about fleshly matters …
But he did not write it. He wrote no more. Only sat, in bitterness and resentment that the boy and his folly should have intruded upon him here.
Alice found Georgiana, her cheeks flushed, eyesbright with panic and fever, hysterical among the escaped and fluttering birds, and so, the questions of life and death were for the time being suspended.
And because she saw that they were better left to themselves, and, having cleared up the broken seed dish, could be of no further use here, she simply led Georgiana away to bed, and medicine, and hot water laced with rum and lemon.
In theend, nervous of their freedom, the little birds quietly returned to roost in their cages, and coming in later, and seeing them so, Alice simply closed and latched the door.
But one remained free, one bird Alice did not see, perched high up, close to the skylight, its vivid wings closed, head bent into an iridescent breast.
Georgiana slept. Half woke in confusion. Fell back again into a snake-pitof turbulent, poisoned dreams.
Woke again, with thoughts of death. Death clung to her. But deliberately, knowing that it was the fever, she turned her mind to childhood, as onto sweet, soft pillows, and was at once soothed and made cool.
And the small, vivid bird roosted on alone, close to the skylight, close to the glass, to the air, to freedom.
She started up again, out of her reverie ofIreland, remembering what had almost happened through her own fault, her own forgetfulness. Almost.
But it had not. And Alice would surely say nothing to him and so, how could he ever know?
She was a child again, terrified of incurring his displeasure, for he was the bright, the fixed star in her universe, afraid to confess that she had forfeited his trust.
Thought, almost said out loud, butI am a grown woman, I am forty-four years old, why must I endlessly look back to our childhood? Why do I still, still see him in the old light, why am I so anxious that he, and he alone, should approve, praise, trust, like, love?
Why has no life since then ever fully satisfied?
What is it I lack?
But then, because of the fever, and the low ebb of her spirits in these ghostly hours before dawn,because of her restless limbs and aching head, she submitted again, and let her mind drift back. To the stories he had told her, sitting before the fire, or on the deep window-seat, looking out at the soft silver veils of rain drifting up across the garden from the Lake. And the books he had read to her, of wild journeys and far countries beyond exotic seas, and their exultant voyages togetheracross ancient maps.
And so, for a time, kept back the visible skull, the vision of death that stalked, grinning over her shoulder.
But life and death and all the troubled thoughts of it preyed upon Alice in her room at the end of the passage, and rattled the window lock, and the handle of the wardrobe door, and would not be denied.
So that in the end, she went down in her dressing-gown tothe kitchen, and heated milk, and sat on the chair beside the range and rocked to soothe herself.
Life and death. Life and death. Life and death.
Old Mrs Gray thought of death, too, death more than life now, in the long, wakeful hours.
But then, she always did, and was quite untroubled by it.
Only sat at the half-open window and smelled the balmy, gentle smell of night, blowing from off theriver.
And was content. And would not die yet awhile.
17
HE WOKE in the night to silence. The storm had blown itself out.
Thomas went to the window and saw that the whole quayside and the salt flats and the great, still expanse of the estuary beyond, were washed in moonlight, and the face of the moon gazed back at itself, serene in the waters.
And, as he looked at them, he imagined how they would be now, the secret reedbeds and inlets, the mud-flatsand saltings, right away to the shoreline itself, seething with birds, feeding, flying, or lying low in the water, and other birds tucked into banks
But he did not write it. He wrote no more. Only sat, in bitterness and resentment that the boy and his folly should have intruded upon him here.
Alice found Georgiana, her cheeks flushed, eyesbright with panic and fever, hysterical among the escaped and fluttering birds, and so, the questions of life and death were for the time being suspended.
And because she saw that they were better left to themselves, and, having cleared up the broken seed dish, could be of no further use here, she simply led Georgiana away to bed, and medicine, and hot water laced with rum and lemon.
In theend, nervous of their freedom, the little birds quietly returned to roost in their cages, and coming in later, and seeing them so, Alice simply closed and latched the door.
But one remained free, one bird Alice did not see, perched high up, close to the skylight, its vivid wings closed, head bent into an iridescent breast.
Georgiana slept. Half woke in confusion. Fell back again into a snake-pitof turbulent, poisoned dreams.
Woke again, with thoughts of death. Death clung to her. But deliberately, knowing that it was the fever, she turned her mind to childhood, as onto sweet, soft pillows, and was at once soothed and made cool.
And the small, vivid bird roosted on alone, close to the skylight, close to the glass, to the air, to freedom.
She started up again, out of her reverie ofIreland, remembering what had almost happened through her own fault, her own forgetfulness. Almost.
But it had not. And Alice would surely say nothing to him and so, how could he ever know?
She was a child again, terrified of incurring his displeasure, for he was the bright, the fixed star in her universe, afraid to confess that she had forfeited his trust.
Thought, almost said out loud, butI am a grown woman, I am forty-four years old, why must I endlessly look back to our childhood? Why do I still, still see him in the old light, why am I so anxious that he, and he alone, should approve, praise, trust, like, love?
Why has no life since then ever fully satisfied?
What is it I lack?
But then, because of the fever, and the low ebb of her spirits in these ghostly hours before dawn,because of her restless limbs and aching head, she submitted again, and let her mind drift back. To the stories he had told her, sitting before the fire, or on the deep window-seat, looking out at the soft silver veils of rain drifting up across the garden from the Lake. And the books he had read to her, of wild journeys and far countries beyond exotic seas, and their exultant voyages togetheracross ancient maps.
And so, for a time, kept back the visible skull, the vision of death that stalked, grinning over her shoulder.
But life and death and all the troubled thoughts of it preyed upon Alice in her room at the end of the passage, and rattled the window lock, and the handle of the wardrobe door, and would not be denied.
So that in the end, she went down in her dressing-gown tothe kitchen, and heated milk, and sat on the chair beside the range and rocked to soothe herself.
Life and death. Life and death. Life and death.
Old Mrs Gray thought of death, too, death more than life now, in the long, wakeful hours.
But then, she always did, and was quite untroubled by it.
Only sat at the half-open window and smelled the balmy, gentle smell of night, blowing from off theriver.
And was content. And would not die yet awhile.
17
HE WOKE in the night to silence. The storm had blown itself out.
Thomas went to the window and saw that the whole quayside and the salt flats and the great, still expanse of the estuary beyond, were washed in moonlight, and the face of the moon gazed back at itself, serene in the waters.
And, as he looked at them, he imagined how they would be now, the secret reedbeds and inlets, the mud-flatsand saltings, right away to the shoreline itself, seething with birds, feeding, flying, or lying low in the water, and other birds tucked into banks
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