missing others by inches in mid-air.
“Miss,” whispered Penn. “Come on, miss,” whispered Hugh, and heard an echo, it must have been Anna, sighing, “Miss . . . miss . . . miss.”
Jean watched no more, just turned miserably away. When the cyclists, having crashed through walls and leapt through hoops of fire, departed at last, leaving an obtrusive silence and petrol fumes, her relief broke out in furious irritation.
“I’m sick of you leaning all over me, Hugh. If you and Penn have to be so stupid, why don’t you just sit together. I’ll move up.”
She shuffled along into Hugh’s place while he climbed over her. But there was still a space on her other side. Anna simply had not moved at all. Hugh looked at her, puzzled, and waited for her.
“Budge up, Anna, there’s a love,” he said to her at last.
“Budge up, Ann,” hissed Penn more urgently. A new event was expected in the lit arena. From behind came murmurings, protests, as people shifted and craned their heads.
“Sit down, will you,” ordered a louder voice, behind.
Hugh, desperate, climbed over Anna as much as it was possible, Penn beyond having squeezed up as far as he could. They earned more disapproving glares from Penn’s other neighbour, but Anna still had not moved at all. Since the motor-cycles went a light might have gone out in her. She gazed straight ahead, expressionless. Hugh sat down firmly, anyway, partly on Anna, partly on Penn, which was effectively uncomfortable for Anna shifted, only fractionally, but enough for him to fit, just, into the space between her and Penn. Her eyes never strayed from the arena once. She sat very straight and held hands demurely with herself, her left thumb tucked inside her right fist, the fingers folded on top of it. Hugh noticed a tell-tale chewing movement in her cheek.
Then at last he looked back to the arena. And saw what, despite newly added props, had been there all the time. And yet he had not consciously taken it in. It was as if till now he had not been allowed to take it in; it was as if, just as with the button box, his eyes had refocused, slightly shifted vision. He saw a castle, another castle.
He leaned over the still unyielding Anna and snatching the programme they had bought from Jean, leafed through pages of advertisements to find the table of events. “Event Number Twelve. The Attack,” it said. “The siege and storming of an English Castle. A re-enactment of medieval warfare, staged and presented by Colonel Bassett-Brown M.C.”
Hugh returned the programme to the indignant Jean, and looked back into the arena; at what his eyes, his mind and something less obvious had contrived to keep from his consciousness. There was a crudely painted castle on the end arena wall, around and above the entrance doors. It was two-dimensional, apart from turrets on either side, battlements which jutted a little way into the arena and a drawbridge across a simulated moat. Three-dimensional, it would, however, have been a square castle.
The teams of men working in the arena fell into line now, and in line ran off. The light changed, dramatized itself. To the sound of trumpets an army entered from the opposite end of the arena, headed by a man on a black horse bearing a standard. His armour was silver, but his flag, shield and tunic were a dark holly green with scarlet devices on them. Archers appeared on the castle battlements. The drawbridge was lifted. The invaders brought scaling ladders and a battering ram. The attack on the castle began.
Hugh never doubted that the attack would succeed, and could not remember subsequently a single detail; only the curious relief he felt when the castle had been stormed and taken. (“It isn’t a patch on Ivanhoe,” Penn whispered in his ear. “Now that was a proper castle.”) He did not understand why its capture should seem so crucial, nor why he should feel such relief, since he already knew the outcome. Yet he did feel relief. It carried
“Miss,” whispered Penn. “Come on, miss,” whispered Hugh, and heard an echo, it must have been Anna, sighing, “Miss . . . miss . . . miss.”
Jean watched no more, just turned miserably away. When the cyclists, having crashed through walls and leapt through hoops of fire, departed at last, leaving an obtrusive silence and petrol fumes, her relief broke out in furious irritation.
“I’m sick of you leaning all over me, Hugh. If you and Penn have to be so stupid, why don’t you just sit together. I’ll move up.”
She shuffled along into Hugh’s place while he climbed over her. But there was still a space on her other side. Anna simply had not moved at all. Hugh looked at her, puzzled, and waited for her.
“Budge up, Anna, there’s a love,” he said to her at last.
“Budge up, Ann,” hissed Penn more urgently. A new event was expected in the lit arena. From behind came murmurings, protests, as people shifted and craned their heads.
“Sit down, will you,” ordered a louder voice, behind.
Hugh, desperate, climbed over Anna as much as it was possible, Penn beyond having squeezed up as far as he could. They earned more disapproving glares from Penn’s other neighbour, but Anna still had not moved at all. Since the motor-cycles went a light might have gone out in her. She gazed straight ahead, expressionless. Hugh sat down firmly, anyway, partly on Anna, partly on Penn, which was effectively uncomfortable for Anna shifted, only fractionally, but enough for him to fit, just, into the space between her and Penn. Her eyes never strayed from the arena once. She sat very straight and held hands demurely with herself, her left thumb tucked inside her right fist, the fingers folded on top of it. Hugh noticed a tell-tale chewing movement in her cheek.
Then at last he looked back to the arena. And saw what, despite newly added props, had been there all the time. And yet he had not consciously taken it in. It was as if till now he had not been allowed to take it in; it was as if, just as with the button box, his eyes had refocused, slightly shifted vision. He saw a castle, another castle.
He leaned over the still unyielding Anna and snatching the programme they had bought from Jean, leafed through pages of advertisements to find the table of events. “Event Number Twelve. The Attack,” it said. “The siege and storming of an English Castle. A re-enactment of medieval warfare, staged and presented by Colonel Bassett-Brown M.C.”
Hugh returned the programme to the indignant Jean, and looked back into the arena; at what his eyes, his mind and something less obvious had contrived to keep from his consciousness. There was a crudely painted castle on the end arena wall, around and above the entrance doors. It was two-dimensional, apart from turrets on either side, battlements which jutted a little way into the arena and a drawbridge across a simulated moat. Three-dimensional, it would, however, have been a square castle.
The teams of men working in the arena fell into line now, and in line ran off. The light changed, dramatized itself. To the sound of trumpets an army entered from the opposite end of the arena, headed by a man on a black horse bearing a standard. His armour was silver, but his flag, shield and tunic were a dark holly green with scarlet devices on them. Archers appeared on the castle battlements. The drawbridge was lifted. The invaders brought scaling ladders and a battering ram. The attack on the castle began.
Hugh never doubted that the attack would succeed, and could not remember subsequently a single detail; only the curious relief he felt when the castle had been stormed and taken. (“It isn’t a patch on Ivanhoe,” Penn whispered in his ear. “Now that was a proper castle.”) He did not understand why its capture should seem so crucial, nor why he should feel such relief, since he already knew the outcome. Yet he did feel relief. It carried
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