The Thirteenth Tale-第42章

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another　frantic　erasing　gesture　of　the　hands；　eyes　ranging　wildly　around　the　church　ceiling　as　though　somewhere　he　would　spot　the　verb　he　needed　that　would　allow　him　finally　to　anchor　what　it　was　he　wanted　to　say：

‘because　if　mrs。　love　found　me；　it　can　only　mean　that　before　that　happened；　someone　else；　some　other　person；　some　mother　must　have—“

there　it　was。　that　verb。

his　face　froze　into　despair。　his　hands；　halfway　through　an　agitated　gesture；　were　arrested　in　an　attitude　that　suggested　a　plea　or　a　prayer。

there　are　times　when　the　human　face　and　body　can　express　the　‘earning　of　the　heart　so　accurately　that　you　can；　as　they　say；　read　them　like　a　book。　i　read　aurelius。

do　not　abandon　me。

touched　my　hand　to　his；　and　the　statue　returned　to　life。

‘there’s　no　point　waiting　for　the　rain　to　stop；“　i　whispered。　”it’s　set　for　the　day。　my　photos　can　wait。　we　may　as　well　go。“

‘yes；“　he　said；　with　a　gruff　edge　in　his　throat。　”we　may　as　well。“

……



THE　INHERITANCE


“it’s　a　mile　and　a　half　direct；”　he　said；　pointing　into　the　woods；　“longer　by　road。”

we　crossed　the　deer　park　and　had　nearly　reached　the　edge　of　the　woods　when　we　heard　voices。　it　was　a　woman’s　voice　that　swam　through　the　rain；　up　the　gravel　drive　to　her　children　and　over　the　park　as　far　as　us。　“i　told　you；　tom。　it’s　too　wet。　they　can’t　work　when　it’s　raining　like　this。”　the　children　had　e　to　a　halt　in　disappointment　at　seeing　the　stationary　cranes　and　machinery。　with　their　sou’westers　over　their　blond　heads；　i　could　not　tell　them　apart。　the　woman　caught　up　with　them；　and　the　family　huddled　for　a　moment　in　a　brief　conference　of　mackintoshes。

aurelius　was　rapt　by　the　family　tableau。

‘i’ve　seen　them　before；“　i　said。　”do　you　know　who　they　are？“

‘they’re　a　family。　they　live　in　the　street。　the　house　with　the　swing。　karen　looks　after　the　deer　here。“

‘do　they　still　hunt　here？“

‘no。　she　just　looks　after　them。　they’re　a　nice　family。“

enviously　he　gazed　after　them；　then　he　broke　his　attention　with　a　shake　of　his　head。　“mrs。　love　was　very　good　to　me；”　he　said；　“and　i　loved　her。　all　this　other　stuff—”　he　made　a　dismissive　gesture　and　turned　toward　the　woods。　“e　on。　let’s　go　home。”

the　family　in　mackintoshes；　turning　back　toward　the　lodge　gates；　had　clearly　reached　the　same　decision。

aurelius　and　i　walked　through　the　woods　in　silent　friendship。

there　were　no　leaves　to　cut　out　the　light　and　the　branches；　blackened　by　rain；　reached　dark　across　the　watery　sky。　stretching　out　an　arm　to　push　away　low　branches；　aurelius　dislodged　extra　raindrops　to　add　to　those　that　fell　on　us　from　the　sky。　we　came　across　a　fallen　tree　and　leaned　over　it；　staring　into　the　dark　pool　of　rain　in　its　hollow　that　had　softened　the　rotting　bark　almost　to　fur。

then；　“home；”　aurelius　pronounced。

it　was　a　small　stone　cottage。　built　for　endurance　rather　than　decoration；　but　attractive　all　the　same；　in　its　simple　and　solid　lines。　aurelius　led　me　around　the　side　of　the　house。　was　it　a　hundred　years　old　or　two　hundred？　it　was　hard　to　tell。　it　wasn’t　the　kind　of　house　that　a　hundred　years　made　much　difference　to。　except　that　at　the　back　there　was　a　large　new　extension；　almost　as　large　as　the　house　itself；　and　taken　up　entirely　with　a　kitchen。

