over the hand

basin.

In the mirror, too, he sees himself gaunt around

the eyes, mouth drooping uncharacteristically.

Not ideal for entry into Wonderland, he tells

himself ironically before he can censor himself.

A deep breath and then he nods to his image:

Let’s go, then.

He steps through the other door onto the low-lit

landing and sees the head of the stairs where he

expects it. He’s in the same room as the last time he

was here, nineteen and thirty eight years ago. He’s

surprised for some reason, while he reasons that he

should not be – it’s probably the guest bedroom. On

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the first flight down, he remembers the light that

glowed the last time. This time, too, there is a glow –

but he reaches the return and can see down to the

ground floor just as he realises that the quality of the

light is different this time. More yellow, like electric

light.

And so it is. Josie has thoughtfully left the light

on in the hallway, and it is this that he sees filling the

stairwell.

No light from the crystal mirror – but then, he

thinks, that is because the heavy hanging covers it,

even as he knows that it is not. He lifts the edge of the

curtain.

The mirror is dark and inert.

There is that kind of moment, then, when all

possible knowledge might rush into his head. The

reason why the mirror is dark might be a wonderful

and strange-new reason. This is shock, of course, and

he knows in the next instant that it is dark because he

is being refused admission to where the Lady is.

There is then the floating up of his worst fear –

one he knows now he has harboured for two years,

through all the trauma in his personal earthly life: he

had one chance to return to his Lady and he walked

away from it. He sees himself so vividly walking

497

down through the dusty field to avoid the possibility

that he might step into Heaven.

He wants to hate someone for what has

happened. He cannot hate his dead wife and he cannot

hate his lovely daughter and his quirky son.

And – remarkably – he finds he cannot hate

himself.

Yet the bitterness remains. He thinks that the

Lady herself may have created an impossible

situation for him. Why return to him at the moment of

his greatest crisis? How could she expect him to walk

away from those he loved here on earth? What would

it prove except that he could be disloyal?

He finds he is walking up and down the short

hallway in order to work off his agitation.

What else could be to blame? This is how he

reacts to the awareness of the agitation within himself

– finding causes as a cooling exercise in logic. He

recalls the house from the previous visit and asks

himself what has changed. Instantly the answer comes

to him:

En suite bathroom.

He stops walking as he considers this answer,

momentarily stumped and a bit stupefied by it. Then

of course it comes to him – piping.

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Did they run the piping through the walls?

He lets a yelp and gets out through the side door

into the yard. Not only waste pipes, but the water

pipes have been put through the walls. He runs

around to the front of the house – no piping – then

across the grass to get around the other side, where

the piping to the guest room can be seen.

He is overjoyed. Then he is relieved. Then he is

furious. Then he is heartbroken.

They’ve destroyed it all.

How long has this house stood here – maybe

thousands of years – and its magic broken by a

suburban convenience.

The feeling of hopelessness is like a balm for

him – at least he is not to blame. He has done the

right thing up to now. What he was given to do, he

has done to the best of his ability. He has been true.

Now he can feel resigned – though he knows

that there is an element of evasion in this. In reality,

he is both extremely angry and extremely frustrated,

emotions that seem to alternate rapidly within him.

And he soon realises that there is evasion here too. He

knows he wants someone or something to blame, to

allow him feel sorry for himself, hard done by.

499

He pushes through the bushes edging the garden

and finds himself out on the roadway. He is surprised

to find the world about him very bright. A near-full

Moon hangs close to zenith high in the sky. The

roadway glints in the light, running away through the

mottled land until it vanishes into the shadow of a

hollow.

He knows what ails him, the real condition

familiar to him. He is unworthy, finally found

wanting. He sees that circumstances have been

contrived to show him this. He was once offered the

truth about himself and in its place he has settled for

substitutes, from a phantom Princess to a model

subservient family. It consoles him greatly to be able

at last to admit this. He feels as though he is laying

down a great burden.

He wants to walk so that he can dwell through

the night on this consolation. He sets off, but within

minutes realises that the man in the cap will probably

accost him again. He does not want to meet another

man – he fears that would break the spell of the mood

he is in. So he turns about and walks back past the

house and heads off in that direction. The Moon lights

his way, shining forward over his right shoulder, the

500

road running ahead until it rounds the low rise that

forms a near horizon.

He settles to a steady walk. He intends

savouring the consolation, but finds instead he is

thinking about the Moon, how one evening as a

teenager he grasped its astronomy and how that

changed his outlook on life.

He had been walking along the canal one

evening in the autumn, on his way home from

somewhere. The canal runs east west, and he found

that while the Sun was setting towards the west end,

the Moon was rising full at the east end. And he had

asked himself this simple questions: Why does the

full Moon always rise in the evening? He had seen the

Moon in various stages late at night and even during

daylight, but always the full Moon rose in the evening

– as the Sun was setting. And there was the answer

for him and in minutes he had worked out the whole

pattern of the Moon’s appearances – why the new

Moon follows the Sun down in the evening, why it

appears at various stages at particular times of day

and night.

But the radical change to his outlook only

occurred later that evening. He realised that any

halfway bright person could have worked out the

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astronomy of the Moon in the way he did. He could

also see that the Earth was round, that the Sun was

further from the Earth than the Moon, even though

they seemed to be the same size.

Anybody could have understood that at anytime

in the history of mankind – it didn’t need revolutions

in thought or complex scientific or scholastic

apparatus to discover it.

The radical insight: Anyone could understand

anything if they bothered to look and learn. That is,

anyone could learn the truth if he wanted to.

He finds he is standing on a ridge of sand,

moonlight shining on the rocks that lead down to the

glistening ocean. He feels wonderfully lightened,

even happy. He has learned the truth – of this he is

now convinced – even if this truth spells failure for

him.

And yet…

He cannot accept the failure. He will not believe

it. He will not live it.

The rocks might be slick with sea moss but he

doesn’t care. The moonlight is intense but poorly

focused, so that the detail of the rock underfoot is

unclear. The ocean is quiet tonight, only a swell that

spends itself with a swish on the rocky shore. But

502

how the smooth water glistens – like an enormous

gem – the light flickering on a myriad of wavelets as

the swell rebounds from the shore against the

incoming surges.

He reaches the ocean’s edge and can stand

looking down into the dark water. The invitation is so

great that every disappointment and rejection rises in

him in a huge desire for annihilation – how

profoundly the conviction of his own essential

wholeness rules him.

His last act is to bless himself, making sure to

press the palms of his hands together afterwards.

Falling, he remembers he must breath in once he

has broached the surface.

503

504

‘Listen, dear heart, to what I say. I am pregnant.

I grow bigger and bigger until I give birth to a

rhinoceros. It is a full grown male rhinoceros. It is

very frightened and runs away in among the traffic.

The first truck it collides with leaves it stunned,

wandering in a tight circle across the eight lane

highway. There is traffic chaos. Horns and klaxons

are sounded, drivers leaning down to berate the

unfortunate animal. Now it has recovered and has

started to trot away from the melee along the empty

lanes that lead into the city. The drivers in the

jammed outward bound lanes know it is the cause of

the mess and they blow their horns and shout insults

at the poor beast as it trots by. Now it is running past

the end of the tailback and can escape the endless

stream of abuse. It runs along quietly for a time, the

great highway curving in a long shallow arc as it

approaches the city. Already there are the clustered

houses of the outer suburbs. Then a monstrous

articulated truck comes hurtling out from the city,

spinning along in the fast lane with no other traffic in

sight. The rhinoceros swerves across the lanes –

picking up speed all the time – and then across the

grassy separator. When it is about a hundred metres

from the approaching truck, it lowers its head – so

505

that its horns are set in attack mode – and charges

right into the truck. The crash is tremendous, the

truck stopped almost in its tracks. The driver is

thrown forward through the windscreen with such

force that his head is squashed right back into his

body. Dead, he dangles down from the shattered

windscreen, hanging in such a way that the chromed

logo of the truck maker takes the place of his head.

‘I am pregnant again. I wait patiently until I

give birth to four little eggs. They look like pearls,

except that the surface is more brittle, with a high

finish like shellac rather than the soft translucence of

pearl. I plant these eggs in a woodland compost.

Again I wait patiently. In time four little leaves push

up through the soil. They are vigorous growths and

soon there are four young plants in a row, glossy

leaves opening like little hands to greet the Sun. I

water the plants to encourage their growth. I am

rewarded one day when instead of another pair of

leaves, each plant produces what can only be a bud.

These buds swell in size under the hot Sun and in

time the calyx unfolds itself to reveal a glossy red

corolla – still tightly packed – in each. It is with

pleasure that I watch the flower unfold itself, brilliant

red petals, long stamens reaching up above the plant

506

and the modest pistil that remains retired at the centre.

We must wait now until the butterfly comes to

fertilize each flower. Afterwards the growth of the

fruit is swift – a soft fruit like the apricot in size and

colour, though the skin itself is very delicate. At a

given stage of their maturation, each fruit falls to the

ground and lies there ripening in the Sun. And,

strangely perhaps, each fruit continues to grow even

as it ripens – until it comes to the point where the skin

breaks under the pressure of this growth, to expose a

little being folded tightly upon itself. It is now the

task of the Sun to coax each little being to unfold –

until four little beings lie spread out on the ground,

each by the side of the plant that had brought it to

existence – but which is now in an advanced state of

decay. Then the little beings are on their feet and they

come to stand in line before me. They are only about

six inches tall, slender and graceful, skin red because

of the Sun. There are three Pixies and one Fairy,

whose wings have already been arrayed for flight.

They have no words for me – for they cannot speak –

but each bows its little head as a mark of respect.

Then the Fairy lifts up into the sky and the three

Pixies hold hands and set off together towards the

Forest. I watch them go – walking across the grass

507

and entering the darkness under the great trees. I

watch the spot where they disappeared long after they

have gone. And when I finally look up into the sky, it

is to find that the Fairy has also disappeared from

view, lost among the big fluffy clouds that hover over

the Forest.

‘I am pregnant again. This pregnancy makes me

hot and dry, so that I must go and lie in the sea. I

dream too much, too, which leads me to think that

perhaps I bear a monster this time. The beast I dream

of is red skinned and impatient, circling endlessly out

on a dark plane. Then the day comes when I give

birth, my new offspring seeming at ease in the sea. It

is a little manikin, only knee-high to me, and I find

that I am unhappy with its size. It is a comical looking

little man – big bulbous nose and tiny round eyes, a

mouth that looks like a swollen anus, and matchstick

limbs with bulbous joints. It has a long thin penis but

no scrotum. It salutes me cheerily when it first sees

me and waits then to see how I will respond. My heart

goes out to it – there is no creature more lonely than

this funny little fellow. It is ugly, feeble, impotent and

yet it seems happy. I bow my head to it and smile the

smile of the mother who sees something of herself in

her unsightly child. But it is happy with my

508

acknowledgement and answers me with a courteous

bow, which is achieved with remarkable grace –

given the creature’s ridiculous construction. Then it

turns away and begins to walk across the floor of the

sea. Its gait is very curious. Placing a foot forward, it

will pause while some adjustments are made within

the knee and ankle joints of that limb. Then it will

bend its torso forward until the strain is taken off the

hindmost limb, which is then brought forward to join

its mate. Another pause ensues while the joint of this

limb are adjusted. I hear no sound during this process,

but I imagine a repeated sequence of sounds, a tick-

tock followed by click-clack. So the strange creature

makes its way across the floor of this sea – tick-tock,

click-clack; tick-tock, click-clack – avoiding the

larger rocks and the big thick starfish that inhabit this

region. Fish sometimes comes up close, curious, and

sometimes even nudge up again him. He pays them

no heed, but I see him saluting particular fish from

time to time – though I cannot see why he

acknowledges some fish and not others. At one point,

a large angry looking crab comes scuttling across his

path. It seemed at first that the crab does not notice

him – its beady eyes on their stalks trained on some

distant point along the crab’s trajectory. But then –

509

through some flicker of movement at the corner of its

vision or perhaps even some sound apparent to it as a

denizen of the ocean – it becomes aware of my

labouring little fellow. It stops and turns about pretty

niftily to block the manikin’s path, its large claws

raised and opening and shutting menacingly. Well,

the little fellow sees the crab and what does he do?

