any more directly than it already has catching him so off-guard that it takes him another minute before he gets out of the car.
And by then of course she is gone. He loiters at the corner thinking she might have ducked into a nearby house, but after several minutes when she doesnât reappear he gets back behind the wheel, does a u-turn, and retraces his route. His mind is all questions, a rising tide of discomforts messily sloshing in on their own polluted shore. What is she doing there? Is she looking for him? Does she know who he is? Has she seen him before? It is too much to bear, the prospect that she lives nearby, that she might wash up on him again and again. Or is this his opportunity for absolution? Can she exonerate him? Wanting to grip her shoulders, to say, forgive me, please . But heâs struck too sorry, too dumb, the guilt a palpable gag, depriving him of the ability to speak, to express what he wants to say, her lifeless eyes blinking at him like a discarded dollâs. Besides, what can she offer that would fix this in him? What is it that he is trying to make right? He briefly considers ringing Laurie, someone older with more life experience, as the Club likes to characterise anyone over the age of twenty-two, but quickly dismisses the idea, his coach being the last person heâd feel comfortable talking to about such matters, not counting his mum and his dad.
He creeps along, alternately scanning the street and the rear-view mirror for a sign of her amongst the trawling tourists, at once hoping to find her and also dreading it, wishing he was wrong, coming face to face with her as terrifying a proposition as losing track of her, until the driver behind him finally loses his patience and sounds his horn. It is a long steady sound, the kind made by pressing the heel of your palm all the way in so that everyone stops and looks, even the whining infants. And it is fair enough too, ordinarily Harry would have done exactly the same thing, he can sympathise with the guy, but in the moment he is so inflamed by it, it is all he can do to stop himself from getting out of his car and beating the shit out of the motherfucker.
His pulse is racing. By the time he gets back to the church he is nearly forty minutes late.
*
The girl stepped forward as the man approached, smiling, though she could feel her face was flushed and tight (nervous), even though sheâd gone over it in her mind a million times, the way sheâd extend her hand the same way Greta had when they first met and say, âHello, pleased to meet you,â as though of course she was old enough to be doing this and of course she felt comfortable about it, because if she was eighteen she would feel comfortable about it and so why wouldnât she now; the fact that no one else knew what she was up to being evidence of that, that she was mature enough to be making her own decisions, standing on her own two feet, steering her own course in the world.
After all, she was there, wasnât she? No one could gainsay that.
So she flexed her fingers, ready to extend her hand, a handshake, to make his acquaintance, but the man walked directly to the information counter without so much as a glance in her direction.
Wrong person. She did a quick check around but no one appeared to have noticed. Was it still a faux pas if no one saw you make it?
Sheâd always had good instincts about people, had prided herself on it, knowing who to latch on to, when someone had something to offer and when they didnât. Or so she thought. Thatâs how she found herself here. On her own recognisance, thank you very much. No one would have expected it. Least of all her dad. It would give him a kick when she showed up out of the blue. Though sheâd probably have to ring him first (coordinate where to meet, something distinctive to wear so theyâd recognise each other). The last time heâd seen her she was two years old. She didnât even
And by then of course she is gone. He loiters at the corner thinking she might have ducked into a nearby house, but after several minutes when she doesnât reappear he gets back behind the wheel, does a u-turn, and retraces his route. His mind is all questions, a rising tide of discomforts messily sloshing in on their own polluted shore. What is she doing there? Is she looking for him? Does she know who he is? Has she seen him before? It is too much to bear, the prospect that she lives nearby, that she might wash up on him again and again. Or is this his opportunity for absolution? Can she exonerate him? Wanting to grip her shoulders, to say, forgive me, please . But heâs struck too sorry, too dumb, the guilt a palpable gag, depriving him of the ability to speak, to express what he wants to say, her lifeless eyes blinking at him like a discarded dollâs. Besides, what can she offer that would fix this in him? What is it that he is trying to make right? He briefly considers ringing Laurie, someone older with more life experience, as the Club likes to characterise anyone over the age of twenty-two, but quickly dismisses the idea, his coach being the last person heâd feel comfortable talking to about such matters, not counting his mum and his dad.
He creeps along, alternately scanning the street and the rear-view mirror for a sign of her amongst the trawling tourists, at once hoping to find her and also dreading it, wishing he was wrong, coming face to face with her as terrifying a proposition as losing track of her, until the driver behind him finally loses his patience and sounds his horn. It is a long steady sound, the kind made by pressing the heel of your palm all the way in so that everyone stops and looks, even the whining infants. And it is fair enough too, ordinarily Harry would have done exactly the same thing, he can sympathise with the guy, but in the moment he is so inflamed by it, it is all he can do to stop himself from getting out of his car and beating the shit out of the motherfucker.
His pulse is racing. By the time he gets back to the church he is nearly forty minutes late.
*
The girl stepped forward as the man approached, smiling, though she could feel her face was flushed and tight (nervous), even though sheâd gone over it in her mind a million times, the way sheâd extend her hand the same way Greta had when they first met and say, âHello, pleased to meet you,â as though of course she was old enough to be doing this and of course she felt comfortable about it, because if she was eighteen she would feel comfortable about it and so why wouldnât she now; the fact that no one else knew what she was up to being evidence of that, that she was mature enough to be making her own decisions, standing on her own two feet, steering her own course in the world.
After all, she was there, wasnât she? No one could gainsay that.
So she flexed her fingers, ready to extend her hand, a handshake, to make his acquaintance, but the man walked directly to the information counter without so much as a glance in her direction.
Wrong person. She did a quick check around but no one appeared to have noticed. Was it still a faux pas if no one saw you make it?
Sheâd always had good instincts about people, had prided herself on it, knowing who to latch on to, when someone had something to offer and when they didnât. Or so she thought. Thatâs how she found herself here. On her own recognisance, thank you very much. No one would have expected it. Least of all her dad. It would give him a kick when she showed up out of the blue. Though sheâd probably have to ring him first (coordinate where to meet, something distinctive to wear so theyâd recognise each other). The last time heâd seen her she was two years old. She didnât even
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