‘my　sanctuary；“　he　said　as　he　showed　me　in。

a　massive　stainless…steel　oven；　white　walls；　two　vast　fridges—it　was　a　real　kitchen　for　a　real　cook。

aurelius　pulled　out　a　chair　for　me　and　i　sat　at　a　small　table　by　a　bookcase。　the　shelves　were　filled　with　cookbooks；　in　french；　english；　italian。　one　book；　unlike　the　others；　was　out　on　the　table。　it　was　a　thick　notebook；　corners　blunt　with　age；　and　covered　in　brown　paper　that　had　gone　transparent　after　decades　of　being　handled　with　buttery　fingers。　someone　had　written　recipies　on　the　front；　in　old…fashioned；　school…formed　capitals。　some　years　later　the　writer　had　crossed　out　the　second　i；　using　a　different　pen。

‘may　i？“　i　asked。

‘of　course。“

i　opened　the　book　and　began　to　leaf　through　it。　victoria　sponge；　date　and　walnut　loaf；　scones；　ginger　cake；　maids　of　honor；　bakewell　tart；　rich　fruit　cake…　the　spelling　and　the　handwriting　improving　as　the　pages　turned。

aurelius　turned　a　dial　on　the　oven；　then；　moving　lightly；　assembled　his　ingredients。　after　that　everything　was　within　reach；　and　he　stretched　out　an　arm　for　a　sieve　or　a　knife　without　looking。　he　moved　in　his　kitchen　the　way　drivers　change　gear　in　their　cars：　an　arm　reaching　out　smoothly；　independently；　knowing　exactly　what　to　do；　while　his　eyes　never　left　the　fixed　spot　in　front　of　him：　the　bowl　in　which　he　was　bining　his　ingredients。　he　sieved　flour；　chopped　butter　into　dice；　zested　an　orange。　it　was　as　natural　as　breathing。

‘you　see　that　cupboard？“　he　said　”there　to　your　left？　would　you　open　it？“

thinking　he　wanted　a　piece　of　equipment；　i　opened　the　cupboard　door。

‘you’ll　find　a　bag　hanging　on　a　peg　inside。“

it　was　a　kind　of　satchel。　old　and　curiously　designed；　its　sides　were　not　stitched　but　just　tucked　in。　it　fastened　with　a　buckle；　and　a　long；　broad　leather　strap；　attached　with　a　rusty　clasp　at　each　side；　allowed　you　presumably　to　wear　it　diagonally　across　your　body。　the　leather　was　dry　and　cracked；　and　the　canvas　that　might　once　have　been　khaki　was　now　just　the　color　of　age。

‘what　is　it？“　i　asked。

for　a　second　he　raised　his　eyes　from　the　bowl　to　me。

‘it’s　the　bag　i　was　found　in。“

he　turned　back　to　bining　his　ingredients。

the　bag　he　was　found　in？　my　eyes　moved　slowly　from　the　satchel　to　aurelius。　even　bent　over　his　kneading　he　was　over　six　feet　tall。　i　had　thought　him　a　storybook　giant　when　i　first　set　eyes　on　him；　i　remembered。　today　the　strap　wouldn’t　even　go　around　his　girth；　yet　sixty　years　ago　he　had　been　small　enough　to　fit　inside。　dizzy　at　the　thought　of　what　time　can　do；　i　sat　down　again。　who　was　it　that　had　placed　a　baby　in　this　satchel　so　long　ago？　folded　its　canvas　around　him；　fastened　the　buckle　against　the　weather　and　placed　the　strap　over　her　body　to　carry　him；　through　the　night；　to　mrs。　love’s？　i　ran　my　fingers　over　the　places　she　had　touched。　canvas；　buckle；　strap。　seeking　some　trace　of　her。　a　clue；　in　braille　or　invisible　ink　or　code；　that　my　touch　might　reveal　if　only　it　knew　how。　it　did　not　know　how。

