A Distant Shore by Caryl Phillips Page A

this evening? Maybe go for a walk by the canal, and then pop into the pub for a drink. Would you like to do this, Solomon?” But I didn’t make any effort. Even tonight, as I was leaving the house to come out, I could have stopped by and asked him if he’d like to join me for a drink, but I didn’t. The landlord is washing glasses behind the bar. I have Solomon’s number on a piece of paper in my bag. I could ask the landlord if he has a public phone, and then call Solomon and suggest that he comes down and joins me in the pub, except that it would look like an afterthought and he might be insulted. I don’t want Solomon to become a problem in my life, but today I get the feeling that this is what he’s becoming and it’s making me feel awkward. I lift the glass to my mouth and take another sip. I decide that I’ll mind this drink until I see the sun disappear beyond the canal, and then while there’s still some light in the sky I’ll walk back up the hill to Stoneleigh. By the time I get to the top of the hill it will be dusk and I should be able to walk home without being seen.
    I wait by the bus stop and worry that I might have got the time wrong. After a long night without sleep, I have made my decision and this morning I will act upon it. But I’m the only person standing here. Across the main road there are those villagers who are going into town. They talk to each other with casual ease, picking up conversations as though they have simply been set on the back burner for a few minutes. I stand by myself, going in the wrong direction, with a small suitcase by my side. I feel like I’m running away. In fact, I’m temporarily avoiding a man I don’t really know. I’m leaving my home for a few days. A day? I don’t know. But I’m alone at a bus stop waiting for a bus to come into view, and for the life of me I can’t work out if I’m doing the right thing. A girl is waving at me. It’s Carla, who’s seated in a white van that’s sitting outside the newsagent’s. A boy in a leather jacket, and with one of those army crew cuts, comes out of the shop and gets behind the wheel. Carla turns from me to the boy. They say something to each other, and then the boy leans past Carla, looks at me, and then the hairless boy starts the van’s engine. They pull off in the direction of town, and as they do so Carla waves me a final greeting. No doubt somewhere, down beneath the boy’s waistline, desire is already leaping like a trout, but who am I to warn Carla of the ways of men? Maybe I’m imagining it, but I think Carla feels sorry for me. However, she shouldn’t, for I’m quite resilient. People, especially young people, are always picking things up and dropping them again. Especially feelings. But I imagine Carla will find this out for herself in the fullness of time.
    As I walk by the canal I keep looking around and wondering where exactly they found him. I know it was beyond The Waterman’s Arms, and out towards where the double locks are. It seems stupid that I should be so concerned with this, but I am. Where exactly? As far as I know, he didn’t go for walks down by the canal. In fact, he hardly left his bungalow apart from taking me to the hospital and patrolling Stoneleigh with his torch. It’s been raining heavily so the towpath has turned muddy, and the odd puddle has formed here and there. Somewhere, behind the hedges, I can hear the rush of a stream that has been swollen by the recent rain, and over the canal there hangs a thin ribbon of mist, which makes the water look like it’s sweating. At the best of times the stiles are an obstacle, but today it’s like climbing Ben Nevis. I don’t like traipsing about when it’s like this. You seem to spend as much time looking at your feet as you do trying to take in the scenery. The other thing about wandering up the canal path is that there are no benches, so this means that you have to keep going. And these towpaths always remind me of work.