head in its desperate desire to get from it all the sustenance it could. Mrs Berry waved to them as she left the field and closed the gate behind her. She was so very old. The ducks and one drake followed her, tall and disdainful, with their red leathery masks.
Hugh and Alisdair climbed over the fence and descended to the river, which ran green in the half darkness. A rat ran along a bank and they threw stones at it. Then it disappeared through a hole. The day was heavy with scent, their sandals had green blades of grass clinging to them.
They threw stones into the water, creating ring after ring.
9
C HRISTINE M URRAY WAS walking along Byres Road in Glasgow, the message bag in her hand. It was a sunny day sparkling on the glass of windows and cars and she felt around her the perpetual motion of people, as if she were in the centre of a continually flowing stream. Her steps were springier than before, she felt more alive, as if the presence of so many people had animated her and filled her with vigour.
I love him, she thought, he is so unlike John. He lives on the chances of the day. Why, even his betting on horses shows that. Only yesterday he had rushed in and poured money into her lap. You go and buy yourself a coat, he had said, dresses, anything you want. He had looked so confident and young, though he was in fact older than her. She had been out dancing three times and already her village, slow and almost empty, had become only a memory. She had thrown it off with the symbolic casting away of the ring as she had made her way to the railway station in her tall red boots. Nothing would happen to her children, that was certain, John was a good father. Her action had been instinctive, she would never have been able to take it except on impulse, and she was glad that she had done what she did. Now she felt more vigorous, energetic, able to cope with the world around her. They had a flat high above the street and at night she could see the lights from the high rise buildings as if they were becalmed ships in a mysterious sea.
She would get a job in the city soon. When she had settled down, she would perhaps work in an office or a supermarket. She would meet people. Day after day she had lived in the village, waiting for her husband to come home at night, and when he did he had very little to say to her. Terry was different, he was always talking, making plans, it wasnât at all like living in the village, nothing here lasted for too long. In her tall red boots she stopped at a window which showed a silver machine spinning round and round. She went in and found that it was one of those Eastern shops where even the assistants were dressed in foreign clothes. What were they called? Kaftans? There was a strong smell which was probably incense. There were foods she had never seen before. She felt the centre of attraction. A man in a long coat which trailed behind him glanced at her sideways. There were candles of different colours, a prayer wheel, asses and donkeys in onyx, lighters heavy and solid. The shop was a riot of colours and strange perfumes.
If Terry won more money on the horses she would certainly come in here and buy something. She left the shop and walked up the road, stopping now and then and looking in the windows. It was like Christmas in her mind when she would stay awake all night and finally in the early morning tiptoe in her white cold nightdress across the green linoleum floor, her father and mother still asleep. The city suited her, it was as if she wanted to dance. The light flashing from the windows was like the workings of chance itself. When she stood at corners and gazed at the street it was as if anything could happen to her, as if that boy who had passed in his careless red cape would turn and take her away with him like Batman.
One day she had walked past a cemetery in the city and she had seen people at their midday break sitting among the tombs and eating their sandwiches and playing
Hugh and Alisdair climbed over the fence and descended to the river, which ran green in the half darkness. A rat ran along a bank and they threw stones at it. Then it disappeared through a hole. The day was heavy with scent, their sandals had green blades of grass clinging to them.
They threw stones into the water, creating ring after ring.
9
C HRISTINE M URRAY WAS walking along Byres Road in Glasgow, the message bag in her hand. It was a sunny day sparkling on the glass of windows and cars and she felt around her the perpetual motion of people, as if she were in the centre of a continually flowing stream. Her steps were springier than before, she felt more alive, as if the presence of so many people had animated her and filled her with vigour.
I love him, she thought, he is so unlike John. He lives on the chances of the day. Why, even his betting on horses shows that. Only yesterday he had rushed in and poured money into her lap. You go and buy yourself a coat, he had said, dresses, anything you want. He had looked so confident and young, though he was in fact older than her. She had been out dancing three times and already her village, slow and almost empty, had become only a memory. She had thrown it off with the symbolic casting away of the ring as she had made her way to the railway station in her tall red boots. Nothing would happen to her children, that was certain, John was a good father. Her action had been instinctive, she would never have been able to take it except on impulse, and she was glad that she had done what she did. Now she felt more vigorous, energetic, able to cope with the world around her. They had a flat high above the street and at night she could see the lights from the high rise buildings as if they were becalmed ships in a mysterious sea.
She would get a job in the city soon. When she had settled down, she would perhaps work in an office or a supermarket. She would meet people. Day after day she had lived in the village, waiting for her husband to come home at night, and when he did he had very little to say to her. Terry was different, he was always talking, making plans, it wasnât at all like living in the village, nothing here lasted for too long. In her tall red boots she stopped at a window which showed a silver machine spinning round and round. She went in and found that it was one of those Eastern shops where even the assistants were dressed in foreign clothes. What were they called? Kaftans? There was a strong smell which was probably incense. There were foods she had never seen before. She felt the centre of attraction. A man in a long coat which trailed behind him glanced at her sideways. There were candles of different colours, a prayer wheel, asses and donkeys in onyx, lighters heavy and solid. The shop was a riot of colours and strange perfumes.
If Terry won more money on the horses she would certainly come in here and buy something. She left the shop and walked up the road, stopping now and then and looking in the windows. It was like Christmas in her mind when she would stay awake all night and finally in the early morning tiptoe in her white cold nightdress across the green linoleum floor, her father and mother still asleep. The city suited her, it was as if she wanted to dance. The light flashing from the windows was like the workings of chance itself. When she stood at corners and gazed at the street it was as if anything could happen to her, as if that boy who had passed in his careless red cape would turn and take her away with him like Batman.
One day she had walked past a cemetery in the city and she had seen people at their midday break sitting among the tombs and eating their sandwiches and playing
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