‘it’s　exasperating；　isn’t　it？“　aurelius　said。

i　heard　him　slide　something　into　the　oven　and　close　the　door；　then　i　felt　him　behind　me；　looking　over　my　shoulder。

‘you　open　it—i’ve　got　flour　on　my　hands。“

i　undid　the　buckle　and　opened　the　pleats　of　canvas。　they　unfolded　into　a　flat　circle　in　the　center　of　which　lay　a　tangle　of　paper　and　rag。

‘my　inheritance；“　he　announced。

the　things　looked　like　a　pile　of　discarded　junk　waiting　to　be　swept　into　the　bin；　but　he　gazed　at　them　with　the　intensity　of　a　boy　staring　at　a　treasure　trove。　“these　things　are　my　story；”　he　said。　“these　things　tell　me　who　i　am。　it’s　just　a　matter　of…　of　understanding　them。”　his　bafflement　was　intent　but　resigned。　“i’ve　tried　all　my　life　to　piece　them　together。　i　keep　thinking；　if　only　i　could　find　the　thread…　it　would　all　fall　into　place。　take　that；　for　instance—”

it　was　a　piece　of　cloth。　linen；　once　white；　now　yellow。　i　disentangled　it　from　the　other　objects　and　smoothed　it　out。　it　was　embroidered　with　a　pattern　of　stars　and　flowers　also　in　white；　there　were　four　dainty　mother…of…pearl　buttons；　it　was　an　infant’s　dress　or　nightgown。　aurelius’s　broad　fingers　hovered　over　the　tiny　garment；　wanting　to　touch；　not　wanting　to　mark　it　with　flour。　the　narrow　sleeves　would　just　fit　over　a　finger　now。

‘it’s　what　i　was　wearing；“　aurelius　explained。

‘it’s　very　old。“

‘as　old　as　me；　i　suppose。“

‘older　than　that；　even。“

‘do　you　think　so？“

‘look　at　the　stitching　here—and　here。　it’s　been　mended　more　than　nee。　and　this　button　doesn’t　match。　other　babies　wore　this　before　you。“

his　eyes　flitted　from　the　scrap　of　linen　to　me　and　back　to　the　cloth；　hungry　for　knowledge。

‘and　there’s　this。“　he　pointed　at　a　page　of　print。　it　was　torn　from　a　book　and　riddled　with　creases。　taking　it　in　my　hands　i　started　to　read。

‘…　not　at　first　aware　what　was　his　intention；　but　when　i　saw　him　lift　and　poise　the　book　and　stand　in　act　to　hurl　it；　i　instinctively　started　aside　with　a　cry　of　alarm—“

aurelius　took　up　the　phrase　and　continued；　reading　not　from　the　page　but　from　memory：　“…　not　soon　enough　however；　the　volume　was　flung；　it　hit　me；　and　i　fell；　striking　my　head　against　the　door　and　cutting　it。”

of　course　i　recognized　it。　how　could　i　not；　for　i　had　read　it　goodness　knows　how　many　times。　“jane　eyre；　”　i　said　wonderingly。

‘you　recognized　it？　yes；　it　is。　i　asked　a　man　in　a　library。　it’s　by　charlotte　someone。　she　had　a　lot　of　sisters；　apparently。“

‘have　you　read　it？“

‘started　to。　it　was　about　a　little　girl。　she’s　lost　her　family；　and　so　her　aunt　takes　her　in。　i　thought　i　was　on　to　something　with　that。　nasty　woman；　the　aunt；　not　like　mrs。　love　at　all。　this　is　one　of　her　cousins　throwing　the　book　at　her；　on　this　page。　but　later　she　goes　to　school；　a　terrible　school；　terrible　food；　but　she　does　make　a　friend。“　he　smiled；　remembering　his　reading。　”o