Carnival Sky by Owen Marshall Page B

see the same way we do.’
    ‘I did see a chocolate drop from the Eiffel Tower.’
    ‘You said.’ There was no curiosity. As a journalist and older brother shouldn’t he have the more bizarre and insightful experiences? There were those deeply personal things, of course, that he was unwilling to unearth even before himself.
    ‘I never knew you had a French boyfriend when you were overseas,’ he said.
    ‘He was her half-brother. He studied with me in Scotland. People are such a great mix in Europe. Almost all professional folk speak several languages. It’s expected. With just English sometimes I felt under-educated over there, and I’d never felt like that before. But we’re so isolated here, I guess. Music was another language again for Pauline. Sometimes I think I should have specialised in neurology. The brain’s a fascinating organ. Her other senses became heightened you see. You read anything by Oliver Sacks?’
    ‘I have actually.’
    ‘There you are then,’ said Georgie as if she had carried an argument. ‘Yes, the Boulevard du Montparnasse. The restaurant was just past a post office and Pauline used to eat there. Why don’t our streets have beautiful names?’
    ‘What’s the matter with Strugglers Gully Detour,’ said Sheff. ‘And Prohibition Road. That’s got a ring to it.’
    ‘There’s the Avenue of Forgotten Dreams in Prague.’
    ‘I know three Coal Pit Roads.’
    ‘You just don’t get it, do you?’ said Georgie.
    An upstairs eatery was their choice, with the prices also elevated. Because of his earlier nosebleed, Sheff chose fish, mild vegetables, and beer rather than wine. Georgie had a curry that was asterisked on the menu as hot, and ate all of it without hesitation, or sign of discomfort.
    At a table close by sat an old man. He wore a low cravat of mingled red and black, and his clothes were of obvious quality though dated, and all of them hung on him. He had shrunk perhaps during lengthy ownership, or maybe he wore the clothes of a larger brother since passed on. The tendons of his neck stood within the loose collar, like stems in a vase, patches of stained skin made a palimpsest of his face, and the black velvet jacket was half slipped from his narrow and sloping shoulders. He seemed oblivious to the bustle of people below the big windows, or the more leisurely movement within the restaurant. He was intent on his food and his own thoughts, as if sitting by himself ina suburban dining room with a cat sleeping on another chair.
    ‘This isn’t so bad, is it? I’m looking forward to seeing Mum and Dad tomorrow,’ Georgie said. Sheff knew little of her as an adult, and even his memory of her as a kid sister was embarrassingly incomplete. She’d always seemed to be accumulating accomplishments – ballet, piano, Girl Guides, Duke of Edinburgh Award, school choir, gym or extra maths – rather than hanging about on the fringe of his friendships and activities. Her school blazer had been as impressively adorned as the uniform of a Pentagon general.
    The old man in the velvet coat at the next table reminded Sheff of their father. Not in dress at all, but in gauntness and self-absorption. Warwick had become that way at the end of his life, although physically imposing and skilled in company when younger. ‘The old guy reminds me of Dad,’ Sheff said quietly as they waited for their dessert.
    ‘How’s that?’ asked Georgie. She didn’t turn to glance at the man, but regarded her brother.
    ‘Just being so loose in his clothes, I suppose, and a sense of inwardness.’
    ‘Do you think about Dad much?’
    ‘I wish I’d spent more time with him, especially since he got sick. A lot of stuff was going on with Lucy after the baby died, and then we split, and that’s all I seemed able to feel deeply about. And there was work and everything. Then he got sick. I feel a bit guilty actually. I’m glad you kept on at me to come. You were right.’
    ‘Do you?’ said Georgie. ‘You feel