Long Lankin: Stories Read Free

among the trees, but would go no deeper than where the firelight reached. They called to him, and called, and nothing answered but the wild wood’s echo.

Lovers
     
    Birds were going mad in the square, spring and the recent rain had them convinced that they were enchanters. Muriel crossed the road and sauntered along by the green railings, swinging her bag and whistling with the magic music. Late April sunlight was in the street, softly washing against the houses and dusting the ragged trees with colour.
    She turned the corner and light from above flashed in her eyes. She looked along the tall face of the houses. At a high open window a figure stood, one hand on the sill. She waved her arm, and smiling she lowered her head and ran across the road. As she came near it the door opened and a bent old man in a shabby raincoat shuffled out on the step. He peered at her, his jaw working, his little eyes half closed against the light. She was about to step past him when he turned and slowly, firmly closed the door. She watched him as he went down the steps muttering to himself, then she grinned and put out her tongue at his back. She rang the bell. After a long moment she heard steps in the hall, and Peter opened the door.
    —Well, she said. You came at last.
    He stood in the dark musty hall, smiling, one arm raised and laid along the edge of the door. The front of his sweater was covered in dust, and he needed a shave. He was about to speak when she pointed at his head and laughed.
    —Look at you, she said. You have cobwebs in your hair.
    —Cobwebs. So I have.
    They climbed the stairs and he put his arm around her and kissed her cheek. She said:
    —Have you everything ready?
    —Almost.
    The flat looked as though something had exploded there. On the sagging bed were piled books and papers tied into bundles with thick white string. Two battered trunks stood by the window, their straps straining. The kitchen table held the remnants of two or three meals, and the floor had a thick layer of dust that soaked the sunlight where it fell. An ancient wardrobe lay on its side before the fireplace like a great dead animal, its mirror smashed. She stood in the middle of it all and looked around with comic despair. He lit a cigarette and leaned his long thin frame against the sideboard. He watched her, smiling. She said:
    —Have we to take all this?
    —Well, not the wardrobe.
    She laughed, and dropping her bag she stepped near him, and the light picked out the tiny yellow flecks in the pupils of her eyes. When she opened her lips a thin silver thread hung between them an instant, and broke. He took her in his arms and kissed her. After a moment she laid her cheek against his neck and asked:
    —What will we do today, Peter?
    He did not answer, but buried his face in her dark hair. She moved back a pace and looked up at him.
    —What’s wrong?
    —Nothing, he murmured. Have you forgotten?
    —What?
    —We said we’d visit my father. You said you would come with me.
    She went to the window, and he said wearily to her back:
    —One day. It’s not much.
    —I know. But I’m afraid of him, Peter.
    He snapped his teeth together and looked at the floor. He said:
    —How can you say that? He’s just an old man.
    —I don’t know.
    He went to her, and her lip was trembling when she turned. He took her face in his hands. At first she would not look at him, but he stood silently and stared at her until she raised her eyes. He said slowly:
    —He’s an old man and dying and he can’t touch us even if he wanted to. Next week we shall be in France and then the world is before us. There’s nothing to fear.
    She dropped her eyes again, murmuring:
    —I know. I know. But Peter, I’m not logical like you and … and strong.
    He laughed suddenly, and putting his arms around her he picked her up and whirled her in a circle. With her hands on his shoulders she looked down at him and giggled. He buried his face between her breasts and