do?’
He nodded.
‘Look at me, Duncan. You can trust me.’
He liked the look of her well enough. She was old but her skin hadn’t wrinkled yet, and that was why his father wanted her. ‘Here comes La bloody Gioconda’ – which was a famous painting, Belinda said. Sneering showed Tom Round couldn’t have what he wanted. Good old Mrs Sangster, Duncan thought now and then.
Her eyes were putting on a look he was supposed to trust, kind of soft and twinkly. He did not trust her eyes. They must get lots of practice looking like that with girls at school and she could probably change them when she wanted. He knew she could be tough because of what she’d written to his father. But he liked her mouth and was not sure its softness was a lie. It was like a girl’s mouth, pink and clean and not with bits of flaky skin and greasy bits of lipstick. It smiled in a way he did not think could be put on. A rush of feeling started in his chest, almost making him cry. (He could not cry with one eye because the tear ducts were taken out.)
He turned his head away from her.
‘Came a bird from Lapland flying,
From the north-east came an eagle,
Not the largest of the eagles,
Nor was he among the smallest,
With one wing he swept the water,
To the sky was swung the other;
On the sea his tail he rested,
On the cliffs his beak he rattled.’
He enjoyed the brightness about those words, the little space around them, like a coloured coat.
‘Where did you find that?’ Mrs Sangster said.
‘In a book.’
‘And it’s something you like? Do you like birds?’
‘I like watching them.’
‘And not just to store them in your head?’
It puzzled him that she was so pleased. People got angry or embarrassed around him, and tears came into some women’s eyes, which was OK, it really had nothing to do with him. Mrs Sangster, though, was pleased because of what he had done. He did notknow why she should feel like that but supposed it was because of poetry. She asked him if liking things made them easy to learn. He hadn’t thought about it, but told her there wasn’t any difference he could see, the difference was they kept on coming back and had a kind of coloured space around them; and they hurt.
‘Hurt?’
‘Not too bad.’ He was alarmed. He pinched a bit of skin on his wrist. ‘About like that. It makes all the colours come out.’ She moved her head, very quick, and seemed to be sniffing, and he remembered dogs around a rat-hole and knew she was excited and wanted to get something out of him. But still her mouth smiled and he trusted her.
‘Walk with me a little way,’ she said.
‘Where to?’
‘My house. It’s just through the cemetery. Would you like a drink? Or a biscuit?’
He went at her side through the graves. The older ones were deep in the trees, with names on the headstones he could not read. He wanted to scrape them to find out but she kept on putting her hand on his back and giving him a little push along. He liked her long round fingers on the numb place where his scars began. He had, in his mind, a map of his back, made from feeling it not from seeing, and could draw it on paper if someone asked. He was pleased he had dead places on his skin, and an armpit that did not sweat, and an eye that could not cry. The parts of him that itched were getting smaller. Sometimes he squeezed them in his head and made them shrink. He turned them cold and stopped them altogether, but could not keep it up for long and was bad-tempered when he stopped.
‘That’s my great-grandmother’s grave,’ Mrs Sangster said. ‘She died when she was only twenty-two. Giving birth.’
‘What year?’
‘Eighteen-sixty something.’ She rubbed the headstone, making moss and lichen powder off. ‘Eighteen-sixty-nine.’
‘One hundred and seventeen years. That’s fourteen hundred and four months.’
‘Oh, so you do arithmetic too.’
‘I can work the days out if you like.’ Her amusement made him happy. ‘I don’t
He nodded.
‘Look at me, Duncan. You can trust me.’
He liked the look of her well enough. She was old but her skin hadn’t wrinkled yet, and that was why his father wanted her. ‘Here comes La bloody Gioconda’ – which was a famous painting, Belinda said. Sneering showed Tom Round couldn’t have what he wanted. Good old Mrs Sangster, Duncan thought now and then.
Her eyes were putting on a look he was supposed to trust, kind of soft and twinkly. He did not trust her eyes. They must get lots of practice looking like that with girls at school and she could probably change them when she wanted. He knew she could be tough because of what she’d written to his father. But he liked her mouth and was not sure its softness was a lie. It was like a girl’s mouth, pink and clean and not with bits of flaky skin and greasy bits of lipstick. It smiled in a way he did not think could be put on. A rush of feeling started in his chest, almost making him cry. (He could not cry with one eye because the tear ducts were taken out.)
He turned his head away from her.
‘Came a bird from Lapland flying,
From the north-east came an eagle,
Not the largest of the eagles,
Nor was he among the smallest,
With one wing he swept the water,
To the sky was swung the other;
On the sea his tail he rested,
On the cliffs his beak he rattled.’
He enjoyed the brightness about those words, the little space around them, like a coloured coat.
‘Where did you find that?’ Mrs Sangster said.
‘In a book.’
‘And it’s something you like? Do you like birds?’
‘I like watching them.’
‘And not just to store them in your head?’
It puzzled him that she was so pleased. People got angry or embarrassed around him, and tears came into some women’s eyes, which was OK, it really had nothing to do with him. Mrs Sangster, though, was pleased because of what he had done. He did notknow why she should feel like that but supposed it was because of poetry. She asked him if liking things made them easy to learn. He hadn’t thought about it, but told her there wasn’t any difference he could see, the difference was they kept on coming back and had a kind of coloured space around them; and they hurt.
‘Hurt?’
‘Not too bad.’ He was alarmed. He pinched a bit of skin on his wrist. ‘About like that. It makes all the colours come out.’ She moved her head, very quick, and seemed to be sniffing, and he remembered dogs around a rat-hole and knew she was excited and wanted to get something out of him. But still her mouth smiled and he trusted her.
‘Walk with me a little way,’ she said.
‘Where to?’
‘My house. It’s just through the cemetery. Would you like a drink? Or a biscuit?’
He went at her side through the graves. The older ones were deep in the trees, with names on the headstones he could not read. He wanted to scrape them to find out but she kept on putting her hand on his back and giving him a little push along. He liked her long round fingers on the numb place where his scars began. He had, in his mind, a map of his back, made from feeling it not from seeing, and could draw it on paper if someone asked. He was pleased he had dead places on his skin, and an armpit that did not sweat, and an eye that could not cry. The parts of him that itched were getting smaller. Sometimes he squeezed them in his head and made them shrink. He turned them cold and stopped them altogether, but could not keep it up for long and was bad-tempered when he stopped.
‘That’s my great-grandmother’s grave,’ Mrs Sangster said. ‘She died when she was only twenty-two. Giving birth.’
‘What year?’
‘Eighteen-sixty something.’ She rubbed the headstone, making moss and lichen powder off. ‘Eighteen-sixty-nine.’
‘One hundred and seventeen years. That’s fourteen hundred and four months.’
‘Oh, so you do arithmetic too.’
‘I can work the days out if you like.’ Her amusement made him happy. ‘I don’t
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