Without the slightest pause it diverts its path so that it

will pass the crab behind its trajectory. Isn’t that

clever? How does it know that the crab will not go

back on its tracks? But that it what happens. The

crabs shifts around so as to keep the little fellow in

sight – its big red claws clicking and clacking noisily

in the water above them both – but makes no attempt

to go nearer to him. And then he is clear of the danger

and can continue on his way, tick-tock, click-clack;

tick-tock, click-clack – on and on across the ocean

floor. Until, that is, he comes to a deep chasm that

straddles his path and which runs away to the far

horizons on either side. What will my manikin do? It

just stops at the edge – right at the very edge of the

sheer side – and looks over the short distance to the

far side. It is swaying very slightly, so I know that it

is struggling with the impulse to keep on walking,

even though that would send him over the edge into

510

the abyss. At one stage it is obliged to turn to its left

and walk for a while along the edge of the chasm –

until the force of the impulse abates. Then he turns

back towards the chasm and just stands there, gazing

as before over to the other side of the gap, where the

ocean floor resumes. What can he do? I can do

nothing and I cannot see what my poor little child can

do. Suddenly, it tilts its bald round head back and

opens its repulsive mouth wide. Bubbles are released

– all the bubbles of the same size, like golf balls – and

they float up and up through the water. I follow them

up with my eyes and see then that they will surface

just where the water of the ocean is brightest. The

pitiful little being just stands there releasing this

steady stream of bubbles, and they rise up in a line

towards the Sun.

‘Again I report that I am pregnant. It is dark

where I am, totally dark, no light whatsoever. I come

to term and I give birth. I cannot see my offspring,

though I can hear it moving about. It seems to drag

itself along – perhaps it has not use of its limbs yet. I

consider searching for the creature – to find out what

kind of being it is – but I fear I might injury it. It

might be very small. I decide to call to it, a low cry

that should not frighten it. Immediately, all sound of

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movement ceases. I strain to hear an answering call –

but I can hear nothing. Should I call again? The fact

that it stopped moving when I last called indicates

that it can hear. I am uncertain, even so. What if my

calls disturb it? What if it becomes frightened? What

could I do then for it? I decide I will wait until it

moves again before deciding what to do. It is so very

dark here. And so still. I cannot even determine the

nature of the ground I stand on, if it is rock or just dry

soil. It is the stillness that I dislike. No sound

whatsoever, not even the merest wind to ruffle the air.

Yet it is not cold, though it is not very warm either. I

want to call out again. I want very much to do this. I

want to call out very loudly – as loud as I can. Is there

no one here at all, other than myself and what I have

given birth to? I will wait – as I have decided – until

it makes another movement. Ah. I have detected the

faintest light off in the distance. There is what seems

to be a low arc of dull light at what must be the

horizon. It moves very slowly – but it moves! The arc

rises from the horizon, growing wider as it goes. Is

this the sunrise of the place I am in? The arc

continues to rise, growing wider again. But no greater

light appears. The rim of the arc merely glimmers.

Ah, now the arc begins to narrow. I am watching an

512

orb rise. I think I may be witnessing an eclipse.

Perhaps the Sun is far off and Moon very close. Or

perhaps the Moon is very big. Now the Moon – or

whatever it is – has cleared the horizon. Its blackness

is the blackness of the surrounding space and of the

land I stand on. There is only this dull dull ring of

weak light to define it. And what is worse, this light

does not reflect down here at all, not even the

slightest stray gleam. Oh I can see nothing with it.

Should I call out? But I hear no sound. Perhaps the

little being is looking up at the Dark Moon in the

hope that it will be able to see – but see what? It

would have come to me at my call – and it didn’t.

Why would it come now if I called out again? Wait. I

will wait. This Moon body seems to rise very rapidly

– already it is close to its zenith. It must be very close

to the body on which I stand. And yet the light grows

no stronger, only the same hazy ring in the otherwise

featureless darkness. There is no eclipse. If there is a

Sun behind this Moon, then it tracks with it. A strange

occlusion. Is it malignant? Yet I think of the other

side of that Moon, of the sunlight that shines there

even now. Why am I not there? Why am I here in this

dreary place? Why should I produce an offspring

here? Is this its home? Can it survive here, in this

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dark silence? It will have only this glimmering ring

for comfort? I will call out. I cannot wait until it

moves again. Perhaps it is sunk in despair already,

learning what kind of Hell it finds itself in. And the

Moon has begun its decline, passing out of my sight

as it descends to its other horizon, away behind me. I

will call out. But if I do, when will I stop calling out?

No, I must wait until the creature moves again. I will

rest my eyes once more on the unbroken darkness

before me and concentrate again upon my hearing. I

will wait for its sound. Perhaps it will move again and

I will hear the slither of its flesh over the ground, or

perhaps it might even utter a low cry of reply.

Perhaps the return of the total night will prompt it to

seek the comfort of its mother. I will wait. I will

wait.’

514

‘Listen, dear heart, to what I say. It is called the

Carbonite Track, though it is composed mainly of

cinders from the coking plants down in the valley.

The Track rises up through the forests of Azure –

that’s the mountain range to the south of the mining

region of Bikell. I was reluctant to come here, and

was only persuaded to do so when Agatha agreed to

join the expedition. We are now four days on the

Track and yet we are still in sight of the terrible

penumbra that envelopes the whole coastal end of the

Azure range – which rises of course from the vast

industrial complexes that surround the city of

Abegone. I’m told that it is the mule that is to blame

for this slow progress. Apparently it is extremely

temperamental. It will stop in its tracks for no obvious

reason and nothing will persuade it to move until it

decides – for its own good reasons – to do so. It has

even bitten one of the Guides, though not too

severely. John has remarked that they should have

hired porters instead of using this animal. Human

carriers will better negotiate the Junkers. I assume

that the organizers of the expedition would have

known this, so they must have had a good reason for

selecting a beast of burden. Otto tells me that the

mule was chosen because it is better able to carry

515

some of the equipment, one piece of which is over six

feet long. I have no opinion in this matter – it being

outside my expertise – and I accept the judgement of

those who are expert in this field. But of course I will

not be affected one way or the other if they have

chosen badly, and I offered only the observation that

perhaps a more appropriate animal might have been

selected. Sergei thinks I am being wry after the event,

but not so: there is no trained muleteer included in the

expedition team, is there? These men of science

assume that an animal – as a creature of instincts –

will as it were go by itself. They will fuss over their

instruments, yet believe that a mule might not stand in

need of a similar care. It’s Aaron who answers me –

tolerant in his self-assurance – telling me that they are

concerned only with means. I must accept this,

knowing he poses the question of who would care for

them – who set up these expeditions – in the absence

of such a love. Yet, though I speak of delayed

progress – we should be through the Bartley Pass by

now and out on the Basin – we have at least climbed

above the woodlands, with their heavy atmosphere

and noxious insects. This evening we are camped out

on the first shoulder amid the flowering heather,

glorious views for us north and east into the vastness

516

of the Pinkerson Ranges that occupy much of the

interior of the island. The men are enthused by these

views, enthralled by the mysteries they might contain

– even though few of them will ever be allowed to

venture that far. They have only one objective on this

expedition, to collect the eggs of the Sammumbari

Bird, and to return them safely to Nicozo Base. For

that, they need only traverse the Bartley Pass and

enter the Basin. The Sammumbari Bird is found only

in that area, so there will be no reason to go further

than the Basin. This evening, however, there is a

change of atmosphere among the men, no doubt

because we have at last entered the ambience of the

mountain regions. The air is definitely cleaner, no

odours or other taints, and even the ground has a

simple quality, bogland dry this time of year, with

only the hardy heather plants eking a living from it.

Insects are few – a black beetle and a small red spider

are all that I have seen so far – with only a fretful

little bird to share the landscape with the ravens.

Roland argues that the presence of the ravens

indicates that some kind of animal life must be found

here. He posits a small rodent that feeds on the

insects. Even allowing this, life is sparse up here,

spread out thinly and so easily comprehended. Now

517

the sun is setting behind us – out over the ocean,

though we cannot see this – and we settle down in our

sleeping bags and await the truly marvellous

spectacle that this planet affords. The planetary

system here is complex. For some reason still not

understood by our astronomers, the few planets of the

system are bunched together in eccentric orbits in

such a way that, though for at least a half of their year

they are within their Sun’s comfort zone, for the

remainder they are either too far from or too close to

the Sun. Thus while each planet has equinoctial

periods of intense life, it also has winter and summer

periods of such extremes that all life is destroyed.

Luckily – from our perspective, at least, the orbits of

these planets are quite long – so that the periods of

life are of such a length that whole life cycles are

possible between the periods of destruction, once by

fire and then by ice. What has surprised the scientific

community is the ordinariness of the life forms that

exist under such strange conditions. The only unusual

feature is the great speed at which everything grows.

It is possible here to sit and watch not only the grass

grow, but to see day by day an oak tree sprout from

its acorn and become a giant mature plant complete

with the next life cycle’s acorns already ripened

518

within a matter of weeks. Even the animals grow at

phenomenal rates – but here such accelerated growth

induces quite hideous agonies for the creatures. The

woodlands are unbearable during the early growth

stage because of the shrill screams and roars of agony

that fill them. In fact, the whole life cycle of every

animal is nothing more than an unending experience

of the most savage pain, pains of growth to start with,

then the pains of rapid generation as they swell up

within days with burgeoning young. As for the

earliest stage of the life of the next generation, it is

spent in a paroxysm of anxiety and panic as they dig

shelters for themselves against the coming

devastation, driven on relentlessly by their already

worn out parents. These tiny creatures cannot rest or

sleep – they must even drink their mother’s milk on

the fly as they scrape into the soil with their

prematurely tough little claws – each knowing that

rest will come only when it is secure in its little

burrow, buried against the heat or the cold by its

grieving parents. It’s a spectacle hard to conceive,

how each generation dies away in the encroaching

heat or cold, comforted only by the knowledge that its

young will survive – only for their offspring to endure

in their turn the appalling suffering their parents had

519

just undergone. And it is strange to discover amid all

this awfulness that these planets in their hectic orbits

can create so much sublime beauty. Hector was the

first to map the periods of the planets – ah no,

apparently not – he merely prepared the data for

presentation. It was Burganov – yes? – Sergei

Burganov who first set out to make sense of what

appeared to be the chaos of the dancing lights in the

sky here. He discovered, to start with, that there are

seven planets in orbit about the Sun. Each has an

eccentric orbit, though the degree of eccentricity

varies among them. What Burganov did to start with

was to take a kind of snapshot of the disposition of all

the planets in relation to the Sun at a given moment.

To do this he designated the planet which at that

moment happened to be closest to its equinox – which

happened to be the very planet we are now on – as

Planet 04, that is the middle planet of a series that

runs from Planet 01 to Planet 07. The planet furthest

from the Sun at that moment he designated Planet 01,

and then listed each planet successively by reference

to its relative distance from the Sun, so that the planet

closest to the Sun on that occasion was named Planet

07. Then followed a period in which he mapped the

movements of the individual planets until he arrived

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at a track of the complete orbit of each. It is at this

stage that the great wonder of this planetary system

became evident. Because of the extreme variations in

the climates of the planets, all the installations must

needs be buried deep underground. This meant that

little or no notice was taken of the celestial

phenomena peculiar to this solar system. Only when

Burganov and his teams undertook the detailed study

of the planets did it become apparent that some of

them come to glow like enormous jewels at specific

stages of their orbits. The planets involved are Planets

01, 03 and 06. Planet 01 glows a brilliant liquid

crimson red when in the vicinity of the Sun, thus

appearing like a Ruby gem in the night sky for weeks

on end. Planet 03 too glows at its perigee, but this

time the colour is a clear shimmering violet, which

brings it to resemble an Amethyst stone. The case of

Planet 06 is different. For some reason as yet

unknown it begins to emit an intense green light when

furthest from the Sun, so that it resembles a vivid

Emerald jewel – it’s one of the largest planets in the

system – in the dark sky. These displays vary a great

deal, sometimes there is nothing to be seen, then one

or other of the jewels will appear and linger for

weeks. However, our visit here has coincided with a

521

very rare phenomenon, when both Planets 01 and 03

are in the vicinity of the Sun at the same time, so that

their Ruby and Amethyst aspects can be seen

simultaneously. Unfortunately, the peak display

occurred the night of our arrival, and it is only tonight

that the team is in a position to see the jewelled

planets for themselves. The display is somewhat

degraded from its peak, but we will still see both

planets in the evening sky and on after sunset for

about an hour. Planet 01 will be less brilliant than at

the peak of the spectacle as it is entering occlusion

behind the Sun. Anticipation of the coming display

has loosened the tight discipline of these scientists

and they are speculating openly on the significance of

this unusual solar system. It is Winegreen who raises

the question of pattern. The system has not been

studied long enough to develop a reliable model of

the full range of the interactions between the planets.

The present display was initially observed

empirically, after which a simple projection showed

that the phenomenon occurs every six and one third –

almost precisely – years. The precision of this figure

has fuelled a lot of speculation, though of course it is

publicly dismissed as a coincidence. The Emerald

phenomenon has been witnessed only once so far –

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Planet 06’s orbit is still not fully understood, with

some theories suggesting that the planet’s movement

is being modified in some as yet unknown way,

perhaps by the other planets. The question for

Winegreen and the other mystics here is this: What

would be the significance of these enjewelled planets

and their relations with each other? For instance, what

would it mean if all three planets were to appear in

the sky together? Would they form a visible pattern?

