Instead, he hears a series of sharp intakes of breath.
âIâm crying, Mark,â I say, loudly. Iâm not, of course. Iâve managed, somehow, to bring a kind of dampness to my eyes, but I soon forget to carry on the breathing. âWhat are you doing, Mark?â I ask.
âNothing,â he says, before he can think not to. I rattle the handle. He grabs it on his side to stop me. This, he must realise, is how itâll be from now on. He doesnât want anything to do with me. I donât want much to do with him either, but heâs there, in my way. I may as well.
âYou canât not do anything. No one can!â I tell him. âI bet youâre thinking at least. You must be, or youâd be dead. â He keeps quiet. I do too. After a while, he jerks the door open, but of course, by then Iâm gone, back down the stairs to Barbara.
âAre you all right now?â Barbara asks, as we walk to the gate. She smiles back at the slow, serious nod I give her. The evenings are long now, she says. She supposes it is all right for me to walk home alone. (Of course, really she wants to walk with me, to see where I come from, but John is due home for his supper any moment now.)
âGive my regards to your mother. And donât forget the note. I do hope she likes the biscuits.â I nod again.
âCan I come back?â
âOf course.â
âWhen?â
âWhenever your mother says. Youâre always welcome.â
âBut Mark doesnât want me here.â Iâm testing her: what sheâs noticed, what sheâll do. I lower my eyes, finger the brown bag of biscuits Iâm taking home. My mouth waters.
âHeâs just used to being on his own. Or maybe itâs the age heâs at. You come just whenever you want.â
She reaches forward to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear . . . and I know that she wants also to unroll the right-hand sleeve of my dress and fasten the buttons on the cuffs, though the left one is missing and, in any case, the sleeves are far too short and the cuffs need turning. . . . Oh, how she longs to gently straighten everything up, a touch here, a touch there â and thatâs what I want too â but she stops herself. These things donât seem right to do before she has met my mother, obtained permission.
âGo on, now,â she says, âhurry home.â
I straighten up, turn my head slightly to one side, tilt it at the same time, close my eyes â something Iâve often seen Sandra do. Thereâs pretty much no choice for Barbara but to bend down and press her lips against my offered cheek. And then itâs all right, I can go.
âGod bless you,â she says, in that whispery-husky voice of hers which â even in memory â can relax my shoulders, make me fill my lungs, calm down and think that everything will, after all, be all right in the end. I leave her, standing in the front garden, with its evening scent of honeysuckle and old-fashioned roses, breathing it in and feeling lighter and braver, and at the same time tender â but also greedy for other stirring scents: the smells of a babyâs head, of day-old, worked-in clothes, of wind-dried linen, sex, the ozone tang of her own blood at menstruation, at birth. Of strawberries, plums from the tree in the back garden, leaf mould, steam, windswept beaches â her own private, inimitable intimate relation to the world, the one thing that can never be taken away â
Afterwards, I imagine, she goes straight in to see Mark.
âWhat is the matter with you?â she asks. Mark shifts awkwardly in his chair, pretending to read, not answering. Hair is just shadowing his chin; he probably hasnât even noticed it yet. His brows are pulled down and heâs wearing one of John Hernâs expressions, a kind of angry implacability. All of a sudden he seems huge.
âI donât know why you are
âIâm crying, Mark,â I say, loudly. Iâm not, of course. Iâve managed, somehow, to bring a kind of dampness to my eyes, but I soon forget to carry on the breathing. âWhat are you doing, Mark?â I ask.
âNothing,â he says, before he can think not to. I rattle the handle. He grabs it on his side to stop me. This, he must realise, is how itâll be from now on. He doesnât want anything to do with me. I donât want much to do with him either, but heâs there, in my way. I may as well.
âYou canât not do anything. No one can!â I tell him. âI bet youâre thinking at least. You must be, or youâd be dead. â He keeps quiet. I do too. After a while, he jerks the door open, but of course, by then Iâm gone, back down the stairs to Barbara.
âAre you all right now?â Barbara asks, as we walk to the gate. She smiles back at the slow, serious nod I give her. The evenings are long now, she says. She supposes it is all right for me to walk home alone. (Of course, really she wants to walk with me, to see where I come from, but John is due home for his supper any moment now.)
âGive my regards to your mother. And donât forget the note. I do hope she likes the biscuits.â I nod again.
âCan I come back?â
âOf course.â
âWhen?â
âWhenever your mother says. Youâre always welcome.â
âBut Mark doesnât want me here.â Iâm testing her: what sheâs noticed, what sheâll do. I lower my eyes, finger the brown bag of biscuits Iâm taking home. My mouth waters.
âHeâs just used to being on his own. Or maybe itâs the age heâs at. You come just whenever you want.â
She reaches forward to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear . . . and I know that she wants also to unroll the right-hand sleeve of my dress and fasten the buttons on the cuffs, though the left one is missing and, in any case, the sleeves are far too short and the cuffs need turning. . . . Oh, how she longs to gently straighten everything up, a touch here, a touch there â and thatâs what I want too â but she stops herself. These things donât seem right to do before she has met my mother, obtained permission.
âGo on, now,â she says, âhurry home.â
I straighten up, turn my head slightly to one side, tilt it at the same time, close my eyes â something Iâve often seen Sandra do. Thereâs pretty much no choice for Barbara but to bend down and press her lips against my offered cheek. And then itâs all right, I can go.
âGod bless you,â she says, in that whispery-husky voice of hers which â even in memory â can relax my shoulders, make me fill my lungs, calm down and think that everything will, after all, be all right in the end. I leave her, standing in the front garden, with its evening scent of honeysuckle and old-fashioned roses, breathing it in and feeling lighter and braver, and at the same time tender â but also greedy for other stirring scents: the smells of a babyâs head, of day-old, worked-in clothes, of wind-dried linen, sex, the ozone tang of her own blood at menstruation, at birth. Of strawberries, plums from the tree in the back garden, leaf mould, steam, windswept beaches â her own private, inimitable intimate relation to the world, the one thing that can never be taken away â
Afterwards, I imagine, she goes straight in to see Mark.
âWhat is the matter with you?â she asks. Mark shifts awkwardly in his chair, pretending to read, not answering. Hair is just shadowing his chin; he probably hasnât even noticed it yet. His brows are pulled down and heâs wearing one of John Hernâs expressions, a kind of angry implacability. All of a sudden he seems huge.
âI donât know why you are
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