was no pain, only connection. I say smile , I say saw, because these are the only words I have to describe what is beyond words—such feeble, incomplete instruments they are! Let me go, whoever you are! Why do you make me speak, use words where no words belong, only connection? Truly I was mistaken: I have no rules to give you: there is such a tangle in the sewing box! Where does one thread begin, another end? How can I know? Please let me rest in peace!’
My poor Gabriella’s voice faded out. She seemed to suffer. I wanted not to hear, but how could I refuse experience? I threw switches and turned dials, almost to overload. I would not let her go.
‘Here, see, a strand,’ she went on, after a while, as if fingers and mind had been busy un-plaiting. A strong one, a central one, around which the tangle forms. Yes—see!—that must be Timothy Tovey. It is plaited and woven and multicoloured; it is shot through with silver and gold. How wonderful it is! But look! Someone has washed him badly, made the water too hot. The colours have run. It need never have happened. Any person can be washed, if proper care and attention is paid, even those which say “Dry Clean Only”—which is mostly only a manufacturer’s convenience—oh, my poor head! What is a word, and what is a label, and what is a principle, and who can we trust? …’
Here, for all my efforts, the tape ends, abruptly; and, fortunately, with it the sensuous spell cast over me by that elderly woman, Gabriella Sumpter, dead these three months. Lucky for Honor: how does a woman deal with a husband in love with a re-wind? I have no doubt he moons and picks at his food and longs for death, the sooner to join his beloved, to be part of the joyous throng in the Great Script Conference—for that, I have no doubt, is where Gabriella Sumpter found herself.
Honor would have done her best to keep me in this world, and fed me on dumplings and lemon meringue pie, packet-made. I don’t think she has ever washed a garment by hand, let alone ironed one. She does not even possess an iron: she pushes a week’s multicoloured laundry into the washing machine and switches it to ‘whites, heavy’ and gets on with her life. That is why my underclothing is always harsh and pinkish-purplish. But neither would Honor have deceived me with the likes of Clive Cunningham.
I counted my blessings, shook the spell of Gabriella Sumpter from me, and prepared a solid and constructive report on the Sumpter Tapes for the coming GNFR Synod. I argued that they contained no evidence that the GSWITS was attempting to contact his humble creation, or giving us the reassurance we need that we have, indeed, through our contacts with the re-winds, put our fingers on the meaning of the universe.
The rules of laundry are not the rules of life! I included some fairly strong criticism of the current clique of pinner priests. The report may well be something of a sensation. But I was not finished with Gabriella Sumpter. That night she came to me in a dream: a high-bosomed sixteen-year-old girl in a white dress, singed around the hem, her hair dishevelled, her lovely eyes wild. She begged me to take a message to Janice Tovey, to say there was nothing to grieve about, since everything was part of everything else. How familiar, how sweet her voice was. But I decided I would do nothing; Janice Tovey would hardly welcome such a message. Re-winds are everywhere these days, and the messages they send are not necessarily more sensible in death than in life.
On the following night Gabriella came again, and this time Honor saw her too: the presence in our bedroom was so bright it was as if someone had switched on the light. Honor, usually such a sound sleeper, woke with a start and, seeing a stranger in the room, groped for the teeth she kept in a glass beside the bed. I have no doubt she wanted to look her best, for Gabriella, at some thirty years, was the most ravishing creature I have ever seen, dressed in
My poor Gabriella’s voice faded out. She seemed to suffer. I wanted not to hear, but how could I refuse experience? I threw switches and turned dials, almost to overload. I would not let her go.
‘Here, see, a strand,’ she went on, after a while, as if fingers and mind had been busy un-plaiting. A strong one, a central one, around which the tangle forms. Yes—see!—that must be Timothy Tovey. It is plaited and woven and multicoloured; it is shot through with silver and gold. How wonderful it is! But look! Someone has washed him badly, made the water too hot. The colours have run. It need never have happened. Any person can be washed, if proper care and attention is paid, even those which say “Dry Clean Only”—which is mostly only a manufacturer’s convenience—oh, my poor head! What is a word, and what is a label, and what is a principle, and who can we trust? …’
Here, for all my efforts, the tape ends, abruptly; and, fortunately, with it the sensuous spell cast over me by that elderly woman, Gabriella Sumpter, dead these three months. Lucky for Honor: how does a woman deal with a husband in love with a re-wind? I have no doubt he moons and picks at his food and longs for death, the sooner to join his beloved, to be part of the joyous throng in the Great Script Conference—for that, I have no doubt, is where Gabriella Sumpter found herself.
Honor would have done her best to keep me in this world, and fed me on dumplings and lemon meringue pie, packet-made. I don’t think she has ever washed a garment by hand, let alone ironed one. She does not even possess an iron: she pushes a week’s multicoloured laundry into the washing machine and switches it to ‘whites, heavy’ and gets on with her life. That is why my underclothing is always harsh and pinkish-purplish. But neither would Honor have deceived me with the likes of Clive Cunningham.
I counted my blessings, shook the spell of Gabriella Sumpter from me, and prepared a solid and constructive report on the Sumpter Tapes for the coming GNFR Synod. I argued that they contained no evidence that the GSWITS was attempting to contact his humble creation, or giving us the reassurance we need that we have, indeed, through our contacts with the re-winds, put our fingers on the meaning of the universe.
The rules of laundry are not the rules of life! I included some fairly strong criticism of the current clique of pinner priests. The report may well be something of a sensation. But I was not finished with Gabriella Sumpter. That night she came to me in a dream: a high-bosomed sixteen-year-old girl in a white dress, singed around the hem, her hair dishevelled, her lovely eyes wild. She begged me to take a message to Janice Tovey, to say there was nothing to grieve about, since everything was part of everything else. How familiar, how sweet her voice was. But I decided I would do nothing; Janice Tovey would hardly welcome such a message. Re-winds are everywhere these days, and the messages they send are not necessarily more sensible in death than in life.
On the following night Gabriella came again, and this time Honor saw her too: the presence in our bedroom was so bright it was as if someone had switched on the light. Honor, usually such a sound sleeper, woke with a start and, seeing a stranger in the room, groped for the teeth she kept in a glass beside the bed. I have no doubt she wanted to look her best, for Gabriella, at some thirty years, was the most ravishing creature I have ever seen, dressed in
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