ashamed of how expensive it was. She held it next to her body. The style was old-fashioned and a little full for her, yet it was cut rather short, almost embarrassingly so, in fact; she would have to keep her legs well together when she wore it. But oh, how lovely it was!
'I can't wait to try it on,' she said.
Rosie shook his head. 'I don't want you to. I'm sure it'll fit well enough.' He flashed a sheepish grin. 'Actually, I have to tell you, this dress originally belonged to a friend, but she only had a single opportunity to wear it, and, well' – he shrugged – 'I wanted you to have it. You may find it a trifle large, but I think it will do One. I've taken the liberty of having it altered.'
'I'm sure it'll be perfect,' said Carol.
'What I was hoping was, maybe, if you had some time, you could wear it this Saturday night. We could make an evening together, you and I – unless, of course, you have some nice young man to look after you, someone a bit more handsome than an old thing like me.'
'Why no,' she said, grateful for something to do, 'that would be wonderful. I have no plans at all. Honestly, it's so sweet of you, Rosie, giving me something like this. You know, I've been needing a summer dress; I had absolutely nothing nice to wear.'
He was nodding. 'Good,' he said. 'When I saw that dress I immediately thought of you, because you see' – he smiled – 'it's your natural color.'
On his way home that evening, as he sits on one of the old folks' seats on the northbound bus, blinking at the passing lights and smiling at the occasional passengers who jostle him as they climb aboard, he thinks about the snow-white dress, the woman he's just left… and remembers the first time.
The first woman to wear that dress had been a farmer's daughter. Strong, better muscled than the slips of girls these days. And tediously pious. And trusting.
Like all first times, it hadn't gone very well.
The groundwork had been boring but necessary, exactly the sort of stupid sentimental story she'd been brought up to believe. He had told her he was going to marry her; he'd said he had great plans. He intended, he'd said, to make something of himself in the town. They had gone for long walks together, along country lanes and over the fields and through the woods.
Especially through the woods.
How she had enjoyed it, dreaming of the future with him! She had probably enjoyed it right up till the end.
He had tied the rope too tightly, that was his mistake. She'd been heavier than he'd thought, which had tightened the noose even more. And her struggles, once he'd gotten the dress off her, had made it tighter still, cutting off her wind before he'd gotten more than halfway through the other things he was supposed to do.
Oh, he had chanted the right words, and had drawn the necessary pictures in the earth below her as she struggled, and he'd even anointed her body with the black powder, in the special way the Master had prescribed…
He had tied that rope much too tightly, though. That had been his big mistake. She had died far sooner than he'd intended.
But then, he had just turned twenty-two, and this had only been a dry run, an experiment. He was still young. He would practice.
Next time, he vowed, he would get it right.
July Eighth
Good to get up in the country again: warm breeze, sunshine, sound of birds outside. Lay in bed listening to them late into the morning. Sarr was off clearing brush from the area just beyond the stream, amp; every so often I could hear his scythe ring out as it struck against a particularly thick branch. Deborah was closer by, just behind the house, hanging laundry on the clothesline. (Must remember to give her these pyjamas of mine, maybe also the bedsheets. The dampness around here makes it harder to keep things clean.) Later heard her working in the garden; from time to time she'd call out to one or another of the cats, scolding them for going after birds.
Trouble getting out of bed; actually, slept poorly last night, awakened from time to time by what must be mice running across my ceiling. Hope it's mice, anyway, amp; not rats!)
Don't know exactly what time it was when I finally got up, but I felt famished amp; really had to force myself to do my exercises. Guess it's because I missed another day. Somehow I only managed to do twenty-seven pushups, though I was supposed to do forty. I'm slipping back – better watch that.
Managed all of Le Fanu's 'Carmilla' before lunch. Wonderful allusions to forbidden books: Magia Posthuma, Phlegon de Mira-bilibus, Augustintts de euro, pro Mortuis, and something called Philosophicae el Christianae Cogitationes de Vampiris by John Christofer Harenberg. Oh, for a peek at such stuff!
Eggs for lunch, from our hens. Still can't say I taste any difference, though Deborah seems to take it as an article of faith that country eggs must taste better than week-old city ones; so I humor her amp; smack my lips amp; tell her that there's simply no comparison. I'm beginning to think that country people have to have it confirmed, every so often, that they've made the right choice.
After lunch, hit the books again. Started Tales of Hoffman but put it aside; ugly, disturbing, amp; a hell of a long way from the Nutcracker Suite. Next, prompted by that odd phallic image in Carol's dream amp; by something Sarr mentioned at dinner last night about there being an unusual prevalence of snakes around here this summer (just my luck!), took down Stoker's Lair of the White Worm, about some legendary monster surviving beneath an old Derbyshire castle.
At first it made a welcome change of pace: not too subtle, I suppose, but I liked the references to local history amp; to a place the author called 'Diana's Grove.' (Cf. 'Lucky's Grove' in the Wakefield tale, sacred to the evil god Loki.) After a few chapters, though, my attention began to wander; I got tired of waiting for the goddamned Worm to show up amp; was put off by the uninspired prose. Dutifully the book brought in the whole supernatural grab bag – the Druids, the rites of ancient Rome, even a discussion of African voodoo – but there was somehow no magic in any of it, amp; no real feeling.
So I occupied myself out here till dinnertime with scissors amp; a can of insect spray, cutting away the ivy that's grown across my windows. Those little green shoots fasten themselves onto the screens amp; cling like drowning men, practically ripping out the wire when I pull at them. Something almost frightening about their tenacity – all that mindless, unshakable will. The spiders living among them seem timid in comparison, scrambling frantically for cover in the leaves. I only killed a few that seemed inclined to stand their ground; amp; now, here at this rickety old table, with the windows dark amp; nothing but the screens between me amp; what's alive out there, I'm teasing myself with Hammer Films visions of how the survivors might take their revenge. Wish, now, I hadn't killed any – or else had killed them all
…
Beef with noodles for dinner tonight, praise the Lord, amp; apple pie for dessert. Drifted into the kitchen a bit early; didn't know what time it was, but knew I. was hungry amp; smelled something good. So did the cats. All seven of them were assembled by the back door waiting to be fed, milling back amp; forth with tails swishing, Bwada growling at the others, amp; I had to push my way through them to get inside (stepping over the usual assortment of bloody mice amp; moles which they'd laid out for inspection amp; which I was careful to avoid looking at). Deborah was humming some sort of hymn; she seemed glad to have me around.
Just then there was a chorus of miaows from outside the door, followed by the clank of an overturned garbage can amp; the sound of little claws scrabbling down the back steps. Above all this I could hear Sarr swearing – words I'd never heard him use before – amp; a few moments later he walked into the kitchen clutching his hand to announce, with some amusement, 'I've just been bitten by a corpse!'
At least he'd thought it was a corpse.
He had just come back from the fields, hungry for his dinner and for human company. The cats had been waiting for him there on the porch, purring and rubbing up against his ankles as they displayed their day's catch – all the luckless Utile animals they'd pounced on in the grass.
Listen to them purr! he thought. They're just natural-born killers. Yet the Lord must love them more than He loves a sinner like me… He stooped to pick up the nearest body, a tiny brown field mouse. Good-natured Azariah, striped like a plump tiger, purred and butted his head against Poroth's arm. 'Away with you!' he muttered, cuffing the cat lightly with the back of his hand. Gingerly he picked the mouse up by the tail and tossed it into the garbage can.
