daisies growing by the porch. They smiled together as the little white daisy flowers trembled with the spider’s movement. When he looked at his watch, he saw that two hours had passed, but he sat there enjoying the autumn sun and this spirited old woman’s company.
It was afternoon when Madeleine appeared, walking stiffly down the lane. When she saw him, she stopped. He saw confusion,and anger in her face as she came up the cottage path. Ignoring the old woman, she stood before him and said – almost cried – ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you!’
The old woman smiled and invited her to join them. Madeleine stood, flustered, her forehead cleft by a frown. Like a spoilt child, he thought. Deliberately polite, he moved to make room on the bench, and she had to sit down. There was shame as well as anger in her eyes. He had gone too far, he knew. But he couldn’t take any more. He left that evening.
That was the last time he saw her. He wrote of course, and she replied. She wrote to say that her mother was ill, that she was returning to Paris. He wrote to sympathize when her mother died. She wrote to say how much she liked being back in Paris, and described the job she had found in a small museum. She didn’t put an address on her letter, but when he was in Paris the following summer he found himself walking along by the River Seine to where she worked. In the cloistered courtyard, looking at carved pieces of medieval stone made beautiful by time, he imagined that this was the sort of place where at last she would be at home. He asked for her at the desk, the attendant nodded vaguely, said the name was familiar, but thought that she had left.
He had done his duty, and felt relief as he escaped. But as he went down the sunny boulevard, eyeing the beautiful faces in the flow, he half-expected to see her appear – tense, hurt, waiting for a slight, waiting for love. She was there, somewhere. As he drifted with the crowd he felt he was being carried, farther than ever, out to sea, where there was no love, to her.
‘THAT’S VERY SAD,’ Jack said. ‘I could nearly tell that to herself.’
Eddie said, ‘Don’t.’
‘No, that’d be handing in your gun.’
‘You can’t hand in your gun.’
That was how they talked on Sunday evening, feeling better as they parted and went home to their wives.
In New York
HE HAD SPENT so much of his life scratching for a living that he found it hard to believe he had some money now. His daughter found it easier, and brought him to a hotel starred with bronze plaques in memory of famous residents. When he heard the price and began to bargain, she withdrew, embarrassed; stepping forward again when a deal was done. A tall, laconic black porter led them upstairs. It was like a return to the Sixties. A woman with long grey hair, a long flowery dress was watering potted plants in the corridor. The sound of old rock music, the scent of herb seeped from closed doors.
‘You’re in the tropics, enjoy yourself.’ The porter showed him into a big shabby white high-ceilinged room.
Two windows looked out on New York. His daughter stood at one, her boyfriend at the other. Over their shoulders he tried to see his life from this new perspective: as a man approaching sixty, who had married and reared a family, had had a little success. Aloneabroad he was always nervous, but his daughter’s presence calmed him, as his wife’s would. He needed his family, so he had always rebelled against family. When his daughter and her boyfriend had gone, he felt a flicker of the excitement he had as a boy when his parents went out for the evening – those rare occasions. Rooting about the room, as he used to at home, he found an abandoned painting cut in half in the wardrobe; and written in dreamy pencil above the washbasin mirror: All things are Buddha things. Language is illusory – just what he might have seen here thirty-five years ago. He looked at his old face in the mirror. He hadn’t
It was afternoon when Madeleine appeared, walking stiffly down the lane. When she saw him, she stopped. He saw confusion,and anger in her face as she came up the cottage path. Ignoring the old woman, she stood before him and said – almost cried – ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you!’
The old woman smiled and invited her to join them. Madeleine stood, flustered, her forehead cleft by a frown. Like a spoilt child, he thought. Deliberately polite, he moved to make room on the bench, and she had to sit down. There was shame as well as anger in her eyes. He had gone too far, he knew. But he couldn’t take any more. He left that evening.
That was the last time he saw her. He wrote of course, and she replied. She wrote to say that her mother was ill, that she was returning to Paris. He wrote to sympathize when her mother died. She wrote to say how much she liked being back in Paris, and described the job she had found in a small museum. She didn’t put an address on her letter, but when he was in Paris the following summer he found himself walking along by the River Seine to where she worked. In the cloistered courtyard, looking at carved pieces of medieval stone made beautiful by time, he imagined that this was the sort of place where at last she would be at home. He asked for her at the desk, the attendant nodded vaguely, said the name was familiar, but thought that she had left.
He had done his duty, and felt relief as he escaped. But as he went down the sunny boulevard, eyeing the beautiful faces in the flow, he half-expected to see her appear – tense, hurt, waiting for a slight, waiting for love. She was there, somewhere. As he drifted with the crowd he felt he was being carried, farther than ever, out to sea, where there was no love, to her.
‘THAT’S VERY SAD,’ Jack said. ‘I could nearly tell that to herself.’
Eddie said, ‘Don’t.’
‘No, that’d be handing in your gun.’
‘You can’t hand in your gun.’
That was how they talked on Sunday evening, feeling better as they parted and went home to their wives.
In New York
HE HAD SPENT so much of his life scratching for a living that he found it hard to believe he had some money now. His daughter found it easier, and brought him to a hotel starred with bronze plaques in memory of famous residents. When he heard the price and began to bargain, she withdrew, embarrassed; stepping forward again when a deal was done. A tall, laconic black porter led them upstairs. It was like a return to the Sixties. A woman with long grey hair, a long flowery dress was watering potted plants in the corridor. The sound of old rock music, the scent of herb seeped from closed doors.
‘You’re in the tropics, enjoy yourself.’ The porter showed him into a big shabby white high-ceilinged room.
Two windows looked out on New York. His daughter stood at one, her boyfriend at the other. Over their shoulders he tried to see his life from this new perspective: as a man approaching sixty, who had married and reared a family, had had a little success. Aloneabroad he was always nervous, but his daughter’s presence calmed him, as his wife’s would. He needed his family, so he had always rebelled against family. When his daughter and her boyfriend had gone, he felt a flicker of the excitement he had as a boy when his parents went out for the evening – those rare occasions. Rooting about the room, as he used to at home, he found an abandoned painting cut in half in the wardrobe; and written in dreamy pencil above the washbasin mirror: All things are Buddha things. Language is illusory – just what he might have seen here thirty-five years ago. He looked at his old face in the mirror. He hadn’t
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