Read Online The Secret Intensity of Everyday Life by William Nicholson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: William Nicholson
Ads: Link
invitation. A sensitive young man like Alan could not fail to pick up the deeper meaning. And why deny the truth? David does lack the qualities a woman looks for in a man. Once he said to her, ‘All I am is your nurse, Marion.’ Well, there you have it in a nutshell. A woman doesn’t want a man as a nurse. She wants a provider, a protector, a lover.
But suppose Alan did construe her words as an invitation? What should she do? She realizes she must prepare with care and delicacy for their next encounter. To a sensitive young man the slightest nuance of word or look could be critical. It would be quite wrong to ask him to supper, for example. To do so would be to invite an open declaration of his feelings. And what would she say then?
What would she say?
For the first time Marion allows herself to imagine what it would be like if she did not resist. She would make him happy: of that she was sure. She believes she would be happy herself. But what about David? She owes him very little really. He was there when she went through that bad time, but that’s the best that can be said of him, that he was there. She came through it all on her own, and with the help of Dr Skilling, of course. If Alan needs me, why shouldn’t I make him happy? All we have in this short life is a chance of happiness. Such a chance may never come again.
Back in her own little kitchen she takes out of a drawer in the dresser a small brown button. She spotted this button on her neighbour’s path some time ago, and picked it up to give back to him. It must have come from one of his jackets. When you lose a button it’s often hard to find a match, so it’s worthwhile keeping the old ones.
She holds the button between her two palms, pressing them tight together. Yes, she thinks, it may be that it’s time I let change into my life. It may be that he loves me. It may be that I must learn to love him.
With this thought there comes a sensation of deep blessed calm, that she recognizes as the gift of a power greater than herself. She closes her eyes and lowers her head and gives silent thanks.
This will be a good week.
11
Laura crosses the west terrace at Edenfield Place and makes her way slowly down the lime avenue to the lake. There, fringed by rushes, stands the lake house, derelict, long abandoned, considered to be unsafe. A short railed bridge links it to the shore. A cord tied from side to side to indicate that access is not permitted hangs low as a skipping rope. Laura steps over it and passes between tall reeds to the main structure.
It stands on piles encircled by a broad grey deck, its single room timber-walled, hexagonal, many-windowed. The roof is shingled with larch. Some of the shingles have slipped. The doors facing the big house have gone. Inside a mass of dead leaves has been swept by the wind against one wall. Two iron chairs stand looking through blurred windows over the calm surface of the lake.
She steps carefully across the deck, which has rotted away in places to reveal the dark water below. She sits in one of the iron chairs, holds her handbag on her lap as if there’s a danger it might be stolen. In her bag is the letter, headed by an address and a phone number. In her bag is her phone.
The burden of memories. So long in storage, impossibly undamaged, as good as new.
A hesitant voice breaks over her reverie.
‘Hello? Laura?’
It’s Billy Holland on the land side of the bridge.
‘Don’t want to disturb you.’
‘It’s all right. I shouldn’t be here anyway. It’s supposed not to be safe.’
‘Oh, it’s safe enough.’ He crosses the bridge. ‘Not that I’ve been here in years.’
‘Watch where you step.’
But he comes to her without caring where his feet fall.
‘Do you have a moment?’
They sit on the iron chairs side by side and watch the patterns made by the wind on the water. She holds her letter, he holds his letters. A bundle of fifty-year-old papers no longer tied with string.
‘Was I
But suppose Alan did construe her words as an invitation? What should she do? She realizes she must prepare with care and delicacy for their next encounter. To a sensitive young man the slightest nuance of word or look could be critical. It would be quite wrong to ask him to supper, for example. To do so would be to invite an open declaration of his feelings. And what would she say then?
What would she say?
For the first time Marion allows herself to imagine what it would be like if she did not resist. She would make him happy: of that she was sure. She believes she would be happy herself. But what about David? She owes him very little really. He was there when she went through that bad time, but that’s the best that can be said of him, that he was there. She came through it all on her own, and with the help of Dr Skilling, of course. If Alan needs me, why shouldn’t I make him happy? All we have in this short life is a chance of happiness. Such a chance may never come again.
Back in her own little kitchen she takes out of a drawer in the dresser a small brown button. She spotted this button on her neighbour’s path some time ago, and picked it up to give back to him. It must have come from one of his jackets. When you lose a button it’s often hard to find a match, so it’s worthwhile keeping the old ones.
She holds the button between her two palms, pressing them tight together. Yes, she thinks, it may be that it’s time I let change into my life. It may be that he loves me. It may be that I must learn to love him.
With this thought there comes a sensation of deep blessed calm, that she recognizes as the gift of a power greater than herself. She closes her eyes and lowers her head and gives silent thanks.
This will be a good week.
11
Laura crosses the west terrace at Edenfield Place and makes her way slowly down the lime avenue to the lake. There, fringed by rushes, stands the lake house, derelict, long abandoned, considered to be unsafe. A short railed bridge links it to the shore. A cord tied from side to side to indicate that access is not permitted hangs low as a skipping rope. Laura steps over it and passes between tall reeds to the main structure.
It stands on piles encircled by a broad grey deck, its single room timber-walled, hexagonal, many-windowed. The roof is shingled with larch. Some of the shingles have slipped. The doors facing the big house have gone. Inside a mass of dead leaves has been swept by the wind against one wall. Two iron chairs stand looking through blurred windows over the calm surface of the lake.
She steps carefully across the deck, which has rotted away in places to reveal the dark water below. She sits in one of the iron chairs, holds her handbag on her lap as if there’s a danger it might be stolen. In her bag is the letter, headed by an address and a phone number. In her bag is her phone.
The burden of memories. So long in storage, impossibly undamaged, as good as new.
A hesitant voice breaks over her reverie.
‘Hello? Laura?’
It’s Billy Holland on the land side of the bridge.
‘Don’t want to disturb you.’
‘It’s all right. I shouldn’t be here anyway. It’s supposed not to be safe.’
‘Oh, it’s safe enough.’ He crosses the bridge. ‘Not that I’ve been here in years.’
‘Watch where you step.’
But he comes to her without caring where his feet fall.
‘Do you have a moment?’
They sit on the iron chairs side by side and watch the patterns made by the wind on the water. She holds her letter, he holds his letters. A bundle of fifty-year-old papers no longer tied with string.
‘Was I
Similar Books
