obscure, reason? Could Gwydion’s recurring dream, about the man and the woman fighting, be connected to the accident? And, most disturbing of all, could Evan Morgan have been involved in the girl’s death?
I looked out of the window at the garden. There was a lot that needed doing. Cutting back, mainly. I’d been planning to tackle it that morning, striding out into the sunshine brandishing the shears, restoring order, shape, and beauty to the sprawl, but now I felt overwhelmed by the task. It began to seem like an impossible chore, a doomed attempt to gain control over encroaching chaos.
Sometimes, in these gardening situations, you just have to tell yourself to carry on. Bust through the feeling of helplessness, hopelessness. Go down the “Yes, we can” route. Ignore the “No, we can’t” option, even if that’s the more realistic response. So I did. I put on my gardening boots, donned my scruffiest jumper, arming myself with a hacksaw, shears, and a penknife, and went out.
For two hours I sawed, and chopped, and clipped, and heaped, and piled, and dragged, and tidied, and as I did, some phrases from the Lacan paper kept coming into my head:
Life is something which goes, as we say in French, “à la dérive.” Life goes down the river, from time to time touching a bank; staying for a while here and there, without understanding anything . . . and it is the principle of analysis that nobody understands anything of what happens.
When I’d finished I cleared away some dry, dead wood and built a small bonfire at the end of the garden, by the compost heap. I set light to it and watched it burn. It caught fire quickly and began to crackle. As I watched the flames leap up, and the smoke curl into the sky, a sudden realization came to me. The photograph of Evan had been sent to me as a plea to find out what had really happened, and whoever it was from, I felt impelled to accede to its request.
It began to rain. I poked away more vigorously, but the flames died and the bonfire began to smoke. I heard a crack of thunder in the distance. I looked up and saw that the sky had gone dark.
Nobody understands anything of what happens.
As the downpour gathered momentum, I picked up my tools and ran for cover, back into the house.
8
The air hostess came past—cabin attendant, I think they’re called nowadays—and I ordered another gin and tonic. I like to drink when I fly. Cramming yourself into a metal tube hurtling through the sky begins to seem like tremendous fun, which it never does when you’re sober. I also like to take drugs. Beta-blockers, Temazepam, that kind of thing. I’d take cocaine, too, if it wasn’t illegal. For me, it’s all part of the holiday. I know I’m a respectable psychotherapist and mother of two, but as far as I’m concerned, when I step onto a plane I leave all that behind. It’s something to do with being up in the clouds, I think, unable to lift a finger to help anyone, however dire the circumstances. It’s an intoxicating feeling, even without chemical enhancement.
I took a hefty swig of the G&T, put my head back, and closed my eyes, listening to the dull roar of the engine, the low chatter of the passengers, and the soothing clink of the ice cubes in my drink. I gave a sigh of satisfaction. I was on my way to a beautiful city I’d never seen before. I was going to stay in a comfortable hotel overlooking the sea. There was no one with me, no husband, no children. I had no responsibilities. I was out and about in the world again, alone.
After I’d spoken to Mari on the phone, and found out that the girl who’d drowned in the bay was in fact the Morgans’ au pair, I’d felt a compulsion to investigate further. In fact it had become something of an obsession. I knew that, to some degree, I had my own agenda here, that I was doubtless projecting my anger at Bob onto Evan, the philanderer par excellence. However, I was genuinely moved by Gwydion’s story. I
I looked out of the window at the garden. There was a lot that needed doing. Cutting back, mainly. I’d been planning to tackle it that morning, striding out into the sunshine brandishing the shears, restoring order, shape, and beauty to the sprawl, but now I felt overwhelmed by the task. It began to seem like an impossible chore, a doomed attempt to gain control over encroaching chaos.
Sometimes, in these gardening situations, you just have to tell yourself to carry on. Bust through the feeling of helplessness, hopelessness. Go down the “Yes, we can” route. Ignore the “No, we can’t” option, even if that’s the more realistic response. So I did. I put on my gardening boots, donned my scruffiest jumper, arming myself with a hacksaw, shears, and a penknife, and went out.
For two hours I sawed, and chopped, and clipped, and heaped, and piled, and dragged, and tidied, and as I did, some phrases from the Lacan paper kept coming into my head:
Life is something which goes, as we say in French, “à la dérive.” Life goes down the river, from time to time touching a bank; staying for a while here and there, without understanding anything . . . and it is the principle of analysis that nobody understands anything of what happens.
When I’d finished I cleared away some dry, dead wood and built a small bonfire at the end of the garden, by the compost heap. I set light to it and watched it burn. It caught fire quickly and began to crackle. As I watched the flames leap up, and the smoke curl into the sky, a sudden realization came to me. The photograph of Evan had been sent to me as a plea to find out what had really happened, and whoever it was from, I felt impelled to accede to its request.
It began to rain. I poked away more vigorously, but the flames died and the bonfire began to smoke. I heard a crack of thunder in the distance. I looked up and saw that the sky had gone dark.
Nobody understands anything of what happens.
As the downpour gathered momentum, I picked up my tools and ran for cover, back into the house.
8
The air hostess came past—cabin attendant, I think they’re called nowadays—and I ordered another gin and tonic. I like to drink when I fly. Cramming yourself into a metal tube hurtling through the sky begins to seem like tremendous fun, which it never does when you’re sober. I also like to take drugs. Beta-blockers, Temazepam, that kind of thing. I’d take cocaine, too, if it wasn’t illegal. For me, it’s all part of the holiday. I know I’m a respectable psychotherapist and mother of two, but as far as I’m concerned, when I step onto a plane I leave all that behind. It’s something to do with being up in the clouds, I think, unable to lift a finger to help anyone, however dire the circumstances. It’s an intoxicating feeling, even without chemical enhancement.
I took a hefty swig of the G&T, put my head back, and closed my eyes, listening to the dull roar of the engine, the low chatter of the passengers, and the soothing clink of the ice cubes in my drink. I gave a sigh of satisfaction. I was on my way to a beautiful city I’d never seen before. I was going to stay in a comfortable hotel overlooking the sea. There was no one with me, no husband, no children. I had no responsibilities. I was out and about in the world again, alone.
After I’d spoken to Mari on the phone, and found out that the girl who’d drowned in the bay was in fact the Morgans’ au pair, I’d felt a compulsion to investigate further. In fact it had become something of an obsession. I knew that, to some degree, I had my own agenda here, that I was doubtless projecting my anger at Bob onto Evan, the philanderer par excellence. However, I was genuinely moved by Gwydion’s story. I
Similar Books
