of these stones look very
old and I’m interested in history. Maybe I can come when you’re not
here so I won’t bother you?”
“ I’m al’ays here.”
“ Is there someone else I can ask for permission
then?”
“ No.”
“ Are you saying you own this place?”
Because you’re a liar if you do.
“ No. I …” He puckers his mouth and frowns. “Ye have ta go
now. Please.”
At last, eye contact. It lasts for no more than a
heartbeat, but in it she sees how ill at ease he is with her
presence .
“ Then you may escort me to the gate,” she says.
They
walk in silence through the hedge arches and along the gravel path,
until they reach the boundary wall.
As she
trails behind him she notices the way he employs a peculiar rolling
gait which involves the throwing of the knees and the slightest
limp, all indicators of the fact that walking is difficult for him
and is giving him some pain.
He holds
open the gate for her and when she is through, closes it firmly,
separating them with the ironwork.
“ I’m sorry,” he says through it. “It’s nothing personal, but
it’s for the best.”
He has
already started to leave when she calls to him. “Wait a
minute!”
The
slightest hesitation, a stiffening of his shoulders, and he turns
back. “Yes, Miss?”
“ You didn’t tell me your name.”
The
scared look is back in his eyes. “Nae reason why I
should.”
“ I’d like to know.”
“ Colin,” he murmurs, as if he’s ashamed of it. “Colin
McLeod.”
“ I’m Grace, but I already told you that. My full name’s
Grace Dove.”
“ Grace Dove? That’s nice. Very… peaceful,” he says, with the
faintest twitch of a smile.
Before
she can stop herself Grace stretches her hand through the bars,
inviting him to share a gesture of introduction and goodwill. “It’s
very nice to meet you Colin.”
It’ll be okay, you’re just being polite. He’s not real. You
won’t feel anything.
He wipes
his dirt smeared hand down the front of his trousers, takes hers,
and the touch is very real.
Warm
soft skin, not the leathery coarseness she would expect of an
outdoor worker. A firm yet brief grip with, disturbingly, the trace
of a tremor.
“ Thank you, Miss,” he says, taking back his hand and
thrusting it behind his back.
She can
see in the brief eye contact he allows that he’s as surprised as
she is at the substance of the contact, as if he too was not
expecting it.
“ I’ve .. .um … got ta …”
He
touches the peak of his cap and bobs his head in a tiny respectful
bow, the merest suggestion of a smile tugging at the corner of his
mouth again.
“ Goodbye, Miss.”
He turns
and trudges his way back to wherever it is he needs to be, and she
watches him on his way until he vanishes out of sight through the
arch in the hedge.
She
feels slightly befuddled when she wakes, curled on the couch in
Alec’s flat, a beam of late afternoon sun warming her feet, the
vision of the garden and its rumpled reserved custodian still with
her, every detail still fresh.
It felt
so real, and she would swear she had actually been there, even
though common sense tells her this cannot possibly be true. She
gets up to make herself a cup of tea and ponder on what she thinks
might be a rational explanation - a phenomenon called lucid
dreaming.
She’d
read somewhere, Wikipedia probably, about how the dreamer is aware
they are dreaming and may experience sounds and smells, maybe even
have an orgasm in their sleep.
The more
she thinks about it, the more plausible it sounds, and could
account for everything that just happened to her.
Grace
jots down her idea on her notepad, and makes the decision to ask Dr
Mal about it at her appointment the next afternoon.
Chapter 7
“ How are you getting on?”
Dr Mal
takes a mouthful of coffee, pulls a face, tips in a spoonful of
sugar and worries it with a spoon.
“ Different brand,” he says by way of explanation. “Budget
cuts. You were
old and I’m interested in history. Maybe I can come when you’re not
here so I won’t bother you?”
“ I’m al’ays here.”
“ Is there someone else I can ask for permission
then?”
“ No.”
“ Are you saying you own this place?”
Because you’re a liar if you do.
“ No. I …” He puckers his mouth and frowns. “Ye have ta go
now. Please.”
At last, eye contact. It lasts for no more than a
heartbeat, but in it she sees how ill at ease he is with her
presence .
“ Then you may escort me to the gate,” she says.
They
walk in silence through the hedge arches and along the gravel path,
until they reach the boundary wall.
As she
trails behind him she notices the way he employs a peculiar rolling
gait which involves the throwing of the knees and the slightest
limp, all indicators of the fact that walking is difficult for him
and is giving him some pain.
He holds
open the gate for her and when she is through, closes it firmly,
separating them with the ironwork.
“ I’m sorry,” he says through it. “It’s nothing personal, but
it’s for the best.”
He has
already started to leave when she calls to him. “Wait a
minute!”
The
slightest hesitation, a stiffening of his shoulders, and he turns
back. “Yes, Miss?”
“ You didn’t tell me your name.”
The
scared look is back in his eyes. “Nae reason why I
should.”
“ I’d like to know.”
“ Colin,” he murmurs, as if he’s ashamed of it. “Colin
McLeod.”
“ I’m Grace, but I already told you that. My full name’s
Grace Dove.”
“ Grace Dove? That’s nice. Very… peaceful,” he says, with the
faintest twitch of a smile.
Before
she can stop herself Grace stretches her hand through the bars,
inviting him to share a gesture of introduction and goodwill. “It’s
very nice to meet you Colin.”
It’ll be okay, you’re just being polite. He’s not real. You
won’t feel anything.
He wipes
his dirt smeared hand down the front of his trousers, takes hers,
and the touch is very real.
Warm
soft skin, not the leathery coarseness she would expect of an
outdoor worker. A firm yet brief grip with, disturbingly, the trace
of a tremor.
“ Thank you, Miss,” he says, taking back his hand and
thrusting it behind his back.
She can
see in the brief eye contact he allows that he’s as surprised as
she is at the substance of the contact, as if he too was not
expecting it.
“ I’ve .. .um … got ta …”
He
touches the peak of his cap and bobs his head in a tiny respectful
bow, the merest suggestion of a smile tugging at the corner of his
mouth again.
“ Goodbye, Miss.”
He turns
and trudges his way back to wherever it is he needs to be, and she
watches him on his way until he vanishes out of sight through the
arch in the hedge.
She
feels slightly befuddled when she wakes, curled on the couch in
Alec’s flat, a beam of late afternoon sun warming her feet, the
vision of the garden and its rumpled reserved custodian still with
her, every detail still fresh.
It felt
so real, and she would swear she had actually been there, even
though common sense tells her this cannot possibly be true. She
gets up to make herself a cup of tea and ponder on what she thinks
might be a rational explanation - a phenomenon called lucid
dreaming.
She’d
read somewhere, Wikipedia probably, about how the dreamer is aware
they are dreaming and may experience sounds and smells, maybe even
have an orgasm in their sleep.
The more
she thinks about it, the more plausible it sounds, and could
account for everything that just happened to her.
Grace
jots down her idea on her notepad, and makes the decision to ask Dr
Mal about it at her appointment the next afternoon.
Chapter 7
“ How are you getting on?”
Dr Mal
takes a mouthful of coffee, pulls a face, tips in a spoonful of
sugar and worries it with a spoon.
“ Different brand,” he says by way of explanation. “Budget
cuts. You were
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