had not told her that she loved him.
And yet life went on. Mrs Dark made Gal breakfast, lunch and dinner and put him to bed at night. She washed his clothes and bought him new ones when he needed them. He was only five, after all, and he was her responsibility. And no one could have accused Deirdreâs grandmother of irresponsibility.
One rainy day, Deirdreâs grandmother, Deirdre and Gal were eating macaroni cheese for lunch in front of the midday movie. The film they were watching was
Waterloo Bridge
.
Strangely, perhaps, Mrs Dark loved old movies, particularly romances. They were the films of her own era, it was true. She had seen them all before when she was younger, in palatial cinemas with statues of Ancient Greek goddesses holding clocks that were softly illuminated in the darkness, so that you could leave early to catch your train if you needed to. But the movies she loved seemed to enshrine all the things she disapproved of. It was odd; it was as if she drew a very thick line between life as depicted in movies and life as she and Deirdre lived it. Or as if, when she was watching movies, she was more truly herself, and most of what she said about life wasnât true, was not even a genuine opinion; but was said only to make a point or to advance some private strategy.
Waterloo Bridge
was black and white and very sad. Robert Taylor was a dashing young officer who fell in love with Vivien Leigh, a fragile, melancholy little ballet dancer. He came to see her out the front of her boarding house the morning after they met. It was pouring with rain and they kissed under his umbrella. It was the first time Deirdre had seen two people kissing. She was so young when her parents had abandoned her that she could not remember them, and she was only five, and her life had been a sheltered one, spent within a tiny family circle of her grandmother and herself.
âDo people kiss on the lips in real life, Grandmother?â she asked. She thought that perhaps such things only happened in films.
Mrs Dark looked sideways at her.
âOf course not,â she answered roundly. âUgh! Can you imagine? The germs!â
Deirdre had not known what a kiss was, but she knew what germs were. Her grandmother had always been very concerned about them. It went without saying that no sensible person would do anything likely to involve germs. So it looked like kissing was out. She was not too disÂappointed; she knew the world of films and stories was a different world to this one. Nicer things happened in that world all the time.
Deirdre had never really taken her eyes off the movie, that beautiful, black-and-white, impossibly romantic world. So she did not see Gal looking at her grandmother and her grandmother looking back at Gal.
This time he said nothing, but Galâs life had not been as sheltered as Deirdreâs and he knew propaganda when he heard it.
That afternoon, while Deirdreâs grandmother was having her daily three oâclock nap, Deirdre and Gal played
Waterloo Bridge.
But they only kissed the air, the strangely sweet air, in front of each otherâs faces. Kissing properly was out of the question. Because of the germs.
Deirdre and Gal often looked at the photographs in Mrs Darkâs flat. In fact, after exploring, looking at the photographs was their favourite thing to do. They would linger around them in the window of time between being called in from play and sitting down to a meal. They would gaze at them, one after another, like pictures in an exhibition, while Mrs Dark was working next door in the kitchen. Often they would enter so deeply into that black-and-white world of pleading faces â each with their stories, each wanting so badly to tell your their side â that she would have to call them twice before they noticed that she had brought a meal in. And then she would smile secretly to herself.
Mrs Dark liked it when they looked at the photographs.
Some were more
And yet life went on. Mrs Dark made Gal breakfast, lunch and dinner and put him to bed at night. She washed his clothes and bought him new ones when he needed them. He was only five, after all, and he was her responsibility. And no one could have accused Deirdreâs grandmother of irresponsibility.
One rainy day, Deirdreâs grandmother, Deirdre and Gal were eating macaroni cheese for lunch in front of the midday movie. The film they were watching was
Waterloo Bridge
.
Strangely, perhaps, Mrs Dark loved old movies, particularly romances. They were the films of her own era, it was true. She had seen them all before when she was younger, in palatial cinemas with statues of Ancient Greek goddesses holding clocks that were softly illuminated in the darkness, so that you could leave early to catch your train if you needed to. But the movies she loved seemed to enshrine all the things she disapproved of. It was odd; it was as if she drew a very thick line between life as depicted in movies and life as she and Deirdre lived it. Or as if, when she was watching movies, she was more truly herself, and most of what she said about life wasnât true, was not even a genuine opinion; but was said only to make a point or to advance some private strategy.
Waterloo Bridge
was black and white and very sad. Robert Taylor was a dashing young officer who fell in love with Vivien Leigh, a fragile, melancholy little ballet dancer. He came to see her out the front of her boarding house the morning after they met. It was pouring with rain and they kissed under his umbrella. It was the first time Deirdre had seen two people kissing. She was so young when her parents had abandoned her that she could not remember them, and she was only five, and her life had been a sheltered one, spent within a tiny family circle of her grandmother and herself.
âDo people kiss on the lips in real life, Grandmother?â she asked. She thought that perhaps such things only happened in films.
Mrs Dark looked sideways at her.
âOf course not,â she answered roundly. âUgh! Can you imagine? The germs!â
Deirdre had not known what a kiss was, but she knew what germs were. Her grandmother had always been very concerned about them. It went without saying that no sensible person would do anything likely to involve germs. So it looked like kissing was out. She was not too disÂappointed; she knew the world of films and stories was a different world to this one. Nicer things happened in that world all the time.
Deirdre had never really taken her eyes off the movie, that beautiful, black-and-white, impossibly romantic world. So she did not see Gal looking at her grandmother and her grandmother looking back at Gal.
This time he said nothing, but Galâs life had not been as sheltered as Deirdreâs and he knew propaganda when he heard it.
That afternoon, while Deirdreâs grandmother was having her daily three oâclock nap, Deirdre and Gal played
Waterloo Bridge.
But they only kissed the air, the strangely sweet air, in front of each otherâs faces. Kissing properly was out of the question. Because of the germs.
Deirdre and Gal often looked at the photographs in Mrs Darkâs flat. In fact, after exploring, looking at the photographs was their favourite thing to do. They would linger around them in the window of time between being called in from play and sitting down to a meal. They would gaze at them, one after another, like pictures in an exhibition, while Mrs Dark was working next door in the kitchen. Often they would enter so deeply into that black-and-white world of pleading faces â each with their stories, each wanting so badly to tell your their side â that she would have to call them twice before they noticed that she had brought a meal in. And then she would smile secretly to herself.
Mrs Dark liked it when they looked at the photographs.
Some were more
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