Read Online The Time We Have Taken by Steven Carroll - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Steven Carroll
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has delivered just such a talk on many occasions before. Michael is now thankful for never having been introduced. If he had, he would now almost certainly feel compelled to speak to him should they catch each other’s eyes. And that would beunfortunate, for Michael knows, without even having met him, that he doesn’t like this man.
And it is while Michael is giving thanks for this that the man turns his attention to those sitting beside him and, in so doing, turns in Michael’s direction so that his words become clearer.
‘Everyone,’ he says, the hint of a smile behind his eyes, ‘thinks she’s as pure as a country field.’
He has the air of authority, this man. And whether he is speaking on the subject of women or grave and elevated themes, everybody listens with a sort of rapt belief. He has, Michael can clearly see, that kind of power over people. Madeleine spoke once of a man at the hospital, a resident genius (a vague reference, no names, but Michael, rightly or wrongly, immediately suspected who she was talking about). And she did not dwell on his looks or his manners or the incidentals of his life. No, she dwelt on his work, the importance of his research and the sheer wonder of what he did. She spoke briefly of him, but spoke almost in awe of somebody involved in one of life’s mighty projects, a grand narrative currently lacking in her life, and which, by implication, she would never find with the likes of Michael.
‘A country field.’ He smiles once more. ‘But not beyond ploughing.’
The small group strains forward, but he leaves it there, with a quiet nod. Then he rises, a tap on hiswrist-watch indicating that playtime is over and the more serious matters of life and death await them.
And it is now, as they are leaving, that Michael and this man do, in fact, catch each other’s eyes. It is momentary, but Michael is sure — as they exit — that there was recognition in the stare. Recognition, and something more. And, as they stroll across the wide street outside, Michael is left contemplating if that flash of recognition was real or imagined, and, if so, just what that something more might have been.
He turns the top corner of the page and life in Middlemarch snaps shut for the time. Even as he does, he hears the voice of Madeleine telling him not to do that, that the page feels it. Didn’t he know? Her little ways and expressions have entered his day-to-day living — don’t dog-ear the pages of books, TTFN at the bottom of a letter — and her very accent, for he constantly catches himself now slipping into her sing-song voice. And it is something that will never entirely leave him, so infectious is it.
There is a slight, almost autumn, chill in the air as he crosses the road and walks back into the university. He was, of course, this man, talking about anybody. Just anybody. And Michael shrugs the incident off — if that’s what it is — as if shrugging off the sudden out-of-season chill settling over things. But it stays with him: the hint of a chill andthe nagging image of Madeleine, cast as a latter-day Dorothea seeking the grand narratives of life in the works of someone else.
In his room, later in the afternoon, he sits at his desk, looking out over the street from his balcony window and waiting for the hour to roll round when he will rise from his chair and meet Madeleine. Twilight has almost fallen and she will currently be making herself ready for the evening. Or she will be ready and simply filling in time, chatting to her sister. It is the hour before meeting Madeleine. An hour, that in years to come, will be synonymous with this time of day, the clutter of his desk, the cheap plastic mug from which he occasionally sips and the thrill that infuses all the objects around him with a sense of moment.
He returns to his book. Life in Middlemarch turns another page, and once again he loses himself in the quiet rhythms of another time, another world. As he picks up the threads
And it is while Michael is giving thanks for this that the man turns his attention to those sitting beside him and, in so doing, turns in Michael’s direction so that his words become clearer.
‘Everyone,’ he says, the hint of a smile behind his eyes, ‘thinks she’s as pure as a country field.’
He has the air of authority, this man. And whether he is speaking on the subject of women or grave and elevated themes, everybody listens with a sort of rapt belief. He has, Michael can clearly see, that kind of power over people. Madeleine spoke once of a man at the hospital, a resident genius (a vague reference, no names, but Michael, rightly or wrongly, immediately suspected who she was talking about). And she did not dwell on his looks or his manners or the incidentals of his life. No, she dwelt on his work, the importance of his research and the sheer wonder of what he did. She spoke briefly of him, but spoke almost in awe of somebody involved in one of life’s mighty projects, a grand narrative currently lacking in her life, and which, by implication, she would never find with the likes of Michael.
‘A country field.’ He smiles once more. ‘But not beyond ploughing.’
The small group strains forward, but he leaves it there, with a quiet nod. Then he rises, a tap on hiswrist-watch indicating that playtime is over and the more serious matters of life and death await them.
And it is now, as they are leaving, that Michael and this man do, in fact, catch each other’s eyes. It is momentary, but Michael is sure — as they exit — that there was recognition in the stare. Recognition, and something more. And, as they stroll across the wide street outside, Michael is left contemplating if that flash of recognition was real or imagined, and, if so, just what that something more might have been.
He turns the top corner of the page and life in Middlemarch snaps shut for the time. Even as he does, he hears the voice of Madeleine telling him not to do that, that the page feels it. Didn’t he know? Her little ways and expressions have entered his day-to-day living — don’t dog-ear the pages of books, TTFN at the bottom of a letter — and her very accent, for he constantly catches himself now slipping into her sing-song voice. And it is something that will never entirely leave him, so infectious is it.
There is a slight, almost autumn, chill in the air as he crosses the road and walks back into the university. He was, of course, this man, talking about anybody. Just anybody. And Michael shrugs the incident off — if that’s what it is — as if shrugging off the sudden out-of-season chill settling over things. But it stays with him: the hint of a chill andthe nagging image of Madeleine, cast as a latter-day Dorothea seeking the grand narratives of life in the works of someone else.
In his room, later in the afternoon, he sits at his desk, looking out over the street from his balcony window and waiting for the hour to roll round when he will rise from his chair and meet Madeleine. Twilight has almost fallen and she will currently be making herself ready for the evening. Or she will be ready and simply filling in time, chatting to her sister. It is the hour before meeting Madeleine. An hour, that in years to come, will be synonymous with this time of day, the clutter of his desk, the cheap plastic mug from which he occasionally sips and the thrill that infuses all the objects around him with a sense of moment.
He returns to his book. Life in Middlemarch turns another page, and once again he loses himself in the quiet rhythms of another time, another world. As he picks up the threads
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