bell renews its twin trills at his ear, and the phone under the gable responds. It's cut off at once, and the light in the room is extinguished, pasting darkness like an emblem of secrecy against the window. The sight is too much for Luke. "Eunice," he shouts at the top of his voice. "It's Luke Arnold. You know I'm here."
He regrets the outburst at once. He could just have rung her doorbell. He's expecting the loiterers to jeer or otherwise comment, but they don't make a sound. He swings his legs off the bench and is about to make for the house when the curtain in the gable inches back. While he can't see the watcher, he waves as if he has, and the phone goes off in his other hand. Before the mobile can start singing about June he claps it to his ear. "I'm sorry, Mr Arnold," Eunice says almost too low to be heard.
"No need, Eunice. It's all right now." It has to be. "Shall I wait here for you?" Luke says.
"Please don't, Mr Arnold, no."
"Where would you like me to wait? Shall I come over to you?"
"Don't do that, please, no," Eunice mutters urgently, and the curtain edges towards the window frame. "I've said I'm sorry."
She sounds less so than previously. "What for?" Luke is determined to learn.
"I was wrong, Mr Arnold. That's all I can say."
"Wrong about what?"
"I'm afraid I mistook you for someone else."
"It's not the first time that's happened to me," Luke says several times louder than her murmur, "as you know."
"I do, Mr Arnold. I can only ask you to believe I'm sorry if I gave you too much hope."
"I don't know what you've given me yet. I'm not even sure what you're talking about."
"What I said to you this afternoon, I was mistaken. I must have had two other babies in mind."
"At the same hospital? That doesn't say much for the place."
"I think I was thinking of a different hospital."
"Then it doesn't say much for the system, does it?" When Eunice is silent except for an uneven breath Luke demands "So what were you thinking happened to me?"
"Someone must have put another baby's name on you at some stage, Mr Arnold, and yours on the other baby. It almost never happens, but it's been known."
"No." Luke is close to certain she's pretending to misunderstand. "I'm asking," he says, "what you thought when you first got in touch with me."
Eunice works on another breath before whispering "I had it in my head someone swapped you both, whoever the other one was."
"The Arnolds never would have. Whoever did couldn't have wanted me, then."
"Mr Arnold." Eunice sounds unsure, not only of his name. "I told you," she mutters, "it didn't happen."
"If you're saying you're mistaken, how can you know it didn't?"
Luke feels triumphant, though not pleasantly, and apprehensive too. He seems to have robbed Eunice of words, which suggests he has seen through her pretence. He stares at the window, but the sliver of darkness alongside the curtain is as uncommunicative as the phone. "Look, can't we talk face to face?" he says, lowering his voice. "Can't you let me in? I'm not alone down here."
The curtain gapes a few inches and subsides like a nervous blink, and Eunice whispers "I saw them."
The mass of cloud has begun to crumble, wads of it drifting apart to expose a moon that resembles the first line of a sketch on a blackboard. Eunice sounds worse than uneasy, and Luke presumes it's on his behalf. He turns to confront whatever he has to, but the play area is deserted, and so is the park all around him. "All right, they've gone," Luke says, "but just the same—"
"I still can."
She has more of a view of the park than he has. "Where?" he says low.
In a moment he glimpses activity, but it can't be what she means. A shape is just discernible among the leaves in the treetop nearest to her house. If it isn't a bird it's a squirrel, made to appear larger by the surrounding foliage, since the branch on which it's perched would be weighed down considerably more if the creature were that size. Luke is wasting time in trying to
He regrets the outburst at once. He could just have rung her doorbell. He's expecting the loiterers to jeer or otherwise comment, but they don't make a sound. He swings his legs off the bench and is about to make for the house when the curtain in the gable inches back. While he can't see the watcher, he waves as if he has, and the phone goes off in his other hand. Before the mobile can start singing about June he claps it to his ear. "I'm sorry, Mr Arnold," Eunice says almost too low to be heard.
"No need, Eunice. It's all right now." It has to be. "Shall I wait here for you?" Luke says.
"Please don't, Mr Arnold, no."
"Where would you like me to wait? Shall I come over to you?"
"Don't do that, please, no," Eunice mutters urgently, and the curtain edges towards the window frame. "I've said I'm sorry."
She sounds less so than previously. "What for?" Luke is determined to learn.
"I was wrong, Mr Arnold. That's all I can say."
"Wrong about what?"
"I'm afraid I mistook you for someone else."
"It's not the first time that's happened to me," Luke says several times louder than her murmur, "as you know."
"I do, Mr Arnold. I can only ask you to believe I'm sorry if I gave you too much hope."
"I don't know what you've given me yet. I'm not even sure what you're talking about."
"What I said to you this afternoon, I was mistaken. I must have had two other babies in mind."
"At the same hospital? That doesn't say much for the place."
"I think I was thinking of a different hospital."
"Then it doesn't say much for the system, does it?" When Eunice is silent except for an uneven breath Luke demands "So what were you thinking happened to me?"
"Someone must have put another baby's name on you at some stage, Mr Arnold, and yours on the other baby. It almost never happens, but it's been known."
"No." Luke is close to certain she's pretending to misunderstand. "I'm asking," he says, "what you thought when you first got in touch with me."
Eunice works on another breath before whispering "I had it in my head someone swapped you both, whoever the other one was."
"The Arnolds never would have. Whoever did couldn't have wanted me, then."
"Mr Arnold." Eunice sounds unsure, not only of his name. "I told you," she mutters, "it didn't happen."
"If you're saying you're mistaken, how can you know it didn't?"
Luke feels triumphant, though not pleasantly, and apprehensive too. He seems to have robbed Eunice of words, which suggests he has seen through her pretence. He stares at the window, but the sliver of darkness alongside the curtain is as uncommunicative as the phone. "Look, can't we talk face to face?" he says, lowering his voice. "Can't you let me in? I'm not alone down here."
The curtain gapes a few inches and subsides like a nervous blink, and Eunice whispers "I saw them."
The mass of cloud has begun to crumble, wads of it drifting apart to expose a moon that resembles the first line of a sketch on a blackboard. Eunice sounds worse than uneasy, and Luke presumes it's on his behalf. He turns to confront whatever he has to, but the play area is deserted, and so is the park all around him. "All right, they've gone," Luke says, "but just the same—"
"I still can."
She has more of a view of the park than he has. "Where?" he says low.
In a moment he glimpses activity, but it can't be what she means. A shape is just discernible among the leaves in the treetop nearest to her house. If it isn't a bird it's a squirrel, made to appear larger by the surrounding foliage, since the branch on which it's perched would be weighed down considerably more if the creature were that size. Luke is wasting time in trying to
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