embankment, and the water will reach us down here. He says he sees it at night – he’s standing on the front lawn and the sky turns black, and black water from the reservoir bursts out of all the windows and doors, taking all of us with it. I tell him every day it would need the Severn or the Thames to flood us here, even if there hadn’t been a drought, even if the dam burst…’ She shook her head, and unfolded a square of stained linen from its paper packet. It was embroidered with the text THOU GOD SEEST ME , and underneath the words a blue eye was coming unstitched. Eve picked at the trailing threads.
‘Of course we don’t argue or disagree with him, it would only make things worse, and besides, what do we know, about this dam or any other…’
John watched her refolding the linen square on her lap and saw, with a prick of anxiety, that the bluish-white skin above her knees was beginning to burn. ‘But surely – a disaster on that scale: it’s unthinkable.’ He looked again at the raised grass bank; it seemed, in the curious brightness of its grass, more permanent than the house itself.
She shrugged. ‘There’s a crack, he says, although I’ve not seen it. Out he swims, when we’re all in our beds, then comes and wakes me, with his hair dripping on my pillow, to tell me it’s the width of his thumb, then the palm of his hand…’ Kneeling between the scattered drawers, she spread her own hands hopelessly. ‘Then, a few weeks ago, just at the beginning of summer, down we came one morning and there were two letters for Alex, side by side on the doormat. Oh, he was pleased – no-one writes any more, do they? He thought a friend had found him. You know, from before.’ She said this tentatively, and again John had the curious feeling that she did so out of a delicacy for his own feelings, but could not think why. ‘Only they weren’t letters, of course – just newspaper clippings, and all of them showed drownings, or floods. There was one with a terrible picture, from France, of two children who’d been stranded on a sandbank hunting for shells. They were lying on the sand, their hair all mixed up with the seaweed…’ She shuddered. ‘On all the pieces of newspaper was that name again, Eadwacer – oh, how do you say it? Then it started turning up – scratched on the table, or written in pebbles down by the reservoir, or so he says – I’ve never seen it and of course, you never quite know.’
The whole tale was so absurd, and at the same time so cruel, that John would have liked to laugh. The woman stood wearily. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘What could you say? What can any of us say? It’s so childish . Once I even thought he was doing it, but he was never that way, not even –’ And again she said: ‘ You know, John. Not even then.’
They think I’m in on something ! he thought, and unwilling to risk her anger again said carefully, ‘But if the name’s written down by the dam or on the patio then either it’s one of you, or someone who comes here often.’
‘I know. And I don’t know which would be worst. Isn’t it odd,’ she said, smiling: ‘You turned up and I never for a minute thought it might be you, though even as strangers go, you’re fairly strange.’ Much later John was to remember that phrase, and wonder why it had felt so like an unexpected touch on the arm. Pressing her hands to the dip in her spine and turning her face to the sun she said, ‘Let’s not talk about it any more.’ Then she ran to peer at the shadow on the broken sundial, swore beneath her breath, and vanished into the cool dark house. Clare stood, examining a bitten-down thumbnail, while the sound of a piano played in intricate swift patterns reached them across the lawn.
‘How did she know the time,’ said John, ‘when the sundial’s broken?’
‘It doesn’t matter, does it? It tells the same wrong time every day.’
The music sank into a deep murmur felt as much as
‘Of course we don’t argue or disagree with him, it would only make things worse, and besides, what do we know, about this dam or any other…’
John watched her refolding the linen square on her lap and saw, with a prick of anxiety, that the bluish-white skin above her knees was beginning to burn. ‘But surely – a disaster on that scale: it’s unthinkable.’ He looked again at the raised grass bank; it seemed, in the curious brightness of its grass, more permanent than the house itself.
She shrugged. ‘There’s a crack, he says, although I’ve not seen it. Out he swims, when we’re all in our beds, then comes and wakes me, with his hair dripping on my pillow, to tell me it’s the width of his thumb, then the palm of his hand…’ Kneeling between the scattered drawers, she spread her own hands hopelessly. ‘Then, a few weeks ago, just at the beginning of summer, down we came one morning and there were two letters for Alex, side by side on the doormat. Oh, he was pleased – no-one writes any more, do they? He thought a friend had found him. You know, from before.’ She said this tentatively, and again John had the curious feeling that she did so out of a delicacy for his own feelings, but could not think why. ‘Only they weren’t letters, of course – just newspaper clippings, and all of them showed drownings, or floods. There was one with a terrible picture, from France, of two children who’d been stranded on a sandbank hunting for shells. They were lying on the sand, their hair all mixed up with the seaweed…’ She shuddered. ‘On all the pieces of newspaper was that name again, Eadwacer – oh, how do you say it? Then it started turning up – scratched on the table, or written in pebbles down by the reservoir, or so he says – I’ve never seen it and of course, you never quite know.’
The whole tale was so absurd, and at the same time so cruel, that John would have liked to laugh. The woman stood wearily. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘What could you say? What can any of us say? It’s so childish . Once I even thought he was doing it, but he was never that way, not even –’ And again she said: ‘ You know, John. Not even then.’
They think I’m in on something ! he thought, and unwilling to risk her anger again said carefully, ‘But if the name’s written down by the dam or on the patio then either it’s one of you, or someone who comes here often.’
‘I know. And I don’t know which would be worst. Isn’t it odd,’ she said, smiling: ‘You turned up and I never for a minute thought it might be you, though even as strangers go, you’re fairly strange.’ Much later John was to remember that phrase, and wonder why it had felt so like an unexpected touch on the arm. Pressing her hands to the dip in her spine and turning her face to the sun she said, ‘Let’s not talk about it any more.’ Then she ran to peer at the shadow on the broken sundial, swore beneath her breath, and vanished into the cool dark house. Clare stood, examining a bitten-down thumbnail, while the sound of a piano played in intricate swift patterns reached them across the lawn.
‘How did she know the time,’ said John, ‘when the sundial’s broken?’
‘It doesn’t matter, does it? It tells the same wrong time every day.’
The music sank into a deep murmur felt as much as
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