Through a Camel's Eye by Dorothy Johnston Page A

in a normal voice. She marvelled that this person to whom she’d given birth could be so cruel.
    But now, when Camilla passed the telephone on its stand in the hallway, she thought of Chris Blackie and wondered what progress he was making. She thought of writing him a note about Julie Beshervase coming to her place at night, but decided not to. She didn’t want to get Julie into trouble.

TEN
    Anthea woke to the sounds of water birds and opened her curtains to the slow movements of swans across the bay. She felt she would never get used to the sheer number of birds. There were thousands out there feeding when the tide was right.
    The light was pearly over the water as the fog began to lift, sun strengthening every second, turning the sea and sky into a soft blue-grey. In the distance, on the opposite shore, a line of light hit the tree-tops. Round the corner, hidden from her view, the town was beginning to stir.
    Before plugging in the kettle, Anthea switched her phone on and checked for missed calls. It was her habit to do this each morning, though she’d given up hoping that Graeme would ring or text her late at night. At least she turned her phone off when she went to bed. The first two weeks she’d left it on, sleeping fitfully; at every creak the wind made she’d grabbed the small rectangle from her bedside table, as though it was the weather’s fault that it refused to ring.
    She’d grown used to the night sounds. There was so little traffic on her narrow street that every car announced itself as individual. It would be easy, she thought as she ate her solitary evening meals, to amuse herself by spying on her neighbours. Sometimes she went outside at night, just to feel the cool dark air all around her, taste its briny texture, smell the strong weedy smell coming off the bay at low tide. A footpath wound its way along the top of a low cliff. After dinner the night before, she’d taken her torch and set off along the path.
    After a while, she’d turned the torch off. The moon had been up and she’d seen quite well without it. She’d thought of her phone not ringing on the bedside table, how the air of expectation in her flat was squeezed and squeezed until she couldn’t bear it any more. She’d stood still and traced the outline of Swan Island, where there was an army training camp, imagining all those waterbirds roosting in military lines.
    She’d pictured herself getting in the car, not stopping till she reached Graeme’s suburb, and the house he shared with another architect. She would confront him, forcing answers to her questions. Hadn’t she been trained to do just that?
    Anthea had kept walking, tiring herself out. Back at the flat, she’d had a shower and fallen into bed, slept well for the first time in weeks, woken to a different question, or the same one differently put. Did it require more courage to wait, or to have it out with Graeme?
    Anthea had never been a patient person. She forced herself to be patient when dealing with members of the public, but it did not come naturally. She expected others to come up with answers as quickly as she put the questions. She was inclined to interpret hesitation either as evasion sliding into lies; the wish to prevaricate while thinking up a lie; or a sign of cowardice. After all this time, she asked herself, what did she want from Graeme? Did she want him back, or did she want to shout at him and tell him to go to hell? Did she want him back if it meant pretending that these miserable weeks had never been?
    Before leaving for work, Anthea made a start unpacking her boxes, stacking her books by subject and alphabetically on the built-in bookshelves along one wall of the living-room. Then she made a shopping list, wondering if it was a cause for congratulation that her needs were so modest.
    Anthea guessed that there was no love lost between Frank Erwin and her boss, and that perhaps some old rivalry or