dog’s back. Claudia hums. Lisa squats, from time to time, to extract minute objects from the undergrowth with tiny, meticulous fingers.
‘What have you got?’ enquires Claudia.
‘A thing,’ says Lisa.
Claudia bends to inspect. ‘That’s a wood-louse.’
‘It’s got legs,’ says Lisa.
‘Yes,’ says Claudia, with a faint shudder. ‘Lots of legs. Don’t squash it like that. You’ll hurt it.’
‘Why doesn’t it want me to hurt it?’
‘Well…’ Claudia struggles, frowning. ‘You don’t like people hurting you, do you?’
Lisa stares at Claudia expressionless. She drops the wood-louse. ‘You’ve got funny eyes.’
Claudia, whose eyes have attracted much favourable comment, loses her expression of benign interest.
‘They’ve got black holes in them,’ Lisa continues.
‘Ah,’ says Claudia. ‘Those are called pupils. You’ve got them too.’
‘No I haven’t,’ says Lisa, laughing lightly. She walks on, immediately in front of Claudia, who has to modulate her step so as not to fall over her. Claudia feels oddly disadvantaged, both because of the inconveniently short paces she is having to take and for another, less identifiable, reason. She stops humming and thinks about this. Presently she says, ‘Do you remember when I took you to the beach and you went swimming?’
‘No,’ replies Lisa, at once.
‘Of course you do,’ says Claudia sharply. ‘I bought you a yellow rubber ring. And a spade. It was last month.’
‘It was a long time ago not as long as all that,’ says Lisa.
‘There! You do remember.’
Lisa is silent. She turns to look at Claudia, who sees that her eyes are hideously crossed.
‘Don’t do that – you’ll get a squint.’
‘I’m making a face.’
‘So I see. It isn’t a very nice one.’
A robin sings, piercingly. The wood shivers and quivers and sways around them. Warm summer Devon breezes stroke their faces and their limbs. The dog defecates on to a cushion of moss. Lisa observes, without comment. Claudia sits down on a fallen branch. ‘Why are you sitting down?’ asks Lisa.
‘My legs get tired.’
Lisa rubs her calf. ‘Mine aren’t.’
‘They’re shorter,’ says Claudia. ‘Perhaps that’s why.’
Lisa stretches out a leg and contemplates it. Claudia watches. The dog lies on a patch of grass, nose between paws. Lisa says, ‘Rex has got short legs too. More legs.’
‘If he’s got more legs,’ says Claudia, ‘do you think he’s more tired?’
‘I don’t know,’ replies Lisa promptly. ‘Is he?’
‘I don’t know either. What do you think?’
Lisa is now picking the heads from a clump of buttercupsand assembling them in a heap. She ignores Claudia, who takes out a cigarette and lights it. The smoke that Claudia exhales mingles with the yellow shafts of sunlight and hangs there, a soupy churning density in the clear air of the wood. Lisa gets to her feet and wades through this to reach the dog; she scatters the buttercup heads on to his back. The dog does not move. Lisa kneels beside him and mutters something.
Claudia says, ‘What are you talking to Rex about?’
‘Nothing,’ replies Lisa, distantly.
The trees are singing. They also make whooshing and hissing noises and eyes stare from their trunks, shapes of big cruel eyes at which you must not look or creatures might pounce out and get you – ghosts and witches and old men like the old man who sweeps the street outside Claudia’s house in London. If she can count to ten before she gets to the tree, that one whooshing and shushing and watching her, if she can count to ten without going wrong nothing will get her, the horrid eyes will vanish; she does, and they do.
Claudia is really Mummy, but she does not like being Mummy so you have to say Claudia. Granny Hampton and Granny Branscombe both like being grannies so it is all right to say Granny. Mummy is a silly word, whereas Claudia is my name. Whereas is a funny word; you do not say it, you blow it. Whereas,
‘What have you got?’ enquires Claudia.
‘A thing,’ says Lisa.
Claudia bends to inspect. ‘That’s a wood-louse.’
‘It’s got legs,’ says Lisa.
‘Yes,’ says Claudia, with a faint shudder. ‘Lots of legs. Don’t squash it like that. You’ll hurt it.’
‘Why doesn’t it want me to hurt it?’
‘Well…’ Claudia struggles, frowning. ‘You don’t like people hurting you, do you?’
Lisa stares at Claudia expressionless. She drops the wood-louse. ‘You’ve got funny eyes.’
Claudia, whose eyes have attracted much favourable comment, loses her expression of benign interest.
‘They’ve got black holes in them,’ Lisa continues.
‘Ah,’ says Claudia. ‘Those are called pupils. You’ve got them too.’
‘No I haven’t,’ says Lisa, laughing lightly. She walks on, immediately in front of Claudia, who has to modulate her step so as not to fall over her. Claudia feels oddly disadvantaged, both because of the inconveniently short paces she is having to take and for another, less identifiable, reason. She stops humming and thinks about this. Presently she says, ‘Do you remember when I took you to the beach and you went swimming?’
‘No,’ replies Lisa, at once.
‘Of course you do,’ says Claudia sharply. ‘I bought you a yellow rubber ring. And a spade. It was last month.’
‘It was a long time ago not as long as all that,’ says Lisa.
‘There! You do remember.’
Lisa is silent. She turns to look at Claudia, who sees that her eyes are hideously crossed.
‘Don’t do that – you’ll get a squint.’
‘I’m making a face.’
‘So I see. It isn’t a very nice one.’
A robin sings, piercingly. The wood shivers and quivers and sways around them. Warm summer Devon breezes stroke their faces and their limbs. The dog defecates on to a cushion of moss. Lisa observes, without comment. Claudia sits down on a fallen branch. ‘Why are you sitting down?’ asks Lisa.
‘My legs get tired.’
Lisa rubs her calf. ‘Mine aren’t.’
‘They’re shorter,’ says Claudia. ‘Perhaps that’s why.’
Lisa stretches out a leg and contemplates it. Claudia watches. The dog lies on a patch of grass, nose between paws. Lisa says, ‘Rex has got short legs too. More legs.’
‘If he’s got more legs,’ says Claudia, ‘do you think he’s more tired?’
‘I don’t know,’ replies Lisa promptly. ‘Is he?’
‘I don’t know either. What do you think?’
Lisa is now picking the heads from a clump of buttercupsand assembling them in a heap. She ignores Claudia, who takes out a cigarette and lights it. The smoke that Claudia exhales mingles with the yellow shafts of sunlight and hangs there, a soupy churning density in the clear air of the wood. Lisa gets to her feet and wades through this to reach the dog; she scatters the buttercup heads on to his back. The dog does not move. Lisa kneels beside him and mutters something.
Claudia says, ‘What are you talking to Rex about?’
‘Nothing,’ replies Lisa, distantly.
The trees are singing. They also make whooshing and hissing noises and eyes stare from their trunks, shapes of big cruel eyes at which you must not look or creatures might pounce out and get you – ghosts and witches and old men like the old man who sweeps the street outside Claudia’s house in London. If she can count to ten before she gets to the tree, that one whooshing and shushing and watching her, if she can count to ten without going wrong nothing will get her, the horrid eyes will vanish; she does, and they do.
Claudia is really Mummy, but she does not like being Mummy so you have to say Claudia. Granny Hampton and Granny Branscombe both like being grannies so it is all right to say Granny. Mummy is a silly word, whereas Claudia is my name. Whereas is a funny word; you do not say it, you blow it. Whereas,
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