thirst and an unaccountable desire for a bath.
Or to find she could not get into the loo because the man was locked inside it sobbing. Maggie listened for a long time, troubled and disturbed by his misery, wanting to knock on the door, but waiting until the sound became controlled before she returned quietly to her own room, draped the shawl over her nightdress, grabbed a towel and went the long flights downstairs.
Timothy was sitting at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette, staring into space. Clean plates were marshalled next to him. Maggie had watched the laborious, washing by hand process; she had even helped, and she marvelled at the industry this impoverished pair put into the creation of an elegant and eccentric lifestyle. It was comfortable to live here but humbling to contemplate the effort it took, she thought a trifly sourly, surprised to see him there at all, especially with a cigarette.
Tim didn't usually allow himself such luxuries: all luxuries were saved for others or the dog.
'Any hot water?'
'A bit, maybe. I used most of it for the dishes.'
'Damn.'
He waved the cigarette. 'Vicar left them.' She sat down. 'Good party?'
'Oh yes. Until someone started talking about Francesca.
Seemed to upset the paying guest. And Peter and me, too.'
'Damn. Ah well. He had to know. Jumping the gun a bit, but at least the discovery looks accidental.
Is it very wrong to use him like this?'
'No. Yes. No. I don't know what you have in mind, you haven't said, so I doubt if you know.'
DAMN Francesca . If only people would stop talking about her. Francesca and Harry, her boy, the ghosts at every feast. She made unwilling conspirators of them all.
'It's like cookery,' Tim said. 'All experiments are fine. As long as they work. But you shouldn't use people for ingredients.'
'No,' she said, slowly. 'Not unless they volunteer.'
The light woke him. A unique kind of light he had never seen before, but had somehow imagined as peculiar to the sea and part of the reason why he had craved to live close to the ocean. It made nothing of the fear of being enclosed. A lake was not the same. He could always see to the other side and that limited it in his imagination. Lakes and rivers were for respectable traffic from bank to bank, not for the risk of being lost without bearings, without sight of land, drifting with the current.
It was only the sea which was suitable for high endeavour and escape.
The sky which glowed outside was luminously white. It pressed against the windows and the glass seemed to bulge inwards in meek resistance. It forced his eyes open; it was like white smoke, thick, dense, unyielding, almost brighter than sunlight. For the second morning in succession, Henry got out of bed and went to look.
Nothing. A vast expanse of nothing, the intensity of the light hurting his eyes. He looked at his watch: 0700 hours. Not early by the standards of a hard-working commuter, but all life, all movement, was dead. Until he heard the rumble of the sea and the more specific sound of an engine.
Discernible in the mist, a rubbish cart was at work in the road below, thump, crump, the engine revving, ready to move, a clang of metal. Henry could make out the squat machine and take a guess at the colour. Some kind of municipal green. It moved on, stopping a few doors down.
Henry looked ahead and then right, turning his head deliberately to make sure there was nothing he missed. There was nothing to see. A dense fog of sky, descending all the way to earth, no contours, no landmarks, no visible life, no nothing. He squinted and peered to see if the pier would appear out of the heavenly white murk, but there was no sign of it. The scene invited him to walk into a pleasant and mysterious oblivion. There was a little excitement as he put on his clothes and searched for the hat before he remembered it was lost and he had not replaced it. Forgot to take the daily dose of vitamins and minerals, or think how he might get back in
Or to find she could not get into the loo because the man was locked inside it sobbing. Maggie listened for a long time, troubled and disturbed by his misery, wanting to knock on the door, but waiting until the sound became controlled before she returned quietly to her own room, draped the shawl over her nightdress, grabbed a towel and went the long flights downstairs.
Timothy was sitting at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette, staring into space. Clean plates were marshalled next to him. Maggie had watched the laborious, washing by hand process; she had even helped, and she marvelled at the industry this impoverished pair put into the creation of an elegant and eccentric lifestyle. It was comfortable to live here but humbling to contemplate the effort it took, she thought a trifly sourly, surprised to see him there at all, especially with a cigarette.
Tim didn't usually allow himself such luxuries: all luxuries were saved for others or the dog.
'Any hot water?'
'A bit, maybe. I used most of it for the dishes.'
'Damn.'
He waved the cigarette. 'Vicar left them.' She sat down. 'Good party?'
'Oh yes. Until someone started talking about Francesca.
Seemed to upset the paying guest. And Peter and me, too.'
'Damn. Ah well. He had to know. Jumping the gun a bit, but at least the discovery looks accidental.
Is it very wrong to use him like this?'
'No. Yes. No. I don't know what you have in mind, you haven't said, so I doubt if you know.'
DAMN Francesca . If only people would stop talking about her. Francesca and Harry, her boy, the ghosts at every feast. She made unwilling conspirators of them all.
'It's like cookery,' Tim said. 'All experiments are fine. As long as they work. But you shouldn't use people for ingredients.'
'No,' she said, slowly. 'Not unless they volunteer.'
The light woke him. A unique kind of light he had never seen before, but had somehow imagined as peculiar to the sea and part of the reason why he had craved to live close to the ocean. It made nothing of the fear of being enclosed. A lake was not the same. He could always see to the other side and that limited it in his imagination. Lakes and rivers were for respectable traffic from bank to bank, not for the risk of being lost without bearings, without sight of land, drifting with the current.
It was only the sea which was suitable for high endeavour and escape.
The sky which glowed outside was luminously white. It pressed against the windows and the glass seemed to bulge inwards in meek resistance. It forced his eyes open; it was like white smoke, thick, dense, unyielding, almost brighter than sunlight. For the second morning in succession, Henry got out of bed and went to look.
Nothing. A vast expanse of nothing, the intensity of the light hurting his eyes. He looked at his watch: 0700 hours. Not early by the standards of a hard-working commuter, but all life, all movement, was dead. Until he heard the rumble of the sea and the more specific sound of an engine.
Discernible in the mist, a rubbish cart was at work in the road below, thump, crump, the engine revving, ready to move, a clang of metal. Henry could make out the squat machine and take a guess at the colour. Some kind of municipal green. It moved on, stopping a few doors down.
Henry looked ahead and then right, turning his head deliberately to make sure there was nothing he missed. There was nothing to see. A dense fog of sky, descending all the way to earth, no contours, no landmarks, no visible life, no nothing. He squinted and peered to see if the pier would appear out of the heavenly white murk, but there was no sign of it. The scene invited him to walk into a pleasant and mysterious oblivion. There was a little excitement as he put on his clothes and searched for the hat before he remembered it was lost and he had not replaced it. Forgot to take the daily dose of vitamins and minerals, or think how he might get back in
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