halts but drops into a crouch that suggests he's preparing for
the next leg of the race. 'What?'
'Come back here. We aren't going anywhere till you listen to me.'
He trudges along the pavement between the entrance and exit of
the petrol station. 'What?' he mumbles.
'Do you want to see the last of me, Mark?'
He blinks at me and risks a giggle. 'You're like granny saying I'll
give her a heart attack.'
'You damn well near did, but I don't mean that. Do you want your
mother and me to split up?'
'You aren't going to, are you?' Apprehension or the light from the
forecourt has turned his face so pale I'm put in mind of greasepaint.
'Don't you like me?' he pleads.
'I don't like what you just did, but that wouldn't be why. If Natalie
trusts me to look after you and then you behave like that, she isn't
going to want me around.'
'You won't tell, will you? We swore we wouldn't tell on each
other.'
'I'll keep this one incident between us so long as there aren't any
more like it, ever. Agreed?'
'Promise,' Mark blurts and looks hyperactively eager to be on his
way. Shahrukh is gazing at us through the window of the Frugoil
shop, and I wonder if he's going to make an issue of my letting Rufus
in. Perhaps he feels inhibited now that I don't work there. Before he
can accost me I follow Mark uphill.
In a minute we're alongside the Royal Holloway campus. Beyond
the gates the long five-storey red-brick turreted façade is illuminated
so brightly that it resembles a cut-out against the night sky, an image
of a French chateau patched into the landscape. A long-legged
shadow as tall as the chimneys stalks across it, but I haven't located
the owner of the shadow when the wall blocks my view. Mark has
forged ahead, so that by the time I reach the end of the wall he's
already past a side road. As I cross it, two clownish faces swell out of
the gloom ahead of him. One is closer to the ground than anyone's
should be, and I might have noticed more immediately that it isn't
human if the wide-mouthed faces weren't so similar. Its companion
shuffles into the light of a streetlamp, and I see that her mouth is
surrounded by lipstick like a child's first attempt at painting. I can't
quite shake off the notion that it's the woman who is panting and
snorting, not the bulldog. I've dodged around them after Mark when
a hoarse voice behind me mutters 'Hurry up.'
I could take that personally, because I don't know where the circus
has been set up in the park. I was expecting crowds to show us, but
none are to be seen. Mark's shadow and mine play at giants and
dwarfs beneath the streetlamps as we hurry uphill. The closest section
of the park stretches away between the main road and a lane, and I'm
suddenly aware that the place may be as vast as the visible sky. Mark
halts, and I think he's about to ask which road we should use until he
says 'There's one.'
He's pointing at an entrance from the main road. At first all I can
see is the shadow of a figure on the thickness of the wall. A substance
appears to be bubbling out of its cranium. It steps into my view to
reveal that it's a clown with a presumably artificial mass of white
curls crowning its scalp. It cocks its blanched extravagantly wide-mouthed
head to watch us with a kind of dismayed glee. I pull out the
tickets – one for Cwlons Ulnimited, the other for Cwnols Nutilimed
– and flourish them. The clown beckons while its white-gloved fingers
scuttle in the air, a gesture so eloquent of lateness that I grab Mark's
shoulder in case he's tempted to dash across the road. As soon as the
traffic relents I usher him to the gate.
The clown steps back like a duck in reverse and urges us onwards
with its monster hands. Its baggy big-buttoned one-piece outfit and
its mask of makeup conceal its gender. Where's the tent? The path
across the unlit green leads to a pond, on the far side of which an
object taller than the trees around the green stands guard. As I run
after Mark, all its faces grow visible, a heap
the next leg of the race. 'What?'
'Come back here. We aren't going anywhere till you listen to me.'
He trudges along the pavement between the entrance and exit of
the petrol station. 'What?' he mumbles.
'Do you want to see the last of me, Mark?'
He blinks at me and risks a giggle. 'You're like granny saying I'll
give her a heart attack.'
'You damn well near did, but I don't mean that. Do you want your
mother and me to split up?'
'You aren't going to, are you?' Apprehension or the light from the
forecourt has turned his face so pale I'm put in mind of greasepaint.
'Don't you like me?' he pleads.
'I don't like what you just did, but that wouldn't be why. If Natalie
trusts me to look after you and then you behave like that, she isn't
going to want me around.'
'You won't tell, will you? We swore we wouldn't tell on each
other.'
'I'll keep this one incident between us so long as there aren't any
more like it, ever. Agreed?'
'Promise,' Mark blurts and looks hyperactively eager to be on his
way. Shahrukh is gazing at us through the window of the Frugoil
shop, and I wonder if he's going to make an issue of my letting Rufus
in. Perhaps he feels inhibited now that I don't work there. Before he
can accost me I follow Mark uphill.
In a minute we're alongside the Royal Holloway campus. Beyond
the gates the long five-storey red-brick turreted façade is illuminated
so brightly that it resembles a cut-out against the night sky, an image
of a French chateau patched into the landscape. A long-legged
shadow as tall as the chimneys stalks across it, but I haven't located
the owner of the shadow when the wall blocks my view. Mark has
forged ahead, so that by the time I reach the end of the wall he's
already past a side road. As I cross it, two clownish faces swell out of
the gloom ahead of him. One is closer to the ground than anyone's
should be, and I might have noticed more immediately that it isn't
human if the wide-mouthed faces weren't so similar. Its companion
shuffles into the light of a streetlamp, and I see that her mouth is
surrounded by lipstick like a child's first attempt at painting. I can't
quite shake off the notion that it's the woman who is panting and
snorting, not the bulldog. I've dodged around them after Mark when
a hoarse voice behind me mutters 'Hurry up.'
I could take that personally, because I don't know where the circus
has been set up in the park. I was expecting crowds to show us, but
none are to be seen. Mark's shadow and mine play at giants and
dwarfs beneath the streetlamps as we hurry uphill. The closest section
of the park stretches away between the main road and a lane, and I'm
suddenly aware that the place may be as vast as the visible sky. Mark
halts, and I think he's about to ask which road we should use until he
says 'There's one.'
He's pointing at an entrance from the main road. At first all I can
see is the shadow of a figure on the thickness of the wall. A substance
appears to be bubbling out of its cranium. It steps into my view to
reveal that it's a clown with a presumably artificial mass of white
curls crowning its scalp. It cocks its blanched extravagantly wide-mouthed
head to watch us with a kind of dismayed glee. I pull out the
tickets – one for Cwlons Ulnimited, the other for Cwnols Nutilimed
– and flourish them. The clown beckons while its white-gloved fingers
scuttle in the air, a gesture so eloquent of lateness that I grab Mark's
shoulder in case he's tempted to dash across the road. As soon as the
traffic relents I usher him to the gate.
The clown steps back like a duck in reverse and urges us onwards
with its monster hands. Its baggy big-buttoned one-piece outfit and
its mask of makeup conceal its gender. Where's the tent? The path
across the unlit green leads to a pond, on the far side of which an
object taller than the trees around the green stands guard. As I run
after Mark, all its faces grow visible, a heap
Similar Books