Would the period of the repeat of the pattern be a

significant number? It is obvious that it is the

phenomena themselves that engender this state of

mind in the scientists. But what has stimulated this

tendency to mystical speculation are the very real

questions that surround the existence of the

Sammumbari Bird itself. For instance, the

Sammumbari Bird has only been observed in flight,

never at rest on the ground. Only one Sammumbari

Bird is ever seen at any time. The Sammumbari Bird

is found only in the region of the Basin. The Basin is

a huge natural phenomenon, the existence of which

has not yet been explained satisfactorily. It is a

shallow basin, about one hundred kilometres in

diameter, composed of a single slab of metaphoric

rock – an almost unheard of geological feature and

523

thought by some simply impossible on mechanical

grounds alone. The Basin is scoured by fantastically

powerful winds during the planet’s solstices – a

result, it is believed, of the configuration of the

mountain ranges that surround it. The Basin is thus

devoid of soil, water and any evidence of life

whatsoever, a wide expanse in effect of utterly

denuded rock. So it is a mystery how the

Sammumbari Bird can survive in such an extremely

hostile environment, let alone breed under the hectic

conditions experienced by the other life forms on the

planet. Thus this expedition, which is intended to

answer one basic question that in turn should provide

clues to the remaining questions: How does the

Sammumbari Bird manage to breed under these

hostile conditions? The assumption that the

Sammumbari Bird breeds has to be made, though of

course there is absolutely no evidence so far that it

does. No other assumption can be made, can it?

Actually, there is at least one alternative theory.

Bergson, if only to stimulate discussion, has

suggested that perhaps the Sammumbari Bird is a

long lived creature, such that it may not yet have

reached the breeding stage of its life cycle. The

proposal is treated as an absurdity – the questions,

524

How does the Sammumbari Bird survive the

solstices? for example, or Where is its breeding

partner? need to be answered here – and generally

passed over in silence. But there is one further

curiosity about the Sammumbari Bird. Attempts have

been made to tag the creature – to prove, at least, that

it is the same bird that they witness during successive

equinoctial periods. Finding that the Sammumbari

Bird does not alight at any time, attempts were made

to mark its tail feathers from the air. Several craft

were used in an attempt to box in the bird, but it

seems the Sammumbari Bird can change the

configuration of its wings at very short notice. In the

report of the encounter, it is claimed the the

Sammumbari Bird changed from being a large white

eagle-like creature with an abnormally wide wingspan

to come to resemble a large seabird with the powerful

gliding wings of an albatross – which it used then to

evade the encroaching craft over a period of many

hours. Ah, the light is fading now as the Sun sets and

the first glimmer of Planet 03 is coming into view, its

amethyst glow coming as though from nowhere. Now

the appearance of Planet 01’s ruby light is awaited –

though somewhat reduced. And here it is now, again

suddenly coming into view in the golden evening sky

525

as though springing from nowhere, its tremendous

crimson flash like a spurt of blood. The team is so

impressed by this display that they break into

spontaneous applause, one or two whistling loudly –

as though they were witnessing a performance

mounted just for their diversion.’

526

‘Listen, dear heart, to what I say. I see a

photograph on a wall of a man and a woman. They

are young. Both have the nervous intensity of the

newly wed. The room itself is small and crowded

with old furniture, a battered suite of a sofa and two

armchairs – the fabric covering badly frayed

especially along the arm rests – a small table under

the window with plain wooden chairs at either end,

and an old fashioned china cabinet, now filled with

dozens of porcelain figurines. The walls are papered –

a trellis pattern with little red roses entwining it –

darkened by damp under the window and in the

corner near the door. The carpet was once a warm

pink but this has now faded to an indifferent grey. An

old man sits in one of the armchairs, facing into what

once would have been the fireplace, but which now is

the site of a ramshackle electric fire – the kind with

artificial coals – a narrow mantelshelf above it, which

bears photographs of children and young adults. The

man is reading a book, a thin book of yellowed paper

with a bedraggled card cover. I find I am in an

awkward position in a corner of the room, stuck

between the sofa along one wall and the cabinet along

the other. I fear I will jar one of them when I move

and this will draw attention to my presence here. I

527

move and I jar against the china cabinet. There is only

a slight rattle among the figurines. The old man seems

not to hear. I am relieved – I do have a sense of

intrusion here. It is an intensely personal room, worn

into its present shape through long years of ordinary

living. I cross the room and sit in the other arm chair,

which is situated on the other side of what would

have been the fireplace and set at an angle to the chair

the old man sits in. I can imagine this couple sitting

companionable side by side here in front of a coal

fire, then later before the electric fire and its plastic

coals. The old man looks up and says to me: “You’ve

come again, Martha. I don’t know if it makes me

happier to have you here with me like this or sadder. I

know you are there but I cannot see you. I talk to you

but you cannot answer. Sometimes, my dear, I just go

to bed afterwards and lie looking at the dark ceiling

and not feel anything at all.” The old man falls silent

and just sits there looking towards me – not at me, of

course, because he cannot see me. He looks down at

the book now lying flat in his lap, then he looks up

again. I can see that he had been a very good looking

man and what some would call a romancer – the sort

of man who buys flowers and who thinks charm is the

same thing as love. His wife must have been

528

susceptible to this kind of flattery, though I suspect

she found it as good a way as any of getting her man

under control. Would he have been a good lover?

What they call a porker, I think, up for it most nights

– but only in bed and after dark. His wife would have

been expected to take it – after all that is why he

flattered her so assiduously. He knew, at least, how a

woman can confuse devotion and attention. Has he

ever struck her? Of course not – not even a cross

word. And the wife, had she ever offered him a sharp

word, sarcasm? Of course not. Both knew they were

handling dynamite – as they say – and both wore kid

gloves – as they say – for that purpose. There was one

occasion when they almost lost control of their

relationship. The time was about nineteen fifty six.

They were on holiday in Cairo, having just completed

a nine day cruise on the Nile. Both were exhausted,

the heat and the flies, the jabbering natives, all the

forced wonderment. That evening, sitting on the edge

of the bed in their hotel room, she had said – her

preparations for dinner downstairs completed: “Jim,

for once could we not just have dinner brought up

here?” He was in the process of knotting the tie about

his neck. He glanced at her reflection in the mirror

before him and saw her sitting there, still pretty in the

529

creamy lace dress she had bought that day in a market

in the city. And he thought with a hitherto never

experienced rush of lust: I could kill her, tear her to

pieces with my bare hands. He shivered for most of

the evening afterwards. After that, though he would

enter her quite easily in their customary love-making,

he lived in terror of ever touching her genitals, afraid

what his hands might do to the delicate fabric of her

vulva. And in time, he had even to avoid touching her

breasts – which he had always done sparingly as she

seemed uncomfortable with the direct contact – for

fear he might try to wrench them away from her

chest. The unfortunate man was never in a situation

that allowed him step outside this peculiar obsession.

He just never stopped thinking about tearing his wife

to pieces. Unfortunately, also, he never got beyond

this obsession either. He never thought to ask himself

why he wanted to do what he felt strongly tempted to

do. He didn’t want to murder his wife – he just

wanted to tear her apart. Well, he did try to find a

solution once. In nineteen sixty six he came upon a

telephone number in a phone box during a weekend

break in a seaside resort. He rang the number and the

woman who answered asked him when he wanted to

come. He said he wanted to come at once, that

530

evening. She gave him an address and said, “You just

pop around when you’re ready, pet.” So he walked

the short distance to the little house and the woman

came and let him in. He was very nervous and self-

conscious. The woman noticed this – she was a

decent sort, even motherly in her tough way – and she

invited him into the kitchen for a cup of tea. It was

obvious to her that he had not come for sex, so she

got him talking until he finally blurted out his terrible

secret. Her advice – given pretty directly – was that

he should make a game of it with his wife. She

pointed out that he had been doing the same thing for

nearly twenty years already, with a good chance of

doing it for another twenty years. The only way to

relieve the boredom, she explained, was by turning it

into a sort of game. She suggested role-playing, like

being a gangster or a rapist, a bully or a priest.

Though he agreed to pay her fifty pounds for her

time, he left that little house filled with the most

abasing sense of his own filthy nature. He came to

hate his own penis, reviled by how it would grow

erect in proximity to his wife’s body in bed, how it

would draw him to pull up her nightdress and lie upon

her – so that it could push up into her and then beat

into her until the tension in it was eased. But the truly

531

horrible aspect of this change in how he viewed

himself was how his wife’s attitude to him also

changed. There was the first night that she embraced

him during the sex act – even as his vile penis did its

ghastly work in her. Then the night when a moan

escaped from her lips and her body shuddered under

his. It is true that he no longer thought very much

about tearing his wife to pieces – he was too filled

with the horror of what his sexual member was doing

to her. The final straw for him was the night when his

wife thanked him afterwards. He went into a frenzy of

self-loathing. He jumped out of bed – heedless that

the trousers of his pyjamas were down around his

ankles – and told his wife of his wretchedness and

self-hatred. She of course was very frightened at first

of his disturbed state. Then she became very worried

when he began to talk of doing something about the

terrible lust that forced him to demean her every

night. She talked to him about nature and the purpose

of marriage, about the sanctity of the marriage bed

and the conjugal service. He quietened slowly as he

listened to her, sobered by her talk about marriage

and service, until he reached the point were he found

himself filled with a deep gratitude to her. He made

tea and told her about this gratitude, moved

532

profoundly by what he saw was her self sacrifice to

his man-nature. Buoyed up by the strong tea, he tried

to comfort her by telling her in some detail how he

truly felt about her and how he understand the

relationship between them. He tried to explain to her

how the real relation between them lay elsewhere

than in his terrible lust and her denigration. The first

moment he saw her, he confided to her, he saw what

he believed was a pathway that they would walk

together for the rest of their lives. It wasn’t a real

pathway, he was quick to reassure her, but it

symbolised how their relationship was founded on a

companionship that was greater than the mere fact of

their being alive. As he put it to her in a moment of

exaltation: “You were born with me and you will die

with me.” His wife of course was very disappointed

to hear all this wild talk. However, her instinct was to

humour him in the knowledge he needed to ventilate

like this from time to time. She just sat there in the

bed, propped up by the pillows, drinking the tea and

nodding as though in understanding and sympathy.

But then – in confessional full flight – he told her

about his obsession with tearing her to pieces. He was

quick to reassure her here that he was not talking

about killing her or anything like that. It frightened

533

his wife to hear about this, and the openness she had

come to feel in herself suddenly seemed more like a

vulnerability. He was surprised to see her fear. He

tried to explain that he had successfully resisted this

urge for many years, so that she had nothing to fear

from him in that way. He vowed loudly that he would

never willingly hurt her. Yet the fact that he had

harboured this insane desire at all stunned her. She

had not understood that the apparent timidity of his

lovemaking in the early years had been part of what

would seem now to have been a mighty struggle

within him to save her from this insanity. And the

strange thing is this: that as he tried to placate her

terror of him, he caught a glimpse of what he had

really wanted to do. He said to her – as though in

complete explanation: “I could never kill you, my

love.” It terrified her to hear this and it surprised him

at the same time that she had not already realised this

for herself.’

534

‘Listen, dear heart, to what I have to tell you.

God, who sits on my left, says in his mighty voice:

“Take ye lest ye be taken!” The assembled multitude

prostrate themselves immediately. And God says

then: “Forasmuch as ye have sinned so the sinning be

held against ye!” And the assembled multitude

prostrate themselves again, this time wailing loudly as

they do. And then they rise up onto their knees and

lift their arms above their heads and cry out mighty

Hosannas. And even the stars round about come to be

moved by this mighty wave of adulation, for they can

be seen to dance in the heavens, the greatest

luminaries as much as the merest sparkle. And the

very angels themselves – great as the Cherubim or as

least as the Messengers – are also moved mightily by

these displays of devotion to the God of All. And

finally, I stand up and raise my arms and shout: “All

praise this Great God of us!” And in the clearing

thereafter – when the cries have reduced to sighs – I

walk among the trees and dwell upon the Wisdom as

it once stood for all to see in its purity. Call them rank

weeds, sordid dealings, insincerity or ignorance, but

how has such a contamination come to pass? Even as

God cries out after the manner of his nature, even He

can only voice his mystification, holding sin up to sin

535

as though reflection is sufficient. And he tells me:

“Wisdom is the Rod of Wrath. Wisdom is the river

bed of a rational water, and all things measured

according to their natures. Take heed of this and be

thorough in the cleansing.” And then I say: “Wisdom

was a Rod of Formation. Wisdom is the ocean’s basin

and the rivers that feed it so selflessly. Wisdom is of

no use to God now.” For that is how knowledge

should be – the membrane of intelligence. Knowledge

is not a mirror: for intelligence is self-knowing

without recourse to reflection – it is the foundation of

creation itself. To perceive the intelligent is to already

know it, not a formal operation – but an identity by

extension from one being to another. Our Plato saw

true here, my friend, as elsewhere, though in other

matters he was blind. I think especially that number

made him superstitious – and he, poor man, only just

escaping the toils of earlier gods. The numbering of

land became for the godless ancients the numbering

of the heavens, even of God Himself. And all the men

of the earth numbered themselves into layers, with the

many at the bottom and the numbers receding as you

rise – until there is only the number one. And he rules

all the other numbers, the King of all. And he bellows

out: “I am the number one!” And all the other

536

numbers sigh wearily and nod in agreement. But I

ask, seated at his left that evening: “What difference

does that make?” And his answer? “Number is order,

one by one until the very end is reached. All things

are ordered by number, Empress.” And what should I

say to this? “Number is not a snare for you, my Lord.

