departures, no accidents. The horses could prevent things from happening by staying close to one another without ever touching. Touch, Sylvia knew, caused fracture, and horses should never, never fracture. Horses had to be shot if anything about them was broken. Her father had told her that. Her mother, in the story, had shot the one horse, and still, while Sylvia slept, the weather of the clock ticked on and the storms boomed out into the night, and then continued to mark the mornings when she was awake, and when she was at school while school was still a part of her life. These were the kind of things she liked to think about at the time that Malcolm first came into her life: unnamed china horses.
Sylvia also liked to think about a piece of Staffordshire china that had been in the house for as long as she could remember. As a young child, she had asked her father when “the girl and the dog and the bird who were all joined together by the tree” had come to the house, and he had told her from the beginning, as far as he knew. And so, for her, the grouping became a kind of symbol of the Creation, one of “my first things,” as she liked to call these pieces of china at the time. This term had nothing to do with ownership, rather it concerned the connection she believed existed between her and the shape such a thing would hold on to, unchangingly, forever. Often without laying one finger on it, she would whisper to the piece, “There was a girl and a dog and a bird and they were all joined together, forever, by a tree.” The girl wore a pink dress, a white apron, and had a green ribbon round her neck and, on her head, a hat adorned with feathers. The dog was spotted and had delicate whiskers and nails made by the finest lines of paint. The bird was brown and black and was resting on a limb of the tree. They remained discrete, separate, attached only to and by the tree – a leafless tree, a tree that knew no seasons. A kind of security and contentment emanated from the grouping, as if the players in the tableaux knew who they were, what their role was, where they belonged. They were stable. They had no moods. They displayed no disturbing behavior.
How charmed Malcolm had been by such things when he had finally persuaded her that it was safe to tell him about them. “I am safe, Syl,” he would say, and then as if to indicate that he understood what mattered to her, “I am as safe as houses.” It was then that she decided to show him the large 1878 County atlas with its old pictures of shops and houses and farms that had since fallen into disrepair or, in some cases, had disappeared completely from the roads on which they had stood. “These are safe too,” she had told him, pointing to one building after another. And when he had asked her why they were safe, she had said, “Because everything that was going to happen to them, in them, has already happened. There will be no more changes. They are here,” she placed her hand flat on a page, “just like this, forever.”
“‘And, little town,’” he had said, looking at a depiction of a village street, “‘thy streets for evermore will silent be.’”
She had smiled at him then and had, for the first time, looked fully into his face. He knew about the poem that she had carried with her in her mind since Grade Twelve and he had assumed that she would know as well. He had not explained, had not said the words “Ode on a Grecian Urn,” or “John Keats,” as almost anyone else would have done, condescending to her “disability,” her “condition.” She relaxed almost completely then, concluded that he was someone she could like.
Oh Malcolm, she thought now, as she walked through the door of the hotel, you were safe. It was I who was never safe, for beneath the serene appearance of my house, there was always a story that I was making in my mind. No matter how carefully still the horses stood, in the end, even they couldn’t stop things from happening.
Sylvia also liked to think about a piece of Staffordshire china that had been in the house for as long as she could remember. As a young child, she had asked her father when “the girl and the dog and the bird who were all joined together by the tree” had come to the house, and he had told her from the beginning, as far as he knew. And so, for her, the grouping became a kind of symbol of the Creation, one of “my first things,” as she liked to call these pieces of china at the time. This term had nothing to do with ownership, rather it concerned the connection she believed existed between her and the shape such a thing would hold on to, unchangingly, forever. Often without laying one finger on it, she would whisper to the piece, “There was a girl and a dog and a bird and they were all joined together, forever, by a tree.” The girl wore a pink dress, a white apron, and had a green ribbon round her neck and, on her head, a hat adorned with feathers. The dog was spotted and had delicate whiskers and nails made by the finest lines of paint. The bird was brown and black and was resting on a limb of the tree. They remained discrete, separate, attached only to and by the tree – a leafless tree, a tree that knew no seasons. A kind of security and contentment emanated from the grouping, as if the players in the tableaux knew who they were, what their role was, where they belonged. They were stable. They had no moods. They displayed no disturbing behavior.
How charmed Malcolm had been by such things when he had finally persuaded her that it was safe to tell him about them. “I am safe, Syl,” he would say, and then as if to indicate that he understood what mattered to her, “I am as safe as houses.” It was then that she decided to show him the large 1878 County atlas with its old pictures of shops and houses and farms that had since fallen into disrepair or, in some cases, had disappeared completely from the roads on which they had stood. “These are safe too,” she had told him, pointing to one building after another. And when he had asked her why they were safe, she had said, “Because everything that was going to happen to them, in them, has already happened. There will be no more changes. They are here,” she placed her hand flat on a page, “just like this, forever.”
“‘And, little town,’” he had said, looking at a depiction of a village street, “‘thy streets for evermore will silent be.’”
She had smiled at him then and had, for the first time, looked fully into his face. He knew about the poem that she had carried with her in her mind since Grade Twelve and he had assumed that she would know as well. He had not explained, had not said the words “Ode on a Grecian Urn,” or “John Keats,” as almost anyone else would have done, condescending to her “disability,” her “condition.” She relaxed almost completely then, concluded that he was someone she could like.
Oh Malcolm, she thought now, as she walked through the door of the hotel, you were safe. It was I who was never safe, for beneath the serene appearance of my house, there was always a story that I was making in my mind. No matter how carefully still the horses stood, in the end, even they couldn’t stop things from happening.
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