years, that I do not know, he answered truthfully. All I have left from
those days are the pictures of places and the small heaps of
words that have struck where the wind and the pain could not blow them
away.
A beach with the sea mist coming in across it, a whole tree of driftwood
half buried in the sand and bleached white with the salt, a basket of
strawberries bought along the road, so that when I kissed her
I could taste the sweet tartness of the fruit on her lips.
I remember a tune that we sang together, 'The mission bells told me that
I mustn't stay, South of the border, down Mexico way.' I have forgotten
most of the words.
And I remember vaguely how her body was, and the shape of her breasts
before the children were born.
But that is all I have left from the good times.
The other memories are clear, stinging, whiplash clear.
Each ugly word, and the tone in which it was said. The sound of sobbing
in the night, the way it dragged itself on for three long grey years
after it was mortally wounded, and both of us using all our strength to
keep it moving because of the children.
The children! Oh, God, I mustn't think about them now. It hurts too
much. Without the children to complicate it, I must think about her for
the last time; I must end this woman Joan. So now finally and for all to
end this woman who made me cry. I do not hate her for the man with whom
she went away. She deserved another try for happiness.
But I hate her for my children and for making shabby the love that I
could have given Shermaine as a new thing. Also, I pity her for her
inability to find the happiness for which she hunts so fiercely. I
pity her for her coldness of body and of mind, I pity her for her
prettiness that is now almost gone (it goes round her eyes first,
cracking like oil paint) and I pity her for her consuming selfishness
which will lose her the love of her children.
My children - not hers! My children!
That is all, that is an end to Joan, and now I have Shermaine who is
none of the things that Joan was. I also deserve another try.
'Shermaine,' he whispered and turned her head slightly to kiss her.
'Shermaine, wake up.' She stirred and murmured against him.
'Wake up.' He took the lobe of her ear between his teeth and bit it
gently. Her eyes opened.
'Bon matin, madame.' He smiled at her.
'Bonjour, monsieur,' she answered and closed her eyes to press her face
once more against his chest.
'Wake up. I have something to tell you.'
'I am awake, but tell me first if I am still dreaming. I have a
certainty that this cannot be reality.' 'You are not dreaming.' She
sighed softly, and held him closer.
'Now tell me the other thing.'
'I love you,' he said.
'No. Now I am dreaming.'
'In truth,' he said.
'No, do not wake me. I could not bear to wake now.'
