photograph of the two women embracing in the changeable light reflected up from the river. He wouldnât go in himself, he hated putting his feet in cold water and didnât mind presenting a comical target, the Englishman in his linen summer suit, socks and shoes, flinching and smiling benignly on the bank while they flicked water at him.
Kasim sat cross-legged in the garden, smoking and watching Molly in the distance. Ivy and Arthur were nearby, also cross-legged and watching Molly. Silhouetted, slender, far off against the sky, perched on the gate at the top of the field, she was lost to them, intent upon her conversations, rocking forwards around her phone or throwing her head back in laughter, her body twisting in delighted appreciation. She was frustrated occasionally if her signal failed. They could just about hear her voice, but not her words. The thin trail of her laughter was somehow entrancing and soporific, creating a rapt silence around the three of them who were shut out: she was as mysterious as if she was talking to herself, hallucinating. In the garden the afternoon was still and hot. Arthur was sorting out the contents of his money box, which Kasim had showed him how to open, though Ivy had protested that he wasnât supposed to open it.
â Itâs mine, anyway, said Arthur, frowning over his calculations, tucking his long hair out of the way behind his ears. Apparently he was adept with the plastic pennies in the play-shop at school.
â But heâs not supposed to have it yet. Itâs for later when he needs things.
â I need them now.
Ivy, knowing he was only counting to seven then starting over again, had kicked at her brother with the point of her shoe, whose patent shine was scuffed almost to greyness. She was dressed in an old cream nylon petticoat with a lace hem, full-length on her; Alice had found it in a cupboard and tied one of her scarves around the bodice, flattening the stiff breast-shapes. For a while Ivy had walked around with a gliding motion, gazing far away, imagining being watched; the silky fabric against her bare legs had made her feel ethereal. Now the petticoat was stained green from where she had been rolling on the grass, and her jack-knifed knees were sharp points straining its fabric.
They felt as if Molly condescended, returning to their world, when she made her way at last down the field towards them: her contact with what was beyond had left its traces in her expression, skeins of amusement and connection that did not connect her to them. She hummed to herself, some tune they didnât recognise. Dropping to sit beside them on the grass, in her shorts and red bikini top she was all long limbs, awkwardly graceful; her arms and legs were dusted with fine gold hairs, glinting in the sunlight.
â Youâre addicted to that phone, Kasim accused her disdainfully.
Cheerfully Molly confessed it.
â Doesnât it worry you that youâre being fobbed off with second-hand substitutes for actually living? You might be missing out on something. Like reality.
â Youâre addicted to horrible cigarettes. At least my addiction wonât kill me.
Hollowly he laughed. â Thatâs what you think. Wait until they prove the links between phones and brain cancer.
Molly, set-faced, was learning how to negotiate with his intransigence. â What links? If there were any, theyâd have told us by now. Everyone uses phones.
Kasim marvelled at her. â Iâve never met anyone so trusting before.
They?
Who dâyou think
they
are? Your kindly uncle? And as it happens I could give up smoking tomorrow.
â I bet you couldnât.
â Only I canât be bothered.
â Like I said, youâre addicted.
Superbly, hardly stirring from where he lounged back on his elbows, Kasim picked up the half-full packet of his cigarettes and lobbed it into the stream. It scarcely splashed, bobbed vaguely in a circle, then
Kasim sat cross-legged in the garden, smoking and watching Molly in the distance. Ivy and Arthur were nearby, also cross-legged and watching Molly. Silhouetted, slender, far off against the sky, perched on the gate at the top of the field, she was lost to them, intent upon her conversations, rocking forwards around her phone or throwing her head back in laughter, her body twisting in delighted appreciation. She was frustrated occasionally if her signal failed. They could just about hear her voice, but not her words. The thin trail of her laughter was somehow entrancing and soporific, creating a rapt silence around the three of them who were shut out: she was as mysterious as if she was talking to herself, hallucinating. In the garden the afternoon was still and hot. Arthur was sorting out the contents of his money box, which Kasim had showed him how to open, though Ivy had protested that he wasnât supposed to open it.
â Itâs mine, anyway, said Arthur, frowning over his calculations, tucking his long hair out of the way behind his ears. Apparently he was adept with the plastic pennies in the play-shop at school.
â But heâs not supposed to have it yet. Itâs for later when he needs things.
â I need them now.
Ivy, knowing he was only counting to seven then starting over again, had kicked at her brother with the point of her shoe, whose patent shine was scuffed almost to greyness. She was dressed in an old cream nylon petticoat with a lace hem, full-length on her; Alice had found it in a cupboard and tied one of her scarves around the bodice, flattening the stiff breast-shapes. For a while Ivy had walked around with a gliding motion, gazing far away, imagining being watched; the silky fabric against her bare legs had made her feel ethereal. Now the petticoat was stained green from where she had been rolling on the grass, and her jack-knifed knees were sharp points straining its fabric.
They felt as if Molly condescended, returning to their world, when she made her way at last down the field towards them: her contact with what was beyond had left its traces in her expression, skeins of amusement and connection that did not connect her to them. She hummed to herself, some tune they didnât recognise. Dropping to sit beside them on the grass, in her shorts and red bikini top she was all long limbs, awkwardly graceful; her arms and legs were dusted with fine gold hairs, glinting in the sunlight.
â Youâre addicted to that phone, Kasim accused her disdainfully.
Cheerfully Molly confessed it.
â Doesnât it worry you that youâre being fobbed off with second-hand substitutes for actually living? You might be missing out on something. Like reality.
â Youâre addicted to horrible cigarettes. At least my addiction wonât kill me.
Hollowly he laughed. â Thatâs what you think. Wait until they prove the links between phones and brain cancer.
Molly, set-faced, was learning how to negotiate with his intransigence. â What links? If there were any, theyâd have told us by now. Everyone uses phones.
Kasim marvelled at her. â Iâve never met anyone so trusting before.
They?
Who dâyou think
they
are? Your kindly uncle? And as it happens I could give up smoking tomorrow.
â I bet you couldnât.
â Only I canât be bothered.
â Like I said, youâre addicted.
Superbly, hardly stirring from where he lounged back on his elbows, Kasim picked up the half-full packet of his cigarettes and lobbed it into the stream. It scarcely splashed, bobbed vaguely in a circle, then
Similar Books
