The Thirteenth Tale-第52章

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i　tried　once　more　to　remember　the　sounds　as　they　had　e　to　me　underwater。　but　they　were　wiped　from　my　memory。　all　i　could　remember　was　her　fraught；　intent　face　and　the　five…note　sequence　she　sang　as　she　left。

the　dead　go　underground。　words　that　had　arrived　fully　formed　in　my　mind；　leaving　no　trail　behind　them。　where　had　they　e　from？　what　tricks　had　my　mind　been　playing　to　e　up　with　these　words　out　of　nowhere？

i　didn’t　actually　believe　that　this　was　what　she　had　said　to　me；　did　i？

e　on；　be　sensible；　i　told　myself。

i　reached　for　the　soap　and　resolved　to　put　my　underwater　imaginings　out　of　my　mind。

。。



The　Thirteenth　TaleHAIR

。小［说网｝
at　miss　winter’s　house　i　never　looked　at　the　clock。　for　seconds　i　had　words；　minutes　were　lines　of　pencil　script。　eleven　words　to　the　line；　twenty…three　lines　to　the　page　was　my　new　chronometry。　at　regular　intervals　i　stopped　to　turn　the　handle　of　the　pencil　sharpener　and　watch　curls　of　lead…edged　wood　dangle　their　way　to　the　wastepaper　basket；　these　pauses　marked　my　“hours。”

i　was　so　preoccupied　by　the　story　i　was　hearing；　writing；　that　i　had　no　wish　for　anything　else。　my　own　life；　such　as　it　was；　had　dwindled　to　nothing。　my　daytime　thoughts　and　my　nighttime　dreams　were　peopled　by　figures　not　from　my　world　but　from　miss　winter’s。　it　was　hester　and　emmeline；　isabelle　and　charlie；　who　wandered　through　my　imagination；　and　the　place　to　which　my　thoughts　turned　constantly　was　angelfield。

in　truth　i　was　not　unwilling　to　abdicate　my　own　life。　plunging　deep　into　miss　winter’s　story　was　a　way　of　turning　my　back　on　my　own。　yet　one　cannot　simply　snuff　oneself　out　in　that　fashion。　for　all　my　willed　blindness；　i　could　not　escape　the　knowledge　that　it　was　december。　in　the　back　of　my　mind；　on　the　edge　of　my　sleep；　in　the　margins　of　the　pages　i　filled　so　frenetically　with　script；　i　was　aware　that　december　was　counting　down　the　days；　and　i　felt　the　anniversary　crawling　closer　all　the　time。

on　the　day　after　the　night　of　the　tears；　i　did　not　see　miss　winter。　she　stayed　in　bed；　seeing　only　judith　and　dr。　clifton。　this　was　convenient。　i　had　not　slept　well　myself。　but　the　following　day　she　asked　for　me。　i　went　to　her　plain　little　room　and　found　her　in　bed。

her　eyes　seemed　to　have　grown　larger　in　her　face。　she　wore　not　a　trace　of　makeup。　perhaps　her　medication　was　at　its　peak　of　effectiveness；　for　there　was　a　tranquility　about　her　that　seemed　new。　she　did　not　smile　at　me；　but　when　she　looked　up　as　i　entered；　there　was　kindness　in　her　eyes。

‘you　don’t　need　your　notebook　and　pencil；“　she　said。　”i　want　you　to　do　something　else　for　me　today。“

‘what？“

judith　came　in。　she　spread　a　sheet　on　the　floor；　then　brought　miss　winter’s　chair　in　from　the　adjoining　room　and　lifted　her　into　it。　in　the　center　of　the　sheet　she　positioned　the　chair；　angling　it　so　that　miss　winter　could　see　out　of　the　window。　then　she　tucked　a　towel　around　miss　winter’s　shoulders　and　spread　her　mass　of　orange　hair　over　it。

before　she　left　she　handed　me　a　pair　of　scissors。　“good　luck；”　she　said　with　a　smile。

