sheldrake

I have become hopeless at LJ, I'm sorry. I've developed a strange fear of my inbox, so I'm also sorry to all the people who have commented and whom I appear to ignore (once again). I answer you in my head, really I do!

I am having a week off work. Yes.

And I keep writing things and then deleting them because they are basically the drivellings of a feeble mind. Ho hum.

So. There we are.

ALSO: a number I didn't recognise just phoned me and then hung up when I answered. Cheers for that, whoever you are.

Sadly, Leonora's cake tasted of nothing.

***

Everybody stood around awkardly with their tea. Sarah said, "I'm not into poetry," and just then, her phone rang. Stephen said, "That's a dinky thing. Are you aware you're trying to contact your mother on a cigarette lighter?"

***

The difficult bit was over. Afterwards, they walked together by the river, and it wasn't very long before Henry lost his temper again, because Thomas had said the wrong thing again. He always did say the wrong thing, Thomas, he was bloody-minded that way. Words floated to the top and had to come out. It perplexed people, the way Thomas just flung those words out into the world, willy nilly. It was as though he didn't really care. Even at the end, he didn't care very much, or at least that's what they say.

Henry said, his voice rising dangerously, "What, you really think I'd do that to you? Is that what you think, Thomas? Is that what you think of me?" He was like a bulldog, square-chested, large-hearted, wound up and spoiling for a fight.

Thomas looked at Henry, and Henry looked back at him, twitching under the skin like something waiting to be let out of a cage. But Thomas was statue-still, and his face was like the blank white sky. "Heaven forbid," he said. He spoke softly, slowly, as though to himself. "Heaven forbid." A little way off, there was a soft splash as something -- a rat, a bird -- launched itself into the water and swam swift and silent into the river's brown depths.

Thomas's pale hand was still curled like a comma over his heart. He looked down at it, as though noticing it for the first time. Then he turned and walked on ahead down the path. He'd made up his mind now, and all things would follow as they were meant to. As they were always meant to. The difficult bit was over.

***

Stephen said, "You have to look a bit for their graves, but when you find them, they lie side by side, as in life. And as in life, there is Imogen, peeping between their shoulders... Have you ever seen a picture of her? I saw her once, she popped up very suddenly from some shrubbery, tall and thin, with the little round specs, just popped up like that. She was like a heron. Sort of like a Mr Bean, like a Miss Bean coming up out of the shrubbery."

***

When terrible things happen, someone has to be to blame. Stands to reason. Like the time Robert was killed. Just a boy, Robert was. You know who was to blame, don't you? We all know it. Who even knows what they get up to, that lot? They don't belong here -- they never have. They've probably been getting up to all sorts. Richard ought to have sent them packing, years ago. But Richard's not here, is he? He's never here. Not even sure where he is half the time, always abroad somewhere, on some crusade or other. Well. If he won't take care of things back home, somebody'll have to. What they did to that little boy... We've been too soft with them -- I've said it before. They'll have to go. They'll have to get themselves gone, them and their nasty ways. Nobody wants them round here. If they don't take themselves off smartish, it'll all kick off. You mark my words. I won't answer for what'll happen. They've only themselves to blame, haven't they?

***