down. There was a smell now of horse-dung and coal-dust. Attached by two ropes, a green-painted barge trailed steadily in the water. A man in a black hat stood on the front. I could join him, she thought dully. I could jump onto the barge and be taken away.
The three Humphreys stood back from the bank. Edwin’s mother was frowning.
The man shouted again. The horse was close to her. She could see its domed brown eyes, expressionless, and smell its sweat. The ropes were taut, at an angle to the harness.
‘Narcisa!’ Edwin shouted, and moved forward. The man on the barge waved his arms. The water looked thick enough to carry her. She waited.
Admission
The cab went through a wide gate and up a path. There were flower-beds with pruned roses on either side, and a huddle of buildings. The cab stopped at a square porch. Edwin got out and came round to open her door. She leaned on his outstretched hand as she stepped down; but almost at once he moved away again, and rang the bell.
The hallway was very bare, the floor highly polished. A dark painting of cows and trees hung by the door.
A tall woman came towards them, not smiling. ‘Mr Humphreys?’ she asked, and Edwin went with her over to the window. She had thick grey hair pulled back in a bun, and a white scar along the side of her jaw. She was listening gravely while Edwin spoke to her. At one point he took out a handkerchief – she could see the blue EH she had embroidered – and blew his nose with a soft regretful sound.
A door at the back of the hallway opened; a young woman in white came through, carrying a bundle. The tall woman caught sight of her and shook her head; the young one retreated. Is it because we’re here? Narcisa wondered.
She felt tired. As soon as she moved, Edwin turned quickly round, and watched till she had sat down on the far window-seat. She looked out idly at the flower-borders. There were a few yellow roses almost open, and by the porch a bed with red tulips.
Edwin came over. ‘It’s all arranged,’ he said in French to her. ‘This lady will make sure you are comfortable.’
‘But why?’ she asked him again. ‘Why do you want me to be here?’
She stood up; he led her over to the woman. He said something in English and the woman reached forward, Narcisa thought at first to shake her hand; but no, to touch the collar of her dress. She flinched.
To Music
1915
Someone was singing in the long corridor. At the end of the silent file towards the chapel, Narcisa turned, pulled into the narrow force-field of the music. A peasant song, she thought, if they had any here: a four-line melody with a rise and dip, each verse sounding to end in disappointment.
‘Get a move on, you back there!’ an attendant called; but just before she caught up with the line, Narcisa glimpsed a woman on hands and knees, her broad strong bottom in blue cloth pushing at the air, the worn soles of her shoes turned to the light, head lifted a moment as she shuffled backwards, bright yellow hair curling up round her cap. ‘ Oh slowly, slowly;’ so much Narcisa understood, and then the words fell into the tune again, a line that lifted hopefully and dropped.
When they turned off from the main corridor, a heavy door stopping the woman’s voice, Narcisa played the tune through in her head, to fix it, to give herself a fragment of music to come back to. She followed the file out along the path. A fine rain blew across the lawns towards them; she hunched, but her sleeve clung wet to her arm.
The chapel was cold. A woman was labouring over an air from Bach. Some key in the upper register was silent; the melody limped over the gap like a man on crutches. Oh slowly, slowly, Narcisa sang to herself, to block out the uneven counterpoint. Every week this thudding music, the piano as they filed in and at the end; and the
The three Humphreys stood back from the bank. Edwin’s mother was frowning.
The man shouted again. The horse was close to her. She could see its domed brown eyes, expressionless, and smell its sweat. The ropes were taut, at an angle to the harness.
‘Narcisa!’ Edwin shouted, and moved forward. The man on the barge waved his arms. The water looked thick enough to carry her. She waited.
Admission
The cab went through a wide gate and up a path. There were flower-beds with pruned roses on either side, and a huddle of buildings. The cab stopped at a square porch. Edwin got out and came round to open her door. She leaned on his outstretched hand as she stepped down; but almost at once he moved away again, and rang the bell.
The hallway was very bare, the floor highly polished. A dark painting of cows and trees hung by the door.
A tall woman came towards them, not smiling. ‘Mr Humphreys?’ she asked, and Edwin went with her over to the window. She had thick grey hair pulled back in a bun, and a white scar along the side of her jaw. She was listening gravely while Edwin spoke to her. At one point he took out a handkerchief – she could see the blue EH she had embroidered – and blew his nose with a soft regretful sound.
A door at the back of the hallway opened; a young woman in white came through, carrying a bundle. The tall woman caught sight of her and shook her head; the young one retreated. Is it because we’re here? Narcisa wondered.
She felt tired. As soon as she moved, Edwin turned quickly round, and watched till she had sat down on the far window-seat. She looked out idly at the flower-borders. There were a few yellow roses almost open, and by the porch a bed with red tulips.
Edwin came over. ‘It’s all arranged,’ he said in French to her. ‘This lady will make sure you are comfortable.’
‘But why?’ she asked him again. ‘Why do you want me to be here?’
She stood up; he led her over to the woman. He said something in English and the woman reached forward, Narcisa thought at first to shake her hand; but no, to touch the collar of her dress. She flinched.
To Music
1915
Someone was singing in the long corridor. At the end of the silent file towards the chapel, Narcisa turned, pulled into the narrow force-field of the music. A peasant song, she thought, if they had any here: a four-line melody with a rise and dip, each verse sounding to end in disappointment.
‘Get a move on, you back there!’ an attendant called; but just before she caught up with the line, Narcisa glimpsed a woman on hands and knees, her broad strong bottom in blue cloth pushing at the air, the worn soles of her shoes turned to the light, head lifted a moment as she shuffled backwards, bright yellow hair curling up round her cap. ‘ Oh slowly, slowly;’ so much Narcisa understood, and then the words fell into the tune again, a line that lifted hopefully and dropped.
When they turned off from the main corridor, a heavy door stopping the woman’s voice, Narcisa played the tune through in her head, to fix it, to give herself a fragment of music to come back to. She followed the file out along the path. A fine rain blew across the lawns towards them; she hunched, but her sleeve clung wet to her arm.
The chapel was cold. A woman was labouring over an air from Bach. Some key in the upper register was silent; the melody limped over the gap like a man on crutches. Oh slowly, slowly, Narcisa sang to herself, to block out the uneven counterpoint. Every week this thudding music, the piano as they filed in and at the end; and the
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