kind of theory, says Gordon, deals in possibilities, not fantasies. Leave that wretched animal alone. How incredibly boring, says Claudia. And it’s a fact universally admitted that pigs like having their backs scratched. By the way I saw Jasper last month. We took our grandsons to an appalling musical.
What a charming domestic outing, says Gordon. How is he enjoying being a lord? Inordinately, says Claudia. Destiny, says Gordon, has certainly been Jasper’s line – his own. Himself as man of. True, says Claudia. And yours, continues Gordon, would have been a damn sight less fraught if it had never got mixed up with his. Oh, I don’t know, says Claudia – I should think I was doomed to Jasper, or if not him then to someone similar. And I always gave as good as I got, you must admit. Of course, says Gordon. Is he married these days? In a manner of speaking, I believe, says Claudia, even at his age.
The pig gets up and lumbers to the far end of the pen. The stupid thing doesn’t understand tradition, says Claudia. I suppose we ought to go and find Sylvia. Yes, says Gordon, I suppose we ought. They remain where they are. How inconsistent you are, says Claudia, you’re prepared to consider alternative fates within a personal context. I consider that people make choices, says Gordon, though I would concede that some do it better than others. But it is only the irredeemably lumpen who exercise no control at all over their lives. Like this unfortunate twentieth-century pig, says Claudia, condemned to live in seventeenth-century conditions in the interests of tourism and the American national heritage.
They begin to walk, slowly, towards the Reception Center, the present day, and Sylvia. I’ve thought of a new game, says Gordon, only to be played with each other. It’s like Consequences. We each admit Bad Choices and then the other invents an alternative. You concede Jasper and I deal you instead… um, let me see… I deal you Adlai Stevenson whom I remember you did briefly meet once and took a shine to. By whom you became the mother of a fine son presently running for Governor of Massachusetts. And what do you admit? enquires Claudia. I admit my occupation, says Gordon, I should have stayed with cricket, I’d be retired Captain of England now and command respect where it matters. Don’t be silly, says Claudia, I see this game has one set of rules for me and another for you, I’m not playing. Anyway, I want a drink.
They enter the restaurant. Sylvia sits alone at a table before a glass of iced tea and a very large plateful of salad. Her face is blotched. She greets them with pained dignity. I had no idea when you were going to turn up, she says, so I started. Gordon lays a hand on her shoulder. Sorry, love, he says, we really are. We were dawdling. I hope you feel revived. Can I get you anything else? Sylvia replies, injured and distant, that perhaps she’ll have some ice-cream.
Car parks, reception centres, lavatories and restaurants are superimposed upon the wilderness. And for me that place is several places – real and unreal, experienced and imagined. It becomes a part of my own sequence of references; the collective past becomes private territory. Gordon and Sylvia, on an afternoon a few years ago, move alongside the Plymouth settlers and a bunch of museum officials in fancy dress.
4
‘What’s that?’ she whispers, pointing.
‘What’s what, Miss Hampton?’ says the nurse. ‘There’s nothing – just the window.’
‘There!’ – she stabs the air – ‘Thing moving… What’s it called? Name!’
‘Nothing that I can see,’ says the nurse briskly. ‘Don’t fuss, dear. You’re a bit muzzy today, that’s all. Have a sleep. I’ll draw the curtains.’
The face, suddenly, relaxes. ‘Curtain,’ she mutters. ‘Curtain.’
‘Yes, dear,’ says the nurse. ‘I’ll draw the curtains.’
Today language abandoned me. I could not find the word for a simple object – a commonplace familiar
What a charming domestic outing, says Gordon. How is he enjoying being a lord? Inordinately, says Claudia. Destiny, says Gordon, has certainly been Jasper’s line – his own. Himself as man of. True, says Claudia. And yours, continues Gordon, would have been a damn sight less fraught if it had never got mixed up with his. Oh, I don’t know, says Claudia – I should think I was doomed to Jasper, or if not him then to someone similar. And I always gave as good as I got, you must admit. Of course, says Gordon. Is he married these days? In a manner of speaking, I believe, says Claudia, even at his age.
The pig gets up and lumbers to the far end of the pen. The stupid thing doesn’t understand tradition, says Claudia. I suppose we ought to go and find Sylvia. Yes, says Gordon, I suppose we ought. They remain where they are. How inconsistent you are, says Claudia, you’re prepared to consider alternative fates within a personal context. I consider that people make choices, says Gordon, though I would concede that some do it better than others. But it is only the irredeemably lumpen who exercise no control at all over their lives. Like this unfortunate twentieth-century pig, says Claudia, condemned to live in seventeenth-century conditions in the interests of tourism and the American national heritage.
They begin to walk, slowly, towards the Reception Center, the present day, and Sylvia. I’ve thought of a new game, says Gordon, only to be played with each other. It’s like Consequences. We each admit Bad Choices and then the other invents an alternative. You concede Jasper and I deal you instead… um, let me see… I deal you Adlai Stevenson whom I remember you did briefly meet once and took a shine to. By whom you became the mother of a fine son presently running for Governor of Massachusetts. And what do you admit? enquires Claudia. I admit my occupation, says Gordon, I should have stayed with cricket, I’d be retired Captain of England now and command respect where it matters. Don’t be silly, says Claudia, I see this game has one set of rules for me and another for you, I’m not playing. Anyway, I want a drink.
They enter the restaurant. Sylvia sits alone at a table before a glass of iced tea and a very large plateful of salad. Her face is blotched. She greets them with pained dignity. I had no idea when you were going to turn up, she says, so I started. Gordon lays a hand on her shoulder. Sorry, love, he says, we really are. We were dawdling. I hope you feel revived. Can I get you anything else? Sylvia replies, injured and distant, that perhaps she’ll have some ice-cream.
Car parks, reception centres, lavatories and restaurants are superimposed upon the wilderness. And for me that place is several places – real and unreal, experienced and imagined. It becomes a part of my own sequence of references; the collective past becomes private territory. Gordon and Sylvia, on an afternoon a few years ago, move alongside the Plymouth settlers and a bunch of museum officials in fancy dress.
4
‘What’s that?’ she whispers, pointing.
‘What’s what, Miss Hampton?’ says the nurse. ‘There’s nothing – just the window.’
‘There!’ – she stabs the air – ‘Thing moving… What’s it called? Name!’
‘Nothing that I can see,’ says the nurse briskly. ‘Don’t fuss, dear. You’re a bit muzzy today, that’s all. Have a sleep. I’ll draw the curtains.’
The face, suddenly, relaxes. ‘Curtain,’ she mutters. ‘Curtain.’
‘Yes, dear,’ says the nurse. ‘I’ll draw the curtains.’
Today language abandoned me. I could not find the word for a simple object – a commonplace familiar
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