mystery. And she rolls towards him, once more giving herself over to drowsy, delirious touch … and sight, smell, taste. Lips and skin. And, all the time, his hand holding hers. Did he ever really let go? Did she?
And so the morning passes in this private world of private declarations, private meanings. And private dominion. A world unto itself. While outside history marshals its forces oblivious of it all.
It happens quite suddenly, without warning. It is late in the morning and they are walking through St James’s Park to his station, the autumn sun still bright. The day is drowsy, she thinks, or, she corrects herself, they are. Arm in arm, they are just two lovers on a Sunday morning. She has learned over the weeksto accommodate his limp and now barely notices it. Neither of them speaks. There is no urgency in their step, and everything has a dreamy stillness.
As good a time as any, she concludes, to tell him about the ring that she still keeps in her drawer, about the young man called Frank who gave it to her and for whom she promised, a long time ago, to wear it when he returned. As good a time as any to tell him that a long time ago a young man she barely knew gave to the young woman she was, and whom she now barely recognises, a ring, which she took and swore to keep, but which was always more a bit of play-acting than anything else. He would write to her because he wanted someone to write to, and she would be the girl at home who wrote back. Something like that. But even as she rehearses what she will say, she is aware of the tug of loyalties; of explaining it in such a way as to clear the air, but also not to dismiss it as a matter of insignificance because it’s not — and, in any case, it would be a hurtful thing to say even if Frank never heard it. It would be wrong to suggest that it was all just a silly business, like two children playing at being grown-ups. So it’s a juggling act. But it’s something that must be said, all the same, and sheis determined to get it over and done with. To get it off her chest, for that’s where it seems to be sitting on this dreamy Sunday morning in the park.
In the distance a woman sits on a bench with a pram. There is the faint sound of crying. The woman, presumably the mother, is attempting to distract her baby with a rattle. But she’s having no luck. And as they walk closer to the bench the wails of the baby become louder. Still, it’s just one part of a perfect morning. Just a detail on the canvas, for it is, Iris imagines, almost like walking through one of those vast paintings that documents a moment in the life of a park or a street. The cries are loud but incidental.
It is as they approach the pram that she can feel his body becoming rigid. Tense. She looks round to him and his eyes are fixed on it. The sparkle has gone from them. They are, once again, eyes as intense as the times, as intense as she knew they would be when she first met them. And he’s lost to her, or he seems to be. For when she asks, ‘What is it?’, he says nothing. He doesn’t seem to have heard her. His eyes are fixed on the front of the pram. So she shifts her gaze and follows his line of vision. They move closer, and she can see that the mother has draped some sort of clearmaterial, a transparent screen, over the front of the pram so that inside it becomes a kind of enclosed cabin. And Iris imagines (as indeed she supposes the mother does) that this makes everything snug and cosy. And that the baby will be happy in its snug and cosy world. Secure. But the baby is unhappy and the mother, who is calm and almost serene as though she’s experienced this many times before, is peering at it through the transparent material and waving the rattle. As they near the pram, now no more than a few feet away (and the mother still hasn’t noticed them, so intent is she on soothing the baby), the cries become even louder. And more desperate.
And it is at this point that Jim shakes himself
And so the morning passes in this private world of private declarations, private meanings. And private dominion. A world unto itself. While outside history marshals its forces oblivious of it all.
It happens quite suddenly, without warning. It is late in the morning and they are walking through St James’s Park to his station, the autumn sun still bright. The day is drowsy, she thinks, or, she corrects herself, they are. Arm in arm, they are just two lovers on a Sunday morning. She has learned over the weeksto accommodate his limp and now barely notices it. Neither of them speaks. There is no urgency in their step, and everything has a dreamy stillness.
As good a time as any, she concludes, to tell him about the ring that she still keeps in her drawer, about the young man called Frank who gave it to her and for whom she promised, a long time ago, to wear it when he returned. As good a time as any to tell him that a long time ago a young man she barely knew gave to the young woman she was, and whom she now barely recognises, a ring, which she took and swore to keep, but which was always more a bit of play-acting than anything else. He would write to her because he wanted someone to write to, and she would be the girl at home who wrote back. Something like that. But even as she rehearses what she will say, she is aware of the tug of loyalties; of explaining it in such a way as to clear the air, but also not to dismiss it as a matter of insignificance because it’s not — and, in any case, it would be a hurtful thing to say even if Frank never heard it. It would be wrong to suggest that it was all just a silly business, like two children playing at being grown-ups. So it’s a juggling act. But it’s something that must be said, all the same, and sheis determined to get it over and done with. To get it off her chest, for that’s where it seems to be sitting on this dreamy Sunday morning in the park.
In the distance a woman sits on a bench with a pram. There is the faint sound of crying. The woman, presumably the mother, is attempting to distract her baby with a rattle. But she’s having no luck. And as they walk closer to the bench the wails of the baby become louder. Still, it’s just one part of a perfect morning. Just a detail on the canvas, for it is, Iris imagines, almost like walking through one of those vast paintings that documents a moment in the life of a park or a street. The cries are loud but incidental.
It is as they approach the pram that she can feel his body becoming rigid. Tense. She looks round to him and his eyes are fixed on it. The sparkle has gone from them. They are, once again, eyes as intense as the times, as intense as she knew they would be when she first met them. And he’s lost to her, or he seems to be. For when she asks, ‘What is it?’, he says nothing. He doesn’t seem to have heard her. His eyes are fixed on the front of the pram. So she shifts her gaze and follows his line of vision. They move closer, and she can see that the mother has draped some sort of clearmaterial, a transparent screen, over the front of the pram so that inside it becomes a kind of enclosed cabin. And Iris imagines (as indeed she supposes the mother does) that this makes everything snug and cosy. And that the baby will be happy in its snug and cosy world. Secure. But the baby is unhappy and the mother, who is calm and almost serene as though she’s experienced this many times before, is peering at it through the transparent material and waving the rattle. As they near the pram, now no more than a few feet away (and the mother still hasn’t noticed them, so intent is she on soothing the baby), the cries become even louder. And more desperate.
And it is at this point that Jim shakes himself
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