boat moored to a little jetty nearby, both
standing out brightly against the silvery whorls and eddies of the
tide. All at once I understood what I was seeing on a human scale,
and then I saw that the wind in the pine woods around the hut was
restless and quick; branches jerked and trembled with none of the
dreamy enchantment of swaying trees seen from a distance. And I
thought, if someone were to appear from the door and walk down the
jetty to the boat, I would be close enough to call out. I looked
downriver to the bridge, maybe a mile away, arching over from the
city to the forest side. I walked a few yards down the shore and
closer, until I could hear above the shirring of the water a
stately, faint thrum from the traffic crossing over it, and carried
by the breeze that blew across, there came an eerie, soft booming
that I supposed had to do with the disturbance of air through the
steel spans stretching up into the windy sky.
Suddenly there was a rattle of stones and a shout behind me. I
turned in time to see the man struggling to keep his balance,
sliding sideways on the slope of loose rocks and puddles. Falling,
he let go of the child, pushing her away from him so as not to
squash her under his weight as he toppled. I ran towards them. The
child was a rolling bundle of unravelling clothes and wrappings,
and I reached her just as she began to scream. The man tumbled
several feet and landed heavily, letting out a long cry just as the
child screamed again. She wasn’t hurt, but she was frightened, and
when I picked her up she was so puzzled she abruptly stopped crying
to stare at my face. I saw her eyes register that she didn’t know
me, and then she writhed in my arms and took a deep breath, ready
to roar her head off. I jounced her up and down and smiled and
chuckled, and turned her around so she could see her father getting
to his feet.
“There, there, little one, there’s Papa, ooh, look,
oops-a-daisy! Silly Papa! Look!” I crooned, and the child gave me
another assessing look, before she burst out wailing, stretching
her arms out to her father. He came towards us breathless,
unsmiling. I handed the child over, but he had hurt his arm or
shoulder and winced under the weight of her.
“Oh, here, I’ll hold her for you,” I offered, and tried to draw
her to me again, but she curled up crying into his chest and he
took two long steps back. He spoke a few words to her in a foreign
language I couldn’t identify, then cast me a pained look and nodded
towards the trailer. “I can manage that far,” he said.
At the trailer door the child scrambled down without a word,
plonked herself on the bottom step and lifted up first one foot and
then the other to her father, holding on to her socks while he
pulled off her boots. Inside, he unwrapped her from her layers
while she craned round, staring at me. She clambered up onto the
window seat and settled herself into a nest of soft toys, pulling a
rubbery-looking giraffe onto her lap, and the end of its tail into
her mouth. The wall above her head was covered with pictures in
crayon, some wild, coloured scribbles that had torn the paper, and
some done by an adult for a child, of cats and houses, flowers and
boats and birds. She kept watching me, no less suspiciously. She
was beautifully and magically the image of her father: the same
curly, slaty-blue-black hair, the intense gaze from strikingly
clear blue eyes, long, fragile hands. The man, nursing his wrist,
nodded to me to sit down, and as I took the place beside her, she
raised her eyes and smiled at me. I looked away. She made me
nervous, more nervous than he did. Her beauty was close to
overwhelming, but it wasn’t so much her beauty as her physical,
breathing existence that moved me. I was sitting close enough to
reach and touch her hair, and a few hours ago I had been almost
ready to rob myself of even that small gesture towards my own
child.
“Hello,” I said, turning to her. “And what’s your
standing out brightly against the silvery whorls and eddies of the
tide. All at once I understood what I was seeing on a human scale,
and then I saw that the wind in the pine woods around the hut was
restless and quick; branches jerked and trembled with none of the
dreamy enchantment of swaying trees seen from a distance. And I
thought, if someone were to appear from the door and walk down the
jetty to the boat, I would be close enough to call out. I looked
downriver to the bridge, maybe a mile away, arching over from the
city to the forest side. I walked a few yards down the shore and
closer, until I could hear above the shirring of the water a
stately, faint thrum from the traffic crossing over it, and carried
by the breeze that blew across, there came an eerie, soft booming
that I supposed had to do with the disturbance of air through the
steel spans stretching up into the windy sky.
Suddenly there was a rattle of stones and a shout behind me. I
turned in time to see the man struggling to keep his balance,
sliding sideways on the slope of loose rocks and puddles. Falling,
he let go of the child, pushing her away from him so as not to
squash her under his weight as he toppled. I ran towards them. The
child was a rolling bundle of unravelling clothes and wrappings,
and I reached her just as she began to scream. The man tumbled
several feet and landed heavily, letting out a long cry just as the
child screamed again. She wasn’t hurt, but she was frightened, and
when I picked her up she was so puzzled she abruptly stopped crying
to stare at my face. I saw her eyes register that she didn’t know
me, and then she writhed in my arms and took a deep breath, ready
to roar her head off. I jounced her up and down and smiled and
chuckled, and turned her around so she could see her father getting
to his feet.
“There, there, little one, there’s Papa, ooh, look,
oops-a-daisy! Silly Papa! Look!” I crooned, and the child gave me
another assessing look, before she burst out wailing, stretching
her arms out to her father. He came towards us breathless,
unsmiling. I handed the child over, but he had hurt his arm or
shoulder and winced under the weight of her.
“Oh, here, I’ll hold her for you,” I offered, and tried to draw
her to me again, but she curled up crying into his chest and he
took two long steps back. He spoke a few words to her in a foreign
language I couldn’t identify, then cast me a pained look and nodded
towards the trailer. “I can manage that far,” he said.
At the trailer door the child scrambled down without a word,
plonked herself on the bottom step and lifted up first one foot and
then the other to her father, holding on to her socks while he
pulled off her boots. Inside, he unwrapped her from her layers
while she craned round, staring at me. She clambered up onto the
window seat and settled herself into a nest of soft toys, pulling a
rubbery-looking giraffe onto her lap, and the end of its tail into
her mouth. The wall above her head was covered with pictures in
crayon, some wild, coloured scribbles that had torn the paper, and
some done by an adult for a child, of cats and houses, flowers and
boats and birds. She kept watching me, no less suspiciously. She
was beautifully and magically the image of her father: the same
curly, slaty-blue-black hair, the intense gaze from strikingly
clear blue eyes, long, fragile hands. The man, nursing his wrist,
nodded to me to sit down, and as I took the place beside her, she
raised her eyes and smiled at me. I looked away. She made me
nervous, more nervous than he did. Her beauty was close to
overwhelming, but it wasn’t so much her beauty as her physical,
breathing existence that moved me. I was sitting close enough to
reach and touch her hair, and a few hours ago I had been almost
ready to rob myself of even that small gesture towards my own
child.
“Hello,” I said, turning to her. “And what’s your
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