enough to make the customer look around and up to see where the sound was coming from, and before he or she could even gasp with surprise it would leap away from the shelf and, with a couple of beats of its shabby, dusty black wings, it would settle on the back of a chair, or even more picturesquely on top of the computer screen.
Me, I was unkempt. Rather smelly. And I would sit at the computer, a distracted, glowering, troubled figure, especially if the crow was perched nearby and ducking and bobbing like a demented Richard III or a bedraggled Rasputin. For extra effect, I could be either rattling furiously at the keyboard in an outpouring of genius or stabbing with two fingers in terrible literary constipation, whichever came over me as I grew into the role.
And Chloe? Having sat by the fire, off and on throughout the day, her face was mottled and blotchy, her eyes were reddened and her cheeks were smutty. Her tousled blonde hair gleamed in the light of the flames. She ran a tiny white mouse from one hand to the other. She smiled, and a smear of blood was on her teeth. Perfect. She was an urchin, a silent, sooty angel.
Chapter Seventeen
‘A ND YOU’VE STARTED writing? Well, wonders never cease. Soon you’ll be telling me you’re learning to play the saxophone or peering through a telescope at the night sky or, what was the other thing? oh yes you’re setting off to do the coast-to-coast walk from St. Bees to Robin Hood’s Bay...’
I aped a smile at her. ‘And taxidermy, my dearest Rosie, don’t forget taxidermy. Yes, I’m going to do all of those things. Hey, don’t be mean, there’s nothing wrong with having a few plans and ambitions. Don’t knock my little schemes and daydreams.’
We weren’t rowing or wrangling, it was just our usual exchange of snidey banter. Oddly, her asides were a bit more frequent, now that the shop was running and I’d done a bit of business. Perhaps it was because I’d stopped shaving for a while, or it rankled because I was making a paltry contribution to the family economy and threatening her status as sole bread-winner. So I parried clumsily, ‘Hey, I know you used to work for those fancy dentists in town, Dowling & McCorrister, charging their rich clients extortionate fees to do their kids’ braces and veneers and all that stuff... and now you’re strolling the groves of academe with Colonel Brook, and God said let there be light and so on... and me, I’m just a dabbler, a dilettante. But yes, I’ve started to write.’
She bethought herself. ‘I’m sorry, my darling, I’m really happy that the shop’s actually happening and it’s fun. What are you writing? Go on, tell me about it...’ And she kissed me full on the lips, stretching up so that her weight was on me and I had to step backwards to avoid overbalancing. So the kiss was very short, and she misunderstood my movement. She turned away, with a tiny shrug of disdain, as though I’d deliberately recoiled from her. ‘Alright, well tell me about it when I get back. I may be a bit later than usual. Colonel Brook’s holding a meeting after school this afternoon and he’s asked me to take the minutes.’ She went out.
Another lie. Well, it was partly true, about the writing. I’d been sending e-mails to a few old colleagues from my days with the borough council, not exactly blogging but spreading the word about the shop and the tooth and forwarding the newspaper article to anyone who might have missed it. Writing a book? Well no, although, in a flurry of hammering at the keyboard whenever a customer came in, I’d suddenly found I could rattle a few thoughts for a story, just by looking around the shop and at the bird and Chloe and catching a glimpse of my own eccentric reflection. No need to look any further for a story, even if I only kept a journal of the weirdness of the past nine or ten months, of the changes in our lives and where we lived and what we were doing. So yes, I’d been
Me, I was unkempt. Rather smelly. And I would sit at the computer, a distracted, glowering, troubled figure, especially if the crow was perched nearby and ducking and bobbing like a demented Richard III or a bedraggled Rasputin. For extra effect, I could be either rattling furiously at the keyboard in an outpouring of genius or stabbing with two fingers in terrible literary constipation, whichever came over me as I grew into the role.
And Chloe? Having sat by the fire, off and on throughout the day, her face was mottled and blotchy, her eyes were reddened and her cheeks were smutty. Her tousled blonde hair gleamed in the light of the flames. She ran a tiny white mouse from one hand to the other. She smiled, and a smear of blood was on her teeth. Perfect. She was an urchin, a silent, sooty angel.
Chapter Seventeen
‘A ND YOU’VE STARTED writing? Well, wonders never cease. Soon you’ll be telling me you’re learning to play the saxophone or peering through a telescope at the night sky or, what was the other thing? oh yes you’re setting off to do the coast-to-coast walk from St. Bees to Robin Hood’s Bay...’
I aped a smile at her. ‘And taxidermy, my dearest Rosie, don’t forget taxidermy. Yes, I’m going to do all of those things. Hey, don’t be mean, there’s nothing wrong with having a few plans and ambitions. Don’t knock my little schemes and daydreams.’
We weren’t rowing or wrangling, it was just our usual exchange of snidey banter. Oddly, her asides were a bit more frequent, now that the shop was running and I’d done a bit of business. Perhaps it was because I’d stopped shaving for a while, or it rankled because I was making a paltry contribution to the family economy and threatening her status as sole bread-winner. So I parried clumsily, ‘Hey, I know you used to work for those fancy dentists in town, Dowling & McCorrister, charging their rich clients extortionate fees to do their kids’ braces and veneers and all that stuff... and now you’re strolling the groves of academe with Colonel Brook, and God said let there be light and so on... and me, I’m just a dabbler, a dilettante. But yes, I’ve started to write.’
She bethought herself. ‘I’m sorry, my darling, I’m really happy that the shop’s actually happening and it’s fun. What are you writing? Go on, tell me about it...’ And she kissed me full on the lips, stretching up so that her weight was on me and I had to step backwards to avoid overbalancing. So the kiss was very short, and she misunderstood my movement. She turned away, with a tiny shrug of disdain, as though I’d deliberately recoiled from her. ‘Alright, well tell me about it when I get back. I may be a bit later than usual. Colonel Brook’s holding a meeting after school this afternoon and he’s asked me to take the minutes.’ She went out.
Another lie. Well, it was partly true, about the writing. I’d been sending e-mails to a few old colleagues from my days with the borough council, not exactly blogging but spreading the word about the shop and the tooth and forwarding the newspaper article to anyone who might have missed it. Writing a book? Well no, although, in a flurry of hammering at the keyboard whenever a customer came in, I’d suddenly found I could rattle a few thoughts for a story, just by looking around the shop and at the bird and Chloe and catching a glimpse of my own eccentric reflection. No need to look any further for a story, even if I only kept a journal of the weirdness of the past nine or ten months, of the changes in our lives and where we lived and what we were doing. So yes, I’d been
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