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Authors: A. S. Byatt
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hadn’t seemed to be doing any harm, the boy, but you couldn’t tell. He thought she should know.
He was probably a friend of her son’s, she said. She looked at him kindly and explained. Her son had run off the Common with some other children, two years ago, in the summer, in July, and had been killed on the road. More or less instantly, she had added drily, as though calculating that just
enough
information wouldpreclude the need for further questions. He said he was sorry, very sorry, feeling to blame, which was ridiculous, and a little injured, because he had not known about her son, and might inadvertently have made a fool of himself with some casual reference whose ignorance would be embarrassing.
What was the boy like, she said. The one in the house? “I don’t — talk to his friends. I find it painful. It could be Timmy, or Martin. They might have lost something, or want …”
He described the boy. Blond, about ten at a guess, he was not very good at children’s ages, very blue eyes, slightly built, with a rainbow-striped tee shirt and blue jeans, mostly though not always — oh, and those football practice shoes, black and green. And the other tee shirt, with the ships and wavy lines. And an extraordinarily nice smile. A really
warm
smile. A nice-looking boy.
He was used to her being silent. But this silence went on and on and on. She was just staring into the garden. After a time, she said, in her precise conversational tone,
“The only thing I want, the only thing I want at all in this world, is to see that boy.”
She stared at the garden and he stared with her, until the grass began to dance with empty light, and the edges of the shrubbery wavered. For a brief moment he shared the strain of not seeing the boy. Then she gave a little sigh, sat down, neatly as always, and passed out at his feet.
After this she became, for her, voluble. He didn’t move her after she fainted, but sat patiently by her, until she stirred and sat up; then he fetched her some water, and would have gone away, but she talked.
“I’m too rational to see ghosts, I’m not someone who would see anything there was to see, I don’t believe in an after-life, I don’t see how anyone can, I always found a kind of satisfaction for myself in the idea that one just came to an end, to a sliced-off stop. But that was myself; I didn’t think
he
— not
he
— I thought ghosts were — what people
wanted
to see, or were afraid to see … andafter he died, the best hope I had, it sounds silly, was that I would go mad enough so that instead of waiting every day for him to come home from school and rattle the letter-box I might actually have the illusion of seeing or hearing him come in. Because I can’t stop my body and mind waiting, every day, every day, I can’t let go. And his bedroom, sometimes at night I go in, I think I might just for a moment forget he
wasn’t
in there sleeping, I think I would pay almost anything — anything at all — for a moment of seeing him like I used to. In his pyjamas, with his — his — his hair … ruffled, and, his … you said, his … that
smile.
“When it happened, they got Noel, and Noel came in and shouted my name, like he did the other day, that’s why I screamed, because it — seemed the same — and then they said, he is dead, and I thought coolly,
is
dead, that will go on and on and on till the end of time, it’s a continuous present tense, one thinks the most ridiculous things, there I was thinking about grammar, the verb to be, when it ends to be dead … And then I came out into the garden, and I half saw, in my mind’s eye, a kind of ghost of his face, just the eyes and hair, coming towards me — like every day waiting for him to come home, the way you think of your son, with such pleasure, when he’s — not there — and I — I thought — no, I won’t
see
him, because he is dead, and I won’t dream about him because he is dead, I’ll be rational and
He was probably a friend of her son’s, she said. She looked at him kindly and explained. Her son had run off the Common with some other children, two years ago, in the summer, in July, and had been killed on the road. More or less instantly, she had added drily, as though calculating that just
enough
information wouldpreclude the need for further questions. He said he was sorry, very sorry, feeling to blame, which was ridiculous, and a little injured, because he had not known about her son, and might inadvertently have made a fool of himself with some casual reference whose ignorance would be embarrassing.
What was the boy like, she said. The one in the house? “I don’t — talk to his friends. I find it painful. It could be Timmy, or Martin. They might have lost something, or want …”
He described the boy. Blond, about ten at a guess, he was not very good at children’s ages, very blue eyes, slightly built, with a rainbow-striped tee shirt and blue jeans, mostly though not always — oh, and those football practice shoes, black and green. And the other tee shirt, with the ships and wavy lines. And an extraordinarily nice smile. A really
warm
smile. A nice-looking boy.
He was used to her being silent. But this silence went on and on and on. She was just staring into the garden. After a time, she said, in her precise conversational tone,
“The only thing I want, the only thing I want at all in this world, is to see that boy.”
She stared at the garden and he stared with her, until the grass began to dance with empty light, and the edges of the shrubbery wavered. For a brief moment he shared the strain of not seeing the boy. Then she gave a little sigh, sat down, neatly as always, and passed out at his feet.
After this she became, for her, voluble. He didn’t move her after she fainted, but sat patiently by her, until she stirred and sat up; then he fetched her some water, and would have gone away, but she talked.
“I’m too rational to see ghosts, I’m not someone who would see anything there was to see, I don’t believe in an after-life, I don’t see how anyone can, I always found a kind of satisfaction for myself in the idea that one just came to an end, to a sliced-off stop. But that was myself; I didn’t think
he
— not
he
— I thought ghosts were — what people
wanted
to see, or were afraid to see … andafter he died, the best hope I had, it sounds silly, was that I would go mad enough so that instead of waiting every day for him to come home from school and rattle the letter-box I might actually have the illusion of seeing or hearing him come in. Because I can’t stop my body and mind waiting, every day, every day, I can’t let go. And his bedroom, sometimes at night I go in, I think I might just for a moment forget he
wasn’t
in there sleeping, I think I would pay almost anything — anything at all — for a moment of seeing him like I used to. In his pyjamas, with his — his — his hair … ruffled, and, his … you said, his … that
smile.
“When it happened, they got Noel, and Noel came in and shouted my name, like he did the other day, that’s why I screamed, because it — seemed the same — and then they said, he is dead, and I thought coolly,
is
dead, that will go on and on and on till the end of time, it’s a continuous present tense, one thinks the most ridiculous things, there I was thinking about grammar, the verb to be, when it ends to be dead … And then I came out into the garden, and I half saw, in my mind’s eye, a kind of ghost of his face, just the eyes and hair, coming towards me — like every day waiting for him to come home, the way you think of your son, with such pleasure, when he’s — not there — and I — I thought — no, I won’t
see
him, because he is dead, and I won’t dream about him because he is dead, I’ll be rational and
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