A Country Road, A Tree Read Free Page B

become softer, closer, as the work begins to come together and be set in order.

    He stays out of their way; he can’t be of any help. His head still hurts; he’s liverish; he’s wary of questions, doesn’t want to share his plans. He hides behind his book.
    When they are done and the taxi is ordered, he carries the luggage downstairs and lines it up in the hall, the girls’ neat little cases and their mother’s larger one. Everybody waits, since that is all there is left to do now, the girls sitting side by side on the upright hall chairs, one set of white socks and buckle-shoes dangling and swinging slightly, the other set neatly instep-to-instep on the parquet, their owner made grown up by the gravity of the day.
    Time stretches and slows; the clock ticks. Mollie expresses concern about the taxi. May is worried about the weather: they’ll have a rough crossing ahead of them, she dares say. They cannot say anything worth saying, but that does not stop them talking, and the soft words accumulate, like sand trickling through an hourglass. They are up to their knees in it and yet still they can’t stop.
    Then there’s the sound of a car bumbling along the harbour road, which makes conversation break and scatter.
    “Is that—”
    “Ah, that must be—”
    “Have you got—”
    The motor idles in front of the house. Sheila has the front door open; the driver gets out of the cab and comes to help with the luggage.
    The girls smell of wool, and boiled milk and soap, when they are kissed; they are solemn and excited, knowing this is all so very serious now; their cheeks are hot against his cheek, and they smell no doubt his guilty adult reek of cigarettes and sweat and last night’s whiskey.
    Sheila hugs him sudden and hard. Words fail him.
    “God bless you, dear boy.”
    He manages, “God bless.”
    And then Sheila slides in beside the girls, who shunt themselves across to make room, and the door slams on them, and the driver gets in the front seat, and the car turns and moves away, grinding alongside the slate-blue harbour water.

    He goes indoors. He lights a cigarette. “Boy” is right. Child. Bear-cub that the dam didn’t bother licking into shape.
    The house feels dim and cold. A limestone pebble has been left on the hall console. It’s greyish, skin-smooth and about the size of a peppermint. It had sat in the girl’s creased and grubby palm, revealed to him like a secret that she knew he would keep, then tucked away again with a little gappy smile. Abandoned now, forgotten, its meaning shed. He lifts the stone. It’s cool to the touch. He cups it in his palm a moment, and then he slips his hand into his pocket and drops the stone in there.
    —
    He lopes along like a broken-down hound at Mollie’s side. Mollie has taken his arm to tether him to her pace. Her body is compact and soft in her Irish tweeds. It is a glorious afternoon, breezy and blue, a mockery, the low sun making them squint.
    “So are you going to tell me?” she asks him.
    He peers down at her. “Tell you what?”
    “Ach, come on now. Sheila and I could see it straight off.”
    “See what?”
    “Who’s the girl?”
    Her arm hooked through his, they stumble on together. He says nothing. Seagulls wheel overhead; waves suck and spit.
    “Come on, spill the beans.” She tugs his arm.
    “What makes you think there are beans to spill?”
    “You know what you’re like. Left to yourself, you’re a liability. You get ill; you get thin; you even got stabbed, for goodness’ sake! You can’t take care of yourself, can you? But look at you.” She stops and drags him round to face her. “Just look at you.” Rosy-cheeked in the wind, she studies him. “You’re clearly being taken care of.” She peers in closer, frowns. She flicks the back of her hand against his chest. “ Somebody has fixed a tear in that shirt.”
    He peers down. His lips twitch. Then he offers Mollie his arm again; she takes it and they walk on.

    “There’s a