You weren't three when he snuffed it. Here's hoping you didn't see things about us we'd rather forget."
"Not a solitary one," Luke says and does his best to back it up with memories—Spanish holidays that felt sunlit even after dark, cycling with Freda and Maurice by the river all the way to Liverpool and back, the few days it took them to teach him to drive (Freda applauded everything he did, Maurice grunted encouragement as Luke imitated all the actions he'd observed), the day they'd delivered Luke and an assortment of possessions to university in an Arnold company van, only to keep being mistaken for a firm doing work on the campus... He feels as if he's claiming memories that should belong to someone else—telling tales on behalf of the person he's portraying. He continues reminiscing until Maurice starts to nod, by which time it's plain that Luke will have to stay the night.
A folded towel lies on the bed, which has doubled since Luke had the room. A facecloth is arranged on top of the plump towel, all their corners precisely lined up. In the bathroom the bottles and jars and sprays are ranked in terms of height along the tiles above the twin sinks; as a child he thought they might be pieces in a game his parents played. Above reflections of the backs of the entire parade, his face in the elongated mirror looks as if it's searching for a sign that it belongs in the house. A new toothbrush is perched on the edge of the left-hand sink, and he uses it once he succeeds in releasing it from its sarcophagus of celluloid and cardboard. He doesn't loiter in the extensive room next door, though it offers a book called Tiny Tales for the Smallest Room and a floral scent that seemed to suffuse his childhood. Another volume— Thoughts for Sleepy People —is provided on the venerable bedside table Luke's room has acquired. Sleepy doesn't sum up how he feels, and he pads barefoot across the springy carpet to the window.
There's no moon. Large soft lumps of dusk stand about the garden, which is boxed in by spiky blackness. The night is silent except for Freda's murmur and then Maurice's in the front bedroom. Beyond the far hedge the river is a thin foreshortened glint, above which the Welsh mountains have been reduced to an ebony frieze the length of the sky, if a shade darker. He remembers standing at the window to see the mountains garlanded with cloud, and a sun that swelled huge and red before wavering like jelly into the earth, and stars that multiplied in the night sky as if his vision were calling them back from the dead. Now he watches while stars appear, beacons that hint at the vast distances they mark. What else can he be waiting for? When he begins to glimpse figures in the hedges, attempting to take a variety of shapes and then reverting to the dark as night winds enliven the foliage, he draws the velvet curtains and retreats to bed.
He doesn't dream, in spite of remembering a story Terence told him about the children of the moon. People would see them when it was full, because then they were closest to taking form. They waxed with it and waned as well, and merged with the dark when it did. At the new moon you might mistake them for thorn bushes bleached by the light, unless you saw their faces that were thinner and spikier than bone. They would grow flesh as bushes grow leaves, and on nights of the harvest moon their round faces would be wider than their fat white bodies, and anyone they touched would see more by moonlight than they ever did at midday. Luke was never sure how appealing this was, and he doesn't find it attractive now. He's glad when the tale drifts away into the dark that leads to sleep.
A cry wakens him. It's his mother—no, it's Freda. As he strains his ears he hears Maurice grumbling "What's up, woman? It's only a dream." Luke hears an apologetic murmur, and the night settles down once more; at least, his hosts do. He peers about and eventually shuts his eyes, and tries not to feel like a
"Not a solitary one," Luke says and does his best to back it up with memories—Spanish holidays that felt sunlit even after dark, cycling with Freda and Maurice by the river all the way to Liverpool and back, the few days it took them to teach him to drive (Freda applauded everything he did, Maurice grunted encouragement as Luke imitated all the actions he'd observed), the day they'd delivered Luke and an assortment of possessions to university in an Arnold company van, only to keep being mistaken for a firm doing work on the campus... He feels as if he's claiming memories that should belong to someone else—telling tales on behalf of the person he's portraying. He continues reminiscing until Maurice starts to nod, by which time it's plain that Luke will have to stay the night.
A folded towel lies on the bed, which has doubled since Luke had the room. A facecloth is arranged on top of the plump towel, all their corners precisely lined up. In the bathroom the bottles and jars and sprays are ranked in terms of height along the tiles above the twin sinks; as a child he thought they might be pieces in a game his parents played. Above reflections of the backs of the entire parade, his face in the elongated mirror looks as if it's searching for a sign that it belongs in the house. A new toothbrush is perched on the edge of the left-hand sink, and he uses it once he succeeds in releasing it from its sarcophagus of celluloid and cardboard. He doesn't loiter in the extensive room next door, though it offers a book called Tiny Tales for the Smallest Room and a floral scent that seemed to suffuse his childhood. Another volume— Thoughts for Sleepy People —is provided on the venerable bedside table Luke's room has acquired. Sleepy doesn't sum up how he feels, and he pads barefoot across the springy carpet to the window.
There's no moon. Large soft lumps of dusk stand about the garden, which is boxed in by spiky blackness. The night is silent except for Freda's murmur and then Maurice's in the front bedroom. Beyond the far hedge the river is a thin foreshortened glint, above which the Welsh mountains have been reduced to an ebony frieze the length of the sky, if a shade darker. He remembers standing at the window to see the mountains garlanded with cloud, and a sun that swelled huge and red before wavering like jelly into the earth, and stars that multiplied in the night sky as if his vision were calling them back from the dead. Now he watches while stars appear, beacons that hint at the vast distances they mark. What else can he be waiting for? When he begins to glimpse figures in the hedges, attempting to take a variety of shapes and then reverting to the dark as night winds enliven the foliage, he draws the velvet curtains and retreats to bed.
He doesn't dream, in spite of remembering a story Terence told him about the children of the moon. People would see them when it was full, because then they were closest to taking form. They waxed with it and waned as well, and merged with the dark when it did. At the new moon you might mistake them for thorn bushes bleached by the light, unless you saw their faces that were thinner and spikier than bone. They would grow flesh as bushes grow leaves, and on nights of the harvest moon their round faces would be wider than their fat white bodies, and anyone they touched would see more by moonlight than they ever did at midday. Luke was never sure how appealing this was, and he doesn't find it attractive now. He's glad when the tale drifts away into the dark that leads to sleep.
A cry wakens him. It's his mother—no, it's Freda. As he strains his ears he hears Maurice grumbling "What's up, woman? It's only a dream." Luke hears an apologetic murmur, and the night settles down once more; at least, his hosts do. He peers about and eventually shuts his eyes, and tries not to feel like a
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