avenue, Madge hitting at the bonnet and pleading with her not to go - ‘I’m a blatherer ... I know
I’m a blatherer but I love you.’ The car shot away, Madge, waving a tea cloth and then shaking the garments on the line, imploring her to turn round.
When Eily saw Sven outside Jacko’s, sitting on the pavement, she almost melted. He seemed so young, so vulnerable, eating a choc ice, a punishing hair cut, his tongue licking the drips of cream, beside him a bundle that was his few belongings.
She did not want to, yet she crossed towards him and handed him the tape that contained the storybook words they whispered when they were alone.
‘What’s this,’ he asked as he stood up. He had just read her eyes, the seething within them.
‘I’ve decided that it’s best you go away now . . . not in a month or two as we said.’
‘I can’t. I’ve told my parents . . . I’ve written to my professor . .. I’ve told them I’m staying on here.’
‘We always knew that you were going to go home . . . we knew it from that very first day in the Kilcash Wood . . . but we blocked it, because we’re . . . simpletons.’ He broke into his own tongue then, believing that the depth and truth of what he said would be evident and she, for her part, kept lolling her head idly as if she was about to yield to him. A little girl who was skipping stationed herself in front of him, wildly inquisitive. ‘Trying to find the right words,’ he said.
‘For what?’ the little girl asked and he described seeing a beautiful princess on a dance floor, wearing a sailor suit and then suddenly she was gone and he had to bribe one of the locals to drive him over fields and bogs and eventually arriving underneath her window and serenading her with bits of grass and loose pebbles. ‘Don’t, Sven,’ she said.
‘Is it our age difference, then?’
‘That . . . and . . . everything. There will always be people who will try to split us up.’
‘Let’s go to a new place . . . let’s drive further and further west until we find, maybe an island with a few cows ... me and my gypsy girl.’
‘Your gypsy girl’s mind is made up,’ she said.
They are facing each other now, both shaking, each with a hand raised either to mediate or remonstrate. The black hairs on his knuckles are like jet.
‘This is some kind of false proudness,’ he says.
‘It isn’t . . . I’ve put down roots here and I’ve put them down alone,’ she says.
‘To be honest I don’t know you now ... I am looking at a woman I thought I knew . . . who has turned into a stranger.’
‘I don’t trust you Sven.’
‘I didn’t fuck anybody in Dublin ... if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘You got back last evening.’
‘I hitched ... it was raining. I walked the last bloody umpteen miles and I called to Madge . .. you’re just jealous.’
‘Yes, just jealous.’
‘Explain to me please, why you are making me go.’
‘I’ll write it to you.’
‘So you really mean that you want me to pull out.’
‘Yes, I really mean that I want you to pull out.’
‘What do I do with all my feelings?’ he asks boyishly.
‘When we’re sixty or seventy, we’ll understand all about our feelings,’ she answers.
‘I guess you’re right . . . everybody moves on,’ he shrugged then said, ‘Hey . . . let’s make it bittersweet . . . let’s kiss here on the street in front of all the busybodies’ and his full lips, the wine red of loganberries, sought hers.
She did something other. She took off the chain and blue amulet that she was wearing and put it round his neck and tied it with infinite care.
‘I’m in a rocket,’ he said, her hands so stealthy, so caressing.
‘I’m gone,’ she whispered.
‘Stay just one more minute,’ but she was lifting the latch of the pub door, tall and tawny, disappearing with the abruptness of a sunset.
The Tavern
She sat silently and drank slowly but deliberately. She thought I am seeing this place through
I’m a blatherer but I love you.’ The car shot away, Madge, waving a tea cloth and then shaking the garments on the line, imploring her to turn round.
When Eily saw Sven outside Jacko’s, sitting on the pavement, she almost melted. He seemed so young, so vulnerable, eating a choc ice, a punishing hair cut, his tongue licking the drips of cream, beside him a bundle that was his few belongings.
She did not want to, yet she crossed towards him and handed him the tape that contained the storybook words they whispered when they were alone.
‘What’s this,’ he asked as he stood up. He had just read her eyes, the seething within them.
‘I’ve decided that it’s best you go away now . . . not in a month or two as we said.’
‘I can’t. I’ve told my parents . . . I’ve written to my professor . .. I’ve told them I’m staying on here.’
‘We always knew that you were going to go home . . . we knew it from that very first day in the Kilcash Wood . . . but we blocked it, because we’re . . . simpletons.’ He broke into his own tongue then, believing that the depth and truth of what he said would be evident and she, for her part, kept lolling her head idly as if she was about to yield to him. A little girl who was skipping stationed herself in front of him, wildly inquisitive. ‘Trying to find the right words,’ he said.
‘For what?’ the little girl asked and he described seeing a beautiful princess on a dance floor, wearing a sailor suit and then suddenly she was gone and he had to bribe one of the locals to drive him over fields and bogs and eventually arriving underneath her window and serenading her with bits of grass and loose pebbles. ‘Don’t, Sven,’ she said.
‘Is it our age difference, then?’
‘That . . . and . . . everything. There will always be people who will try to split us up.’
‘Let’s go to a new place . . . let’s drive further and further west until we find, maybe an island with a few cows ... me and my gypsy girl.’
‘Your gypsy girl’s mind is made up,’ she said.
They are facing each other now, both shaking, each with a hand raised either to mediate or remonstrate. The black hairs on his knuckles are like jet.
‘This is some kind of false proudness,’ he says.
‘It isn’t . . . I’ve put down roots here and I’ve put them down alone,’ she says.
‘To be honest I don’t know you now ... I am looking at a woman I thought I knew . . . who has turned into a stranger.’
‘I don’t trust you Sven.’
‘I didn’t fuck anybody in Dublin ... if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘You got back last evening.’
‘I hitched ... it was raining. I walked the last bloody umpteen miles and I called to Madge . .. you’re just jealous.’
‘Yes, just jealous.’
‘Explain to me please, why you are making me go.’
‘I’ll write it to you.’
‘So you really mean that you want me to pull out.’
‘Yes, I really mean that I want you to pull out.’
‘What do I do with all my feelings?’ he asks boyishly.
‘When we’re sixty or seventy, we’ll understand all about our feelings,’ she answers.
‘I guess you’re right . . . everybody moves on,’ he shrugged then said, ‘Hey . . . let’s make it bittersweet . . . let’s kiss here on the street in front of all the busybodies’ and his full lips, the wine red of loganberries, sought hers.
She did something other. She took off the chain and blue amulet that she was wearing and put it round his neck and tied it with infinite care.
‘I’m in a rocket,’ he said, her hands so stealthy, so caressing.
‘I’m gone,’ she whispered.
‘Stay just one more minute,’ but she was lifting the latch of the pub door, tall and tawny, disappearing with the abruptness of a sunset.
The Tavern
She sat silently and drank slowly but deliberately. She thought I am seeing this place through
Similar Books
