John Banville - Long Lankin - Stories

— There you are. Come here to me. Where have you been? And look at the state of you! I should box your ears.

She caught the girl by the shoulder and gave her a shake.

— I went for a walk, the girl muttered sullenly.

— Went for a walk indeed.

She led her down the hall, and to the kitchen. While the girl scrubbed her hands at the sink the old woman fussed about her, straightening her dress and pulling the pieces of leaf from her hair.

— Were you rolling around in the fields or what? An infant wouldn’t be the trouble. A nice sight you’ll be to greet your papa.

The girl turned from the sink and stared with wide eyes at the old woman.

— Has he come? she asked, and her lip trembled.

— Yes child, he’s come. Now tidy yourself up and we’ll go in to him.

The girl slowly dried her hands, staring before her thoughtfully. At last she said:

— I don’t want to see him.

— What are you saying? Hurry up now.

— I won’t go near him.

— Have you lost the bit of sense you had? He’s come all the way from London just to see you.

— I don’t care.

The old woman stepped forward with her lips shut tight and caught the girl’s hair in her hand.

— If you won’t come by yourself I’ll drag you. Come on and stop this nonsense, you little rip.

She pulled the girl struggling out into the passage and along the hall.

— No Tantey, I don’t want to see him! No Tantey, you’re hurting me!

The old woman pushed open the door of the dining-room. Inside, the tall grey-haired man was sitting at the table, twisting the brim of his hat in his long fingers.

— No Tantey, no, you’re hurting my hair!

The girl clutched at the door frame, tears on her face, while the old woman tugged furiously at her hair. The grey-haired man rose uncertainly and peered out at them with raised eyebrows. When she saw him the girl sent up a fearful wail, and lifting her arm she flung something, something white flashed past him and there was the tinkle of glass breaking. He spoke, but his words were drowned by the cries of the girl:

— No Tantey no, leave me alone, I don’t want to see him, I don’t want to, you’re hurting me, Tantey, let go you’re hurting me …

Julie awoke in the chill October morning to find the air before her face finely traced with a web of blood. In the day’s first terror she reached out blindly beside her. The bed was empty. She whimpered, but already the mist had begun to fade from her eyes. She lay back on the pillow and wiped the sweat from her lips, from the hollows of her eyes. On the ceiling above her, light moved and flowed, reflections from the sea below her window. She got out of bed, a hand in her damp hair. She pushed her feet into slippers, untangled a knot in the sash of her nightgown, stood up unsteadily. Another day, the last, another day.

From the bathroom she went down the stairs, buttoning her blouse. She paused on the last step. Helen was in the living room, sitting on the couch by the window, looking out. Light invaded the room through the long window, soft light from the sea, it touched the legs of the table, glowing, and fell among Helen’s dark hair. Her hand was raised to her cheek, and in the long white fingers a cheroot burned silently, sending up into the cool sea light a narrow line of smoke. Julie said:

— I dreamed all night of something following me.

Helen did not move, but went on looking toward the beach and the morning sea. Only the silent line of smoke wavered in its course, and then was still again. Julie’s eyes narrowed, and her voice was hard when she said:

— And today I’m bleeding. I’m glad this is all finished.

Helen stood up slowly, and slowly turned.

— Why do you say that?

Julie crossed the room and sat down on the couch. Staring at the space between her feet she found a cigarette and fumbled it nervously to her mouth. She left it unlit. Helen looked down at her, faintly smiling, and asked again:

— Why do you say that, Julie?

In the silence both seemed to be pulling on some frail, invisible cord stretched between them. Julie said:

— Where were you when I needed you? Where? You know I can’t wake up alone. You know that. You left me there to wake in that awful room with not a sound anywhere. I hate this place.

Helen looked at the cheroot, holding it upright to save the long tip of ash. She said:

— I’m sorry. I didn’t think you would wake so early. You don’t usually wake so early, do you?

Julie lifted her hands, examined them, and put them away again.

— I have to get out, she said.

Helen went and stood at the window, saying:

— Then you won’t come back to university?

— No.

— You mean that? You have decided? You won’t take the degree?

— No.

— That will be … a pity, Helen said carefully.

Julie closed her eyes and lay back on the couch. After a moment she said in a strange, flat voice, as though reciting a lesson:

— I want to get married. I want to have a baby. My mother worries about me. She asks what are my plans. What are your plans? she asks. What can I tell her? I’m not like you. I’m weak. I feel sorry for her. I want to tell her there’s someone. That everything is all right. But what have I to tell her?

She stood up and wandered about the room, turning away from the barrier of each wall with a look of pain.

— Three months we have been here, she said in wonder. Three months and so much has changed. Helen, why do things change?

Helen looked out at the sea. The sun glittered on the water blue as ice. Far out on the sound a flock of gulls was attacking something that floated there, they fell and turned and lifted with the light on their wings, bright birds. Two sails of yachts lay slanted into the wind.

— You will need someone to be there when you wake up, Helen said. You will need someone for that.

— I don’t know. Is it cold out today?

— It’s a nice day.

— I’ll go for a walk. Yes. A walk. My bags are packed.

— Yes. Julie.

— What?

— Will you be coming back to the flat?

— Maybe I’ll go away.

There was a pause, and once again Julie spread her hands before her and looked at them absently. She said:

— A degree would be useless to me.

— You were a good pupil, Helen murmured. We got along well.

— It was because you were young. It made a difference to have a young professor.

— But I got through to you.

— Yes.

— I felt that I was getting through to you.

— Yes.

— I’m glad you think that.

— Perhaps I’ll go away, Julie said again.

Into the silence between them the small sounds of the sea filtered slowly, the sea which had whispered and sighed through the long nights of the summer. Helen pressed her palms against the glass.

— I’m going for a walk now, Julie said.

Outside, the air struck her like a blade. She walked along the verandah, her sandals knocking on the loose planks, then crossed the tiny garden to the beach. The sand was pockmarked from the night’s rain, and near the waves the prints of gulls pointed outward across the sound. A clear, chill wind blew from the islands, carrying against her face the faint perfumes of heather and pine. She looked back to the cottage, at the figure in the dimness of the window watching her, and as she turned a movement on the rocks at the end of the beach caught her eye. A figure, black against the sun, was coming toward her. In the sky above her head a bird screamed, and its shadow brushed her shoulder. The window was empty now. She felt the black claw of terror at her throat, and she turned and ran back across the garden.