It is the footprint of intelligence, all parts of equal

being.” But that footprint is only a trace of the

knowing, not a copy. Plato saw God in number

because only number carried what he saw as the

presence of the real God. Numbers move without

moving. Numbers are a linear net that man can weave

– that is what Plato meant – to know God again. And

experience of the real presence of the One will come

again, once that knowing is reinstituted – that is what

Plato and his followers believed. But this is all a

trace, remember, not a copy. A trace, that is all. And

what then, you might ask, does that mean for us?

Only what I say – though you see it traced among

men as beauty and longing. And how should this trace

of beauty and longing be formed? See it in religion

and music, the lengthening trace of a Being that

eternally outstrips you. You see, a trace is really a

shadow, and so by means of these arts of worship do

they spread this shadow over all men. And then I say

537

to my husband, “I was not asking if they have gone,

Your Reverence, only if you have not seen rightly.”

And my husband stiffened on hearing that. “Colours

do not change, Madame, but eyes do tire.” It is our

abiding affliction that we bicker like this. Then I have

always to say at this point, “But it is the eye that

creates the colour, Your Reverence. Even God must

create his colour.” You see how the shadow blinds

him, not a window on God but more like a wallpaper

that pretends to be real. And what then, if even the

Pope has no faith in the real – what then is to be

done? And what if the trace were to fade? They

would be left with copies only. A plaster God. If we

cannot follow Plato here, then, what should be done?

Well, a memory of the trace remained with some

men, and these undertook to restore the semblance of

the trace to all the material copies. And when I hear

the complaint that the paint is not yet dry, I have

always retorted: “Then you cannot paint, Francesco,

can you?” My smile then is his inspiration, even

though he complains: “I thought I had done this part

before.” I watch him toil, day after day, and it comes

to the point where I have to say: “Look at me,

Francesco, I am dying before your very eyes.” And he

smiles, always smiles. And what of Plato here – down

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here: pastiche, that all will come to believe. Can you

see how the very world itself is numbered?

Perspective creating surface, making actual the

fanciful. And then the wheel. The most perfect object

conceived by man. And with the world made flat by

perspective, does not the Wheel become the new Face

of God? And you must see, dear heart, that His face is

everywhere, shaped into every machine. Every curve,

even, bears with it the presence of God. And what

should I say when I hear: “And what about the

working man?” I know that a certain situation has

arisen, for which I have only one answer: “What

about me, Sir John? Am I not also fair?” The secret of

the wheel is the secret of man. There is no wheel in

nature. Only man can know the wheel. Wheels

turning everywhere for man, eternity on the fly for

him. But I am asking my husband about what is being

lost here. Men worship the wheel and forget that it is

his own invention. And my husband is naturally a

generous man, so he answers me: “For what do these

men work, my dear, if it is not for the beauty of such

as you?” Yet who am I that I should serve men in this

way? I am not beautiful, my friend. I am faithful. And

it is my faithfulness that receives my husband’s

worship. Who will teach us here – if our Plato cannot

539

– who do you think? I am Wisdom – but is that

enough now? Do I long for the real too? How I wait

and wait. And what of incarnated men? They forge on

regardless with their tasks. They know that what they

do is real. It is only these men who can teach. But

how do they teach? They say it is like this or it is like

that. How is it that man should be so superior when

they need words – language – so they can say what

action is like? Language – like knowledge itself –

may be an old cloth, but men have constant need of it.

That is Wisdom, dear heart, an old rag that men use to

brighten up their world. And yet when I hear men

remark how dark it is, what should I reply? “Look to

me, for I will show you the way.” But how can I say

that? Has it ever been otherwise? What reply is there

except to say that they should go closer to the

window. Am I right here? Do I understand men?

They complain of the dark – of not being able to see –

while they toil on the face of the earth. Are men

already at the window – is that the truth? Is it only

when they look back towards me that they see the

darkness? Is it only then that they need words? But,

tell me, what do they see through the window?

Nothing. Nothing at all. Yes, nothing. They need see

nothing, for it draws them on. And if I ask what is

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meant here by quote nothing unquote, what am I told?

“That’s your word for it, sweets. What I see gets me

up in the morning. We see for real, baby.” What is

jealousy? Am I not real, who is always with you, a

hand to guide you, to love you deeply? I am the one

you see, always see. Don’t you remember even that?

And when I see you, can you remember those times?

We are not how we seem, but like two members on a

rota, waiting for the shift to end. So we can be

together again for a while. Two members are one

then, embraced, resting till the next shift. Metaphor

here, beloved, so you can see. No? What then? One

being there is, one being with a part in Heaven. Is that

it? No? Don’t you even believe in Heaven? But where

could I be, dear heart, if I am not in Heaven?’

541

‘Listen, dear heart, to what I have to tell you. “X

marks the spot.” This the Sergeant tells me while we

wait in the rain. He is a grizzled old man now, but he

still carries himself like a person who values himself

highly. And that can be allowed in his case, for with

his piercing blue eyes and neatly clipped moustache,

he looks as though he may have retained much of his

youthful interest and enthusiasm. This being so, I

have left Gerushka in the relative safety – and

comfort – of the coach. A randy Sergeant can be a

bad example to his troopers, and we are very far now

from the civilization that might have inhibited them.

The Sergeant is now pointing out towards the distant

line of mountains, snowy capped and on the other

side of the desert. When he is sure of my attention, he

explains in that clipped voice of his – that makes no

allowance for the quality of his auditors: “Back of the

Faros Pass, my Lady. Ten days route marching,

maybe twenty in train.” He points back at the coach,

then traces a line across the desert before us: “Not this

transport, my Lady. Springs too soft. Ox wagons are

the best. Pull anything, those beasts. Go anywhere,

too.” The Sergeant steps away and barks the loudest

bark I have ever heard: “Lance Corporal!” A lean

small man seems to shoot through the door of one of

542

the cabins that stand in the shelter of the huge gum

trees. He seems able to march at great speed, the look

of concentration on his little face is almost comical –

if this was not the fearsome Imperial Guards division.

The Lance Corporal presents himself to his Sergeant

with a crisp click of his heels, ramrod straight back

and the zippiest salute possible. “Yes, Sergeant!

Lance Corporal Dingby reporting, Sergeant!” The

Sergeant’s own salute leaves nothing wanting in the

way of procedure and respect. Then he nods and says

in a more normal voice: “Looks like we’ll need some

of the ox wagons, Bill. How many do we have

spare?” The Lance Corporal takes a step back and

relaxes his shoulders. He places the index finger of

his right hand on his lips. “Well, Mordecai and Allen

are away in Tiblisht with the wedgers – which as you

know, Jack, require two teams apiece.” The Sergeant

is nodding attentively to this, nodding in confirmation

to the news about the wedgers. He now looks over at

me and asks: “How many in your party, my Lady?” I

don’t know, but I do know that I must get the

Sergeant’s agreement today. If we must wait until a

count is made back at the camp, then the opportunity

will have passed and the Sergeant will have moved on

to the next stage of his round of Inspection. I say –

543

realising that any discrepancies can we worked out

later with the obviously more amenable Lance

Corporal: “My maid and myself and about forty six

servants.” And then I remember: “There will be the

Guide, too. Though he is not here yet.” The Sergeant

looks up at the sky while he calculates. Then he

glances over at the Lance Corporal, “Well, Bill, looks

as though we will need at least thirty. Is that a can-

do?” The Lance Corporal, for his part, sucks in air

through his teeth, eyes intent on nothing in particular.

Then he glances up at his Sergeant: “The thing is,

Jack, we have the Western Union fleet coming into

Lakadesh in a month’s time. They are going to want a

lot of gear.” The Sergeant winces – as though this

news actually hurts – and says, glancing at me before

looking down at his Lance Corporal: “Ah, those

rowdies again. Lost ten teams last year, my Lady.

Carelessness. Pure drunken carelessness.” The Lance

Corporal recoils at this memory, an expression of

genuine hurt on his sallow face. “And they ate them

afterwards.” The memory of this event is so terrible

that both the Sergeant and the Lance Corporal are

reduced to silence, a bitterness etched in both their

features. I take this opportunity to prompt the

Sergeant: “Need I remind you that I carry script from

544

the Imperial Court itself? What the rough and readies

of the sea powers get up to is of no concern to me.”

This gets the Sergeant’s full attention. He snaps to

and by an empty reflex salutes me briskly. Then he

smiles the kind of coaxing smile he is capable of.

“Perhaps, my Lady, if you were to make a more

accurate estimate of your requirements?” I frown. I

have no intention in cutting back on my complement.

Would anyone believe me if I arrived on my own?

But I do say to mollify the stricken Sergeant – who

has responded too literally to my expression of

displeasure: “Perhaps my requirements would be met

with some fewer carts.” I see the grief on the Sergeant

face and correct myself as quickly as my station will

allow. “That is to say – if I am not mistaken – about

twenty five wagons.” The Sergeant is mollified. He

nods to me in good humour before addressing the

Lance Corporal: “Now, Bill, what do you think?

Twenty five ain’t too much to ask, is it?” It’s the

Lance Corporal’s turn to be awkward, which he does

my rubbing the tip of one of his boots over the other –

which does nothing for its bright shine – and by

twisting his mouth in a quite child-like way. “Don’t

know about that, Jack. We could muster eighteen

clear I’d say. If the Winter Dog train had come in on

545

time – that’s yesterday – then I’d say we should take

a chance on it.” It is now that I have my bright idea –

one I can honestly I would never have believed

myself capable of. So I say: “I have a suggestion to

make.” Both of the non-commissioned officers take

on the exact same expression of blank scepticism. I

think it is as well to explain my plan to them slowly.

So I start: “We will assume to start with that your

Winter Dog train will come in some time during the

next few days, fine?” Both men nod, the Lance

Corporal looking less stupid than the Sergeant, if only

because he has to listen to people more than the

Sergeant does – who probably rarely listens to

anybody. “And the dreaded sea boys won’t be around

for another month or so, yes?” I know I should not be

facetious in the company of working men – if seems

to affect their morale adversely – but, really, if there

is a problem, something should be done about it. It’s

what my father always says. Whip them in, instil a bit

of discipline – something like that. But the two

soldiers are still listening to me, the Sergeant though

perhaps a little more deeply in his stupor. In any case

I continue: “Now, my excursion will take forty days

to reach its destination and forty days to return. This

means that eighty days of food and water for forty

546

eight people must be carried. No – I lie – forty nine. I

had forgotten the Guide – who has not yet arrived.” I

feel I must clear the air after that little confusion. “Is

that right?” Only the Lance Corporal nods, but

noticing the drool which escapes his mouth when he

does, I wonder if even he is listening to me. “So what

I propose is this. There will be thirty nine camp-overs

in either direction, yes?” This last word serves merely

to punctuate the successive stages of my plan. “What

I propose is that the food that will be required on the

return journey be stored at each successive camp

site.” I pause, expectant. It is such a good idea, very

ingenious. Not what would be expected of a woman

of my rank, no doubt, but I am in a bind with these

stupid soldiers. The Sergeant coughs and hawks out a

gobbet of dark, foul looking phlegm. The Lance

Corporal smiles in a completely cretinous way. I

should lose patience at this point and have them both

whipped, which might improve their concentration.

But, of course, I cannot do that. So I take a deep

breath and tell them the final details of my plan: “In

this way your wagons will be freed progressively and

can return here as they become unloaded, so that you

should have at least twelve of the wagons – with their

teams – returned to you within a few weeks.” I hope

547

to get away with the vagueness of that last figure. I

have tried a quick calculation but I find it hurts my

head. So I now adopt a less formal attitude to the

soldiers and ask them: “So what do you think of that

plan?” Though still in his daydream, the Sergeant can

nonetheless ask the Lance Corporal, “Forty days, Bill,

would you chance that?” The Lance Corporal is alert

immediately – every sign of stupidity gone – and he

stroked his lips with the forefinger of his right hand.