‘but　what　am　i　supposed　to　do？“　i　asked　miss　winter。

‘cut　my　hair；　of　course。“

‘cut　your　hair？“

‘yes。　don’t　look　like　that。　there’s　nothing　to　it。“

‘but　i　don’t　know　how。“

‘just　take　the　scissors　and　cut。“　she　sighed。　”i　don’t　care　how　you　do　it。　i　don’t　care　what　it　looks　like。　just　get　rid　of　it。“

‘but　i—“

“please。”

reluctantly　i　took　up　position　behind　her。　after　two　days　in　bed；　her　hair　was　a　tangle　of　orange；　wiry　threads。　it　was　dry　to　the　touch；　so　dry　i　almost　expected　it　to　crackle；　and　punctuated　with　gritty　little　knots。

‘i’d　better　brush　it　first。“

the　knots　were　numerous。　though　she　spoke　not　a　word　of　reproach；　i　felt　her　flinch　at　every　brushstroke。　i　put　the　brush　down；　it　would　be　kinder　to　simply　cut　the　knots　out。

tentatively　i　made　the　first　cut。　a　few　inches　off　the　ends；　halfway　down　her　back。　the　blades　sheared　cleanly　through　the　hair；　and　the　clippings　fell　to　the　sheet。

‘shorter　than　that；“　miss　winter　said　mildly。

‘to　here？“　i　touched　her　shoulders。

‘shorter。“

i　took　a　lock　of　hair　and　snipped　at　it　nervously。　an　orange　snake　slithered　to　my　feet；　and　miss　winter　began　to　speak。

i　remember　a　few　days　after　the　funeral；　i　was　in　hester’s　old　room。　not　for　any　special　reason。　i　was　just　standing　there；　by　the　window；　staring　at　nothing。　my　fingers　found　a　little　ridge　in　the　curtain。　a　tear　that　she　had　mended。　hester　was　a　very　neat　needlewoman。　but　there　was　a　bit　of　thread　that　had　e　loose　at　the　end。　and　in　an　idle；　rather　absent　sort　of　way；　i　began　to　worry　at　it。　i　had　no　intention　of　pulling　it；　i　had　no　intention　of　any　sort；　really…　but　all　of　a　sudden；　there　it　was；　loose　in　my　fingers。　the　thread；　the　whole　length　of　it；　zigzagged　with　the　memory　of　the　stitches。　and　the　hole　in　the　curtain　gaping　open。　now　it　would　start　to　fray。

john　never　liked　having　hester　at　the　house。　he　was　glad　she　went。　but　the　fact　remained：　if　hester　had　been　there；　john　would　not　have　been　on　the　roof。　if　hester　had　been　there；　no　one　would　have　meddled　with　the　safety　catch。　if　hester　had　been　there；　that　day　would　have　dawned　like　any　other　day；　and　as　on　any　other　day；　john　would　have　gone　about　his　business　in　the　garden。　when　the　bay　window　cast　its　afternoon　shadow　over　the　gravel；　there　would　have　been　no　ladder；　no　rungs；　no　john　sprawled　on　the　ground　to　be　taken　in　by　its　chill。　the　day　would　have　e　and　gone　like　any　other；　and　at　the　end　of　it　john　would　have　gone　to　bed　and　slept　soundly；　without　even　a　dream　of　falling　through　the　empty　air。

if　hester　had　been　there。

i　found　that　fraying　hole　in　the　curtain　utterly　unbearable。

i　had　been　snipping　at　miss　winter’s　hair　all　the　time　she　was　talking；　and　when　it　was　level　with　her　earlobes；　i　stopped。

she　lifted　a　hand　to　her　head　and　felt　the　length。

‘shorter；“　she　said。

i　picked　up　the　scissors　again　and　carried　on。

the　boy　still　came　every　day。　he　dug　and　weeded　and　planted　and　mulched。　i　supposed　he　kept　ing　because　of　the　money　he　was　owed。　but　when　the　solicitor　gave　me　some　cash—“to　keep　you　going　till　your　uncle　gets　back”—and　i　paid　the　boy；　he　still　kept　ing。　i　watched　him　from　the　upstairs　windows。　more　than　once　he　looked　up　in　my　direction　and　i　jumped　out　of　view；　but　on　one　occasion　he　caught　sight　of　me；　and　when　he　did；　he　waved。　i　did　not　wave　back。

