Weaveworld

4

It took him three quarters of an hour to give her the outline of all that had happened since the bird had first flown from the loft; and another hour to try and fine-tune his account. Once begun, he found himself reluctant to leave anything out: he wanted to tell it all as best he could, as much for his own benefit as for Geraldine’s.

She listened attentively, looking up at him sometimes, more often staring out of the window. Not once did she interrupt.

When he was finally finished, the wounds of bereavement reopened by the telling, she said nothing, not for a long time.

Finally he said: ‘You don’t believe me. I said you wouldn’t.’

Again, there was silence. Then she said: ‘Does it matter to you if I do or I don’t?’

‘Yes. Of course it matters.’

‘Why, Cal?’

‘Because then I’m not alone.’

She smiled at him, got up, and crossed to where he sat.

‘You’re not alone,’ she said, and said no more.

Later, as they slipped into sleep together, she said:

‘Do you love her? … Suzanna, I mean?’

He’d expected the question, sooner or later.

‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘In a way I can’t explain; but yes.’

‘I’m glad,’ she murmured in the darkness. Cal wished he could read her features, and know from them if she was telling the truth, but he left any further questions unasked.

They didn’t speak of it at all thereafter. She was no different with him than she’d been before he told her: it was almost as if she’d put the whole account out of her mind. She came and went on the same ad hoc basis. Sometimes they’d make love, sometimes not. And sometimes they’d be happy; or almost so.

The summer came and went without much disturbing the thermometer, and before the freckles had a chance to bloom on Geraldine’s cheeks, it was September.