“Not for me to say, Jack, I’m afraid. I’ll need to put

this before the Corporal, you know. Corp’s the one to

sort this out.” The Sergeant makes a soft grimace for

my benefit and then says, addressing me: “Do not be

too fazed by this, my Lady. The Corporal is a very

gallant man. Very gallant.” I feel the skin on my neck

creep. I retort, letting something of my growing

impatience leak through: “I have given you all the

necessary details. That should be enough to please

your Corporal, Sergeant.” And the Sergeant gives

way immediately. “Oh to be sure, my Lady, to be

sure.” Now the Lance Corporal brightens up again:

“Should be a to-do, Jack. Way I see it, we would have

wagons returning every second, fourth and fifth day

of a five day cycle, extending over say forty days for

us here.” For me – in my anxiety at this delay – this

548

signifies acceptance of my plan. I turn towards my

coach, relieved to get away from these dull soldiers

and the rain, but the Sergeant says at my back:

“Pardon, my Lady, but we will need the Corporal’s

official sanction of this schedule before anything

practical can be done.” Finally exasperated, I whirl

about and respond tartly: “Then, Sergeant, you and

your Lance Corporal here might take the trouble to

obtain that permission directly.” I turn away – to

signal an end to all this shilly-shallying – though

eager also to escape the unpleasant elements. I hear

the Lance Corporal say: “No can do on that, Jack.

Corp’s over in Jadheru. Bit of a fuss about broken

glass.” What am I to do? I stop and wait for the

Sergeant’s reply, which comes to me as a sort of

unpleasant drawl – the kind of tone a roué might use

in his disappointment: “Well, Bill, and who’s going to

go over to Jadheru in this weather?” The ensuing

silence tells me that no one is going over to the

wretched Jadheru in this weather. Can all my plans

comes to naught like this, stymied by two idiotic non-

coms? That simply makes no sense to me. What am I

to understand from this impasse? Am I not to make

my excursion? Must I return to the City in failure?

“What seem to be your trouble, dear Lady?” A man

549

stands before me, a smile – that might be gentle, or

sad, or hesitant – on his smooth face. It is raining

heavily where I stand, and yet this man a few feet

away from me is perfectly dry – though he wears no

protective clothing of any kind. And as for his clothes

– who would wear a suit of such delicate weave and

finish out here at the edge of the Wilderness? Yet it is

perfectly clean and bright, its wonderful primrose dye

glowing in the reduced light of the late afternoon. I let

my eyes look into his – seduced by his beauty, no

doubt, yet strangely confident of him – and see the

pools of light there so bright that I can discern no

colour peculiar to them. I ask, limply, all my authority

quite faded away: “Who are you?” And he smiles that

ambiguous smile of his again and graces me with a

little bow from the waist: “I am your Guide, dear

Lady.” My reaction is probably revealing – I turn

back and look across to the two soldiers. They are

deep in conversation, the Sergeant with one hand on

the hilt of his sword, the other behind his back, and

the Lance Corporal – who boasts no sword – with his

thumbs hooked in the belt of his holster. And I ask

myself – as I have often done before – what do they

talk about, these creatures, when they are together

alone? What language do they speak, and what

550

matters occupy them? They are not a prepossessing

race. Small, thin, always shabby, today they have

been made more dowdy by the heavy rain, their bright

blue uniforms dark when wet, their little peaked caps

limp, water dropping almost invariably onto their

long thin noses. But what do they find to talk about

with such animation? Do they inhabit a busy world

unknown to us in the Palace? Do they have affairs

beyond our ken – we who rule all? What would my

father say if I told him? Oh, perhaps he already

knows, with his keen knowledge of everything. I turn

back to my Guide and I am dumbfounded all over

again by his beauty. In what way is he beautiful, you

might ask. It is in his eyes, dear heart, the light that

shines there so generous and true. He is a being who

quite overmans me and yet to whom I will submit

completely. He says to me, his voice light, even

playful: “We can depart once you are ready, dear

Lady.” Only then do I remember my difficulties. I

explain: “The Corporal must be consulted about the

arrangements for the transportation of my party,

Guide. I have proposed a method that will reduce the

utilisation of the unit’s resources, but apparently the

Corporal – who is in another place at the moment –

must officially sanction my proposal. The problem

551

now, apparently, is finding someone who is prepared

to ride to where the Corporal is with the papers.” My

Guide makes a gesture with his right hand, flicking

his fingers as though to calm my anxiety. My heart

leaps in relief – I had hoped, to be honest, that the

Guide would have the power to resolve this crux. But

he says: “Oh no, my dear Lady, there is no need to

concern yourself with such matters. The way is not

far and you and I will travel together alone.” I am

alarmed to hear this – it is so contrary to my

expectations. “But,” I try to explain, “I have need of

my servants, Guide. How else can I manage?” The

Guide smiles again that sad consoling smile of his. He

raises both of his hands, palms up, as though to

signify that everything he says is true. “The path we

cross is narrow and I can hold the hand of only one.

You do not have the necessary experience to hold

another’s hand. If she should fall, then all of us would

fall.” Then he points behind me and says: “Look, dear

Lady, and see for yourself.” But I must protest at this

point and tell him: “Gerushka is most loyal, may I tell

you that?” Oh, but he steps towards me, his gentle

hands extended, and says in a most considered tone:

“Oh, my dear Lady, the loyalty of those who love you

is not in question. I talk here of the commitment of

552

one to the other – who though separated now can

become one. I talk, dear Lady, of recognition.” And

then he says again, pointing as before: “Look, dear

Lady. See for yourself.” I notice now that it seems not

to be raining – in fact it is considerably brighter than

heretofore. So I turn to look in the direction he has

indicated. No desert now, nor forbidding high

mountains. No: instead there is what seems to be a

golden bridge that rises from not far away into the

sky, and which extends out into the very far distance

over a bright ocean. The sky is clear, saving some

isolated streams of very high cloud down towards the

horizon. I turn to look back to the guide, but notice

that the soldiers seem no longer to around. Only two

large white birds fly about in that area. “You see, dear

Lady,” he says softly, “that it is a strait gate. You

should not fear, for I will bring you over safely.” And

I was stunned: “You will come with me?” “I will

always be with you, dear Lady, to lead you.” And

with that he takes my hand and we set off together to

cross this mighty bridge, my trust in him complete.’

553

‘Listen, dear heart, to what I have to tell you.

There is nothing at all in this room. Light comes from

a little window high up on the wall facing me. It’s not

really a window, more an opening in the wall – in the

thick wall – and through which very cold air flows

and comes to eddy about my feet. My feeling is one

of the profoundest misery. But do not misunderstand

me here. It is not my condition here in this room that

makes me miserable, but the fact that until not so long

ago I was perfectly content, even blissful. But though

I know I was happy, I know neither the cause of this

happiness nor my situation during this period of

happiness. Was I happy in this room? Is that possible?

I do not know. I know I could be happy anywhere –

even as I know that I could be unhappy anywhere. I

find I am standing in the exact centre of the room.

Why the exact centre, I wonder. It leads me to suspect

that I was placed in this position. Furthermore, I

believe I was placed here a very short time ago. How

do I know? The air that flows into the room is cold,

the room is cold, but I am not cold – yet. So I ask the

question: why has this happened? Is it a test? Is it

some kind of procedure? Is there something I should

do? Well, for a start, I have moved back to the wall

behind me, away from the strong draught from the

554

window. Is this a problem I should solve? But I ask:

what is the solution? I see a bare room with one tiny

window. There is no door. So I think to ask myself:

what solution do I want? At once I know I want to

leave this place. And so it happens. I find I am

standing on a narrow parapet at the top of a high

building. To my left and right tall statues are also

placed on this parapet. The statue on my left bears an

oblong shield and a long lance, is heavily armoured

with a plumed helmet. This being has wings. To my

right, the statue there is of a woman bearing a scroll.

She wears a simple gown and has a circlet which is

actually made of gold. She is pointing to a line on the

scroll. No attempt has been made to sculpt the details

of the script on the scroll. As for myself, I can tell you

that I bear a sceptre in my right hand and a globe in

my left, that I am covered with a heavy cloak or

mantle. All this, of course, is not true. There is a

statue where I stand and it bears the imperial regalia,

not me. I inhabit the statue, so that my eyes are

aligned with the empty sockets of the emperor and

my limbs follow his exactly. The view from my

position is striking. A whole city is laid out below me,

extending to the low hills on every horizon. A wide

thoroughfare runs from the base of this building

555

straight down and across the city. Even from here, I

can see that this roadway is crowded with traffic. And

the traffic moves very fast, whizzing in from feeder

roads and shooting off onto other arterials. The traffic

is very uniform, all the vehicles compact and black,

all nose to tail, all obeying the rules exactly. Is this

real? Yes, it is real. You must understand that form

should be no bar on representation. If I want to show

you the Soul in its reality, then I must be permitted to

construct complex representations. Had I judged it not

real, then I would have gone elsewhere, to where I

would have been a more uncertain thing. For

example, consider the patience of a rock, which will

sit on a hillside for many thousands of years amid a

monotonous round of sun and rain. Consider the

happy raindrop, that spends it entire existence just

dropping freely, with nothing asked of it. Or consider

the plump cloud, trundled across an endless sky with

no fixity to its form. And last of all, consider the

flame in the fire, shooting up in a flare of light and

heat and then gone forever. I would find myself with

tangible presence but without form. Or like the spiral

in the plant –a geometry without proof, a love without

expectation, a glory whose fame is not mine. I live in

the heart of another, of that I am certain. And I can

556

see so much – you see again how the Soul is

instanced, where once elsewise a wind or a great city

– out into Heaven on my left and into Hell on my

right, with Purgatory at my feet. And you can see how

delusion is mired in polarity, like ping-pong back and

forwards, up and down. Soul is a nice piece of silk,

long as you want, any width too, every colour you

could wish, and – most of all – it will fit anything.

Now I am in a field, surrounded by flowers, yellow

and violet. There’s a little gate in the hedging to one

side that I know I can open. But I notice that there is a

second gate up towards the top of the field, where the

old trees in the lane loom darkly this time of day. I

know I can open that one too. What should I do here?

With the inverted language of the romantic I know

that happiness lies beyond the bright gate at my side –

God always disposed in my favour. And I know that

millennia of suffering lie behind the dark gate – in the

land of the rejected. And the question I ask is this:

Which road do you take, so I can choose too? But

when I look at you, I see the dark gate in your face,

see the renunciation there. And I will tell you the

truth: I look at the bright gate – and I see myself writ

there. You will build, dear heart, and I will light your

footsteps. And I pass through the bright gate, and

557

what do I find? Irony, romantic, the unexpected.

Evening is coming on, clouds very dark above the

houses, and the road is not well lit. A man comes out

of one of the little houses along the way and asks me

if I have any change for the gas. I tell him I don’t

know what he is talking about. He explains money to

me and asks me if I have any. I have none. I press on,

the lonely road curving one way and then the other,

and I tighten the scarf at my throat against the wind,

which has become quite chilled. I must get to some

place as soon as possible. But the wind blows into my

face, and the road runs uphill a lot. I am sad.

Saddened really by the knowledge that my delay will

disappoint some. And now it is quite dark and I can

see my way only by the light of the stars, whose

twinkle seems echoed in the fields all about. I like the

night, though I am in other ways saddened by the

dark – profoundly so, it seems to me. For some,

darkness is merely the absence of light, the sun

returning in the morning. For me, the dark is like a

reality – it is so pregnant, if only with monsters and

demons. No. What comes into being has its origin in

the dark, however it is considered, real or

metaphorical. The truth lies in the dark – like an

answer to a question not yet asked. And the dark

558

lightens and dawn comes, the first ring of gold then a

shining glory, the sun rising for us once again. And

the houses hereabouts are not pleasant, mean shacks

most of them, and I see people in among them. They

have long black hair and they weave some kind of

material – like knitting with steel wool – a

extraordinarily quiet people, who, they say, cry out

only once. They can cry out at any moment in their

lives, but they can cry out only once. And the smoke

is thick until we climb above the town and enter the

foothills. The mountains that rear forward above them

daunt me, purple slopes completely uniform, surely

impossible to cross. But no, the track turns towards

these mountains, away from the sunny lowlands. Is

this the path of suffering, dear heart? Is this where I

break open? So much suffering in even the simplest

task, like how a flower bursts into bloom. And yet it

is sustained. Is suffering the very substance of our

world? Are men just pumps, long suffering pumps?

How like me, you will say, to think of that image. But

I did say I lived in your heart, didn’t I? I live in your

heart all the time, you see, sharing every little grief

and joy. I know what you do, but I do not understand

what you are doing. And I would like that to be true –

that you need not to know in order to see. And,

559

therefore – need I say? – once you can see, you no

longer need to know. But I am only an indefinite

presence, how can I see? You understand, my friend,

what would happen if I did not accept the reality of

the soul. I would be gone from you, beloved, perhaps

into some lower realm. If not in your heart, where

else should I belong? In your mind? What then? The

Soul to you would be just a bookcase. In your body,

then? Then the Soul to you would be sticky rock. But

in your heart, I am everywhere in you, everywhere.

