feeling of a graze.
Especially a boy who came out here to play on a morning like this, only when it was warm, not cold like now. Prancing out from a nearby house, running down the length of the Titanic , saying, I dare you !, on a summer's day. Yeah ! You go first, you older boy, then I must. The presence of an iron railing would be no barrier at all. Henry had done that, grabbed the swinging rope off the forbidden oak tree in someone else's back yard, swung into terrifying space without a single scream. Got his bruises, all right. Would have been an awful father himself, because he would have mollycoddled his own son from doing any such damn thing, just like his dad didn't, and for all that, he was still timid.
He could see it. Clutched the iron rail, forced himself to look down. The distance was small, but the sea was immense. The abiding fears of his life ranged from awe when faced with open spaces and the far more acute, claustrophic fear of being enclosed. Claustrophobia was the bane of his life, the devil which sat on his shoulder, trained into submission only most of the time. He could tolerate lifts and aeroplanes through the application of logic and keeping his eyes on a page; he could sit in small rooms jammed with people and keep his eyes on their faces, telling himself it was temporary; he could enter a long tunnel provided he could see the other end; could kid himself the devil had died, and then there would be a panic so blind he could not even scream.
He breathed deeply; the air no longer tore at his throat. He felt calm. There was an explanation.
He breathed deep. It did not hurt. Nothing could hurt here. A child had fallen, tragically. The mist would bandage wounds.
It muffled noise. He thought he had seen that same black dog trotting ahead and disappearing, but apart from that illusion, had not seen a single living soul in the fifteen minutes which had got him so far, and he did not hear her, either. He was in the frame of mind where he could tell himself he was the only soul on a small planet, looking at a place where a child had slipped, until the last second when he sensed her approach. Turned and saw her coming towards him out of the mist. A long-limbed, swift walking person with a pale shawl round her head, striding towards him with a determined step. He looked around, wildly, like a cornered rat in search of a shelter. The footsteps, and the shape, came on.
Her to the life, with the baggy khaki trousers and the slouching coat and the air of authority.
Francesca. You've got to go home, Henry. How can you get satisfaction from being a novelty? If you want to know what you are, Henry, you have to go home .
The very soul of aristocratic womanhood was striding towards him, almost breaking into a gallop, the sort of woman who had always intimidated him until he met Francesca. Taller than he remembered. He wanted to run, but on this little road out to the sea there was nowhere to go. He also wanted to laugh at the reversal of tactic: the day before he had been chasing her and now she was advancing on him like a ghostly witch.
He had a sudden impression that she was going to walk straight through him and hover above the platform. And then the spectre was beside him, standing too close for comfort, staring at him.
She had Francesca's colouring, at close quarters, a lopsided version of her features, nose, eyes, mouth, younger than he would have imagined, older than he dreamed, and a voice which bore slight resemblance. She had highlighted, curly hair with nothing sleek about it; she was statuesque and groomed, her coat matched her shoes, she was completely different.
Francesca resisted the camera; it made the last image of her all the more memorable. He was frightened of this appalling facsimile, but when she spoke, she only sounded anxious, flustered and shy.
'ah God, Mr Evans. You had me worried there. What the hell are you doing out here?'
'Who are you?'
'I'm Maggie. You sounded so
Especially a boy who came out here to play on a morning like this, only when it was warm, not cold like now. Prancing out from a nearby house, running down the length of the Titanic , saying, I dare you !, on a summer's day. Yeah ! You go first, you older boy, then I must. The presence of an iron railing would be no barrier at all. Henry had done that, grabbed the swinging rope off the forbidden oak tree in someone else's back yard, swung into terrifying space without a single scream. Got his bruises, all right. Would have been an awful father himself, because he would have mollycoddled his own son from doing any such damn thing, just like his dad didn't, and for all that, he was still timid.
He could see it. Clutched the iron rail, forced himself to look down. The distance was small, but the sea was immense. The abiding fears of his life ranged from awe when faced with open spaces and the far more acute, claustrophic fear of being enclosed. Claustrophobia was the bane of his life, the devil which sat on his shoulder, trained into submission only most of the time. He could tolerate lifts and aeroplanes through the application of logic and keeping his eyes on a page; he could sit in small rooms jammed with people and keep his eyes on their faces, telling himself it was temporary; he could enter a long tunnel provided he could see the other end; could kid himself the devil had died, and then there would be a panic so blind he could not even scream.
He breathed deeply; the air no longer tore at his throat. He felt calm. There was an explanation.
He breathed deep. It did not hurt. Nothing could hurt here. A child had fallen, tragically. The mist would bandage wounds.
It muffled noise. He thought he had seen that same black dog trotting ahead and disappearing, but apart from that illusion, had not seen a single living soul in the fifteen minutes which had got him so far, and he did not hear her, either. He was in the frame of mind where he could tell himself he was the only soul on a small planet, looking at a place where a child had slipped, until the last second when he sensed her approach. Turned and saw her coming towards him out of the mist. A long-limbed, swift walking person with a pale shawl round her head, striding towards him with a determined step. He looked around, wildly, like a cornered rat in search of a shelter. The footsteps, and the shape, came on.
Her to the life, with the baggy khaki trousers and the slouching coat and the air of authority.
Francesca. You've got to go home, Henry. How can you get satisfaction from being a novelty? If you want to know what you are, Henry, you have to go home .
The very soul of aristocratic womanhood was striding towards him, almost breaking into a gallop, the sort of woman who had always intimidated him until he met Francesca. Taller than he remembered. He wanted to run, but on this little road out to the sea there was nowhere to go. He also wanted to laugh at the reversal of tactic: the day before he had been chasing her and now she was advancing on him like a ghostly witch.
He had a sudden impression that she was going to walk straight through him and hover above the platform. And then the spectre was beside him, standing too close for comfort, staring at him.
She had Francesca's colouring, at close quarters, a lopsided version of her features, nose, eyes, mouth, younger than he would have imagined, older than he dreamed, and a voice which bore slight resemblance. She had highlighted, curly hair with nothing sleek about it; she was statuesque and groomed, her coat matched her shoes, she was completely different.
Francesca resisted the camera; it made the last image of her all the more memorable. He was frightened of this appalling facsimile, but when she spoke, she only sounded anxious, flustered and shy.
'ah God, Mr Evans. You had me worried there. What the hell are you doing out here?'
'Who are you?'
'I'm Maggie. You sounded so
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