somehow at the centre of the world.
âI thought you said you didnât read,â I said to her, indicating the books.
âYeah, wellâ¦â she said with a smile. âItâs impossible to have no books, isnât it? But theyâre only poetry. So slender they hardly count.â
I moved over and sat on the edge of the bed so that I could better look at her books. Ginsberg, Ferlinghetti, Corso. William Carlos Williams. Denise Levertov. On her desk was the little case sheâd carried that first day.
âMay I?â I asked, reaching for it. It contained a silver flute, disassembled.
Just then, someone came to fetch her; the musicians were about to start. Becky Sharp took the case from me and snapped the latches shut. Reaching up to a peg, she took down a beret, placed it at a rakish angle on her head, waved at me, and departed.
In fact, as I knew from experience, musicians âabout to startâ take a very long time to get going. Wheeling the pram with Hetty still asleep, I wandered out into the garden and sat on the grass, watching them setting up in a space under a large tree. Becky Sharp moved about, setting up mics and amps, testing levels, kicking leads out of the way, and pushing hair away from her face in the inimitable way of musicians, as though she had all the time in the world.
At the edge of my vision I saw Maggie Tulliver. I turned my head to look at her, and our eyes met for a moment and then I looked away. Neither of us made any attempt to approach the other. I wished she wasnât there; it spoiled the evening for me somewhat, but I was determined to ignore her.
Hetty woke up, and I sat with her on my knee. She became mesmerised by the lights and movement. Various people came up and introduced themselves, taking Hetty by the fingers and cooing at her. She was perfectly happy to be cooed at, and greeted each arrival regally. The wolfish boy I had met earlier came over to introduce himself, bowing low in front of me in a parody of courtliness.
âJack Savage,â he said, holding out a hand.
âSophie OâFlahertie,â I replied. OâFlahertie was one of Oscar Wildeâs middle names, and I used it sometimes because I felt more related to him than to Michael OâFarrell, the man my mother had hooked up with, whose name Iâd been given.
I couldnât take my eyes from Becky Sharp. She had opened her music case and slotted her flute together. With apparently random notes floating diffidently into the air, the band started to play.
The music gave me great pleasure, but it was watching the musicians together that I liked best. Each of them managed to be in their own world with the music at the same time as being acutely aware of what the others were doing. They communicated with quick smiles and raised eyebrows, entered into playful volleys of sound, and became lost in trancelike reveries. The music, which had begun so uncertainly, gathered strength.
Jack Savage squatted down next to me and asked me to dance, but I declined. For some reason, I didnât much like him, and I was content simply watching the music. He went away, and a bit later I saw him dancing with Maggie Tulliver. But I kept my eyes on Becky Sharp, saw how her mouth pursed just so against the side of her flute, how she stood so relaxed and upright, as though suspended from some invisible point above her.
I was thinking that I ought to go home at the end of the first set when Lawson turned up, trailed by Tess. âCome and get something to eat,â he said. He led me up the stairs into the kitchen where people thronged round a long table set with food. He found me a plate, and even selected some choice things for me to eat. He didnât take a plate for himself.
We went to his room, where Hetty crawled about on the floor and ate pieces of quiche that I popped into her mouth whenever she came close. When sheâd had enough, she took the food from her mouth and gave
âI thought you said you didnât read,â I said to her, indicating the books.
âYeah, wellâ¦â she said with a smile. âItâs impossible to have no books, isnât it? But theyâre only poetry. So slender they hardly count.â
I moved over and sat on the edge of the bed so that I could better look at her books. Ginsberg, Ferlinghetti, Corso. William Carlos Williams. Denise Levertov. On her desk was the little case sheâd carried that first day.
âMay I?â I asked, reaching for it. It contained a silver flute, disassembled.
Just then, someone came to fetch her; the musicians were about to start. Becky Sharp took the case from me and snapped the latches shut. Reaching up to a peg, she took down a beret, placed it at a rakish angle on her head, waved at me, and departed.
In fact, as I knew from experience, musicians âabout to startâ take a very long time to get going. Wheeling the pram with Hetty still asleep, I wandered out into the garden and sat on the grass, watching them setting up in a space under a large tree. Becky Sharp moved about, setting up mics and amps, testing levels, kicking leads out of the way, and pushing hair away from her face in the inimitable way of musicians, as though she had all the time in the world.
At the edge of my vision I saw Maggie Tulliver. I turned my head to look at her, and our eyes met for a moment and then I looked away. Neither of us made any attempt to approach the other. I wished she wasnât there; it spoiled the evening for me somewhat, but I was determined to ignore her.
Hetty woke up, and I sat with her on my knee. She became mesmerised by the lights and movement. Various people came up and introduced themselves, taking Hetty by the fingers and cooing at her. She was perfectly happy to be cooed at, and greeted each arrival regally. The wolfish boy I had met earlier came over to introduce himself, bowing low in front of me in a parody of courtliness.
âJack Savage,â he said, holding out a hand.
âSophie OâFlahertie,â I replied. OâFlahertie was one of Oscar Wildeâs middle names, and I used it sometimes because I felt more related to him than to Michael OâFarrell, the man my mother had hooked up with, whose name Iâd been given.
I couldnât take my eyes from Becky Sharp. She had opened her music case and slotted her flute together. With apparently random notes floating diffidently into the air, the band started to play.
The music gave me great pleasure, but it was watching the musicians together that I liked best. Each of them managed to be in their own world with the music at the same time as being acutely aware of what the others were doing. They communicated with quick smiles and raised eyebrows, entered into playful volleys of sound, and became lost in trancelike reveries. The music, which had begun so uncertainly, gathered strength.
Jack Savage squatted down next to me and asked me to dance, but I declined. For some reason, I didnât much like him, and I was content simply watching the music. He went away, and a bit later I saw him dancing with Maggie Tulliver. But I kept my eyes on Becky Sharp, saw how her mouth pursed just so against the side of her flute, how she stood so relaxed and upright, as though suspended from some invisible point above her.
I was thinking that I ought to go home at the end of the first set when Lawson turned up, trailed by Tess. âCome and get something to eat,â he said. He led me up the stairs into the kitchen where people thronged round a long table set with food. He found me a plate, and even selected some choice things for me to eat. He didnât take a plate for himself.
We went to his room, where Hetty crawled about on the floor and ate pieces of quiche that I popped into her mouth whenever she came close. When sheâd had enough, she took the food from her mouth and gave
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