And you can be anywhere because of me, and can

feel the world about you because of me. You can

smell and taste by affinity because of me, and see

because – as said – I light your footsteps. But the

hearing is yours, only yours alone. Without me, you

would die. Without you, I would die. And in this

expiration what then? Could that happen? I do not

believe that you can die. And you know that I cannot

die. So what then? Would we be alone? Would we be

one again? And I know you will disappoint me with

your answer. They wear you down, dear heart, and all

for what? You tell me, “We will never again be alone,

my dear”. What am I to make of this? Once we were

alone and now we are not. Why cannot we be alone

again? And I’m in a little village square this time. The

560

shops are closing for the night, all except the taverns

on the corners, where more lights are being put out

for the evening trade. I am on the cross atop a spire in

this village, and my eyes this time are Christ’s, and

my limbs match his accurately. And Christ tells me

that there are two forces in the world, that of the

ocean and that of sex. And he watches every night as

the young and old come to debauch themselves on the

village green. They don’t know that I watch them, I

am told, or that I am pleased. And sure enough, come

dark and all these people appear out of the

surrounding gloom. They are dressed in their best

clothes, and feel their most cordial with their

neighbours. They will eat in the taverns and then they

will drink, and after that they all come out onto the

green, laughing and shouting, fights here and

grappling there, strutting and simpering like clowns.

And I ask him what was so pleasing about that riot.

And he says: “Never laugh at a fool, my friend.” And

then everyone goes home and all the lights are put

out, and Christ and I watch the night roll on, hardly a

cloud at all. And still I ask, What is it? I feel a lack

here. And I tell this to Christ, and he replies with

some nonchalance: “Never talk to a fool, my dear.”

Oh and then the dawn comes, full of glory, and I say

561

to him in my excitement: “It does so become you, you

know.” I meant in the sense that the radiance of the

dawn could barely match the glory in his face. But he

understood me differently, for he replied: “Never stop

for a fool, my love.” And so the morning starts, the

whole village up and about in a very short time. And

they all wear their day clothes, drab garments with

hanging pockets – like they couldn’t get enough of

what they wanted. And I said to Christ beside me:

“They could do better for themselves, you know.”

And he was a bit tart this time – perhaps a sensitive

area – when he replied: “Never stock for fools,

sweetheart.” And I interrupt this by observing that he

had meant to say shop and not stock. That he means

by this that he is loathe to serve those who do not help

themselves. And where then am I? A small sunny

room. Where I can sit at ease through the day until

you come home again? You will notice that I bring a

little acid from my last sojourn? I see a room with a

window and no door. I tire now, dear heart, for I find

myself back in that bare room. Now there is only that

opening high up – wall so thick that it hides the sky

from me – and the cool air which descends in slow

spirals, the coolness spreading out in graceful folds,

and on the ground it swirls about me like a sea. I

562

know I can be cold here, for Soul can be hot or cold,

sad or glad, bad and mad. But what Soul cannot be –

Soul cannot be you, dear heart. Soul can only bask in

you, innocent for now, like a swan in the sun, lighting

the water about.’

563

‘Listen, dear heart, to what I have to tell you. I

am on a road. It is paved with stones, not so sharp as

to cut my shoes, not so small as to slip about. The

road is traversing what seems a high shoulder in an

immense mountain range. I see high mountains off to

right and left, snowy peaks, slopes that no man has

ever crossed. I know there is a great mountain at my

back, its glaciers glistening brightly in the sunlight. In

the folds of that mountain lies the Palace of my

Father. I have departed the Palace of my Father and I

must trod this roadway throughout this day – and

perhaps through the coming night. I am sad to leave

my Father. I cried bitterly on his shoulder against

every consolation he offered me. I leave because I

must leave. I go because I must go. Do you know

who I go to meet? They tell me I will be made happy

by that meeting, that I will rue all these tears and

sighs. But I told them that I could only leave Home

because I knew I would be returning there. And so I

ask: Why must I go? Why must I leave my Father?

Do not answer me, dear heart, for I am merely

complaining. I already know what you will say, and I

do not want to hear that now. I am going – let that be

sufficient for now. I am dressed as a pilgrim might

dress if he were making his way to an isolated

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monastery. Serge wool is very heavy, but it

withstands the keen winds of this plateau, and the

thick buskins keep my feet whole. I carry a tall staff

in my left hand, suspended from which is a lantern,

the candle butt therein unlit. This staff is too thick for

my grip and so it is tiring to lug along, especially

when I can get no benefit from it. I also have a satchel

suspended from a strap across my shoulders. Made of

a coarse sacking, it smells always of damp. In the

satchel there is a dry crust and a green apple – for my

evening meal – and a small book, which contains but

one parable of use to me. I am not going to recite the

parable to you – though I know it would pass some of

my weary hours on this road. You would not

appreciate its moral. Not that you would not like it – I

daresay you would – but that you would misconstrue

it. Let me offer an example. Say you go to a shop for

some item. The man in the shop tells you that they do

not have that item in stock but that he can offer you

this other item in its place. And you check the price

and tell him that it is more expensive. He nods at this,

then tells you that it is also better than what you

wanted. What would you say to that? Would you pay

for better? No, you would try elsewhere for what you

wanted. Oh, and I feel your anger. I sense that abiding

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demoralisation you experience, that nothing of yours

is good enough. In the parable, the saint accepts what

he is given with a smile of meekness. I know you

scoff. You think the lesser is imposed, while the

higher is taken. There. Time has passed and I have

reached the edge of the plateau. A whole land spreads

out below me. At the foot of the hills I see green

pastures and orchards, villages on the banks of the

river. And beyond all that I see a great ocean, cloud

piled up on its horizon. Is this what I seek? My Father

said I would find what I wanted. Is this what he

meant, do you think? In other words, dear heart, is

this what you are hoping for? Ah, but the roadway

turns away from the slope that leads down to the

lowlands. I see it run away to the left towards a dark

cleft in a mountainside there. Must I take this road?

Can I not set off down the slope? I am well shod and

the staff will help support me. What should I do? I

will go down, my friend, I will go down. I am weary

of your dark places and your conundrums. I have not

the spirit for them. I will go where I am happy and in

that place I will help you with better heart. Ah, I find

that the edge of the plateau is precipitous, sheer rock

descending for many feet until it meets the slope. I

must walk on, then, and follow the track into your

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darkness. You must know that we always lived in the

light, dear heart. That light was ours when we were

one. Now you burrow into the dark and I must follow

to light your way. Do you treasure the light I give

you? You want to call it illusion, pretty pictures. I

cannot see you, my dear, but I can hear what you say.

If only I could speak. Ah, dear heart, but it is dark in

this cleft of yours, and I am reluctant to pass from the

bright light into its gloom. Why does my light not

penetrate here? I see what I know to be a switch. Oh

but your light is dim, dull spots of light extending

away from me down this tunnel. I will enter –

knowing I have no choice, for I must go wherever

you go. But talk to me, dearest, at least that, to chase

away the despondency that rises in me. “This tunnel

is not real. This is an exercise in discernment. What

you will see is true, but it will not – and cannot –

appear in its true form. You must learn from this

experience how to discern the true in the unreliable

form.” And with that I hear the clipping of hooves

and a fine white horse comes trotting towards me

down the tunnel. I bear in mind what you have said

about discernment and know that I must try hard to

see what it is you will show me here. I know you

wish more than that but I cannot escape my

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conviction that I already know all that can be known.

And then the horse – it is a tall stallion, long white

main and a tail that sweeps almost to the ground –

comes closer, and as it clears the gloom I see that

though it has the head of a horse, there is also what

appears to be a second head imposed upon it – the

head of a human being, of a man. Ah, and this is not

real – but it is true. Is that what I am to know here? I

see a magnificent stallion with the head of a man,

who has eyes that pierce me with a kind of realisation

I find very strange. The man-beast that looks at me

knows something that I do not know. How is this? I

know what God knows, what all his angels and

spiritual hierarchies know, and yet this man-beast

knows something that neither I nor God knows. And

you presume to show me this, dear heart. How can

you be so proud? So presumptuous? And the man-

horse stops in front of me – snorting with what seems

to be alarm at the sight of me – and I suddenly see

that it is mortal. Mortal? The eyes of this man-beast

are telling me that it will die, that it will pass away

into an extinction that has no meaning in the language

of any God or of the spiritual beings that surround

them. The beast knows this? And yet it is so fine a

creature, save for its anomalous human head. A proud

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beast – and yet it will die? And if God cannot

understand this fact of its death, how do you hope that

I can? This I know, dear heart. If I seek a meaning for

this animal’s death, then that meaning will enter me

and I will become a completely different being. I only

know of what exists, of what is abiding, and of what

is eternal. If I come to know death, then the existent,

the abiding and the eternal will be coloured by this

knowledge of death. The eternal will fail, the abiding

will lose its worth, and the existent will take on a

shadow. No longer could I show forth the beautiful,

the serene, the desirable. I would become a prisoner

of that boundary between presence and absence,

forever falling from being into non-being. What

service could I do you then, dear heart? I would

merely trail along behind you, adding to your life a

persistent sadness, the regret that all things must

come to an end, even the God that I know from before

time itself began. No, I will run from this wretched

creature, further into your darkness, to be sure, but

away from this awful assertion of yours. And I walk

away, and even as I do I feel the shadow of that man-

beast contaminate me as a memory I may never

expunge. Is this bitterness I feel now real? If I turned

back in this tunnel and crossed the plateau, would I

569

see my Father’s Palace nestling in the folds of that

great mountain – that scintillates in a light no beast of

death can ever know? And I know I would not. If I go

back there will be no brilliant mountain, only a

shadow land of gall – the knowledge of termination

already working its destruction through the Heavens.

And I know that even God has already withdrawn and

that the Hierarchy posts itself as a series of ramparts

against any entry I would try to make. Is this how we

become alone together as one? Is this what death does

– separates all beings from each other, so that each

watches the bitter inevitability of its own death with a

compulsive fascination? And as all things fall apart,

why do you have me walk through this dull tunnel?

Have I not in seeing mortality seen everything? What

more can you show me? What else is worth knowing?

And I turn a corner in your tunnel and I see before me

a great plain. There is a blue light above which is not

a sky, and there is a green light below which is not

the earth. On this great plain many creatures move. I

know already that they are animals of various kinds.

Like a great savannah, there are herds of deer, herds

of cattle, ponies and sheep. Smaller groups of

predator animals are also here – lions, tigers, wolves

and foxes. The grazing herds ignore these hunter

570

animals and I believe that I witness an unnatural

scene for some purpose. Is it the human heads I see

floating over the groups of animals? Is the fact that

there is one head per group significant? These heads

are like the previous one – their eyes flash knowledge

of mortality – yet there is more, a breaking in the

gaze, like some mistrust has entered there. Then a

lion runs and springs onto one of the grazing deer. Its

weight bears the unfortunate animal down. Its great

jaws close on the tender neck and blood shoots up in

a great gush. Is this what I am to understand? Not

death alone, but the killing – the power of death

possessed by these living creatures. Not just subject

to the awful finality of death, but capable – even

within that terrible dread – of themselves inflicting

this absolute deed on others. Is this what I must learn

here? How mortal animals not alone bear a fact that is

beyond the ken of God, but are themselves also

regulators of this God-defying power? And these are

mere animals, incapable of speech or glory, dumb

executors of no benefit to anyone but themselves and

their quotidian needs. And one final observation.

While the lions feast on the carcase of the deer, the

rest of the herd continues grazing nearby. And the

human head that floats above this herd merely drifts

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along with it – showing no concern whatsoever for

the slain beast. What are these human heads? Are

they the gods of the animals, one to each kind? Do the

animals maintain them or do the heads maintain the

animals? I do not know. And now I have crossed the

savannah and find that the great enclosure narrows

down again until it becomes the familiar tunnel that I

have been following. I press on in obedience to your

command, the dull tunnel lit as before by the scant

string of weak lights. Should I meditate on this power

over death? Brute animals that die but that can also

themselves kill? Are even these low animals greater

than God in their power over death? I confess this: a

little while ago mortality cast a shadow over Heaven,

but now the fact of the power to murder induces a

fear in Heaven. What secret power – unknown to God

– resides among the mortal? What is the source of this

power? If a brute animal can kill another beast, could

it also kill God? Can this secret power be extended

into Heaven, acting against eternal Wisdom and the

love that sustains the spiritual order? I am afraid, dear

heart, and I see that God withdraws even further from

us, the Hierarchy now disposed as great armies, a

nervous shield to protect the very author of our

reality. And now the tunnel opens out again and I see

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another great plain stretch out before me. The light

here is like sunlight and the plain is covered by many

many plants. Is this a new lesson, exemplified for my

simple nature in the plant rather than the animal? Oh

there are so many plants, weeds, flowers, bushes, and

many trees that dot the landscape. And above each

plant there hovers a bird. These birds are curious

creatures. They appear to be flying straight up into the

air and yet they do not move. In fact – as I see now

that I have drawn close to the nearest plants – their

wings do not move at all; instead, the wings are

duplicated in such a way that one set point up into the

sky and the second set point down towards the

ground. And the tails of these birds are fully

expanded, and each bird holds it head to one side –

each to the left, to be precise. Ah, they are not real

birds, are they not? Of course. They are like emblems.

