fists against Henry’s legs. “Lift me up,” she sobbed. A small coin of crimson, brilliant in the sunlight, spread outwards around the shaft of the sword. Someone in the crowd sneered, “Without blood.” The father secured the leatherbag beneath his toga. He made towards the sword as if to plunge it through his daughter. She collapsed at his feet and the sword clattered onto the pavement. The gigantic man picked it up and shook it at the angry crowd. “Pigs,” he shouted. “Greedy pigs.” The crowd was enraged and shouted back. “Cheat … murderer … he’s got our money…”
But they were afraid, for when he pulled his daughter to her feet and dragged her off they scattered to make a path for him. He swung the sword about his head. “Pigs,” he kept on shouting. “Get back, you pigs.” A stone was thrown hard and caught him high on the shoulder. He spun around, dropped his daughter and went for the crowd like a madman, sweeping the sword in huge vicious arcs. Henry picked up Marie and ran with the rest of them. When he turned back to look the man was far away, urging his daughter along. The crowd had left him alone with his money. Henry and Marie walked back and found the pushchair on its side. One of the handles was bent.
That evening, on the long walk home, Marie sat quietly and asked no questions. Henry felt anxious for her, but he was too tired to be of use. After the first mile she was asleep. He crossed the river by Vauxhall bridge and stopped halfway across, this time for himself. The Thames was lower than he had ever seen it. Some said that one day the river would dry up and giant bridges would uselessly span fresh meadows. He remained on the bridge ten minutes smoking a cigarette. It was difficult to know what to believe. Many said that tap water was slow poison.
At home he lit all the candles in the house to dispelMarie’s fears. She followed him about closely. He cooked a fish on the paraffin stove and they ate in the bedroom. He talked to Marie about the sea which she had never seen and later he read her a story and she fell asleep on his lap. She woke as he was carrying her to her bed and said, “What did that lady do with her sword?”
Henry said, “She danced. She danced with it in her hands.” Marie’s clear blue eyes looked deeply into his own. He sensed her disbelief and regretted his lie.
He worked late into the night. Towards two o’clock he went to the window in his bedroom and opened it. The moon had sunk and clouds had moved in and covered the stars. He heard a pack of dogs down by the river. To the north he could see the fires burning on the Ministry plain. He wondered if things would change much in his lifetime. Behind him Marie called out in her sleep and laughed.
Sunday
I left Marie with a neighbor and walked northwards across London—a distance of six miles—to a reunion with an old lover. We knew each other from the old times, and it was in their memory rather than for passion that we continued to meet occasionally. On this day our lovemaking was long and poignantly unsuccessful. After, in a room of dusty sunshine and torn plastic furniture, we spoke of the old times. In a low voice Diane complained of emptiness and foreboding. She wonderedwhich government and which set of illusions were to blame and how it could have been otherwise. Politically Diane was more sophisticated than I was. “We’ll see what happens,” I said. “But now roll onto your belly.” She told me about her new job, helping an old man with his fish. He was a friend of her uncle’s. Each day at dawn she was down at the river to meet his rowboat. They loaded a handcart with fish and eels and pushed it to a small street market where the old man had a stall. He went home to sleep and prepare for the night’s work, she sold his fish. In the early evening she took the money to his house and perhaps because she was pretty, he insisted they divide the takings evenly. While she spoke I massaged her
But they were afraid, for when he pulled his daughter to her feet and dragged her off they scattered to make a path for him. He swung the sword about his head. “Pigs,” he kept on shouting. “Get back, you pigs.” A stone was thrown hard and caught him high on the shoulder. He spun around, dropped his daughter and went for the crowd like a madman, sweeping the sword in huge vicious arcs. Henry picked up Marie and ran with the rest of them. When he turned back to look the man was far away, urging his daughter along. The crowd had left him alone with his money. Henry and Marie walked back and found the pushchair on its side. One of the handles was bent.
That evening, on the long walk home, Marie sat quietly and asked no questions. Henry felt anxious for her, but he was too tired to be of use. After the first mile she was asleep. He crossed the river by Vauxhall bridge and stopped halfway across, this time for himself. The Thames was lower than he had ever seen it. Some said that one day the river would dry up and giant bridges would uselessly span fresh meadows. He remained on the bridge ten minutes smoking a cigarette. It was difficult to know what to believe. Many said that tap water was slow poison.
At home he lit all the candles in the house to dispelMarie’s fears. She followed him about closely. He cooked a fish on the paraffin stove and they ate in the bedroom. He talked to Marie about the sea which she had never seen and later he read her a story and she fell asleep on his lap. She woke as he was carrying her to her bed and said, “What did that lady do with her sword?”
Henry said, “She danced. She danced with it in her hands.” Marie’s clear blue eyes looked deeply into his own. He sensed her disbelief and regretted his lie.
He worked late into the night. Towards two o’clock he went to the window in his bedroom and opened it. The moon had sunk and clouds had moved in and covered the stars. He heard a pack of dogs down by the river. To the north he could see the fires burning on the Ministry plain. He wondered if things would change much in his lifetime. Behind him Marie called out in her sleep and laughed.
Sunday
I left Marie with a neighbor and walked northwards across London—a distance of six miles—to a reunion with an old lover. We knew each other from the old times, and it was in their memory rather than for passion that we continued to meet occasionally. On this day our lovemaking was long and poignantly unsuccessful. After, in a room of dusty sunshine and torn plastic furniture, we spoke of the old times. In a low voice Diane complained of emptiness and foreboding. She wonderedwhich government and which set of illusions were to blame and how it could have been otherwise. Politically Diane was more sophisticated than I was. “We’ll see what happens,” I said. “But now roll onto your belly.” She told me about her new job, helping an old man with his fish. He was a friend of her uncle’s. Each day at dawn she was down at the river to meet his rowboat. They loaded a handcart with fish and eels and pushed it to a small street market where the old man had a stall. He went home to sleep and prepare for the night’s work, she sold his fish. In the early evening she took the money to his house and perhaps because she was pretty, he insisted they divide the takings evenly. While she spoke I massaged her
Similar Books
