extravagantly away, back out of the window, I could see two fallow deer
now, shaded beneath a hedge. He
looked at Joseph who stared at him in anticipation, not rudeness and then he
turned his laptop around for Joseph to see his photos and we all burst out
laughing. Stones being thrown in to
a pond. “My holiday in China two
weeks ago.” He didn’t seem to mind
really. We chatted a little and
Joseph told the man that he’d travelled extensively around China and that he
spoke Cantonese, and the man went from thinking that we were vile grown-up
children to something interesting and all the badness was rubbed away with not
even a trace of what was there before. Joseph talked to the man and I went in to a daze. I looked out of the window and wondered
if the grass smelt the same here, if the birds sounded the same here, if the
soil would feel the same under my back and between my fingers. I saw a buzzard grabbing at a dead
rabbit, hoop and away, dandelion heads fluffing all around him. And the constant noise of the train on
the tracks, soft and then sharp, chorus and then crescendo, so constant it is
silent. Everything was smooth now
and in slow motion, everything was silent and my head was bursting with Charlie
and home and everything here was skimming off past me. Whoop and it’s gone. “What shall we call this summer?” said
Joseph “last summer was the summer of love. What shall this one be? Summer of excitement? Adventure? Knowledge?”
“Summer of sin.”
We
got to London and went exploring, we went to Sloane Street, I’m hopeless in
London, I have no idea where anything is, I get taxis everywhere and never look
at a map so I have no idea where I’m going. And I won’t learn because it’s London,
it’s not home, it’s not important.
Sloane
street is a funny place, everyone looks positively and externally moneyed. All the men have hairstyles and all the
women have attitude. It is a fast
place, full of fleeting shoulders and fading footsteps, but rather exciting,
just for a day. There is so much
hardness in London, everywhere is concrete and stone and solid and
manmade. Walls and pavements and
buildings. I am contained, there is
no real way out, it is a labyrinth and nowhere to hide, no escape routes. I plan a murder in my head, I would be
found here, I plan a highway robbing here, we would be found. It is not a real place, it is
suffocating. We visited my
favourite perfumery. I am a
sybarite. We visited shoe shops and
walked past ‘how to make your house look as if you have style and taste’ shops. Joseph watched men watch me. Men are more blatant in London than in
Devon it seems. I feel I am being
predated but I’m a weasel in the kitchen. I’ve told you before, I’m lethal.
We
walked up the street, we changed our minds and walked down the street, we
strode around and about, colourful in colourless, and then there, on a corner,
as if waiting for someone was a very lovely sky blue shirt, my sky, and at the
top of the lovely sky blue shirt was a very lovely face that was looking
intently at me, smiling at me. I
only glanced at him, it was a brief accidental recognition of his looking at
me, but that glance seemed to me a long time and all noise was halted and
silence marked his eyes. I don’t
stare, I’m not interested in other people stuffing my head with unnecessary
nonsense, but his look entered me with every breath I took. Push it out, breathe out, but I
can’t. He was lightning coming from
nowhere, burning me. And maybe I
just told you that to make myself feel better about what I did. Maybe I don’t want you to think I’m very
bad. Maybe.
A
stag on the corner in the dimpsy light of an empty meadow, a delicious green
mist behind him and just him standing alone. I was lost in time, remembering setting
a trap for a lost hawk at 5am one October morning and out of the misty wet
dark,
now, shaded beneath a hedge. He
looked at Joseph who stared at him in anticipation, not rudeness and then he
turned his laptop around for Joseph to see his photos and we all burst out
laughing. Stones being thrown in to
a pond. “My holiday in China two
weeks ago.” He didn’t seem to mind
really. We chatted a little and
Joseph told the man that he’d travelled extensively around China and that he
spoke Cantonese, and the man went from thinking that we were vile grown-up
children to something interesting and all the badness was rubbed away with not
even a trace of what was there before. Joseph talked to the man and I went in to a daze. I looked out of the window and wondered
if the grass smelt the same here, if the birds sounded the same here, if the
soil would feel the same under my back and between my fingers. I saw a buzzard grabbing at a dead
rabbit, hoop and away, dandelion heads fluffing all around him. And the constant noise of the train on
the tracks, soft and then sharp, chorus and then crescendo, so constant it is
silent. Everything was smooth now
and in slow motion, everything was silent and my head was bursting with Charlie
and home and everything here was skimming off past me. Whoop and it’s gone. “What shall we call this summer?” said
Joseph “last summer was the summer of love. What shall this one be? Summer of excitement? Adventure? Knowledge?”
“Summer of sin.”
We
got to London and went exploring, we went to Sloane Street, I’m hopeless in
London, I have no idea where anything is, I get taxis everywhere and never look
at a map so I have no idea where I’m going. And I won’t learn because it’s London,
it’s not home, it’s not important.
Sloane
street is a funny place, everyone looks positively and externally moneyed. All the men have hairstyles and all the
women have attitude. It is a fast
place, full of fleeting shoulders and fading footsteps, but rather exciting,
just for a day. There is so much
hardness in London, everywhere is concrete and stone and solid and
manmade. Walls and pavements and
buildings. I am contained, there is
no real way out, it is a labyrinth and nowhere to hide, no escape routes. I plan a murder in my head, I would be
found here, I plan a highway robbing here, we would be found. It is not a real place, it is
suffocating. We visited my
favourite perfumery. I am a
sybarite. We visited shoe shops and
walked past ‘how to make your house look as if you have style and taste’ shops. Joseph watched men watch me. Men are more blatant in London than in
Devon it seems. I feel I am being
predated but I’m a weasel in the kitchen. I’ve told you before, I’m lethal.
We
walked up the street, we changed our minds and walked down the street, we
strode around and about, colourful in colourless, and then there, on a corner,
as if waiting for someone was a very lovely sky blue shirt, my sky, and at the
top of the lovely sky blue shirt was a very lovely face that was looking
intently at me, smiling at me. I
only glanced at him, it was a brief accidental recognition of his looking at
me, but that glance seemed to me a long time and all noise was halted and
silence marked his eyes. I don’t
stare, I’m not interested in other people stuffing my head with unnecessary
nonsense, but his look entered me with every breath I took. Push it out, breathe out, but I
can’t. He was lightning coming from
nowhere, burning me. And maybe I
just told you that to make myself feel better about what I did. Maybe I don’t want you to think I’m very
bad. Maybe.
A
stag on the corner in the dimpsy light of an empty meadow, a delicious green
mist behind him and just him standing alone. I was lost in time, remembering setting
a trap for a lost hawk at 5am one October morning and out of the misty wet
dark,
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