try to extricate yourself. He suddenly realises.
‘Bec, down!’
Free.
‘I—I got stuck. By mistake.’
‘What?’ As if it’s impossible that anyone but him could be in this place, could have stumbled across it let alone got into it.
‘The gate was open. By accident. You drove away and locked me in. I want to go home.’
‘But no one lives around here. Where on earth did you come from?’
‘B—Beddy,’ you stumble out.
He looks at you as if he has no idea what language you’re speaking; sideways, as if he can’t make head nor tail of it. Looks at the book—nope—it’s not going to yield a clue.
‘ Beddington .’
Your head indicates, frustrated, over the ridge.
It dawns—obviously not from these parts. He nods. Right. One of them , now he has you placed. He looks you up and down and you see, suddenly, what he is seeing—the horror ofyour clothes, wild hair, general grubbiness—a bush scrap of a thing. Everything that you are, that you represent. He looks at your pockets as if he suddenly expects them to be bulging; at the book as if he can’t believe someone from there would be reading it. Would be reading full stop. Flips it open like he’s expecting stolen sheets of gold to fall from it. Snaps it shut, pockets it in ownership.
‘Can you leave now, please. I have work to do.’
You stare at him, rooted to the spot.
‘Shall I involve the police?’
As if you are about to bring an entire mining community of thieves and claimants crowding into his place.
Too much gap.
Not seeing you. Who you are, who you’re not.
Just wanting you gone and his world back.
The piracy of indifference; and your hackles rise at it.
Lesson 56
Some instinct warns you that you are making yourself ridiculous
Anger unlocks you. You’d never be able to talk to him but for this.
‘I’m stuck. I need to get home but the gate was locked.’ Indignant, slow; as if it’s him, now, who doesn’t understand. ‘I’m not staying .’
‘Well off you go then.’ He scoops up his groceries. ‘I left the gate open again , I’ve just realised,’ he mutters absently, furiously. ‘And yes, it’s the last time that’ll be happening.’
As if he suddenly can’t bear to have you here, in his secret place; an uninvited encroachment from the surrounding world—he’s been found out and he’s consumingly distracted by the thought of that. As he lifts up his groceries they tumble out of a slit in the plastic: tin cans and sausages, bread, chocolate biscuits.
‘Blast.’
He has to bend to scoop them up, awkwardly, with those gammy hips. It makes him curiously vulnerable and it spines you up.
‘I need a pump.’
You’re reaching down to help; he’s snatching things up, doesn’t want you or need you—scat!
‘ What? ’ Incomprehension. ‘Could you go now, please, or I will call the police.’ And he bundles away his groceries, awkwardly cradling them in his arms and they’re tumbling to the floor but he doesn’t pick them up, he’s in too much of a hurry to get away, to his study, to get you out.
‘Wait.’ You stride after him but he shuts the workroom door, leaving the dog and you looking at each other in perplexed solidarity. The dog whines, you rap loudly. Silence. Almost laugh, ‘Haven’t you got the wrong room there for the shopping?’
No laughter in response.
Right.
‘Um, my bike has a puncture. I need a pump. That’s all. To get home.’ And never come back, you almost add.
‘I am not a cyclist.’
Quick as a flash: ‘What about that shed? Out the back.’
You had a look earlier. Behind a dusty window was a stack of cobwebby bikes.
‘So what else have you sized up?’
Silence. Your hot cheeks.
‘Help yourself to a pump—if there is one—then go, immediately. Thank you.’ You’re a pest, nothing else. ‘And don’t even think about the bikes.’
Yep, you know exactly what he thinks of those Beddy people.
‘Or the books.’
I bet he never even knew he had bikes
‘Bec, down!’
Free.
‘I—I got stuck. By mistake.’
‘What?’ As if it’s impossible that anyone but him could be in this place, could have stumbled across it let alone got into it.
‘The gate was open. By accident. You drove away and locked me in. I want to go home.’
‘But no one lives around here. Where on earth did you come from?’
‘B—Beddy,’ you stumble out.
He looks at you as if he has no idea what language you’re speaking; sideways, as if he can’t make head nor tail of it. Looks at the book—nope—it’s not going to yield a clue.
‘ Beddington .’
Your head indicates, frustrated, over the ridge.
It dawns—obviously not from these parts. He nods. Right. One of them , now he has you placed. He looks you up and down and you see, suddenly, what he is seeing—the horror ofyour clothes, wild hair, general grubbiness—a bush scrap of a thing. Everything that you are, that you represent. He looks at your pockets as if he suddenly expects them to be bulging; at the book as if he can’t believe someone from there would be reading it. Would be reading full stop. Flips it open like he’s expecting stolen sheets of gold to fall from it. Snaps it shut, pockets it in ownership.
‘Can you leave now, please. I have work to do.’
You stare at him, rooted to the spot.
‘Shall I involve the police?’
As if you are about to bring an entire mining community of thieves and claimants crowding into his place.
Too much gap.
Not seeing you. Who you are, who you’re not.
Just wanting you gone and his world back.
The piracy of indifference; and your hackles rise at it.
Lesson 56
Some instinct warns you that you are making yourself ridiculous
Anger unlocks you. You’d never be able to talk to him but for this.
‘I’m stuck. I need to get home but the gate was locked.’ Indignant, slow; as if it’s him, now, who doesn’t understand. ‘I’m not staying .’
‘Well off you go then.’ He scoops up his groceries. ‘I left the gate open again , I’ve just realised,’ he mutters absently, furiously. ‘And yes, it’s the last time that’ll be happening.’
As if he suddenly can’t bear to have you here, in his secret place; an uninvited encroachment from the surrounding world—he’s been found out and he’s consumingly distracted by the thought of that. As he lifts up his groceries they tumble out of a slit in the plastic: tin cans and sausages, bread, chocolate biscuits.
‘Blast.’
He has to bend to scoop them up, awkwardly, with those gammy hips. It makes him curiously vulnerable and it spines you up.
‘I need a pump.’
You’re reaching down to help; he’s snatching things up, doesn’t want you or need you—scat!
‘ What? ’ Incomprehension. ‘Could you go now, please, or I will call the police.’ And he bundles away his groceries, awkwardly cradling them in his arms and they’re tumbling to the floor but he doesn’t pick them up, he’s in too much of a hurry to get away, to his study, to get you out.
‘Wait.’ You stride after him but he shuts the workroom door, leaving the dog and you looking at each other in perplexed solidarity. The dog whines, you rap loudly. Silence. Almost laugh, ‘Haven’t you got the wrong room there for the shopping?’
No laughter in response.
Right.
‘Um, my bike has a puncture. I need a pump. That’s all. To get home.’ And never come back, you almost add.
‘I am not a cyclist.’
Quick as a flash: ‘What about that shed? Out the back.’
You had a look earlier. Behind a dusty window was a stack of cobwebby bikes.
‘So what else have you sized up?’
Silence. Your hot cheeks.
‘Help yourself to a pump—if there is one—then go, immediately. Thank you.’ You’re a pest, nothing else. ‘And don’t even think about the bikes.’
Yep, you know exactly what he thinks of those Beddy people.
‘Or the books.’
I bet he never even knew he had bikes
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