barely show certainty herself. Now he looked back to the time of her carrying of Donald as idyllic, darkened with apprehension perhaps, but shared between rational human beings, who could adjust and compromise as necessary. Angrily he snatched on his jacket, though he had the sense to move slowly downstairs, not drawing attention to himself.
Outside, the street shone, paint glaring in sunshine with even the monkey-puzzles polished smart. Dozens of brushes had been dipped, stroked earlier this year for this new-pin effect; blue, black, some green, odd reds, but mainly white to reflect the brightness of the sky. Suddenly Fisher felt heartened by the activity; the choice, the visit to hardware merchants, the blow-lamps’ roaring, the humping about of ladders in order to make this street as fresh, as up-to-the-minute as the next. It merely attracted custom, he supposed, or preserved the property but this scurrying into a competition of cleanliness cheered him, so that he walked more jauntily and in his head shouted some favourite lines of his father’s:
And glory, glory dwelleth
In Immanuel’s land.
Striding out, shoulders back, he hummed the Victorian slop. A yucca stood in full ridiculous bloom. A child smiled at him from a garden gate. Dark, dark has been the midnight. A window-cleaner in boiler suit continued the process of cleansing, his mop thumping the glass. An electric bread-van hummed past and from over the houses he heard the clash and rattle of milk-bottles, a whistle. And glory, glory dwelleth.
As it was almost eleven, he turned in near the front for self-service coffee. The restaurant, a new flat-roofed place in one storey, was neat with plate glass and pebble-dash, and inside, though not yet crowded, already scarred with litter, screwed crisp-bags, balls of silver paper, spillings of salt and sugar.
Fisher stirred his boiling coffee. The man on the other side of the formica table claimed it was a fine day, in a cultured voice. A bald old man, with the hairless, severe face of Sibelius, a black askew crease between the eyes, who wore a striped shirt under a shallow white collar. Fisher had noticed all this as he had sat down and had immediately forgotten it in his euphoria.
‘Ideal holiday weather,’ he said.
The old man began in an authoritarian voice as if he wished the people on the tables round him to reap benefit from his observations. He had driven here, and he pointed across the road at a 3.5 litre Rover, for company.
‘I walked this coast as a boy. I can still manage a mile or two. But the time is rapidly approaching when I shan’t be able to drive a car. And you realise what that means, of course?’
His voice hectored the stirring Fisher, who lowered his head, murmured, unwilling to commit himself to an incorrect answer.
‘I’ve a pleasant place, this side of Horncastle. But it’s private, secluded. When one is energetic, able to travel, that is what one wants. As one gets less mobile, privacy becomes imprisonment.’ He wheezed militarily at his word play; not its first outing. It appeared he owned land, which he had cared for, but now his son had taken over the old man was relieved.
‘Land needs bold decisions, these days,’ he said. ‘One has to be able to make one’s mind up. You’d think you’d all the time in the world to decide when to cut some trees down. Not so. Investment’s an easier game all told.’
Fisher, mildly interested, asked questions from his ignorance so that his companion began to answer at length. Sometimes, for he was slightly deaf, he misunderstood, and more often than not he meandered, once becoming angry, in a slow, mottled-faced way, at the politics of India and Pakistan where he’d served in the First War. He brusquely inquired about Fisher’s job, and said he knew the University’s Chancellor well and that he was acquainted with the Professor of Ancient History, who’d married a relative of his late wife. Was Fisher married?
The other’s
Outside, the street shone, paint glaring in sunshine with even the monkey-puzzles polished smart. Dozens of brushes had been dipped, stroked earlier this year for this new-pin effect; blue, black, some green, odd reds, but mainly white to reflect the brightness of the sky. Suddenly Fisher felt heartened by the activity; the choice, the visit to hardware merchants, the blow-lamps’ roaring, the humping about of ladders in order to make this street as fresh, as up-to-the-minute as the next. It merely attracted custom, he supposed, or preserved the property but this scurrying into a competition of cleanliness cheered him, so that he walked more jauntily and in his head shouted some favourite lines of his father’s:
And glory, glory dwelleth
In Immanuel’s land.
Striding out, shoulders back, he hummed the Victorian slop. A yucca stood in full ridiculous bloom. A child smiled at him from a garden gate. Dark, dark has been the midnight. A window-cleaner in boiler suit continued the process of cleansing, his mop thumping the glass. An electric bread-van hummed past and from over the houses he heard the clash and rattle of milk-bottles, a whistle. And glory, glory dwelleth.
As it was almost eleven, he turned in near the front for self-service coffee. The restaurant, a new flat-roofed place in one storey, was neat with plate glass and pebble-dash, and inside, though not yet crowded, already scarred with litter, screwed crisp-bags, balls of silver paper, spillings of salt and sugar.
Fisher stirred his boiling coffee. The man on the other side of the formica table claimed it was a fine day, in a cultured voice. A bald old man, with the hairless, severe face of Sibelius, a black askew crease between the eyes, who wore a striped shirt under a shallow white collar. Fisher had noticed all this as he had sat down and had immediately forgotten it in his euphoria.
‘Ideal holiday weather,’ he said.
The old man began in an authoritarian voice as if he wished the people on the tables round him to reap benefit from his observations. He had driven here, and he pointed across the road at a 3.5 litre Rover, for company.
‘I walked this coast as a boy. I can still manage a mile or two. But the time is rapidly approaching when I shan’t be able to drive a car. And you realise what that means, of course?’
His voice hectored the stirring Fisher, who lowered his head, murmured, unwilling to commit himself to an incorrect answer.
‘I’ve a pleasant place, this side of Horncastle. But it’s private, secluded. When one is energetic, able to travel, that is what one wants. As one gets less mobile, privacy becomes imprisonment.’ He wheezed militarily at his word play; not its first outing. It appeared he owned land, which he had cared for, but now his son had taken over the old man was relieved.
‘Land needs bold decisions, these days,’ he said. ‘One has to be able to make one’s mind up. You’d think you’d all the time in the world to decide when to cut some trees down. Not so. Investment’s an easier game all told.’
Fisher, mildly interested, asked questions from his ignorance so that his companion began to answer at length. Sometimes, for he was slightly deaf, he misunderstood, and more often than not he meandered, once becoming angry, in a slow, mottled-faced way, at the politics of India and Pakistan where he’d served in the First War. He brusquely inquired about Fisher’s job, and said he knew the University’s Chancellor well and that he was acquainted with the Professor of Ancient History, who’d married a relative of his late wife. Was Fisher married?
The other’s
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