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Authors: Joanne Harris
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his coat on, because he was half-way to the door …
‘I’d really better be
going, Al. It’s getting late. But thanks, goodbye.’
‘Goodbye,’ said Alice
forlornly to the door as he stepped out into the night. ‘Oh, Joe …’
But Joe had already
gone, the orange of the street-light making a strange, garish figure of him as
he moved rapidly down the street.
‘Goodnight,’ said Alice
lamely; she couldn’t remember what she had wanted to say to him anyway. She
turned, and there was Ginny, waiting politely beside the stairs, that little,
knowing smile on her face, her eyes in a band of shadow so dark that it might
have been a mask. Alice tried to smile back, shook her heavy head, took two
steps towards the kitchen.
‘Ginny, would you like a
drink?’ she offered, with an effort.
‘That’s very kind,’
Ginny said. Her voice was soft but clear, with an undertone of mockery, her
accent light and untraceable. ‘But do you mind if I go upstairs and change? I’ll
feel much more comfortable.’
‘Of course!’ Alice’s
smile felt better now, more sincere. Maybe it was Joe’s absence which did it. ‘I’m
afraid it’s a bit makeshift upstairs, but it was the best I could do at short
notice. You can put your clothes in the wardrobe, if you like, and if there’s
anything you need, just give me a shout.’
‘Thank you. I’ll be
fine.’
‘OK. Take your time.’
Ginny did not reply, but
Alice heard her going upstairs.
It occurred to her then,
with a sudden jolt, that the girl was shy and a long way from home, and she
felt ashamed of the extent of her antipathy. It was probably her fault
that Ginny had been unresponsive; she supposed she had been rude. She should
have tried to include the girl and make her talk.
Mentally berating
herself for the failure of her good intentions, she determined to give Ginny a
chance, to be friends with her, and felt better at once, having made the
decision. She put the kettle on, set out two cups, smiled, and brought out a
tin of biscuits as well. As she began to set the biscuits out on a dish, she
even began to hum.
One
I DREAMED OF HER AGAIN TONIGHT; WHY MENTION
IT, I wonder, when it happens every night, every night without failing, each
time in some new and monstrous clothing, my dreams bloated like poison fruit?
Why write it, when her face looks out from the page at me, when her delicate
hands close on mine as I hold the pen? Oh, Rosemary.
Her presence is like a
perfume in the air, her voice, a whistle to the winds. Last night I dreamed of
her. All in grey, she was, with flowers in her hands and her long red hair
loose to the winds, singing to herself as she walked along the riverside where
the hemlock was growing tall, and I thought to myself: here is a lady lost, in
danger. So I stood up and walked through the graveyard towards her; I stumbled
over a stone in my haste and she turned and saw me. I don’t think she spoke,
but, as she turned, I saw that she was holding something in one hand, a little
round glass something, like a marble, and she held it out towards me, and
smiled. The wind whistled through the little round thing as she held it, a
strange, mournful sound, and as I stretched out my hand to receive it, I saw my
own face staring out at me, long and distorted in the glass surface, mouth open
in an impossibly wide, moaning scream. As I looked, the marble seemed to grow
bigger and bigger, until I could see trees and houses through its convex
surface, houses and bushes and a road, and a railway line winding its way
through a wood … Suddenly, I was afraid. I looked around. Nothing.
Nothing but the rails,
the trees, the whistle of the engine far away. I looked up at the sky. And then
I understood. She was there, had been there all the time, looking down, her
hair drifting out, her eyes great tunnels of death, bigger than the world. And
outside the world, in the strange fisheye she inhabited, there was nothing but
darkness. No sky
‘I’d really better be
going, Al. It’s getting late. But thanks, goodbye.’
‘Goodbye,’ said Alice
forlornly to the door as he stepped out into the night. ‘Oh, Joe …’
But Joe had already
gone, the orange of the street-light making a strange, garish figure of him as
he moved rapidly down the street.
‘Goodnight,’ said Alice
lamely; she couldn’t remember what she had wanted to say to him anyway. She
turned, and there was Ginny, waiting politely beside the stairs, that little,
knowing smile on her face, her eyes in a band of shadow so dark that it might
have been a mask. Alice tried to smile back, shook her heavy head, took two
steps towards the kitchen.
‘Ginny, would you like a
drink?’ she offered, with an effort.
‘That’s very kind,’
Ginny said. Her voice was soft but clear, with an undertone of mockery, her
accent light and untraceable. ‘But do you mind if I go upstairs and change? I’ll
feel much more comfortable.’
‘Of course!’ Alice’s
smile felt better now, more sincere. Maybe it was Joe’s absence which did it. ‘I’m
afraid it’s a bit makeshift upstairs, but it was the best I could do at short
notice. You can put your clothes in the wardrobe, if you like, and if there’s
anything you need, just give me a shout.’
‘Thank you. I’ll be
fine.’
‘OK. Take your time.’
Ginny did not reply, but
Alice heard her going upstairs.
It occurred to her then,
with a sudden jolt, that the girl was shy and a long way from home, and she
felt ashamed of the extent of her antipathy. It was probably her fault
that Ginny had been unresponsive; she supposed she had been rude. She should
have tried to include the girl and make her talk.
Mentally berating
herself for the failure of her good intentions, she determined to give Ginny a
chance, to be friends with her, and felt better at once, having made the
decision. She put the kettle on, set out two cups, smiled, and brought out a
tin of biscuits as well. As she began to set the biscuits out on a dish, she
even began to hum.
One
I DREAMED OF HER AGAIN TONIGHT; WHY MENTION
IT, I wonder, when it happens every night, every night without failing, each
time in some new and monstrous clothing, my dreams bloated like poison fruit?
Why write it, when her face looks out from the page at me, when her delicate
hands close on mine as I hold the pen? Oh, Rosemary.
Her presence is like a
perfume in the air, her voice, a whistle to the winds. Last night I dreamed of
her. All in grey, she was, with flowers in her hands and her long red hair
loose to the winds, singing to herself as she walked along the riverside where
the hemlock was growing tall, and I thought to myself: here is a lady lost, in
danger. So I stood up and walked through the graveyard towards her; I stumbled
over a stone in my haste and she turned and saw me. I don’t think she spoke,
but, as she turned, I saw that she was holding something in one hand, a little
round glass something, like a marble, and she held it out towards me, and
smiled. The wind whistled through the little round thing as she held it, a
strange, mournful sound, and as I stretched out my hand to receive it, I saw my
own face staring out at me, long and distorted in the glass surface, mouth open
in an impossibly wide, moaning scream. As I looked, the marble seemed to grow
bigger and bigger, until I could see trees and houses through its convex
surface, houses and bushes and a road, and a railway line winding its way
through a wood … Suddenly, I was afraid. I looked around. Nothing.
Nothing but the rails,
the trees, the whistle of the engine far away. I looked up at the sky. And then
I understood. She was there, had been there all the time, looking down, her
hair drifting out, her eyes great tunnels of death, bigger than the world. And
outside the world, in the strange fisheye she inhabited, there was nothing but
darkness. No sky
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