A Pale View of Hills by Kazuo Ishiguro Page A

picture from what her father has told her. Such a picture, inevitably, would have its inaccuracies. For, in truth, despite all the impressive articles he wrote about Japan, my husband never understood the ways of our culture, even less a man like Jim. I do not claim to recall Jiro with affection then he was never the oafish man my husband considered him to be. Jim worked hard to do his part for the family and he expected me to do mine; in his own terms, he was a dutiful husband. And indeed, for the seven years he knew his daughter, he was a good father to her. Whatever else I convinced myself of during those final days, I never pretended Keiko would not miss him.
    But such things are long in the past now and I have no wish to ponder them yet again. My motives for leaving Japan were justifiable, and I know I always: kept Keiko’s interests very much at heart. There is nothing to be gained in going over such matters again.
    I had been pruning the pot plants along the window ledge for some time when I realized how quiet Niki had become. When I turned to her, she was standing in front of the fireplace, looking past me out into the garden. I turned back to the window, trying to follow her gaze; despite the mist on the pane, the garden was still clearly discernible. Niki, it seemed, was gazing over to a spot near the hedge, where the rain and wind had put into disarray the canes which supported the young tomato plants.
    “I think the tomatoes are mined for this year,” I said. “I’ve really rather neglected them.”
    I was still looking at the canes when I heard the sound of a drawer being pulled open, and when I turned again, Niki was continuing with her search. She had decided after breakfast to read through all her father’s newspaper articles, and had spent much of the morning going through all the drawers and bookshelves in the house.
    For some minutes, I continued working on my pot plants; there were a large number of them, cluttering the window ledge. Behind me, I could hear Niki going through the drawers. Then she became quiet again, and when I turned to her, she was once more gazing past me, out into the garden.
    “I think I’ll go and do the goldfish now,” she said.
    “The goldfish?”
    Without replying, Niki left the room, and a moment later I saw her go striding across the lawn. I wiped away a little mist from the pane and watched her. Niki walked to the far end of the garden, to the fish-pond amidst the rockery. She poured in the feed, and for several seconds remained standing there, gazing into the pond. I could see her figure in profile; she looked very thin, and despite her fashionable clothes there was still something unmistakably childlike about her. I watched the wind disturb her hair and wondered why she had gone outside without a jacket.
    On her way back, she stopped beside the tomato plants and in spite of the heavy drizzle stood contemplating them for some time. Then she took a few steps closer and with much care began straightening the canes. She stood up several that had fallen completely, then, crouching down so her knees almost touched the wet grass, adjusted the net I had laid above the soil to protect the plants from marauding birds.
    “Thank you, Niki,” I said to her when she came in. “That was very thoughtful of you.”
    She muttered something and sat down on the settee. I noticed she had become quite embarrassed.
    “I really have been rather neglectful about those tomatoes this year, I went on. “Still, it doesn’t really matter, I suppose. I never know what to do with so many tomatoes these days. Last year, I gave most of them to the Morrisons.”
    “Oh God,” said Niki ”the Morrisons. And how are the dear old Morrisons?”
    “Niki, the Monisons are perfectly kind people. I’ve never understood why you need to be so disparaging. You and Cathy used to be the best of friends once.”
    “Oh yes, Cathy. And how’s she these days? Still living at home, I suppose?”
    “Well,