it could drive itself home and put itself in the garage.â
She laughed.
At the end of the village he took the right fork. This was onto a road that wound out through the rocky hills of a small peninsula. Water was spinning everywhere, blown by the wind. Wet trees squatted by wet stone walls, burnt slashes where the whins had been, glittered in the rain. No one lived any longer on this inhospitable headland. Sheep grazed among the rocks and the tumbled gables.
âThe last time I danced was in 1944,â he said eventually. âThirty-five years ago, or thereabouts.â
âYou dance one hell of a lot better than some I know whoâve been on the floor regularly for the last thirty-five yearsâ
âSeptember the tenth.â
Oh God, she thought, heâs going to tell me the story of his life.
âDo you mind if I smoke?â
He shook his head.
âSome people mind. They hate their cars reeking of stale smoke. I canât say I blame them.â
She felt in her pocket for the packet.
âThey say nowadays that we ⦠the smokers of the world are slowly poisoning all the rest. Itâs a dismal thought really. I suppose itâs true too. I have tried to give up ⦠oh ages ago, that was. My husband ⦠late ⦠my late husband gave it up just like that.â She clicked her fingers. âI tried ⦠but ⦠He encouraged me in every way ⦠but ⦠as you see Iâm still at it. My character is woefully weak.âThere was silence. She clicked her fingers again to disperse the silence, but it remained. She put a cigarette in her mouth and lit it. The road had become very narrow, almost a track. Wet branches from the hedges scraped the sides of the car.
âIâm sorry,â she said, after a long time. âI interrupted you.â
He nodded, but didnât say anything.
Maybe he is a homicidal maniac, she thought. But how efficient can you be with only one arm? One eye? Superhuman strength in his wrist, kicking, trampling feet? A rapist perhaps? Iâd rather be raped than dead. No question. She looked cautiously at his face. She could only see the Picasso profile, the travesty.
How young he must have been on September the tenth, 1944.
âI was fourteen,â she said.
There was a gate in front of them. He stopped the car. He reached into the back of the car and handed her his anorak.
âPut this on,â he said. âThereâs something Iâd like to show you. I hope you donât mind getting a bit wet.â
âBut you
âI donât mind.â
He opened the door and got out of the car.
âItâs only a couple of minutesâ walk. You see when the wind is coming from the west like this ⦠strongly from the west.â He moved towards the gate, where he fumbled with the bolt. âWell ⦠youâll see â¦â
She put the anorak over her shoulders and got out. The rain and the west wind battered at her. The left sleeve of the anorak was tucked neatly into the pocket. She pulled it out and shoved her hands into the sleeves. He bumped the gate open across the grassy track. She walked beside him in silence. She knew where they were going. She knew the track like the back of her hand. Round to the right, down into the slight hollow where three thorn trees tangled their branches together. The wet oozing in through the soles of her leaking shoes as she walked. I will have pneumonia tomorrow, or at least chilblains. Up a steep short hill and out through a hedge of whin bushes onto the headland.
When they reached the edge of the grey plateau of rock he stopped walking. Without saying a word he pointed to a spot half-way between where they stood and the edge which hung out over the sea. They each stood in their own silence and waited. Grey is a most dismal colour, she thought. Dismal veils of rain. Dismal wind. I could be at home in a hot bath. She shivered with sudden delight at the thought
She laughed.
At the end of the village he took the right fork. This was onto a road that wound out through the rocky hills of a small peninsula. Water was spinning everywhere, blown by the wind. Wet trees squatted by wet stone walls, burnt slashes where the whins had been, glittered in the rain. No one lived any longer on this inhospitable headland. Sheep grazed among the rocks and the tumbled gables.
âThe last time I danced was in 1944,â he said eventually. âThirty-five years ago, or thereabouts.â
âYou dance one hell of a lot better than some I know whoâve been on the floor regularly for the last thirty-five yearsâ
âSeptember the tenth.â
Oh God, she thought, heâs going to tell me the story of his life.
âDo you mind if I smoke?â
He shook his head.
âSome people mind. They hate their cars reeking of stale smoke. I canât say I blame them.â
She felt in her pocket for the packet.
âThey say nowadays that we ⦠the smokers of the world are slowly poisoning all the rest. Itâs a dismal thought really. I suppose itâs true too. I have tried to give up ⦠oh ages ago, that was. My husband ⦠late ⦠my late husband gave it up just like that.â She clicked her fingers. âI tried ⦠but ⦠He encouraged me in every way ⦠but ⦠as you see Iâm still at it. My character is woefully weak.âThere was silence. She clicked her fingers again to disperse the silence, but it remained. She put a cigarette in her mouth and lit it. The road had become very narrow, almost a track. Wet branches from the hedges scraped the sides of the car.
âIâm sorry,â she said, after a long time. âI interrupted you.â
He nodded, but didnât say anything.
Maybe he is a homicidal maniac, she thought. But how efficient can you be with only one arm? One eye? Superhuman strength in his wrist, kicking, trampling feet? A rapist perhaps? Iâd rather be raped than dead. No question. She looked cautiously at his face. She could only see the Picasso profile, the travesty.
How young he must have been on September the tenth, 1944.
âI was fourteen,â she said.
There was a gate in front of them. He stopped the car. He reached into the back of the car and handed her his anorak.
âPut this on,â he said. âThereâs something Iâd like to show you. I hope you donât mind getting a bit wet.â
âBut you
âI donât mind.â
He opened the door and got out of the car.
âItâs only a couple of minutesâ walk. You see when the wind is coming from the west like this ⦠strongly from the west.â He moved towards the gate, where he fumbled with the bolt. âWell ⦠youâll see â¦â
She put the anorak over her shoulders and got out. The rain and the west wind battered at her. The left sleeve of the anorak was tucked neatly into the pocket. She pulled it out and shoved her hands into the sleeves. He bumped the gate open across the grassy track. She walked beside him in silence. She knew where they were going. She knew the track like the back of her hand. Round to the right, down into the slight hollow where three thorn trees tangled their branches together. The wet oozing in through the soles of her leaking shoes as she walked. I will have pneumonia tomorrow, or at least chilblains. Up a steep short hill and out through a hedge of whin bushes onto the headland.
When they reached the edge of the grey plateau of rock he stopped walking. Without saying a word he pointed to a spot half-way between where they stood and the edge which hung out over the sea. They each stood in their own silence and waited. Grey is a most dismal colour, she thought. Dismal veils of rain. Dismal wind. I could be at home in a hot bath. She shivered with sudden delight at the thought
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