behind us, a blanket wound about herself.
‘Who’s this?’ she asks.
‘Gabriel,’ says May. ‘A friend.’
She gives me a hard, assessing look, a warning of the perils of encroaching on her domain. Seeing then that I have understood she smiles, and crosses to the chair beside the stove and seats herself. Her legs protrude from the blanket and her feet are bare, their soles stained and roughened by a lifetime without shoes.
‘Light me a fire,’ she says, and though she still smiles there is no softness in her face. May takes a few lumps of coal and places them in the stove.
‘What manner of man is he?’ she asks, looking at me. ‘Another of your painter friends? Or is he a gentleman?’
‘One cannot be both?’ May asks, smiling. As he speaks I am struck with pity for him, for I see he loves this girl with all that is good in him.
She makes a sound of derision. For a long moment May stands watching her, then, smiling nervously, he turns away, and taking up the flat bottle from before he pours two more glasses. In her chair Molly follows the movement of his hands, and though she seeks to hide it I see the way she hungers for the contents of the bottle. May brings a glass to her, and as she reaches for it she grasps at it. Taking the glassin both hands she drinks it quickly, an urgent motion of the throat. And then, when the glass is done, she sets it aside, ignoring May’s outstretched hand. Looking at me now she laughs, a slow, dreamy sound, absorbed in itself.
‘You would have some?’ May asks, watching me.
I hesitate, my eyes on Molly, then slowly nod.
Even through the sweet burn of the alcohol the opium is bitter, a sharp taste which coats the tongue and lingers in the mouth. At first I feel naught but the brandy’s heat, but then it comes, a stealing ease that flows through me like a tide. At first the world seems unaltered, the only change the weight of something in its textures. At rest in his chair May is talking, his voice both huge and far away, while Molly lies with her head spilled back. I feel a presence press against the surrounding air, another world, as if this room, these lives of ours, this very world were a dream that moves upon some deeper place, like the crossing patterns of ripples on the surface of a lake disturbed by rain, pierced here and there and set to motion only to pass, and fade, its knowledge coming like the memory of something I had not known forgotten, with a rightness that goes deeper with words, as if I understand at last the nature if not the name of the void that lies at my centre.
How long it has been when I leave I am not sure, yet outside the streets are long quiet. Overhead the fog turns the lamps to hissing gold and falling flame, as metal in a blacksmith’s forge. No heat, nor even noise, though on every side the world ticks and shivers. On Old Compton Street I hear a hoot, then overhead an owl swoops by, the pale feathers of its belly and its banded wings beating slow upon the heavy air, its ghostly form so close I might lift a hand and touch itthere. Somewhere later in my bed I sleep, a shifting dreamless thing, until I am woken by the dirty light of dawn, my body filled with memory of what has passed, and feeling now only its absence, the knowledge of its loss.
C HRISTMAS COMES , bringing snow and a sort of quiet to the city’s streets. Across the roofs bells ring out, their sound as clear as glass in the frozen air, carriages jangling on the stones. Though I have no family to call my own, by Robert’s invitation I spend Christmas night with his mother and sister, who have a house in Kentish Town. It is strange to see Robert thus, laughing and careless with his family, for he seems not at all the serious young man I have grown to know, and instead he clowns and jokes, teasing his sister until she laughs and pulls his hair, and dancing with his mother by the fire. The house is nothing grand: one floor of a building beside a field where donkeys graze,
‘Who’s this?’ she asks.
‘Gabriel,’ says May. ‘A friend.’
She gives me a hard, assessing look, a warning of the perils of encroaching on her domain. Seeing then that I have understood she smiles, and crosses to the chair beside the stove and seats herself. Her legs protrude from the blanket and her feet are bare, their soles stained and roughened by a lifetime without shoes.
‘Light me a fire,’ she says, and though she still smiles there is no softness in her face. May takes a few lumps of coal and places them in the stove.
‘What manner of man is he?’ she asks, looking at me. ‘Another of your painter friends? Or is he a gentleman?’
‘One cannot be both?’ May asks, smiling. As he speaks I am struck with pity for him, for I see he loves this girl with all that is good in him.
She makes a sound of derision. For a long moment May stands watching her, then, smiling nervously, he turns away, and taking up the flat bottle from before he pours two more glasses. In her chair Molly follows the movement of his hands, and though she seeks to hide it I see the way she hungers for the contents of the bottle. May brings a glass to her, and as she reaches for it she grasps at it. Taking the glassin both hands she drinks it quickly, an urgent motion of the throat. And then, when the glass is done, she sets it aside, ignoring May’s outstretched hand. Looking at me now she laughs, a slow, dreamy sound, absorbed in itself.
‘You would have some?’ May asks, watching me.
I hesitate, my eyes on Molly, then slowly nod.
Even through the sweet burn of the alcohol the opium is bitter, a sharp taste which coats the tongue and lingers in the mouth. At first I feel naught but the brandy’s heat, but then it comes, a stealing ease that flows through me like a tide. At first the world seems unaltered, the only change the weight of something in its textures. At rest in his chair May is talking, his voice both huge and far away, while Molly lies with her head spilled back. I feel a presence press against the surrounding air, another world, as if this room, these lives of ours, this very world were a dream that moves upon some deeper place, like the crossing patterns of ripples on the surface of a lake disturbed by rain, pierced here and there and set to motion only to pass, and fade, its knowledge coming like the memory of something I had not known forgotten, with a rightness that goes deeper with words, as if I understand at last the nature if not the name of the void that lies at my centre.
How long it has been when I leave I am not sure, yet outside the streets are long quiet. Overhead the fog turns the lamps to hissing gold and falling flame, as metal in a blacksmith’s forge. No heat, nor even noise, though on every side the world ticks and shivers. On Old Compton Street I hear a hoot, then overhead an owl swoops by, the pale feathers of its belly and its banded wings beating slow upon the heavy air, its ghostly form so close I might lift a hand and touch itthere. Somewhere later in my bed I sleep, a shifting dreamless thing, until I am woken by the dirty light of dawn, my body filled with memory of what has passed, and feeling now only its absence, the knowledge of its loss.
C HRISTMAS COMES , bringing snow and a sort of quiet to the city’s streets. Across the roofs bells ring out, their sound as clear as glass in the frozen air, carriages jangling on the stones. Though I have no family to call my own, by Robert’s invitation I spend Christmas night with his mother and sister, who have a house in Kentish Town. It is strange to see Robert thus, laughing and careless with his family, for he seems not at all the serious young man I have grown to know, and instead he clowns and jokes, teasing his sister until she laughs and pulls his hair, and dancing with his mother by the fire. The house is nothing grand: one floor of a building beside a field where donkeys graze,
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