of night he’s
had, Thomas will go through his regime: turning off the sidelight
to watch the dawn come up, quiet and steady, or quick
and rash, through the window. Different day, different dawn,
same routine. At seven-thirty, he’ll make some tea and toast,
and take Bramble out for a stroll along the river. It’s what he
does every day, and he walks the same route, never deviates. It
was difficult to keep to it for the first few years, he’ll admit
that. Despite his resolution to go on as before – to take the
river path, track left down the far field and into the copse –
by the time he’d re-emerged at the other end of the wood,
Thomas would find himself half a mile off course. Sometimes
he’d be knee-deep in a farmer’s crop; sometimes he’d be at the
lane at the top of the village. Once, he was back at his own
front door. As if his feet were wandering of their own accord,
he thinks, As if they had a mind of their own. He’d had to steel
himself, then. Whichever particular dog was at his heels,
Thomas would retrace his steps, find the footpath, and continue
the way he always did when he used to work the river: past
the Earls’ place and along the bowl barrow field.
He pushes Bramble to one side, and shifts in his seat, testing
the heaviness in his groin. There’s a politician on the radio
answering questions, a man on the television is having an
argument with another man. Thomas stumbles through to
the kitchen and urinates into the sink, thin stop-start spurts,
running the cold tap to help him. Through the window, the
view is of the lane and the sinking sun, a greasy smear of amber
hovering in the distant trees. He squints at it, willing the pressure
in his bladder to subside, trying to concentrate.
He beat his problem eventually, although in a funny way the
Earls helped: after the business had died down, they turned the
field over to wheat. But then someone decided it was the site
of an ancient monument and had to be protected. They could
grow the wheat, they could reposition the culvert, but they
couldn’t disturb the barrow. Now you wouldn’t know it was
there, unless you were looking for it. Thomas tries not to think
of what happened; there’s no point. He knows he will only
relive it again in the morning, as he does every day when he
passes the spot, passes the Earl place, passes the barrow where
all those years ago he found the girl. He has beaten his problem,
is what he always tells himself. It was Sonny that unearthed
her. Now, Sonny, he was an exceptional hound.
part two
small hours
eleven
Kenneth tries to stop himself from checking his watch; time
won’t move any faster just because he’s looking at it. Through
the tinted window of the train, the lights of the tower blocks
flee back to London, leaving only his reflection, staring uneasily
in at him. He thinks about the number of times he’s made this
trip in his life; countless occasions when he was a young boy
coming home from school, then a hiatus of forty years or more,
when he drove everywhere. Can’t do that now, wouldn’t trust
himself now. Not after that last episode, cruising at speed the
wrong way up the motorway, car headlights flashing like sparks
in front of his eyes. He knew something was amiss; the central
reservation was over on the passenger side, the one-way became
inexplicably two-way. Too late, Kenneth realized that it was
him going against the flow and not everyone else: by then, the
sparks of those oncoming headlights had turned into the blue
scroll of a squad car beacon.
A caution, and his licence revoked: he was told that he’d
been lucky, but he didn’t feel lucky; he felt as though he’d had
an arm cut off. Will suggested a chauffeur, not understanding,
or choosing to ignore, the simple pleasure of driving, with only The Pearl Fishers or La Bohème for company.
Oh Mimi, he says, thinking of Maggie, You will love Jussi
Björling, I just know
had, Thomas will go through his regime: turning off the sidelight
to watch the dawn come up, quiet and steady, or quick
and rash, through the window. Different day, different dawn,
same routine. At seven-thirty, he’ll make some tea and toast,
and take Bramble out for a stroll along the river. It’s what he
does every day, and he walks the same route, never deviates. It
was difficult to keep to it for the first few years, he’ll admit
that. Despite his resolution to go on as before – to take the
river path, track left down the far field and into the copse –
by the time he’d re-emerged at the other end of the wood,
Thomas would find himself half a mile off course. Sometimes
he’d be knee-deep in a farmer’s crop; sometimes he’d be at the
lane at the top of the village. Once, he was back at his own
front door. As if his feet were wandering of their own accord,
he thinks, As if they had a mind of their own. He’d had to steel
himself, then. Whichever particular dog was at his heels,
Thomas would retrace his steps, find the footpath, and continue
the way he always did when he used to work the river: past
the Earls’ place and along the bowl barrow field.
He pushes Bramble to one side, and shifts in his seat, testing
the heaviness in his groin. There’s a politician on the radio
answering questions, a man on the television is having an
argument with another man. Thomas stumbles through to
the kitchen and urinates into the sink, thin stop-start spurts,
running the cold tap to help him. Through the window, the
view is of the lane and the sinking sun, a greasy smear of amber
hovering in the distant trees. He squints at it, willing the pressure
in his bladder to subside, trying to concentrate.
He beat his problem eventually, although in a funny way the
Earls helped: after the business had died down, they turned the
field over to wheat. But then someone decided it was the site
of an ancient monument and had to be protected. They could
grow the wheat, they could reposition the culvert, but they
couldn’t disturb the barrow. Now you wouldn’t know it was
there, unless you were looking for it. Thomas tries not to think
of what happened; there’s no point. He knows he will only
relive it again in the morning, as he does every day when he
passes the spot, passes the Earl place, passes the barrow where
all those years ago he found the girl. He has beaten his problem,
is what he always tells himself. It was Sonny that unearthed
her. Now, Sonny, he was an exceptional hound.
part two
small hours
eleven
Kenneth tries to stop himself from checking his watch; time
won’t move any faster just because he’s looking at it. Through
the tinted window of the train, the lights of the tower blocks
flee back to London, leaving only his reflection, staring uneasily
in at him. He thinks about the number of times he’s made this
trip in his life; countless occasions when he was a young boy
coming home from school, then a hiatus of forty years or more,
when he drove everywhere. Can’t do that now, wouldn’t trust
himself now. Not after that last episode, cruising at speed the
wrong way up the motorway, car headlights flashing like sparks
in front of his eyes. He knew something was amiss; the central
reservation was over on the passenger side, the one-way became
inexplicably two-way. Too late, Kenneth realized that it was
him going against the flow and not everyone else: by then, the
sparks of those oncoming headlights had turned into the blue
scroll of a squad car beacon.
A caution, and his licence revoked: he was told that he’d
been lucky, but he didn’t feel lucky; he felt as though he’d had
an arm cut off. Will suggested a chauffeur, not understanding,
or choosing to ignore, the simple pleasure of driving, with only The Pearl Fishers or La Bohème for company.
Oh Mimi, he says, thinking of Maggie, You will love Jussi
Björling, I just know
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