sheets were wet, she dripped with perspiration, cold and slimy, shivering. Groggily, she sat up, her head pounding. She tried to get up and fell, sliding down the side of the bed onto the floor with a thump. Her legs wouldn’t carry her. She crawled over to the chair and found the bath towel, pulled it round her, lay against the cold radiator, shivering.
There was light, the streetlamps shining through the curtains. She began to see things in the room, recognise them. For a while there, she had thought she was still in that other bedroom with the high coved and painted ceiling, in the big sleigh bed.
Isoldé shook herself. She was freezing cold, sat on the floor after the most incredible orgasm of her life with a man she couldn’t see and she was going through an inventory of furniture like an antique dealer. She began to laugh. It got hysterical. She struggled over to the door and climbed up the door frame to reach the light. Seeing her own room, her own things, was strange. She had seen the other room so clearly, had felt so at home there. This one looked small and drab. It needed cleaning, there were cobwebs and the mirror was clouded with dust. She struggled to the shower. The dustcarts rolled into Montague Street and began their morning clamour.
‘What …?’ she muttered through chattering teeth. ‘What have I done? What have I promised?’
Mark
And we all go with them, into the silent funeral
,
Nobody’s funeral, for there is no one to bury
.
TS Eliot: East Coker
Mark drove slowly down the track to Caergollo, pulled the handbrake on and switched off the engine. He didn’t want to get out of the car. He didn’t want to be here at all. He’d told the solicitors, everyone, to go away, leave him alone, let him go to the house on his own and now, here he was. With the car door open he could hear the stream singing and, further off, the faint sound of waves crashing against the cliffs. There was an empty feeling in the middle of him, like a stone, or rather like the place where a stone should be but wasn’t. He kept expecting the door to open and Tristan’s crotchety face to peer round the jamb and shout to him to come on in, get a bloody move on, they hadn’t got all day. But it didn’t.
Mark climbed out of the car and stood looking at the door. He felt in his pocket for the big, old key. It jangled against the iron ring as he pulled it out. The lock turned easily, well oiled. Mark pushed the door open and stood staring into the dim hallway. He was blinking like an owl after the bright sun outside when something soft touched his legs, wrapped itself around them and meowed. Mark bent to pick the cat up in his arms, burying his face in the black fur. At last, the tears came.
In the library, Embar on his lap and a tumbler full of Talisker in his hand, he sat staring. He could hear the voice inside his head.
‘All yours now. Don’t you go letting me down! Embar told me he wanted to stay with you so you make sure he does, right? Mrs
Protheroe will do for you, and look after him while you’re away. It’s all yours, brother, all yours. Caergollo, the woods, the sea, the books
,
everything. And my music, look after that too, but you’ll have help
.
Embar knows.’
The voice faded. The words were the same as in the letter. It had arrived in Kyoto just after he got back from seeing the Ox Herding paintings. He touched his pocket; he carried his set of cards of the ten paintings always now. And the letter. He pulled it out.
‘You were right, brother,’ Tristan had begun. ‘You’ll never see me alive again. By the time you come back I’ll be gone, but here is the key to the house. Don’t lose it. I don’t need it any more. Mrs
Protheroe looks after me. And Embar. I go out in the woods when I can, up to the kieve, and the cottage. The woodfolk give me herbs for the pain. And the passing
.
It’s as easy as it can be, considering. Mrs P. lets me have anything I want, which isn’t much. I’m not
There was light, the streetlamps shining through the curtains. She began to see things in the room, recognise them. For a while there, she had thought she was still in that other bedroom with the high coved and painted ceiling, in the big sleigh bed.
Isoldé shook herself. She was freezing cold, sat on the floor after the most incredible orgasm of her life with a man she couldn’t see and she was going through an inventory of furniture like an antique dealer. She began to laugh. It got hysterical. She struggled over to the door and climbed up the door frame to reach the light. Seeing her own room, her own things, was strange. She had seen the other room so clearly, had felt so at home there. This one looked small and drab. It needed cleaning, there were cobwebs and the mirror was clouded with dust. She struggled to the shower. The dustcarts rolled into Montague Street and began their morning clamour.
‘What …?’ she muttered through chattering teeth. ‘What have I done? What have I promised?’
Mark
And we all go with them, into the silent funeral
,
Nobody’s funeral, for there is no one to bury
.
TS Eliot: East Coker
Mark drove slowly down the track to Caergollo, pulled the handbrake on and switched off the engine. He didn’t want to get out of the car. He didn’t want to be here at all. He’d told the solicitors, everyone, to go away, leave him alone, let him go to the house on his own and now, here he was. With the car door open he could hear the stream singing and, further off, the faint sound of waves crashing against the cliffs. There was an empty feeling in the middle of him, like a stone, or rather like the place where a stone should be but wasn’t. He kept expecting the door to open and Tristan’s crotchety face to peer round the jamb and shout to him to come on in, get a bloody move on, they hadn’t got all day. But it didn’t.
Mark climbed out of the car and stood looking at the door. He felt in his pocket for the big, old key. It jangled against the iron ring as he pulled it out. The lock turned easily, well oiled. Mark pushed the door open and stood staring into the dim hallway. He was blinking like an owl after the bright sun outside when something soft touched his legs, wrapped itself around them and meowed. Mark bent to pick the cat up in his arms, burying his face in the black fur. At last, the tears came.
In the library, Embar on his lap and a tumbler full of Talisker in his hand, he sat staring. He could hear the voice inside his head.
‘All yours now. Don’t you go letting me down! Embar told me he wanted to stay with you so you make sure he does, right? Mrs
Protheroe will do for you, and look after him while you’re away. It’s all yours, brother, all yours. Caergollo, the woods, the sea, the books
,
everything. And my music, look after that too, but you’ll have help
.
Embar knows.’
The voice faded. The words were the same as in the letter. It had arrived in Kyoto just after he got back from seeing the Ox Herding paintings. He touched his pocket; he carried his set of cards of the ten paintings always now. And the letter. He pulled it out.
‘You were right, brother,’ Tristan had begun. ‘You’ll never see me alive again. By the time you come back I’ll be gone, but here is the key to the house. Don’t lose it. I don’t need it any more. Mrs
Protheroe looks after me. And Embar. I go out in the woods when I can, up to the kieve, and the cottage. The woodfolk give me herbs for the pain. And the passing
.
It’s as easy as it can be, considering. Mrs P. lets me have anything I want, which isn’t much. I’m not
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