The Book of Evidence by John Banville Page B

clawing the dust and c o b w e b s o f f them, when she informed me that she did not drink n o w . This was a surprise — in the old days she could knock it back with the best of them. f stared at her, and she shrugged and looked a w a y . Doctor's orders, she said. I e x a m i n e d her with renewed attention. There was something w r o n g with her left eye, and her m o u t h d r o o p e d a little on that side. I recalled the o d d w a y she had clutched the cigarette b o x and matches in her left hand when she was conducting me around the house. She shrugged again. A slight stroke, she said, last year. I thought what an o d d term that is: a slight stroke. As if a benevolent but clumsy p o w e r had dealt her a fond, playful b l o w and accidentally d a m a g e d her. She glanced at me sidelong n o w w i t h a tentative, a l m o s t girlish, m e l a n c h o l y little smile. S h e m i g h t h a v e been confessing to s o m e t h i n g , s o m e peccadillo* trivial b u t e m b a r r a s s i n g . S o r r y to hear it, old thing* I said, and u r g e d her to go on, take a d r o p of wine, the d o c t o r s b e d a m n e d . S h e s e e m e d n o t t o hear m e .
    A n d then a really surprising thing h a p p e n e d . T h e girl, J o a n or J e a n — I'll c o m p r o m i s e , a n d call her J a n e — g o t up suddenly f r o m her place, with a g u l p of distress, and put her a r m a w k w a r d l y a r o u n d m y m o t h e r ' s head, clutching her in a sort of wrestling h o l d , and l a y i n g a hand a l o n g her b r o w . I e x p e c t e d my m o t h e r to g i v e her a g o o d push and tell her to get off, b u t n o , she sat there, suffering c a l m l y the girl's e m b r a c e and l o o k i n g at me still w i t h that small smile. I stared b a c k at her in startlement, h o l d i n g the w i n e bottle suspended a b o v e my glass. It w a s the strangest thing.
    T h e girl's great hip w a s beside my m o t h e r ' s shoulder* and I t h o u g h t irresistibly o f the p o n y pressing against m e o n the l a w n w i t h that s t u b b o r n , b r u t e r e g a r d . T h e r e w a s a silence.
    T h e n the girl, I m e a n J a n e , c a u g h t my eye, a n d blenched, and w i t h d r e w her a r m and sat d o w n again hurriedly. H e r e is a question: if m a n is a sick animal, an insane animal* as I h a v e reason to believe, then h o w a c c o u n t for these small, u n b i d d e n gestures of kindness and of care? D o e s it o c c u r to y o u , my lord, that p e o p l e of o u r kind — if 1 m a y be p e r m i t t e d to s c r a m b l e up a n d j o i n y o u on the bench for a m o m e n t — that we h a v e missed o u t on s o m e t h i n g , I m e a n s o m e t h i n g in general, a universal principle, which is so simple, so o b v i o u s , that no o n e has ever t h o u g h t to tell us a b o u t it? T h e y all k n o w w h a t it is, my learned friend, this k n o w l e d g e is the b a d g e of their fellowship. A n d they are e v e r y w h e r e , the vast, sad, initiated c r o w d . T h e y l o o k up at us f r o m the well of the court and say n o t h i n g , only smile a little, w i t h that m i x t u r e of c o m p a s s i o n and s y m p a t h e t i c irony, a s m y m o t h e r w a s smiling a t m e n o w . She reached 4 9

    across and patted the girl's hand and told her not to mind me. I stared. What had I done? T h e child sat with eyes fixed on her plate, groping blindly for her knife and fork.
    Her cheeks were aflame, I could almost hear them hum.
    Had a look f r o m me done all that? I sighed, poor ogre, and ate a potato. It was raw and waxen at the heart. M o r e drink.
    Y o u ' r e not getting into one of your moods, are you, Freddie? my mother said.
    H a v e I mentioned my bad moods, I wonder. Very black, very black. As if the world had g r o w n suddenly dim, as if something had dirtied the air. Even when I was a child my depressions frightened people. In them again, is he? they would