But, even so, I know that these birds observe me

closely. I am surprised that in their eyes there shines

what I can only call a happiness. All these birds are

radiant with joy! Do I understand this correctly? Am I

to understand that the plant life is happy – even

joyful? And then I see a plant wilt – slowly and with a

wonderful grace – its leaves as though they melt, and

then the stem leans over to one side and sags until it

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lies supine. And then what is left of the plant shrinks

back towards its root until nothing of it can be seen.

Oh, and then the plant arises anew, first a little shoot

rising from the ground and then little buds and then

there are leaves. And then a single bud at the top and

it opens with supreme grace until a bright yellow

flower is displayed. And above it the bird that

associates with it seems to shine out with a bliss that

would be rare even in Heaven. Oh, and now the

beautiful flower begins to wilt and lose colour. The

petals fall to the ground and melt away before my

eyes. And so the plant dies all over again – with

exactly the same grace as previously – until again

nothing is left and again a little shoot appears from

the ground. Is this what I am to understand? Is this

generation? How life overcomes death by repeating

itself over and over countless times? Is this how life

triumphs? But surely animals generate themselves

too. Why are they not happy, instead of being filled

with fear? Ah, it is what they know, recognise – is

that it? The plants are innocent, while the animals are

not. Innocent. I understand, I understand. And when I

look again out over the verdant plain, I see how all

the plants rise up to their full natures before subsiding

again into the earth. And above each plant, its bird

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lights up as the plant reaches its maturity. And all

over the plain birds are lighting up and dimming

down again, so that the entire plain is a continuously

changing pattern of light. The light ripples in waves

in places, while elsewhere it seems to twinkles like a

myriad of stars. And what of this changing pattern?

Does it express some meaning? Could God or his

Heavenly Hosts read in this pattern some sublime

secret of earthly life? Or is it simply how nature

worships its author, giving thanks for its continued

existence despite the evil power that lurks among the

incarnated? Is this the truth? And I see how at the

very centre of the plain there is a single mighty tree

that stands out among all its fellow plants. I see this

tree reach its zenith and a multitude of fruits spring

out on its branches, every colour imaginable, each

fruit brilliant in the bright sun-like light. And this tree

radiates into the very heavens, I am sure, the supreme

expression of life. And above the tree hovers a mighty

bird. Resembling a golden eagle – though much

larger – it splays two sets of wings and a widely

spread tail. But this bird is unique in that it has two

heads instead of one, that face away in opposite

directions. And it seems as though it is this regal

creature that absorbs the joy of all the plants out on

575

the plain, for it radiates a most fulgent light, a golden

glow that appears to illuminate the whole plain. For

even as the great tree reaches its peak of perfection

and then begins is slow orderly decline, the

magnificent bird continues to radiate light with an

unchanging intensity. And the tree does decline until

nothing of it is to be seen. Then, after a short pause,

the first shoots appears from the ground and even as I

watch the tree grows and grows – expanding boles

and branches in all directions, its leaves opening like

receptive hands. And then the fruit appears, springing

out everywhere over its surface until the tree again is

a display of particoloured luminosity. And only now

do I question my own assumption that this display is

made for the benefit of Heaven. Is what I see here

now recursive? Do not the lesser plants and their

associated birds act in some way to feed the golden

bird at the centre, and does this bird then in its turn

draw the mighty tree of fruits up from the ground – so

that it might light up the heavens with it multitude of

colours? Is this the truth? I cannot judge. I see all this

activity and acknowledge the happiness of the process

involved, but I find that it wearies me in some way, as

though some hidden aspect of the power of life here

drains me. And so in Heaven too I see that this is the

576

case. God and his Host – already disturbed by the

shadow of death and fearful of power of murder –

must now be diminished in some way by the process

of generation that I witness here. These are terrible

facts that you show me, dear heart. I ask that you

release me from this tour of yours, for I learn only

how what I cherish is depleted by this mundane world

of yours. Must the divine be depleted by how the

incarnate overcome death? Must they be dismayed by

how brutes kill each other? Must they be daunted by

an extinction that is not of their devising? I will leave

here now. Show me the way. And so I see how the

bright world of the plants fades as I re-enter your

tunnel, the meagre light you provide merely a faint

guttering in this dreary darkness. I am sad now. I trust

you completely and therefore I cannot but do your

bidding. How can you know what you do? I am

Wisdom. I am the being of knowledge, all

knowledge. What do you do then? You show me new

experiences and presume therefore to teach me. Is

that what you do? I say I trust you, but should I trust

what you show me? How do you know the truth of

what you teach? Do you trust your experiences? Does

some strange creature fool you? Ah, and now the

tunnel widens again and I see before me a wide rocky

577

plain. The light here is dim, violet above and pale –

like a depleted blue – below. There is no soil and no

water here, only slabs of rock piled on each other, the

areas between the slabs littered with rocks and stones

of all sizes. Yet I sense a commotion here, despite the

barren silence of the landscape. And yes – as I

approach the first rocks – I see that a little being

hovers over each one of them. And the rocks, how the

light sets them scintillating. They are jewels, gigantic

gems littering this plain in their thousands, even

millions. And above each jewel there hovers what I

see now is an agile little dragon, each of which is

coloured according to the stone it is associated with.

Now I go among them, stepping carefully through the

brilliant litter. And the little dragons turn towards me

as I approach and look at me with such earnest

intensity that I feel myself fill instantly with an

overwhelming love for these wonderful creatures.

And I reach to one, to touch it – and it seems to

welcome my hand as I caress its brittle scaly back and

long undulating tail. And yet the stillness, the air as

though crystalline with the sharp light that flashes

from the gems, ruby red, turquoise and sapphire,

carnelian and agate, cinnabar and jade. I come now to

the first of the great slabs and find that it is composed

578

of a pure crystal. And the stone is so pure that I can

find no shadow in even the largest of these slabs. And

above these slabs float pure white dragons, whose

wings do actually move – very rapidly indeed, which

accounts for the commotion I felt upon entering this

chamber. But my feelings for these dragons differ

from those associated with the precious gems. Not

love here, but more akin to the feeling that honour in

a man – or modesty in a woman – would engender.

The kind of respect that contains no element of fear,

but is instead a recognition – and an

acknowledgement – of a superior nature. Perhaps you

would describe the feeling as an admission of better

breeding or better nurture: a person equal to a

condition that might from another perspective appear

merely risible. And I have pressed on between the

great slabs of crystal and among the jewels until I

come to the centre. I find here a single great emerald,

situated so that it stands apart from the jumbled

collection of the rest of the plain. This stone glows as

though with an inner light. It is not obviously a

pleasing colour – the light as though thick and heavy,

so that it appears shadowed in an unsettling way. And

above hovers its dragon. This creature is not green –

as might be expected. It is a thin brittle red, the colour

579

as though drained by some requirement of its

attendant gem. And this dragon watches me intently,

its wings not moving even though it undulates on

subtle flows in the air. I am nervous of the light of the

emerald – I sense that it could have a corrosive effect

on me – but I nonetheless feel that I should approach

it. The feeling it arouses in me is very strange. It is as

though some part of me could be destroyed by the

emerald and yet I do not know what part of me is

under threat. Do you test my trust here, dear heart?

But I also ask you: do you know what is happening

here? Ah, I understand something suddenly. I am

approaching you. I am very near to you now. I will

step up to the stone, following my inclination in this.

And I hear a great cry of lament. Oh, the lament is for

me! I do not look back, but I feel as though a gate

closes at my back. I know that if I look back I will not

see this gate, yet I am certain that the Gate of Heaven

has closed against me, that God and His Hosts have

finally withdrawn from this realm. And now the

dragon descends towards me, it’s brilliant red eyes

flashing and its long tongue flicking unceasingly

across its sharp teeth. And I find that I raise my left

arm to it. I think at first that I mean to ward it off, but

no – it lands gently on my wrist. Its foreclaws clutch

580

lightly but firmly at either side of my hand and now

its long tail winds itself about my forearm. Oh what

an indescribable feeling. And the dragon suddenly

deepens in colour – as though drawing some power

from me – until it radiates the most pure scarlet. And

then its settles down on my arm, its belly at first cold

and metallic against my skin, but then it warms and I

feel it shape itself to me. Then it turns its head to me

in a pert way and releases a thin flicker of flame. And

I feel something enter me from this fire and it is as

though what I feel I have lost through the loss of

Heaven is restored to me, but this time it is within me.

But even as I attempt to reconnect myself to this inner

Heaven, I find that it is as though there is nothing

there. Heaven is within me but it is empty. I am lost

in wonderment at this. I am so enhanced and yet I feel

as though I am nothing any longer. And even as I

experience this strange state of affairs, I see the

dragon lower its head until it juts out above my

fingers. Then is seems to solidify there – embracing

my arm and become in its turn a kind of scarlet jewel.

And I cannot resist raising this wonderful bracelet to

my lips and kissing it. Is this a gift, dear heart? I am

so enhanced – as I have already said – and I find that

my feeling is one of that kind of dignity that comes

581

through achievement. I have done nothing, yet I feel

as though I have brought my destiny to completion. I

do not understand this and therefore it seems to me

that I stand in ignorance before some coming event.

And in this unknowing state, dear heart, believe me

that I trust you completely. I have walked on among

the crystal rocks and the precious stones, the dragon

bracelet light on my arm. And I see the dragons

attendant on both the crystals and the gems turn

towards me and dip a little as though in admiration of

me. And I am gracious, knowing that all that I see

may not be real by one standard – that it might exist

by your will alone and purely for my benefit. And I

come to the entrance to the next stage of the tunnel.

And for the first time I feel a tug of reluctance, as

though unwilling to leave this plane of love and

regard. But I am not afraid. I go forward as I feel

inclined, trusting that this is for the best. And I round

a corner in the tunnel and see before me a closed

door. An ordinary panel door, painted with an old

fashioned brown stain, a small brass doorknob on its

right side. I am to open this door. I pause. Am I to

change or am I already changed? I find that I am

already changed – and changed in such a manner that

fear never disheartened me during the process of

582

changing. I have lost everything I thought was mine. I

have lost my Wisdom, I have lost Heaven, and I have

lost God. I am alone now, dear heart. And still I am

not afraid. I open the door. A little room beyond, lit

by the light of lamp-stand over to my right, on the far

side of a simple couch – the sort that can be converted

into a bed. And on my left I see a cabinet with

drawers, with shelves laden with books above it. Is

this where you live, dear heart? There is a tapestry

style curtain covering the wall facing me, the design

that of the Hunt for the Hart in low contrast, the

greens especially lucent. Is this your colour, dear

heart? And in front of the tapestry there is a small

table, a chair pulled to one side – as though you have

just got up from the table. And on the table there is a

pad of lined paper, a clutch pen, a phial of leads and a

rubber. And I look closer and read that I look closer

and read. I am startled and stand back. On this page is

being written what the reader now reads. Oh, and then

I realise something. I see. I can see. I see with your

eyes! Do I inhabit you now, dear heart? Do I also

write what you write? Do I see what you see? And

yet, dear heart, I know that this is not real – that you

sit in another room and write this. But I am you and

you are me. We are one. And I am impelled to return

583

to the desk and to bend again to read what you are

writing on the pad there. And what I read is this:

Hieros Gamos – The Sacred Marriage.

584

And now the tapestry curtain beyond the desk is

drawing back to disclose a wide window, through

which can be seen the following:

There is a meadow in summer, the grass high –

not yet mown. It is evening, shadows already deep

under the beeches that line the field to the north. The

hedging is otherwise low, except for a stand of hazel

over to the left, where a stream passes. Under the

hazel there are clouds and clouds of dark midges

whirling about with great energy. But out here in the

centre of the field, other creatures are also gathered in

clouds – and they too fly about with energy. These

creatures are not dark. On the contrary, they glisten

each one in the gloaming, so that each cloud appears

as a globe of pulsing light. And if you go in close to

one of these creatures, you will find that is seems to

be composed almost entirely of an orb that resembles

the human head. There are notable differences. For

instance, there are no eye sockets, and in place of

ears, it has wide narrow wings that beat very rapidly.

