Digging to Australia by Lesley Glaister Page B

agreed, reluctantly. ‘Loss of something, anyway.’ He leant back and stretched. ‘I honestly wasn’t looking for you, or for anyone,’ I said. ‘I was just wandering around outside, just being alone when I heard you whistling.’
    â€˜Must endeavour to refrain from that,’ he said.
    â€˜Just before I heard you whistling, I had a funny sort of experience,’ I said, remembering.
    â€˜Which was …’
    â€˜I was reading something on a gravestone, one of the old ones that aren’t even on graves anymore.’
    â€˜An enigma, those. Don’t belong.’
    â€˜There was something about … loosening a silver cord or something …’
    â€˜I’ve seen it.’
    â€˜And as I was reading it something happened … everything went … oh I can’t explain it.’
    â€˜Try.’
    â€˜Well, as if everything held together. As if I could see how everything held together, only very precariously, like some sort of balance. As if it all made a sort of sense.’
    â€˜And you felt what? Joy?’
    â€˜Something like joy, only not as simple,’ I said. Johnny was looking at me intently.
    â€˜Epiphany’ he said. ‘Have you read Joyce?’
    â€˜Who?’
    â€˜James Joyce. No I don’t suppose you have yet. You must. Read Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man , for a start. There’s a moment in there. Epiphany.’
    I thought the word sounded holy, like something from a church service. ‘It had nothing to do with God,’ I said.
    â€˜Did it not?’
    â€˜No, it was the world. Just the world.’
    â€˜A wild angel appeared to him …’
    â€˜No angels. No nothing. Anyway there’s no such thing.’
    â€˜As?’
    â€˜Angels. Or God. Or ghosts.’
    He laughed. ‘I’ll tell you what. Borrow the book.’ He bent down to reach it. He was like a sort of conjurer. The church was like a conjurer’s cave. Cosy now, despite the cavernous cold of it. There seemed to be endless things concealed in the shadows. I saw now a bookcase, just a low thing. He drew a small volume out and dropped it on my lap. I leafed through. It was damp. The print was tiny and dense, impossible to read in the poor light.
    â€˜I may not read it,’ I said.
    He shrugged. ‘That’s of no relevance to me. Take it or leave it. Now I really must get on.’ He had switched away from me and I was disappointed. The strange conversation had been exhilarating. I always knew exactly what Mama and Bob would say next. I liked the surprise of Johnny’s utterances, the not-quite-sureness of whether he made sense, or whether I quite understood. And now it had come to an end. I decided to take the book, so that at least I’d have an excuse to return. It just fitted into my coat pocket. ‘Work to do. Dark soon,’ he said. ‘You’d better be getting home.’
    â€˜But it can’t be that time …’ I stood up and let the rug drop from my shoulders. And all at once the chilliness closed round me. ‘I’ll come back soon to see you,’ I promised.
    â€˜Not too soon,’ he replied, and disappeared almost immediately into the gloom. I opened the narrow side door and stepped out into the chill afternoon. Johnny was right. Time had passed, more time outside the church than within. And if I dawdled now, I would be home at the right time.

8
    At tea time I opened my present. It was a white jewellery box. When I opened the lid I saw that there was a ballerina inside the mirrored top, twizzling on one toe to a tune which Mama said was called the ‘Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy.’ It wasn’t something I particularly wanted, or didn’t want. ‘Thank you,’ I said. Mama showed me the little key at the back to wind up the music when it ran down.
    â€˜Now show her the secret compartment,’ said Bob.
    â€˜See if you can find it,’ Mama