When her father had died her mother had acted very practically, doing all the necessary things but then, after all the business was over, relapsing into herself. She seemed to lose all her energy and would fall asleep in the chair even at midday. She also gave up cooking as if all those years she had really been cooking for her husband and for no one else, her husband who had done everything she had wanted him to do, who had never drunk even though he worked in a distillery, who had always been there, quiet, silent and strong. She had ceased visiting people’s houses. She had even ceased to watch TV and would say, ‘What rubbish they are showing there.’
Two large blue policemen burst into a red room and there were gun shots. She rose and went to her room. She took off her clothes, laying them down on the chair, and then got into bed. She took out a paperback and began to read it. One of the things she had always dreaded was that she would become an insomniac but in fact she slept quite well. One of the teachers in her school was an insomniac. His name was Ross and he had told her that he only slept an average of an hour a night. He would stay up most of the night making tea and reading. He had got through the whole of Dostoevsky and Tolstoy in one spell of six months. Now he was getting to work on Dickens. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be an insomniac. She was sure she would go off her head but thanked God that at least she could sleep at nights. She looked at her watch which told her that it was ten o’clock. She closed the book and then her eyes, even though outside she could hear quite clearly the roar of the traffic and somewhere in the hotel the sound of conversation and crockery and trays. She fell asleep almost immediately.
She dreamed that she was in a park full of Greek statues of boys with short cropped hair like American athletes. In the middle of the night the statues began to move and to dance as if during the day they had been waiting patiently so that they could do precisely that. Their hollow eyes assumed expression and intelligence, they moved as if to a music which she herself could not hear. All round them bits of paper and other litter as well as fallen leaves swirled in a wind which had blown up. In the storm of leaves the statues remained solid and the expressions on the faces were both smiling and cruel as if they belonged to a royal supercilious race which despised the human. Then she saw in her dream the park-keeper unlocking the gate and the statues became immobile and blank again.
The following morning she woke new and refreshed and in the blaze of white sunlight that illuminated the room felt inexplicably the same kind of large hope that she used to feel when she was a girl, when suddenly she would throw off the bed-clothes and walk about the silent house as if waiting for something dramatic to happen.
She washed quickly and went down to her breakfast. The waitress was an old woman with a limp who had a pleasant smile, and asked her whether she would like one egg or two as if she really wanted to give her the two. When she had finished her breakfast she went outside, her handbag over her shoulder. The morning was still cool and she felt confident and happy as she walked along. She knew exactly what she was going to do. She would tour the High Street and look at the museums and other sights and she might even have a look at the Castle later.
All around her she could see the crenellated outlines of old houses, solid and heavy, houses that had been in existence for centuries and between which were lanes and steps that had known many secrecies which at the time appeared trembling and immediate. She could see the spires of large churches that had seen many congregations which had flowed into them and flowed out again in their changing dresses. She found herself on ancient winding stairs at which people had once stood and talked in their short red flaring cloaks. The whole area was a place of romance and mystery. She walked up the steps till she arrived at a library which was advertising an exhibition of old manuscripts. She entered and went into a room which was off to the right and in which a man in blue uniform was sitting at a desk looking rather bored. He said good morning and turned back to whatever he was doing. She walked around looking at the old manuscripts, most of them beautiful illuminated Bibles such as she had never seen before. The pages were embellished with colourful Virgin Marys, green fields, and omnipresent angels. She couldn’t read the writing, most of which appeared to be in Latin. In one section she saw Mary, Queen of Scots’ last letter written in ancient French in which she seemed not to show so much fear as an imperious hauteur. But it was the lovely illuminated Bibles with their populace of angels that captivated her. What patience and faith and sense of vocation these monks must have had to create these works! She imagined them in gardens, surrounded by trees inhabited by birds, pains-takingly drawing and painting. She compared their colours to those of the TV screen and smiled to herself. The world which they revealed seemed so natural and so real though in fact
