curtain.
The journey hither takes three hours and thirty-five minutes, not allowing for mishaps. More than once, in our godforsaken part of the world, some wretch or beast has surrendered to the embraces of the rail track. Yes, the evening train winding and wending its way and all that fabled scenery and sky and skyline and torrents of rain.
Farewell, dear callous lady.
Madame! There has been a strange development for which you are indirectly responsible. Had you seen me, it could not have occurred, as I would have had to take the later train and not the six o'clock express.
I had found an empty carriage, and as the train gave its preliminary lurches a door behind me, which I presumed led to the driver's cabin, was unlocked and a passenger ushered in. Even before I turned to look I knew, by the quickening of my pulse. It was not the footfall and not yet the voice, because no one had spoken; you could almost say my hunch was ethereal, yes, plucked from the ether. There was my husband, with his squashed briefcase, wedged under his elbow, and a stack of papers in his arms, which he was holding awkwardly. He was flushed from having to race to catch the train.
"Millie," he said, incredulous. As the train started, his papers skived all about and he flopped onto the seat opposite and looked at me almost with wonder, as if he were seeing me in some way altered, his wife of twenty-two years leading a secret life, having a day up in Dublin, a rendezvous perhaps, and wearing a black cloche hat with a soft furry feather that tapered along the cheek.
"Where did we buy that hat?" he asked.
"We" I said, lingering on the word, "we bought it in Paris on the Rue du Dragon one Christmas Eve, as it began to snow."
"So we did," he said, and gazed into space as if he would have given anything to see falling snow.
The countryside, like our lives, is rolling by, stacks of chimney pots higgledy-piggledy, rooks and jackdaws whirling in the dusk of heaven.
In a while, he will lead me along to the dining car, a little agitation at the core of both our hearts, and we shall sit quietly, uncertain of what the future may hold.
----
Black Flower
'TIS A DUMP," Mona said.
"'Tis grand," Shane said, looking around.
For an hour or more they had driven, under the prow of a mountain, in search of a restaurant that would be quiet but also cheerful, and now they had landed themselves in this big, gaunt room that seemingly served as both ballroom and dining room. A microphone on a metal stand took pride of place, and a bit of orange curtain lay crumpled on the bandstand, as if someone had flung it down there in petulance. One end of a long refectory table was covered with a white lace cloth under which there had been put a strip of red crepe paper, and it was there they would most likely be seated.
Itwas late spring, and when from the roadway they had spotted the rusted iron gates and the long winding avenue, they thought how suitable and how enchanting it seemed. Moreover, the hotel had a lovely name— Glasheen. They drove up the long avenue, trees on either side, oak, sycamore, ash, all meshed together, fighting amiably as it were for ascendancy and birds in their evening sallies, noisier than the pigeons who cooed softly in their roomy roosts.
A battered jalopy with a for sale sign stood in the car park that was separated from a nearby meadow by a rope of green cable. A sign on a post read, D anger— H igh V oltage, and from a metal box there came a burping that every few seconds rose to a growl.
Close to the entrance was a butcher's van with the owner's name printed in tasteful brown lettering, and on the step a child's tractor filled with toy soldiers and wooden blocks. In the hallway, a nest of candles glimmered on a high whatnot and a luxuriant flowering plant trailed and crept along the floor, amoebawise. The petals were a soft, velvety black, with tiny green eyes, pinpoints, and there was something both beautiful and sinister about it. She
The journey hither takes three hours and thirty-five minutes, not allowing for mishaps. More than once, in our godforsaken part of the world, some wretch or beast has surrendered to the embraces of the rail track. Yes, the evening train winding and wending its way and all that fabled scenery and sky and skyline and torrents of rain.
Farewell, dear callous lady.
Madame! There has been a strange development for which you are indirectly responsible. Had you seen me, it could not have occurred, as I would have had to take the later train and not the six o'clock express.
I had found an empty carriage, and as the train gave its preliminary lurches a door behind me, which I presumed led to the driver's cabin, was unlocked and a passenger ushered in. Even before I turned to look I knew, by the quickening of my pulse. It was not the footfall and not yet the voice, because no one had spoken; you could almost say my hunch was ethereal, yes, plucked from the ether. There was my husband, with his squashed briefcase, wedged under his elbow, and a stack of papers in his arms, which he was holding awkwardly. He was flushed from having to race to catch the train.
"Millie," he said, incredulous. As the train started, his papers skived all about and he flopped onto the seat opposite and looked at me almost with wonder, as if he were seeing me in some way altered, his wife of twenty-two years leading a secret life, having a day up in Dublin, a rendezvous perhaps, and wearing a black cloche hat with a soft furry feather that tapered along the cheek.
"Where did we buy that hat?" he asked.
"We" I said, lingering on the word, "we bought it in Paris on the Rue du Dragon one Christmas Eve, as it began to snow."
"So we did," he said, and gazed into space as if he would have given anything to see falling snow.
The countryside, like our lives, is rolling by, stacks of chimney pots higgledy-piggledy, rooks and jackdaws whirling in the dusk of heaven.
In a while, he will lead me along to the dining car, a little agitation at the core of both our hearts, and we shall sit quietly, uncertain of what the future may hold.
----
Black Flower
'TIS A DUMP," Mona said.
"'Tis grand," Shane said, looking around.
For an hour or more they had driven, under the prow of a mountain, in search of a restaurant that would be quiet but also cheerful, and now they had landed themselves in this big, gaunt room that seemingly served as both ballroom and dining room. A microphone on a metal stand took pride of place, and a bit of orange curtain lay crumpled on the bandstand, as if someone had flung it down there in petulance. One end of a long refectory table was covered with a white lace cloth under which there had been put a strip of red crepe paper, and it was there they would most likely be seated.
Itwas late spring, and when from the roadway they had spotted the rusted iron gates and the long winding avenue, they thought how suitable and how enchanting it seemed. Moreover, the hotel had a lovely name— Glasheen. They drove up the long avenue, trees on either side, oak, sycamore, ash, all meshed together, fighting amiably as it were for ascendancy and birds in their evening sallies, noisier than the pigeons who cooed softly in their roomy roosts.
A battered jalopy with a for sale sign stood in the car park that was separated from a nearby meadow by a rope of green cable. A sign on a post read, D anger— H igh V oltage, and from a metal box there came a burping that every few seconds rose to a growl.
Close to the entrance was a butcher's van with the owner's name printed in tasteful brown lettering, and on the step a child's tractor filled with toy soldiers and wooden blocks. In the hallway, a nest of candles glimmered on a high whatnot and a luxuriant flowering plant trailed and crept along the floor, amoebawise. The petals were a soft, velvety black, with tiny green eyes, pinpoints, and there was something both beautiful and sinister about it. She
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