to his kismet.’ The whole thing is a sea of adverbs, a morass of adjectives. Wait till the Pulitzer committee claps its eyes on this lot! Wait till my editor sees it …
I make another file, call it Laura . It won’t sell, but I’ll write my story one of these days. When I look at the time, two hours have passed and I’ve produced twenty pages of this Laura thing. It seems I’ve had quite an interesting life.Perhaps I’ll finish the tale one day, see if anyone else finds it riveting.
The bell rings. Is she back? Has she left her clipboard, her rosary beads? A second ring sounds impatient, angry. It won’t be Mother. Mother wants me to think that she can’t get about, that I’ve abandoned her to a life of solitude and desolation. And Ruth’s out for the day.
I open the door. ‘Oh, it’s you.’
Robert pushes past me, turns, grabs my shoulders, kisses my hair because I’ve turned away to close the door. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
Robert is tall, decorative, angry. I pull away and rearrange my sloppy sweater. ‘Nowhere,’ I say loftily.
‘It’s becoming a habit, isn’t it? Going off without saying a word, having your little holidays. I mean, have a break by all means, but tell me. I’ve been worried to death.’
‘Would you like something to drink?’
His eyes are angry. When he is angry, he becomes unnecessarily beautiful. ‘No, I don’t want a drink. I’ve had a hell of a day and I’ve come to ask a favour. Oh and to tell you that you are an impossible woman and I love you.’
‘It’s over, Robert. There are things I have to do—’
‘Where the hell has it gone?’ He stands by the hall table and begins to empty his pockets. There are small bottles and boxes, some tangled elastic bands, a chewed pencil and a comb that is almost toothless. ‘Ah yes,’ he breathes. ‘I remember now.’
He is like a child. When I was young, little boys carried string and conkers in their pockets with marbles, ballbearings, small creatures in matchboxes. Tommo was a bigger boy and he carried a knife. I don’t want to think about Tommo, but I’ll have to if I’m going to write it all out of my system. That’s it! I’m standing here watching this man emptying his pockets, and at last I know what I’m doing. The past has to be swept away before I can begin a future. So simple, so complicated, so bloody enormous.
An inside pocket gives up the bounty at last. It is tiny, impossibly so, jet black and squealing fit to burst. ‘It’s acat,’ he says hopefully. ‘I’ve christened her Snowflake. Snow because she’s definitely black, Flake because she’s crazy.’
For a moment, I am nonplussed. Then I rally, anxious to defend myself against all intruders. ‘I’ve already got a cat. You should know, because you brought him here in the first place after you put Ellie down.’ Ellie was magnificent, every inch the lady in spite of being ginger. ‘Can that thing lap?’
For answer, he places a dropper on the table beside the rest of his hoard. ‘She’s only four and a half weeks old. I had to put the mother down and this is the sole survivor of the litter. She needs you, Laura. I’ve brought some formula because cows’ milk would make her ill. Please, Laura.’
The kitten is attached to his hand like a koala on a tree, all four feet wrapped around his wrist. She is biting him and her eyes are wide, as wide and surprised as only a kitten’s eyes can be. ‘Take her away,’ I beg.
‘It’s only for a few days and—’
‘In a few days, I’ll be in love with her. If you move her in, I’ll not let her go.’
He laughs. ‘If I move in, will you fall in love with me and keep me for ever?’
‘No. Can’t one of your gaggle of adoring old ladies take her in?’
‘She’d be too much for an old lady.’
‘I’m tired. I’ve been ill. I wasn’t on holiday, I’ve been … talking a rest.’ I wave a hand at the cat. ‘It would mean litter trays all over again. And Handel won’t
I make another file, call it Laura . It won’t sell, but I’ll write my story one of these days. When I look at the time, two hours have passed and I’ve produced twenty pages of this Laura thing. It seems I’ve had quite an interesting life.Perhaps I’ll finish the tale one day, see if anyone else finds it riveting.
The bell rings. Is she back? Has she left her clipboard, her rosary beads? A second ring sounds impatient, angry. It won’t be Mother. Mother wants me to think that she can’t get about, that I’ve abandoned her to a life of solitude and desolation. And Ruth’s out for the day.
I open the door. ‘Oh, it’s you.’
Robert pushes past me, turns, grabs my shoulders, kisses my hair because I’ve turned away to close the door. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
Robert is tall, decorative, angry. I pull away and rearrange my sloppy sweater. ‘Nowhere,’ I say loftily.
‘It’s becoming a habit, isn’t it? Going off without saying a word, having your little holidays. I mean, have a break by all means, but tell me. I’ve been worried to death.’
‘Would you like something to drink?’
His eyes are angry. When he is angry, he becomes unnecessarily beautiful. ‘No, I don’t want a drink. I’ve had a hell of a day and I’ve come to ask a favour. Oh and to tell you that you are an impossible woman and I love you.’
‘It’s over, Robert. There are things I have to do—’
‘Where the hell has it gone?’ He stands by the hall table and begins to empty his pockets. There are small bottles and boxes, some tangled elastic bands, a chewed pencil and a comb that is almost toothless. ‘Ah yes,’ he breathes. ‘I remember now.’
He is like a child. When I was young, little boys carried string and conkers in their pockets with marbles, ballbearings, small creatures in matchboxes. Tommo was a bigger boy and he carried a knife. I don’t want to think about Tommo, but I’ll have to if I’m going to write it all out of my system. That’s it! I’m standing here watching this man emptying his pockets, and at last I know what I’m doing. The past has to be swept away before I can begin a future. So simple, so complicated, so bloody enormous.
An inside pocket gives up the bounty at last. It is tiny, impossibly so, jet black and squealing fit to burst. ‘It’s acat,’ he says hopefully. ‘I’ve christened her Snowflake. Snow because she’s definitely black, Flake because she’s crazy.’
For a moment, I am nonplussed. Then I rally, anxious to defend myself against all intruders. ‘I’ve already got a cat. You should know, because you brought him here in the first place after you put Ellie down.’ Ellie was magnificent, every inch the lady in spite of being ginger. ‘Can that thing lap?’
For answer, he places a dropper on the table beside the rest of his hoard. ‘She’s only four and a half weeks old. I had to put the mother down and this is the sole survivor of the litter. She needs you, Laura. I’ve brought some formula because cows’ milk would make her ill. Please, Laura.’
The kitten is attached to his hand like a koala on a tree, all four feet wrapped around his wrist. She is biting him and her eyes are wide, as wide and surprised as only a kitten’s eyes can be. ‘Take her away,’ I beg.
‘It’s only for a few days and—’
‘In a few days, I’ll be in love with her. If you move her in, I’ll not let her go.’
He laughs. ‘If I move in, will you fall in love with me and keep me for ever?’
‘No. Can’t one of your gaggle of adoring old ladies take her in?’
‘She’d be too much for an old lady.’
‘I’m tired. I’ve been ill. I wasn’t on holiday, I’ve been … talking a rest.’ I wave a hand at the cat. ‘It would mean litter trays all over again. And Handel won’t
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