his wife, and if he had been willing to do so Connie would have had to stop loving him. That was the impossibility of it.
And family…
It was significant that even Angela, who had been a friend for more than ten years, had to think twice about whether Connie had a family or not, and what it consisted of.
That was the way Connie preferred it to be.
She turned to look at Angela and started laughing.
‘What’s funny?’
‘Your expression. Angie, I know what you’re saying to me, and thank you for being concerned. Your advice is probably good. But I’m happy here, you know. I’m not hiding. And it’s very beautiful.’
‘Do you feel that you belong here?’
‘Do we have to feel that we belong?’
There was a sharp scream and a splash followed by some confused shouting.
‘What now?’ Angela groaned.
‘It sounded like Tara.’
‘Will you think about what I’m saying, though?’
‘Yes, I will.’
‘It’s mostly selfish. I want you to come home so we can see more of each other.’
Connie smiled. ‘I’d like that too. But I am home.’
The evening was finally over. Connie walked the empty side-roads back to her house, the way ahead a pale thread between black walls of dense greenery. It was a still night, and she brushed the trailing filaments of spiders’ webs from her face.
When she reached home, she saw that there was a small, motionless figure sitting on a stone at the point where her path diverged from her neighbours’. The figure took on the shape of Wayan Tupereme.
‘Wayan? Good evening.’
He got to his feet and shuffled to her in his plastic flip-flops.
‘I have a grandson,’ he said. ‘Dewi had a son tonight.’
Connie put her hands on his shoulders. The top of his head was level with her nose.
‘That’s wonderful news. Congratulations.’
Dewi was his youngest daughter, who had married and gone to live with her husband’s family. Wayan and his wife missed her badly.
He nodded. ‘I wanted you to know.’
‘I’m so pleased. Dewi and Pema must be very happy.’
‘We all are,’ the old man said. ‘We all are. A new baby. And a boy.’
THREE
‘Nearly there,’ Bill said unnecessarily, but in any case Jeanette’s head was turned away from him. She seemed to be admiring the bitter green of the hawthorn hedge and the froth of cow parsley standing up from the verge. It had rained earlier in the day but now the sky was washed clear, and bars of sunshine striped the tarmac where field gates broke the line of the hedge. ‘Nearly there,’ he repeated. Conscious of the bumps in the road, he tried to drive as smoothly as he could so she wouldn’t be jarred with pain.
Their house was at the end of a lane, behind a coppice of tall trees. Jeanette had found it, two years after Noah was born, and insisted that they buy it. Bill would have preferred to be closer to town but in the end he had given way to her, and he had to concede that she had been right. They had lived there for more than twenty years. Noah had grown up in the house, had finally left for university and then gone to live in London; Jeanette and he were still there. It would be their last home together. Lately they had talked about moving, maybe into town, to a minimalist apartment with a view of the river, but it had been just talk.
He swung the car past the gateposts and stopped as closeas he could to the front door. Jeanette did turn her head now, staring past him and up at the house. It had a steep tiled roof with mansard windows that had always made him think of eyes under heavy lids. A purple-flowered clematis and a cream climbing rose grew beside the front door, the colours harmonising with the dusty red brick of the house. Bill didn’t know the names of the varieties, but Jeanette would. She was a passionate gardener.
He turned off the ignition and the silence enveloped them. He took his wife’s hand and held it. He wanted to crush it, to rub his mouth against the thin skin, somehow revitalising her
And family…
It was significant that even Angela, who had been a friend for more than ten years, had to think twice about whether Connie had a family or not, and what it consisted of.
That was the way Connie preferred it to be.
She turned to look at Angela and started laughing.
‘What’s funny?’
‘Your expression. Angie, I know what you’re saying to me, and thank you for being concerned. Your advice is probably good. But I’m happy here, you know. I’m not hiding. And it’s very beautiful.’
‘Do you feel that you belong here?’
‘Do we have to feel that we belong?’
There was a sharp scream and a splash followed by some confused shouting.
‘What now?’ Angela groaned.
‘It sounded like Tara.’
‘Will you think about what I’m saying, though?’
‘Yes, I will.’
‘It’s mostly selfish. I want you to come home so we can see more of each other.’
Connie smiled. ‘I’d like that too. But I am home.’
The evening was finally over. Connie walked the empty side-roads back to her house, the way ahead a pale thread between black walls of dense greenery. It was a still night, and she brushed the trailing filaments of spiders’ webs from her face.
When she reached home, she saw that there was a small, motionless figure sitting on a stone at the point where her path diverged from her neighbours’. The figure took on the shape of Wayan Tupereme.
‘Wayan? Good evening.’
He got to his feet and shuffled to her in his plastic flip-flops.
‘I have a grandson,’ he said. ‘Dewi had a son tonight.’
Connie put her hands on his shoulders. The top of his head was level with her nose.
‘That’s wonderful news. Congratulations.’
Dewi was his youngest daughter, who had married and gone to live with her husband’s family. Wayan and his wife missed her badly.
He nodded. ‘I wanted you to know.’
‘I’m so pleased. Dewi and Pema must be very happy.’
‘We all are,’ the old man said. ‘We all are. A new baby. And a boy.’
THREE
‘Nearly there,’ Bill said unnecessarily, but in any case Jeanette’s head was turned away from him. She seemed to be admiring the bitter green of the hawthorn hedge and the froth of cow parsley standing up from the verge. It had rained earlier in the day but now the sky was washed clear, and bars of sunshine striped the tarmac where field gates broke the line of the hedge. ‘Nearly there,’ he repeated. Conscious of the bumps in the road, he tried to drive as smoothly as he could so she wouldn’t be jarred with pain.
Their house was at the end of a lane, behind a coppice of tall trees. Jeanette had found it, two years after Noah was born, and insisted that they buy it. Bill would have preferred to be closer to town but in the end he had given way to her, and he had to concede that she had been right. They had lived there for more than twenty years. Noah had grown up in the house, had finally left for university and then gone to live in London; Jeanette and he were still there. It would be their last home together. Lately they had talked about moving, maybe into town, to a minimalist apartment with a view of the river, but it had been just talk.
He swung the car past the gateposts and stopped as closeas he could to the front door. Jeanette did turn her head now, staring past him and up at the house. It had a steep tiled roof with mansard windows that had always made him think of eyes under heavy lids. A purple-flowered clematis and a cream climbing rose grew beside the front door, the colours harmonising with the dusty red brick of the house. Bill didn’t know the names of the varieties, but Jeanette would. She was a passionate gardener.
He turned off the ignition and the silence enveloped them. He took his wife’s hand and held it. He wanted to crush it, to rub his mouth against the thin skin, somehow revitalising her
Similar Books