every　morning　he　brought　vegetables　to　the　kitchen　door；　sometimes　with　a　skinned　rabbit　or　a　plucked　hen；　and　every　afternoon　he　came　to　collect　the　peelings　for　the　post。　he　lingered　in　the　doorway；　and　now　that　i　had　paid　him；　more　often　than　not　he　had　a　cigarette　between　his　lips。

i　had　finished　john’s　cigarettes；　and　it　annoyed　me　that　the　boy　could　smoke　and　i　couldn’t。　i　never　said　a　word　about　it；　but　one　day；　shoulder　against　the　door　frame；　he　caught　me　eyeing　the　pack　of　cigarettes　in　his　breast　pocket。

‘swap　you　one　for　a　cup　of　tea；“　he　said。

he　came　into　the　kitchen—it　was　the　first　time　he　had　actually　e　in　since　the　day　john　died—and　sat　in　john’s　chair；　elbows　on　the　table。　i　sat　in　the　chair　in　the　corner；　where　the　missus　used　to　sit。　we　drank　our　tea　in　silence　and　exhaled　cigarette　smoke　that　rose　upward　toward　the　dingy　ceiling　in　lazy　clouds　and　spirals。　when　we　had　taken　our　last　drag　and　stubbed　the　cigarettes　out　on　our　saucers；　he　rose　without　a　word；　walked　out　of　the　kitchen　and　returned　to　his　work。　but　the　next　day；　when　he　knocked　with　the　vegetables；　he　walked　straight　in；　sat　in　john’s　chair　and　tossed　a　cigarette　across　to　me　before　i　had　even　put　the　kettle　on。

we　never　spoke。　but　we　had　our　habits。

emmeline；　who　never　rose　before　lunchtime；　sometimes　spent　the　afternoons　outdoors　looking　on　as　the　boy　did　his　work。　i　scolded　her　about　it。　“you’re　the　daughter　of　the　house。　he’s　a　gardener。　for　god’s　sake；　emmeline！”　but　it　made　no　difference。　she　would　smile　her　slow　smile　at　anyone　who　caught　her　fancy。　i　watched　them　closely；　mindful　of　what　the　missus　had　told　me　about　men　who　couldn’t　see　isabelle　without　wanting　to　touch　her。　but　the　boy　showed　no　indication　of　wanting　to　touch　emmeline；　though　he　spoke　kindly　to　her　and　liked　to　make　her　laugh。　i　couldn’t　be　easy　in　my　mind　about　it；　though。

sometimes　from　an　upstairs　window　i　would　watch　the　two　of　them　together。　one　sunny　day　i　saw　her　lolling　on　the　grass；　head　on　hand；　supported　by　her　elbow。　it　showed　the　rise　from　her　waist　to　her　hips。　he　turned　his　head　to　answer　something　she　said　and　while　he　looked　at　her；　she　rolled　onto　her　back；　raised　a　hand　and　brushed　a　stray　lock　of　hair　from　her　forehead。　it　was　a　languorous；　sensuous　movement　that　made　me　think　she　would　not　mind　it　if　he　did　touch　her。

but　when　the　boy　had　finished　what　he　was　saying；　he　turned　his　back　to　emmeline　as　though　he　hadn’t　seen　and　continued　his　work。

the　next　morning　we　were　smoking　in　the　kitchen。　i　broke　our　usual　silence。

‘don’t　touch　emmeline；“　i　told　him。

he　looked　surprised。　“i　haven’t　touched　emmeline。”

‘good。　well；　don’t。“

i　thought　that　was　that。　we　both　took　another　drag　on　our　cigarettes　and　i　p