glows
disturbing the room. It was always night time here, and always nineteen-thirty.
The psychological aspect of her accident
hadn’t been lost on me. I supposed, always looking after someone, always
independently alone, she’d abruptly given way to the subconscious urge to be in
her turn looked after. She’d given me control. It frightened me.
The kettle started to boil, and I arranged
the pot. I knew how she’d want her tea, nigrescently stewed and violently
sweet. Her head elevated. She was on her feet.
“I’ll just go and check Daniel.”
“I can do that, if you like,” I said
before I could hold my tongue.
“That’s all right,” she said. She went
out and I heard her go slowly up the stairs. Big and strong, how did she, even
so, carry him down them?
I made the tea. I could hear nothing
from upstairs. The vegetables lay scattered where she had left them, though the
dangerous knife had been put from sight. On an impulse, I pulled aside a
handful of kitchen curtain.
I wasn’t surprised at what I saw.
Somehow I must have worked it out, though not been aware I had. I let the
curtain coil again into place, then carried the tea tray into the room. I set
it down, and went to the room’s back window, and methodically inspected that,
too. It was identical to the windows of the kitchen. Both had been boarded over
outside with planks of wood behind the glass. Not a chink of light showed. It
must have been one terrific gale that smashed these windows and necessitated
such a barricade. Strange the boarding was still there, after she’d had the
glass replaced.
I heard her coming down again, but she
had given me control, however briefly. I’d caught the unmistakable scent of
something that wants to lean, to confess. I was curious, or maybe it was the
double gin catching up on me. Curiosity was going to master fear. I stayed
looking at the boarding, and let her discover me at it when she came in.
I turned when she didn’t say anything. She
simply looked blankly at me, and went to sit on the settee.
“Daniel’s fine,” she said. “He’s got
some of his books. Picture books. He can see the pictures, though he can’t read
the stories. You can go up and look at him, if you like.”
That was a bribe. I went to the tea and
started to pour it, spooning a mountain of sugar in her cup.
“You must be expecting a lot of bad
weather, Mrs Besmouth.”
“Oh yes?”
“Yes. The windows.”
I didn’t think she was going to say
anything. Then she said, “They’re boarded over upstairs too, on the one side.”
“The side facing out to sea.”
“That’s right.”
“Did you build the wall up, too?”
She said, without a trace of humour, “Oh
no. I got a man in to do that.”
I gave her the tea, and she took it, and
drank it straight down, and held the cup out to me.
“I could fancy another.”
I repeated the actions with the tea. She
took the second cup, but looked at it, not drinking. The clock ticked
somnolently. The room felt hot and heavy and peculiarly still, out of place and
time and light of sun or moon.
“You don’t like the sea, do you?” I
said. I sat on the arm of the red chair, and watched her.
“Not much. Never did. This was my dad’s
house. When he died, I kept on here. Nowhere else to go.” She raised her
elastoplasted hand and stared at it. She looked very tired, very flaccid, as if
she’d given up. “You know,” she said, “I’d like a drop of something in this. Open
that cupboard, will you? There’s a bottle just inside.”
I wondered if she were the proverbial
secret drinker, but the bottle was alone, and three quarters full, quite a good
whisky.
She drank some of the tea and held the
cup so I could ruin the whisky by pouring it in. I poured, to the cup’s brim.
“You have one,” she said. She drank, and
smacked her lips softly. “You’ve earned it. You’ve been a good little girl.”
I poured the whisky neat into the other tealess
cup and drank some, imagining
disturbing the room. It was always night time here, and always nineteen-thirty.
The psychological aspect of her accident
hadn’t been lost on me. I supposed, always looking after someone, always
independently alone, she’d abruptly given way to the subconscious urge to be in
her turn looked after. She’d given me control. It frightened me.
The kettle started to boil, and I arranged
the pot. I knew how she’d want her tea, nigrescently stewed and violently
sweet. Her head elevated. She was on her feet.
“I’ll just go and check Daniel.”
“I can do that, if you like,” I said
before I could hold my tongue.
“That’s all right,” she said. She went
out and I heard her go slowly up the stairs. Big and strong, how did she, even
so, carry him down them?
I made the tea. I could hear nothing
from upstairs. The vegetables lay scattered where she had left them, though the
dangerous knife had been put from sight. On an impulse, I pulled aside a
handful of kitchen curtain.
I wasn’t surprised at what I saw.
Somehow I must have worked it out, though not been aware I had. I let the
curtain coil again into place, then carried the tea tray into the room. I set
it down, and went to the room’s back window, and methodically inspected that,
too. It was identical to the windows of the kitchen. Both had been boarded over
outside with planks of wood behind the glass. Not a chink of light showed. It
must have been one terrific gale that smashed these windows and necessitated
such a barricade. Strange the boarding was still there, after she’d had the
glass replaced.
I heard her coming down again, but she
had given me control, however briefly. I’d caught the unmistakable scent of
something that wants to lean, to confess. I was curious, or maybe it was the
double gin catching up on me. Curiosity was going to master fear. I stayed
looking at the boarding, and let her discover me at it when she came in.
I turned when she didn’t say anything. She
simply looked blankly at me, and went to sit on the settee.
“Daniel’s fine,” she said. “He’s got
some of his books. Picture books. He can see the pictures, though he can’t read
the stories. You can go up and look at him, if you like.”
That was a bribe. I went to the tea and
started to pour it, spooning a mountain of sugar in her cup.
“You must be expecting a lot of bad
weather, Mrs Besmouth.”
“Oh yes?”
“Yes. The windows.”
I didn’t think she was going to say
anything. Then she said, “They’re boarded over upstairs too, on the one side.”
“The side facing out to sea.”
“That’s right.”
“Did you build the wall up, too?”
She said, without a trace of humour, “Oh
no. I got a man in to do that.”
I gave her the tea, and she took it, and
drank it straight down, and held the cup out to me.
“I could fancy another.”
I repeated the actions with the tea. She
took the second cup, but looked at it, not drinking. The clock ticked
somnolently. The room felt hot and heavy and peculiarly still, out of place and
time and light of sun or moon.
“You don’t like the sea, do you?” I
said. I sat on the arm of the red chair, and watched her.
“Not much. Never did. This was my dad’s
house. When he died, I kept on here. Nowhere else to go.” She raised her
elastoplasted hand and stared at it. She looked very tired, very flaccid, as if
she’d given up. “You know,” she said, “I’d like a drop of something in this. Open
that cupboard, will you? There’s a bottle just inside.”
I wondered if she were the proverbial
secret drinker, but the bottle was alone, and three quarters full, quite a good
whisky.
She drank some of the tea and held the
cup so I could ruin the whisky by pouring it in. I poured, to the cup’s brim.
“You have one,” she said. She drank, and
smacked her lips softly. “You’ve earned it. You’ve been a good little girl.”
I poured the whisky neat into the other tealess
cup and drank some, imagining
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