The Thirteenth Tale- 第53部分

‘good。　well；　don’t。“

i　thought　that　was　that。　we　both　took　another　drag　on　our　cigarettes　and　i　prepared　to　lapse　back　into　silence；　but　after　exhaling；　he　spoke　again。　“i　don’t　want　to　touch　emmeline。”

i　heard　him。　i　heard　what　he　said。　that　curious　little　intonation。　i　heard　what　he　meant。

i　took　a　drag　of　my　cigarette　and　didn’t　look　at　him。　slowly　i　exhaled。　i　didn’t　look　at　him。

‘she’s　kinder　than　you　are；“　he　said。

my　cigarette　wasn’t　even　half　finished；　but　i　stubbed　it　out。　i　strode　to　the　kitchen　door　and　flung　it　open。

in　the　doorway　he　paused　level　with　me。　i　stood　stiffly；　staring　straight　ahead　at　the　buttons　on　his　shirt。

his　adam’s　apple　bobbed　up　and　down　as　he　swallowed。　his　voice　was　a　murmur。　“be　kind；　adeline。”

stung　to　anger　i　lifted　my　eyes　up；　meaning　to　fire　daggers　at　him。　but　i　was　startled　by　the　tenderness　in　his　face。　for　a　moment　i　was…　confused。

he　took　advantage。　raised　his　hand。　was　about　to　stroke　my　cheek。

but　i　was　quicker。　i　raised　my　fist；　lashed　his　hand　away。

i　didn’t　hurt　him。　i　couldn’t　have　hurt　him。　but　he　looked　bewildered。　disappointed。

and　then　he　was　gone。

the　kitchen　was　very　empty　after　that。　the　missus　was　gone。　john　was　gone。　now　even　the　boy　was　gone。

‘i’ll　help　you；“　he　had　said。　but　it　was　impossible。　how　could　a　boy　like　him　help　me？　how　could　anybody　help　me？

the　sheet　was　covered　in　orange　hair。　i　was　walking　on　hair　and　hair　was　stuck　to　my　shoes。　all　the　old　dye　had　been　cut　away；　the　sparse　tufts　that　clung　to　miss　winter’s　scalp　were　pure　white。

i　took　the　towel　away　and　blew　the　stray　bits　of　hair　from　the　back　of　her　neck。

‘give　me　the　mirror；“　miss　winter　said。

i　handed　her　the　looking　glass。　with　her　hair　shorn；　she　looked　like　a　grizzled　child。

she　stared　at　the　glass。　her　eyes　met　her　own；　naked　and　somber；　and　she　looked　at　herself　for　a　long　time。　then　she　put　the　mirror；　glass　side　down；　on　the　table。

‘that　is　exactly　what　i　wanted。　thank　you；　margaret。“

i　left　her；　and　when　i　went　back　to　my　room　i　thought　about　the　boy。　i　thought　about　him　and　adeline；　and　i　thought　about　him　and　emmeline。　then　i　thought　about　aurelius；　found　as　an　infant；　wearing　an　old…fashioned　garment　and　wrapped　in　a　satchel；　with　a　spoon　from　angelfield　and　a　page　of　jane　eyre。　i　thought　about　it　all　at　length；　but　for　all　my　thinking；　i　did　not　arrive　at　any　conclusion。

one　thing　did　occur　to　me；　though；　in　one　of　those　unfathomable　side　steps　of　the　mind。　i　remembered　what　it　was　aurelius　had　said　the　last　time　i　was　at　angelfield：　“i　just　wish　there　was　someone　to　tell　me　the　truth。”　and　i　found　its　echo：　“tell　me　the　truth。”　the　boy　in　the　brown　suit。　now；　that　would　explain　why　the　banbury　herald　had　no　record　of　the　interview　their　young　reporter　had　gone　to　yorkshire　for。　he　wasn’t　a　reporter　at　all。　it　was　aurelius　all　along。

