"Conrad Williams - The Bone Garden" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williams Conrad)

The Bone Garden
a short story by Conrad Williams

Much of that final day was taken up with placating my family, a
surprisingly difficult task which left me more drained than the hot work
of transferring furniture to my new house. Grandma cried most. Not that
mum and dad or Pol, my sister, weren't getting maudlin, it's just that
none of us had ever seen Gran cry before and her tears made everyone else
feel worse. I suppose it was because I was moving to the house she'd
shared with Granddad for so long before coming to live with us when the
loneliness and strain became too much for her. At one point I had to take
myself down to the concrete football pitch to escape the clotted feeling I
was making a mistake. I wasn't, of course, and I had only to focus on my
reasons for this move to guarantee its execution: all of them somehow
wheeling back to the old woman who occupied the attic room above my own.
Down here, where I'd scored more goals in one day than Pele in a season, I
allowed myself to weep, for the people I was leaving behind, the
uncertainty of my future and for me. After a while, I grew angry at my
self-indulgence and stalked back, eager to get the last of my stuff out. A
housewarming for my friends had been arranged that evening; I'd not let it
be spoilt.
I kissed everyone goodbye. Gran held me close for a beat or two longer
than I felt comfortable with before whispering a few words that I couldn't
quite recognize. Rather than ask her to repeat them I left, as calmly as
possible, the smile on my face as I drove away threatening to crease into
something awful and dead.
That first night after the wine and music I lay awake for hours listening
to the alien murmur of the house and the trees beyond its window. My
mind's eye framed the four of them in my rear view mirror, waving by the
gate; pink stick figures punctured by slashes and dots where their
features gaped at me. Either my memory wouldn't allow me a clear view of
Gran or she was shaded by the reach of our cherry tree. There'd be a
glitter there somewhere, in the blackness of her eyes. Her words to me,
what had they been? I visualised the shaping of her lips as she mouthed
them; thin flat lines blooming to a great wet thickness, pursed as though
ready to kiss me.
I cleared up the mess and opened all the windows, hoping vainly to rid the
house of its smoky, beery reek. I took in the strange new view outside,
this fresh configuration of roofs, roads and tree tops. I wondered if I
would pine for the simple picture I'd grown up with at home; how little
that had changed as I altered a lot. I used to think the glass as part of
a time tank in which I was doomed to wither and die while everything
outside remained young and beautiful.
I looked down at my shadow, the vague M shape it made in the block of
light on my garden. Perhaps I should have been worried when I realised
something other than that was moving in the overgrown grass but I was
still drifting with my thought. It would take me a long time to straighten
things down there. I wondered if I should just clear the lawn of litter
and then leave it; let it sprawl. The garden at home was too clinical and
angular - I needed some chaos in my life.