poses the questions to himself, there are only more questions, and the same question. He tries to consider his situation from a more positive angle. What is it that he does want?
He wants to lie on a beach feeling warm sand between his toes. He wants to swim in pure underwater silence. He wants to sit in an unhurried Italian village square with benevolent sunshine on his face, and watch the world go by.
He wants what he had, and didn’t imagine he would ever give up.
Alexander sits down on a bench in the shade of a tree. He puts his head in his hands. He takes a deep, deep breath, throws his head back. When he opens his eyes he is looking up through pink cherry blossom to blue, blue sky.
Five
‘Daddy forgot his watch,’ says Lucy, at the breakfast table. ‘He was blowing the time with a dandelion clock.’
The thought of Alexander strolling down the road with a dandelion clock in his hand sends a leap of optimism through Nell’s tummy.
‘He forgot to wave,’ says Lucy.
The image of Alexander mutates from carefree to preoccupied.
‘He probably thought you were still asleep,’ she says.
‘I think you might be right,’ says the five-year-old, thoughtfully, as she manoeuvres a spoonful of dry Cornflakes towards her mouth.
On the other side of the window, a bumble bee queen hovers just a couple of inches away from Nell’s face. She remembers the day she viewed the house and rushed back to London . ‘The air — it’s like breathing honey!’ she told Alexander as they ate dinner in the dark kitchen of the little house in Kentish Town that smelt of illness. ‘It would be so good for us all!’
Nell stares at the bright lime green leaves and luminously pale blossom on the two old apple trees whose gnarled branches embrace above the drive. She knows quite a lot about the science of allergy now, but still she can’t help thinking sometimes that it’s a spell that turns beauty poisonous.
‘Shall we do your antihistamine now?’
Nell dispenses 5 millilitres of clear fluid onto a plastic medicine spoon. Lucy takes it.
‘Do you want to lick the spoon?’
Lucy laps at the clinging syrup with methodical seriousness and smiles. It’s one of those moments that makes Nell feel like a proper mother. She recalls the sheer pleasure when her mother awarded her the cake spoon, the floppy floury taste of uncooked Victoria sponge, and the slightly rough softness of the damp wooden spoon against her tongue. It’s one of the universal truths of childhood that licking spoons is a treat.
The father of Lucy’s friend, Ben, jogs past the bottom of their drive. He smiles and waves, and then he’s obscured again by the hawthorn. Nell finds herself staring at the cloudy haze of grasses in the hedgerow on the other side of the lane.
‘I think I’ll tell Mrs Bunting that you’d better stay inside at breaktime ,’ she says.
‘Why?’ Lucy asks, reasonably enough.
‘Because I think the hay fever season is starting. I think that’s why you were a bit wheezy last night. You see, there’s a lot of pollen in the air from the blossom. You can’t see it, but it gets up your nose and makes you sneeze a lot.’
‘I see.’
Lucy is stoical, but it breaks Nell’s heart to th ink of her sitting inside the classroom watching all her friends playing games outside without her. When they decided to move here she pictured herself and Lucy hand in hand, dancing down the country lane to school. The reality is that on summer days Lucy labours for every breath, and in the winter, the damp cold air seems to make her lungs seize up. They nearly always go by car.
All at once Nell says, ‘Tell you what. It’s such a lovely day. Why don’t we go to the seaside? We could go and see Frances .’
Frances has been back from Tokyo for nearly six months, she calculates. They’ve talked on the phone nearly every week, but they’ve yet to meet up.
‘ Frances , yippee! Who’s Frances ?’ Lucy asks.
‘She’s an old
He wants to lie on a beach feeling warm sand between his toes. He wants to swim in pure underwater silence. He wants to sit in an unhurried Italian village square with benevolent sunshine on his face, and watch the world go by.
He wants what he had, and didn’t imagine he would ever give up.
Alexander sits down on a bench in the shade of a tree. He puts his head in his hands. He takes a deep, deep breath, throws his head back. When he opens his eyes he is looking up through pink cherry blossom to blue, blue sky.
Five
‘Daddy forgot his watch,’ says Lucy, at the breakfast table. ‘He was blowing the time with a dandelion clock.’
The thought of Alexander strolling down the road with a dandelion clock in his hand sends a leap of optimism through Nell’s tummy.
‘He forgot to wave,’ says Lucy.
The image of Alexander mutates from carefree to preoccupied.
‘He probably thought you were still asleep,’ she says.
‘I think you might be right,’ says the five-year-old, thoughtfully, as she manoeuvres a spoonful of dry Cornflakes towards her mouth.
On the other side of the window, a bumble bee queen hovers just a couple of inches away from Nell’s face. She remembers the day she viewed the house and rushed back to London . ‘The air — it’s like breathing honey!’ she told Alexander as they ate dinner in the dark kitchen of the little house in Kentish Town that smelt of illness. ‘It would be so good for us all!’
Nell stares at the bright lime green leaves and luminously pale blossom on the two old apple trees whose gnarled branches embrace above the drive. She knows quite a lot about the science of allergy now, but still she can’t help thinking sometimes that it’s a spell that turns beauty poisonous.
‘Shall we do your antihistamine now?’
Nell dispenses 5 millilitres of clear fluid onto a plastic medicine spoon. Lucy takes it.
‘Do you want to lick the spoon?’
Lucy laps at the clinging syrup with methodical seriousness and smiles. It’s one of those moments that makes Nell feel like a proper mother. She recalls the sheer pleasure when her mother awarded her the cake spoon, the floppy floury taste of uncooked Victoria sponge, and the slightly rough softness of the damp wooden spoon against her tongue. It’s one of the universal truths of childhood that licking spoons is a treat.
The father of Lucy’s friend, Ben, jogs past the bottom of their drive. He smiles and waves, and then he’s obscured again by the hawthorn. Nell finds herself staring at the cloudy haze of grasses in the hedgerow on the other side of the lane.
‘I think I’ll tell Mrs Bunting that you’d better stay inside at breaktime ,’ she says.
‘Why?’ Lucy asks, reasonably enough.
‘Because I think the hay fever season is starting. I think that’s why you were a bit wheezy last night. You see, there’s a lot of pollen in the air from the blossom. You can’t see it, but it gets up your nose and makes you sneeze a lot.’
‘I see.’
Lucy is stoical, but it breaks Nell’s heart to th ink of her sitting inside the classroom watching all her friends playing games outside without her. When they decided to move here she pictured herself and Lucy hand in hand, dancing down the country lane to school. The reality is that on summer days Lucy labours for every breath, and in the winter, the damp cold air seems to make her lungs seize up. They nearly always go by car.
All at once Nell says, ‘Tell you what. It’s such a lovely day. Why don’t we go to the seaside? We could go and see Frances .’
Frances has been back from Tokyo for nearly six months, she calculates. They’ve talked on the phone nearly every week, but they’ve yet to meet up.
‘ Frances , yippee! Who’s Frances ?’ Lucy asks.
‘She’s an old
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