And the nose of the being is large, bent over like the

beak of an eagle, and the mouth is merely a small

fixed orifice. But the greatest difference lies in the

crest. In place of hair, the creature possesses a crown-

like protuberance that peaks at the front and back, and

585

on either side – above its wings. Some flesh trails

below this orb, and while it ends in what seems like a

tail, strips of flesh hang loosely from it near the head

itself – causing the creature to resemble most of all a

severed head, perhaps that of a decapitated king. And

every so often some of these little creatures fly off up

into the air so that there is a trail of light curving

away from the field up towards the darkest half of the

sky. And if you follow this trail, you will find that it

rises up into an utter darkness. You will also discover

that many other trails rise up from the earth below

and converge with this one, so that what was initially

a narrow trail composed of just a few creatures is now

becoming a veritable river of these beings. And even

while you absorb this fact of how the number of

beings rising into the darkness has increased greatly,

you will see other rivers of these beings rising up

from the earth below, and will see that all these rivers

converge into enormous oceans of these beings. And

it will dismay you to find that, despite the immense

numbers of these beings gathered together, they

cannot penetrate the utter darkness all about with their

concentrated light. And while you contemplate this

terrible fact, you will come to see that there are other

great oceans of these beings distributed about you like

586

meagre little flickers in the gloom, and you will be

overwhelmed to find that all these great oceans are

converging together into one immensity of these little

beings. And still the sum of their individual lights –

so effective in lighting the earth – make absolutely no

impression on the deep unbroken blackness of the

surrounding darkness.

You will not be aware of it immediately, but

soon you find that this immense gathering of these

beings is in fact streaming forward at a substantial

speed. Go in close and you will see that each little

being bears the same expression of complete

determination, that they all move at exactly the same

rate – all packed very close together yet not colliding.

And so you flow along with them – you could stand

back and watch them pass, but a curiosity compels

you to follow them – all lost together in this unnatural

darkness, the massed light of the beings as though

dimmed by the very pressure of the dark. And as you

speed along, there will come a point when you begin

to hear the sound. Very faint at first – like a low

buzzing of bees in the distance. You will of course

strain to see forward for the source of this sound. And

as the sound very gradually increases in volume, it

will seem to you that the enormous band of light that

587

streams ahead fades and fades until there is only

complete darkness in the distance. And you will

watch with a dreadful fascination as the termination

of the light stream becomes more evident, even as the

sound increases until it resembles an old fashioned

keening. Yet the feeling this experience rouses in you

changes from fear to something more like a profound

regret, for it seems that what you are hearing is the

death cry of millions and hundred of millions and

even billions of these strange little creatures. And you

will strive to find meaning in this event – why do

these little beings rise up from the beautiful earth and

hurl themselves to extinction in this awful darkness –

and you will be deeply disturbed by the realisation

that you can find none. You have no intuition to

prepare you for what you are experiencing. And still

the sound increases in volume, till there comes a point

when you begin to discern the range of the little

voices that contribute to the overall cry. And you will

also reach the point where you begin to distinguish

more clearly the place where the little lights go out.

You see it is as though a wall exists in the dark, and

that the little head-beings race up against this wall

and their lights are snuffed out instantly. You stare

incredulously at this event – repeated time after time

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after time all over this apparent-wall of darkness – the

impulse to call a halt to this madness almost

overwhelming you. But it is only when you draw

close into the apparent-wall that you realise that the

sound that you have been hearing has its source in the

reckless suicide of these beings. Even as the beings

collide with the apparent-wall, and their individual

glistening lights are extinguished, the cry escapes

from their little round mouths. And what you discover

now – so close are you to what you believe is the

death of these beings – is that the cry is sustained

even though the little creature appears to have been

destroyed. It is only by following one of these cries as

it falls away down into the darkness that you come to

suspect that something of the creatures survives their

impact with the dark wall. And so you follow the

sound – finding it magnified by the cries of the

millions of the creatures that are now falling around

you through the darkness. And you notice how the

pitch of the cry varies from creature to creature, but

how the form of the cry from all of them is identical.

And as you listen to the sound as though you might

find expression in it, you come to hear what might be

a word. It seems to you as though each creature cries

out over and over in its shrill yet smooth voice,

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weesaw, weesaw, weesaw… And on and on they fall

through the darkness, each crying out this word in a

monotonous two-tone, weesaw, weesaw, weesaw.

And you will marvel that this sound almost has

meaning for you – though at the same time you are

rightfully uneasy that this should be the case. How is

it that you can understand what these alien creatures –

the likes of which you would not find even in your

worst nightmares – sing out, unless you are trapped in

a mad fantasy of your own devising?

And while you fret at this possibility – that you

might be deluding yourself at this moment – you

become aware that the darkness is growing less

complete. This should be a relief for you. But you are

now so distrustful of what you are experiencing that

you cannot avoid the suspicion that it is you who is

lightening the darkness – perhaps because you are

reaching the limit of your endurance and fear an

outright breakdown of your sanity. And yet it lightens

all about you – and in the growing light you find you

can discern some remnant of these beings as they fall

and fall all around you. Go in close and you see what

appears to be little flakes of ash, dark as soot. It will

seem to you as though the little head-beings were

burned up in some way as a result of their collision

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with the dark wall. And it is these little flakes of ash

that are crying out the monotonous chant – weesaw,

weesaw, weesaw – all singing together even as they

fall into the increasing brightness. And do you look

down at some point, hoping no doubt to see the

source of this new light? What do you expect to see?

A glorious sun, perhaps? So what do you see? A light,

only a radiant light – no source that you can see. And

these crinkly little beings – falling like bits of burnt

paper, but singing as they do – do they know that they

fall into the light? No, of course not. They cannot see

the dark and they cannot see the light. They fall –

simply fall, singing their absurd little song that tells

you that they saw. And you will flow down with them

– insulated in your body though not in your mind –

and you wonder at this light, that has no source that

you can see. But wait – can you not learn even that? –

and allow significance to the destiny of the strange

little being, with its funny head-shape, beaky nose

and eary wings, that it can fly up to the dark and

afterwards fall spent into the light. Could you fall into

the light – as you fear falling into the dark? Would

you fly up to the dark – given wings – as you might

fly up to the Sun? And they all fall together, still

crying out their little song, still proclaiming that they

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have seen – they who are eyeless. Perhaps then they

sing in another language – perhaps a language

unknown to you – so that they sing out some other

meaning. And you grasp in this – at last – that you

may not be mad after all, merely confused. For why

should you understand? You can see what these weird

little beings cannot see – is that not enough? And

now, perhaps it is time for you to steal another glance

towards the sourceless light? What do you see now?

Yes. Within the glow of light you can discern what

you can best describe as a pearl. And you think –

clutching as ever at the straws of your wit – the Pearl

of Great Price. And you are mightily relieved –

almost ready to cry out in a hilarious joy – believing

that you are finally entering the realm of those myths

you hold dear. And you think spontaneously that you

are witnessing Heaven. And you think then of

Redemption – the sooty souls saved through their

faith. How otherwise to explain the headlong rush

into the dark? And still all fall down into the light,

you and the myriads of little particles of ash. Look up

for a moment and see the long trail of dark beings as

they issue from the gloom above and fall in an

enormous column down through the strengthening

light. All are singing the same song – you consider

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they all sing for the sake of Heaven. And what now of

Heaven – now that you are drawing close to it? What

do you see now? Yes, you see layer within layer

within what you described as a pearl. And – yes – that

is how a pearl is constructed, layer after layer of nacre

laid down over time. And here also you see layer after

layer, each set one within the other. How many layers

do you see? Yes, you see ten. And within the tenth

layer – what being dwells there? Yes, your God. And

now observe the little beings as they approach the

outer layer of Heaven. Have the Golden Gates opened

yet to receive them? Is some saint or important

hierarch come out to greet them? No. You see already

that the little beings ahead of you in this humongous

column of soot are actually colliding with the outer

wall of Heaven. And they are striking with such

impetuous force that it seems their little burnt out

remainder is splattered against this radiant wall, so

that the purity of Heaven is besmirched. You are

initially appalled – but without clearly understanding

why. Are you sickened by the fact that Heaven does

not open its arms to these redeemed souls – who have

suffered so acutely and yet who praise God so

fulsomely? Or are you scandalised that beings who

have sought entry into the dark should upon rejection

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vent their spite in so unseemly a way? And now you

have drawn close to the Wall of Heaven and can see

more clearly how completely it is being disfigured by

these beings – for you can see how the ugly column

of soot spreads itself out in such a way that the whole

surface of the outermost layer of Heaven is

thoroughly marked by the insult being perpetrated by

these burnt out creatures. And you do not wonder that

God and his Heavenly Host have withdrawn into their

pearly fortress for their own protection. And yet you

also wonder why God – who has created all things,

including these little beasts – can not do more on his

Own behalf. And so you wonder again what it is you

are witnessing here. Pause now. Observe the surface

of Heaven and mark what you see. The column of ash

rushes down and engulfs the Heavenly Pearl. The

collision of each being against this Pearl leaves a

trace of soot on its immaculate surface. These traces

taken together create a pattern, a pattern that changes

constantly as successive waves of the little ash-being

thrust themselves against the Pearl. And notice how

the singing stops at the moment of impact. The

remnants of the head-beings sing as they drop down

until they crash into the surface of the pearl, when the

singing ceases abruptly, even in mid-phrase.

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Consider, it is as though the song is converted into a

shape, perhaps even into an image. No. No more

delusion here. Allow that a sung phrase

incomprehensible to you is converted into an image

that is equally incomprehensible to you. The message

– the Word – is not intended for you, so why should

you understand it? Yet observe, even so, how the

pattern being smeared on the Wall of Heaven changes

constantly by subtle shifts across its entire surface.

But – you ask – who will read this phantasmagoria?

God? But how could God – Who knows least and is

most reluctant to learn – read this movie? Only those

hierarchs who know the most and who are the least

reluctant to learn could read it. And who are these

Heavenly beings but the lowly Messengers, who have

the most intercourse with men? These are the beings

who inhabit the outer layer of Heaven, the front line

troops of God’s Army. It is they who live with this

bombardment of images, who are slowly but surely

taught by the relentless sacrifice of the head-beings.

And what are they taught? That cannot be known

until it is learned. And as you cannot learn it – at least

not in your present state – so you can never know

what the little creatures teach.

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But console yourself by continuing your

observation of the little head-beings. We found them

last silenced by their collision with the surface of the

Heavenly Pearl. Go in close now and see what

happens next. Yes, the little beings fall away from the

Heavenly Wall and drop down through the radiant

light. They are like shadows now, of uncertain shape

against the brilliant light. And they all fall together in

silence too – the little shadows wavering – but so

many here that they constitute a new column, grey in

tone but flecked throughout with stray glances of the

Heavenly Light. And you fall with them, somewhat

daunted by the silence and the insubstantiality of the

unfortunate beings. Do you wonder where they fall to

now? Where can they go – who have been in the dark

and in the light? And even as you consider this

question, you notice that the light about you is

dimming. And of course you do not look down – as

you did before, while falling into the light – but look

up, back towards what seems now – at this distance

from Heaven – a sourceless radiance. And you see the

great column of shadow as it descends – an unbroken

column except for the stray flickerings already

mentioned – and in this mute descent you see only a

falling away from Glory. And the regret is very great,

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though it is mingled with an unholy anger that beings

could approach Heaven and yet not seek entry. You

are tempted to withdraw now from the window and

return to your mundane existence. But, you think,

how could you live out the rest of your quotidian

existence with this knowledge of failure? Isn’t

spiritual experience supposed to be a success – isn’t

that the assumption? Very well, then. Look again at

the little shadow-beings. What do you see? Yes. What

you thought was merely a shadow is now revealed in

the dimming light to be a flickering flame. You see?

Each little being is a spark of fire – dull light, to be

sure, against the brilliance of the Heavenly Light –

but a living fire nonetheless. And now look down, for

we approach our journey’s end. You see an orb that

reflects the collective light of the flames of the

descending column of beings. You see that the

column itself terminates on this orb. Let us descend.

The orb resolves itself into a large body of rock, its

surface smooth and highly reflective. And you see

how yet the flame-light of the little beings penetrates

into this rock and lights it up to a golden glow. The

orb is a gigantic crystal, as large as the Earth. It hangs

in an empty space dimly lit by a residual gleam of the

Heavenly Light. And the beings gather at the surface

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of this crystal-planet into small groups dotted all over

the glinting rock. And the little flames spin about and

bit by bit – even as you watch – you see how they

spin new bodies from the gaseous extrusion of the

rock. And the bodies they spin? Why, they are little

head-like orbs, sightless, with ear-like wings, eagle-

like noses and little round mouths. And each has its

royal crest of four tines, and the trailing tail with its

ragged skirts. And each comes to glisten with its own

light. And as you watch you see how these mature

beings rise up towards the dark portion of the sky

above – even as you see the flickering sparks descend

from the lighted part of the sky to take their place in

the cloud of whirling beings in various stages of

growth.

And so it is. Such is the destiny of the perfected

man.

16 March 2009 - 22 July 2010

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Dedicated to my sister Valerie, who died shortly

after this work was completed.

‘The end of every maker is himself.’

St Thomas Aquinas