Innocence
F RANCES MUST BE late, surely, Reed thought as he stood waiting on the bridge by the railway station. He was beginning to feel restless and uncomfortable; the handles of his bag bit into his palm, and he noticed that the rain promised in the forecast that morning was already starting to fall.
Wonderful! Here he was, over two hundred miles away from home, and Francis hadnât turned up. But Reed couldnât be sure about that. Perhaps he was early. They had made the same arrangement three or four times over the past five years, but for the life of him Reed couldnât remember the exact time theyâd met.
Reed turned and noticed a plump woman in a threadbare blue overcoat come struggling against the wind over the bridge towards him. She pushed a large stroller, in which two infants fought and squealed.
âExcuse me,â he called out as she neared him, âcould you tell me what time school gets out?â
The woman gave him a funny lookâeither puzzlement or irritation, he couldnât decide whichâand answered in the clipped, nasal accent peculiar to the Midlands, âHalf past three.â Then she hurried by, giving Reed a wide berth.
He was wrong. For some reason he had got it into his mind that Francis finished teaching at three oâclock. It was only twenty-Âfive past now, so there would be at least another fifteen minutes to wait before the familiar red Escort came into sight.
The rain was getting heavier and the wind lashed it hard against Reedâs face. A few yards up the road from the bridge was the bus station, which was attached to a large modern shopping center, all glass and escalators. Reed could stand in the entrance there just beyond the doors, where it was warm and dry, and still watch for Francis.
At about twenty-Âfive to four, the first schoolchildren came dashing over the bridge and into the bus station, satchels swinging, voices shrill and loud with freedom. The rain didnât seem to bother them, Reed noticed: hair lay plastered to skulls; beads of rain hung on the tips of noses. Most of the boysâ ties were askew, their socks hung loose around their ankles and their shoelaces snaked along the ground. It was a wonder they didnât trip over themselves. Reed smiled, remembering his own schooldays.
And how alluring the girls looked as they ran smiling and laughing out of the rain into the shelter of the mall. Not the really young ones, the unformed ones, but the older, long-Âlimbed girls, newly aware of their breasts and the swelling of their hips. They wore their clothes carelessly: blouses hanging out, black woolly tights twisted or torn at the knees. To Reed, there was something wanton in their disarray.
These days, of course, they probably all knew what was what, but Reed couldnât help but feel that there was also a certain innocence about them: a naive, carefree grace in the way they moved and a casual freedom in their laughter and gestures. Life hadnât got to them yet; they hadnât felt its weight and seen the darkness at its core.
Mustnât get carried away, Reed told himself, with a smile. It was all very well to joke with Bill in the office about how sexy the schoolgirls who passed the window each day were, but it was positively unhealthy to mean it, or (God forbid!) attempt to do anything about it. He couldnât be turning into a dirty old man at thirty-Âfive, could he? Sometimes the power and violence of his fantasies worried him, but perhaps everyone else had them too. It wasnât something you could talk about at work. He didnât really think he was abnormal; after all, he hadnât acted them out, and you couldnât be arrested for your fantasies, could you?
Where the hell was Francis? Reed peered out through the glass. Windblown rain lashed across the huge plate windows and distorted the outside world. All detail was obliterated in favor of the overall mood: gray-Âglum and
F RANCES MUST BE late, surely, Reed thought as he stood waiting on the bridge by the railway station. He was beginning to feel restless and uncomfortable; the handles of his bag bit into his palm, and he noticed that the rain promised in the forecast that morning was already starting to fall.
Wonderful! Here he was, over two hundred miles away from home, and Francis hadnât turned up. But Reed couldnât be sure about that. Perhaps he was early. They had made the same arrangement three or four times over the past five years, but for the life of him Reed couldnât remember the exact time theyâd met.
Reed turned and noticed a plump woman in a threadbare blue overcoat come struggling against the wind over the bridge towards him. She pushed a large stroller, in which two infants fought and squealed.
âExcuse me,â he called out as she neared him, âcould you tell me what time school gets out?â
The woman gave him a funny lookâeither puzzlement or irritation, he couldnât decide whichâand answered in the clipped, nasal accent peculiar to the Midlands, âHalf past three.â Then she hurried by, giving Reed a wide berth.
He was wrong. For some reason he had got it into his mind that Francis finished teaching at three oâclock. It was only twenty-Âfive past now, so there would be at least another fifteen minutes to wait before the familiar red Escort came into sight.
The rain was getting heavier and the wind lashed it hard against Reedâs face. A few yards up the road from the bridge was the bus station, which was attached to a large modern shopping center, all glass and escalators. Reed could stand in the entrance there just beyond the doors, where it was warm and dry, and still watch for Francis.
At about twenty-Âfive to four, the first schoolchildren came dashing over the bridge and into the bus station, satchels swinging, voices shrill and loud with freedom. The rain didnât seem to bother them, Reed noticed: hair lay plastered to skulls; beads of rain hung on the tips of noses. Most of the boysâ ties were askew, their socks hung loose around their ankles and their shoelaces snaked along the ground. It was a wonder they didnât trip over themselves. Reed smiled, remembering his own schooldays.
And how alluring the girls looked as they ran smiling and laughing out of the rain into the shelter of the mall. Not the really young ones, the unformed ones, but the older, long-Âlimbed girls, newly aware of their breasts and the swelling of their hips. They wore their clothes carelessly: blouses hanging out, black woolly tights twisted or torn at the knees. To Reed, there was something wanton in their disarray.
These days, of course, they probably all knew what was what, but Reed couldnât help but feel that there was also a certain innocence about them: a naive, carefree grace in the way they moved and a casual freedom in their laughter and gestures. Life hadnât got to them yet; they hadnât felt its weight and seen the darkness at its core.
Mustnât get carried away, Reed told himself, with a smile. It was all very well to joke with Bill in the office about how sexy the schoolgirls who passed the window each day were, but it was positively unhealthy to mean it, or (God forbid!) attempt to do anything about it. He couldnât be turning into a dirty old man at thirty-Âfive, could he? Sometimes the power and violence of his fantasies worried him, but perhaps everyone else had them too. It wasnât something you could talk about at work. He didnât really think he was abnormal; after all, he hadnât acted them out, and you couldnât be arrested for your fantasies, could you?
Where the hell was Francis? Reed peered out through the glass. Windblown rain lashed across the huge plate windows and distorted the outside world. All detail was obliterated in favor of the overall mood: gray-Âglum and
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