testy exchanges today. And yet, standing here in her sister-in-law’s sparsely furnished bedroom, Enid wonders why Rose isn’t pleased to have her come and stay. What kind of life can she be living, isolated in the countryside with only two dogs for companionship, and just the hens and the patchy garden as evidence that she is doing anything useful with her days?
There are still hours to go before tea time, and Enid is too restless to write to James or try to read a book. She doesn’t want to be alone in the cottage with her uncomfortable thoughts, so she decides to go and explore the stretch of heath she can see from Rose’s bedroom window.
The dogs shoot through the door ahead of her the moment she opens it. They are gone—blurred, muscled forms racing across the bracken. They run so hard and so fast that the way their paws come together and then push apart in the action of their running reminds Enid of the clench and unclench of a heart. The dogs’ gathering in and pushing off happening in the steady rhythm of a heartbeat.
They’re gone, just like that, and Enid walks out into a field of grass and rusted ferns, pink heather and mounds of yellow gorse. It is prettier than she’d thought. The summer sun looks lovely in its halo above the birches.
She walks and walks, filling her pockets with the small flowers and ferns she doesn’t know the names of, walks until her mind is numb with fatigue. She sees a rabbit sitting upright in the bracken, ears cupping the sounds of her approach. Luckily the dogs aren’t around to see it too, chase it down and pull it to pieces. Enid stops for a moment, watching the delicacy of its whiskers twitching in the watery sun, the stubble-coloured weft of its fur.
There was a rabbit in London the night her flat was bombed. She was standing outside the building, watching the firemen arc their hoses into the flames, destroying in the process what hadn’t already been burned or crushed. She was standing with the other inhabitants of union Street when she heard someone say, “Look, there’s a rabbit!” And sure enough, at the base of a lamppost was a white rabbit. It must have been a pet, or perhaps kept for food, and its cage had been ruined in the blast. Now it was free in the centre of London, on a busy street where it was sure to get run over. How strange, Enid had thought at the time, that the safer place for an animal that had once been wild was in captivity. Standing there, her life finished, the ambulance with Oliver’s body disappearing up the street, Enid had wanted nothing more than to save the rabbit, to catch it and keep it with her in a box until she could build it a cage. But the moment she stepped towards it, the rabbit hopped along the pavement, away from her and into shadow.
When Enid returns to the cottage, Rose still isn’t back from the shops. It’s past tea time and coming on to supper. The eggs that Enid had for lunch have worn off, and she’s hungry again. It seems polite to wait for Rose, as Enid is a guest in her house, but after an hour, Enid thinks, Sod this, and ravenously starts poking through the larder, looking for something to eat. She finds a tin of salmon and boils a couple of potatoes to go with it. There’s an opened bottle of red wine under the sink, probably for cooking, but she helps herself to a liberal glass of it anyway. After the third mouthful, it tastes just fine. While she is eating at the little table in the kitchen, Enid spreads out beside her plate the flora she has brought back from the Ashdown Forest. She is sure that James will have reference books in the cottage, and after she has eaten she will go and look up these wisps of grass and scraps of flower. It will be good to know what it is she’s found. It will feel like she’s accomplished something today.
R OSE AND Toby are lying naked on the single bed in his room at the Three Bells. The bed is so narrow that they are forced to lie on top of each other, and since this
There are still hours to go before tea time, and Enid is too restless to write to James or try to read a book. She doesn’t want to be alone in the cottage with her uncomfortable thoughts, so she decides to go and explore the stretch of heath she can see from Rose’s bedroom window.
The dogs shoot through the door ahead of her the moment she opens it. They are gone—blurred, muscled forms racing across the bracken. They run so hard and so fast that the way their paws come together and then push apart in the action of their running reminds Enid of the clench and unclench of a heart. The dogs’ gathering in and pushing off happening in the steady rhythm of a heartbeat.
They’re gone, just like that, and Enid walks out into a field of grass and rusted ferns, pink heather and mounds of yellow gorse. It is prettier than she’d thought. The summer sun looks lovely in its halo above the birches.
She walks and walks, filling her pockets with the small flowers and ferns she doesn’t know the names of, walks until her mind is numb with fatigue. She sees a rabbit sitting upright in the bracken, ears cupping the sounds of her approach. Luckily the dogs aren’t around to see it too, chase it down and pull it to pieces. Enid stops for a moment, watching the delicacy of its whiskers twitching in the watery sun, the stubble-coloured weft of its fur.
There was a rabbit in London the night her flat was bombed. She was standing outside the building, watching the firemen arc their hoses into the flames, destroying in the process what hadn’t already been burned or crushed. She was standing with the other inhabitants of union Street when she heard someone say, “Look, there’s a rabbit!” And sure enough, at the base of a lamppost was a white rabbit. It must have been a pet, or perhaps kept for food, and its cage had been ruined in the blast. Now it was free in the centre of London, on a busy street where it was sure to get run over. How strange, Enid had thought at the time, that the safer place for an animal that had once been wild was in captivity. Standing there, her life finished, the ambulance with Oliver’s body disappearing up the street, Enid had wanted nothing more than to save the rabbit, to catch it and keep it with her in a box until she could build it a cage. But the moment she stepped towards it, the rabbit hopped along the pavement, away from her and into shadow.
When Enid returns to the cottage, Rose still isn’t back from the shops. It’s past tea time and coming on to supper. The eggs that Enid had for lunch have worn off, and she’s hungry again. It seems polite to wait for Rose, as Enid is a guest in her house, but after an hour, Enid thinks, Sod this, and ravenously starts poking through the larder, looking for something to eat. She finds a tin of salmon and boils a couple of potatoes to go with it. There’s an opened bottle of red wine under the sink, probably for cooking, but she helps herself to a liberal glass of it anyway. After the third mouthful, it tastes just fine. While she is eating at the little table in the kitchen, Enid spreads out beside her plate the flora she has brought back from the Ashdown Forest. She is sure that James will have reference books in the cottage, and after she has eaten she will go and look up these wisps of grass and scraps of flower. It will be good to know what it is she’s found. It will feel like she’s accomplished something today.
R OSE AND Toby are lying naked on the single bed in his room at the Three Bells. The bed is so narrow that they are forced to lie on top of each other, and since this
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