。。



RAIN　AND　CAKE

；小；说；〃；网
the　next　day　i　woke　to　it：　today；　today；　today。　a　tolling　bell　only　i　could　hear。　the　twilight　seemed　to　have　penetrated　my　soul；　i　felt　an　unearthly　weariness。　my　birthday。　my　deathday。

judith　brought　a　card　from　my　father　with　the　breakfast　tray。　a　picture　of　flowers；　his　habitual；　vaguely　worded　greetings　and　a　note。　he　hoped　i　was　well。　he　was　well。　he　had　some　books　for　me。　should　he　send　them？　my　mother　had　not　signed　the　card；　he　had　signed　it　for　both　of　them。　love　from　dad　and　mother。　it　was　all　wrong。　i　knew　it　and　he　knew　it；　but　what　could　anyone　do？

judith　came。　“miss　winter　says　would　now…　？”

i　slid　the　card　under　my　pillow　before　she　could　see　it。　“now　would　be　fine；”　i　said；　and　picked　up　my　pencil　and　pad。

‘have　you　been　sleeping　well？“　miss　winter　wanted　to　know；　and　then；　”you　look　a　little　pale。　you　don’t　eat　enough。“

‘i’m　fine；“　i　assured　her；　though　i　wasn’t。

all　morning　i　struggled　with　the　sensation　of　stray　wisps　of　one　world　seeping　through　the　cracks　of　another。　do　you　know　the　feeling　when　you　start　reading　a　new　book　before　the　membrane　of　the　last　one　has　had　time　to　close　behind　you？　you　leave　the　previous　book　with　ideas　and　themes—characters　even—caught　in　the　fibers　of　your　clothes；　and　when　you　open　the　new　book；　they　are　still　with　you。　well；　it　was　like　that。　all　day　i　had　been　prey　to　distractions。　thoughts；　memories；　feelings；　irrelevant　fragments　of　my　own　life；　playing　havoc　with　my　concentration。

miss　winter　was　telling　me　about　something　when　she　interrupted　herself。　“are　you　listening　to　me；　miss　lea？”

i　jerked　out　of　my　reverie　and　fumbled　for　an　answer。　had　i　been　listening？　i　had　no　idea。　at　that　moment　i　couldn’t　have　told　her　what　she　had　been　saying；　though　i’m　sure　that　somewhere　in　my　mind　there　was　a　place　where　it　was　all　recorded。　but　at　the　point　when　she　jerked　me　out　of　myself；　i　was　in　a　kind　of　no…man’s…land；　a　place　between　places。　the　mind　plays　all　sorts　of　tricks；　gets　up　to　all　kinds　of　things　while　we　ourselves　are　slumbering　in　a　white　zone　that　looks　for　all　the　world　like　inattention　to　the　onlooker。　lost　for　words；　i　stared　at　her　for　a　minute；　while　she　grew　more　and　more　irritated；　then　i　plucked　at　the　first　coherent　sentence　that　presented　itself　to　me。

‘have　you　ever　had　a　child；　miss　winter？“

‘good　lord；　what　a　question。　of　course　i　haven’t。　have　you　gone　mad；　girl？“

‘emmeline；　then？“

‘we　have　an　agreement；　do　we　not？　no　questions？“　and　then；　changing　her　expression；　she　bent　forward　and　scrutinized　me　closely。　”are　you　ill？“

‘no；　i　don’t　think　so。“

‘well；　you　are　clearly　not　in　your　right　mind　for　work。“

it　was　a　dismissal。

back　in　my　room　i　spent　an　hour　bored；　unsettled；　plagued　by　myself。　i　sat　at　my　desk；　pencil　in　hand；　but　did　not　write；　felt　cold　and　turned　the　radiator　up；　then；　too　hot；　took　my　cardigan　off。　i’d　have　liked　a　bath；　but　there　was　no　hot　water。　i　made　cocoa　and　put　extra　sugar　in　it；　then　the　sweetness　nauseated　me。　a　book？　would　that　do　it？　in　the　library　the　shelves　were　lined　with　dead　words。　nothing　there　could　help　me。

