he tousled my hair. I shook him off, angry about the lie but unable to work out the truth.
In the afternoon, we caught a bus with half a dozen schoolboys in short trousers and a woman carrying a basket covered with a tea towel. The bus was even hotter than the train, and piteous cries came from the basketas the bus swung around corners. When the boys got off, my father let me approach the woman. She frowned and spoke to me; a long stream of words was born in the back of her throat and rolled off the front of her tongue.
“Can Phyllis and I see the baby?” I said, enunciating every word. “Please.”
I tucked my doll under my arm as I steadied myself against the seat, and the woman lifted the tea towel. A tabby cat, scrawny and balding, shivered in the bottom of the basket. My hand went in to stroke the top of its head, but the cat pulled back its gums and hissed, and I jerked my fingers away. The woman spoke again, abrupt jagged words this time. I looked at her blankly so she shrugged her shoulders, covered the cat with the cloth, and, still swaying with the rhythm of the bus, turned away from me to look out of the window. The cat began to wail again.
“Bavarian,” said my father, when I went back to our seat.
“Bavarian,” I said, without knowing what he meant.
He had unfolded a map I hadn’t seen before, and draped it over the rail of the seat in front. In the map’s creases the paper had worn thin, and in the centre there was a hole where the land had been rubbed away entirely. Phyllis and I sat next to him, looking over his arm. Theblue snake of a river twisted through flat green, interrupted by spidery lines as if a shaky hand had tried to draw circles across the paper. The water flowed off the side of the map, and as my father flapped it, for an instant I saw in the top right-hand corner a small red cross, inside a circle. He packed the map away, looked out of the window, then at his watch, and said it was time to get off the bus and walk.
At first we had stuck to the narrow roads, dusty with a strip of grass growing down the middle. We had seen distant farms, but we met only one other person—an old woman in a headscarf who gave me a cup of milk. She held her cow, brown and docile, on a length of rope. The teacup, missing its saucer, was delicate, the china almost translucent, but most of the handle had been broken off, leaving two sharp horns which stuck out from the side. A stripe of green around the rim had been worn away in places by the hundreds of lips and teeth which must have pressed up against it. The milk in the cup was still warm and smelled of farmyards. The old lady, the cow, and my father watched while I turned the cup so I could drink from a spot opposite the horns. The milk swilled around the inside. As I hesitated, I could see a tightness come in my father’s face, the muscle at the side of his jaw bulging as he clamped his teeth together. Inside my head I said, “If I drink this milk, Papa will say it’s time to go home.”
I tipped the cup and the clabbered milk filled my mouth, washing over my teeth and settling inside my cheeks. The cow mooed as if encouraging me to swallow. I swallowed, but the milk didn’t want to be inside me. It rushed back up, bringing with it all I had previously eaten. I had the good sense to turn away from the old woman’s sandaled feet, but when I retched, my long hair caught in the fountain spewing from my mouth. Later that night in the tent, I ran my fingers through the matted strands and my stomach heaved once more from the smell.
My father apologized again and again to the old woman in English, but she didn’t understand. She stood with her lips pressed together and her hand held out, beside her cow. My father dropped a pile of foreign coins in her leathery palm and we hurried away. I had no idea this wind-worn woman, creased and bag-eyed, standing outside her barn with her cow on a rope, would be the last person I would meet from the real world
In the afternoon, we caught a bus with half a dozen schoolboys in short trousers and a woman carrying a basket covered with a tea towel. The bus was even hotter than the train, and piteous cries came from the basketas the bus swung around corners. When the boys got off, my father let me approach the woman. She frowned and spoke to me; a long stream of words was born in the back of her throat and rolled off the front of her tongue.
“Can Phyllis and I see the baby?” I said, enunciating every word. “Please.”
I tucked my doll under my arm as I steadied myself against the seat, and the woman lifted the tea towel. A tabby cat, scrawny and balding, shivered in the bottom of the basket. My hand went in to stroke the top of its head, but the cat pulled back its gums and hissed, and I jerked my fingers away. The woman spoke again, abrupt jagged words this time. I looked at her blankly so she shrugged her shoulders, covered the cat with the cloth, and, still swaying with the rhythm of the bus, turned away from me to look out of the window. The cat began to wail again.
“Bavarian,” said my father, when I went back to our seat.
“Bavarian,” I said, without knowing what he meant.
He had unfolded a map I hadn’t seen before, and draped it over the rail of the seat in front. In the map’s creases the paper had worn thin, and in the centre there was a hole where the land had been rubbed away entirely. Phyllis and I sat next to him, looking over his arm. Theblue snake of a river twisted through flat green, interrupted by spidery lines as if a shaky hand had tried to draw circles across the paper. The water flowed off the side of the map, and as my father flapped it, for an instant I saw in the top right-hand corner a small red cross, inside a circle. He packed the map away, looked out of the window, then at his watch, and said it was time to get off the bus and walk.
At first we had stuck to the narrow roads, dusty with a strip of grass growing down the middle. We had seen distant farms, but we met only one other person—an old woman in a headscarf who gave me a cup of milk. She held her cow, brown and docile, on a length of rope. The teacup, missing its saucer, was delicate, the china almost translucent, but most of the handle had been broken off, leaving two sharp horns which stuck out from the side. A stripe of green around the rim had been worn away in places by the hundreds of lips and teeth which must have pressed up against it. The milk in the cup was still warm and smelled of farmyards. The old lady, the cow, and my father watched while I turned the cup so I could drink from a spot opposite the horns. The milk swilled around the inside. As I hesitated, I could see a tightness come in my father’s face, the muscle at the side of his jaw bulging as he clamped his teeth together. Inside my head I said, “If I drink this milk, Papa will say it’s time to go home.”
I tipped the cup and the clabbered milk filled my mouth, washing over my teeth and settling inside my cheeks. The cow mooed as if encouraging me to swallow. I swallowed, but the milk didn’t want to be inside me. It rushed back up, bringing with it all I had previously eaten. I had the good sense to turn away from the old woman’s sandaled feet, but when I retched, my long hair caught in the fountain spewing from my mouth. Later that night in the tent, I ran my fingers through the matted strands and my stomach heaved once more from the smell.
My father apologized again and again to the old woman in English, but she didn’t understand. She stood with her lips pressed together and her hand held out, beside her cow. My father dropped a pile of foreign coins in her leathery palm and we hurried away. I had no idea this wind-worn woman, creased and bag-eyed, standing outside her barn with her cow on a rope, would be the last person I would meet from the real world
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