there　came　a　dash　of　raindrops；　scattering　against　the　window；　and　my　heart　leaped。　outside。　yes；　that　was　what　i　needed。　and　not　just　the　garden。　i　needed　to　get　away；　right　away。　onto　the　moors。

the　main　gate　was　kept　locked；　i　knew；　and　i　had　no　wish　to　ask　maurice　to　open　it　for　me。　instead；　i　headed　through　the　garden　to　the　farthest　point　from　the　house；　where　there　was　a　door　in　the　wall。　the　door；　overgrown　with　ivy；　had　not　been　opened　for　a　long　time；　and　i　had　to　pull　the　foliage　away　with　my　hands　before　i　could　open　the　latch。　when　the　door　swung　toward　me；　there　was　more　ivy　to　be　pushed　aside　before　i　could　step；　a　little　disheveled；　outside。

i　used　to　think　that　i　loved　rain；　but　in　fact　i　hardly　knew　it。　the　rain　i　loved　was　genteel　town　rain；　made　soft　by　all　the　obstacles　the　skyline　put　in　its　path；　and　warmed　by　the　rising　heat　of　the　town　itself。　on　the　moors；　enraged　by　the　wind　and　embittered　by　the　chill；　the　rain　was　vicious。　needles　of　ice　stung　my　face　and；　behind　me；　vessels　of　freezing　water　burst　against　my　shoulders。

happy　birthday。

if　i　was　at　the　shop；　my　father　would　produce　a　present　from　beneath　the　desk　as　i　came　down　the　stairs。　there　would　be　a　book　or　books；　purchased　at　auction　and　put　aside　during　the　year。　and　a　record　or　perfume　or　a　picture。　he　would　have　wrapped　them　in　the　shop；　at　the　desk；　some　quiet　afternoon　when　i　was　at　the　post　office　or　the　library。　he　would　have　gone　out　one　lunchtime　to　choose　a　card；　alone；　and　he　would　have　written　in　it；　love　from　dad　and　mother；　at　the　desk。　alone；　quite　alone。　he　would　go　to　the　bakery　for　a　cake；　and　somewhere　in　the　shop—

i　had　never　discovered　where；　it　was　one　of　the　few　secrets　i　had　not　fathomed—he　kept　a　candle；　which　came　out　on　this　day　every　year；　was　lit；　and　which　i　blew　out；　with　as　good　an　impression　of　happiness　as　i　could　muster。　then　we　ate　the　cake；　with　tea；　and　settled　down　to　quiet　digestion　and　cataloging。

i　knew　how　it　was　for　him。　it　was　easier　now　that　i　was　grown　up　than　when　i　was　a　child。　how　much　harder　birthdays　had　been　in　the　house。　presents　hidden　overnight　in　the　shed；　not　from　me；　but　from　my　mother；　who　could　not　bear　the　sight　of　them。　the　inevitable　headache　was　her　jealously　guarded　rite　of　remembrance；　one　that　made　it　impossible　to　invite　other　children　in　the　house；　impossible；　too；　to　leave　her　for　the　treat　of　a　visit　to　the　zoo　or　the　park。　my　birthday　toys　were　always　quiet　ones。　cakes　were　never　homemade；　and　the　leftovers　had　to　be　divested　of　their　candles　and　icing　before　they　could　be　put　in　the　tin　for　the　next　day。

happy　birthday？　father　whispered　the　words；　happy　birthday；　hilariously；　right　in　my　ear。　we　played　silent　card　games　where　the　winner　pulled　gleeful　faces　and　the　loser　grimaced　and　slumped；　and　nothing；　not　a　peep；　not　a　splutter；　could　be　heard　in　the　room　above　our　heads。　in　between　games；　up　and　down　he　went；　my　poor　father；　between　the　silent　pain　of　the　bedroom　and　the　secret　birthday　downstairs；　changing　his　face　from　jollity　to　sympathy；　from　sympathy　back　to　jollity；　in　the　stairwell。

unhappy　birthday。　from　the　day　i　was　born