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

wedding garb draped from coat hangers, the faded blacks and whites
clinging together. I thought I could smell a whiff of perfume. They must
have had such a close, warm marriage. I tried to imagine how I would feel
if Harriet died in such horrifying circumstances but it was a pointless
exercise; our lives were beyond comparison. A whole generation of values
and ethics had changed. If I couldn't empathise with a system as staid and
correct as theirs, what hope did I have of assimilating the lives of two
people who were born of that era with Harriet and me?
When Harriet left she took with her any warmth and character the house was
starting to accumulate. Angry for no apparent reason, I stormed into the
garden shed but I couldn't find anything with which to shave the lawn. By
the time I'd dressed and opened the front door, my rage had evaporated and
asking a neighbour for his mower seemed unnecessary.
I made a shopping list, trying to imagine how the house might look once
I'd imbued it with something of me. Hopefully my character would replaced
that of my grandparents despite there being half a century of their
community witnessed by these walls. What had they talked about on those
still nights it was too cold to go out? But in asking the question, I kind
of knew the answer, which unsettled me because it implied an intimacy with
them I could never have shared.
I called Harriet that evening but she couldn't come round; she was
travelling to Mold to watch a friend perform in a new play. I dropped
enough hints about my possibly accompanying her but either she ignored
them or this was a 'friend' night and lovers weren't allowed. I rang home,
hoping they'd not think I was lonely, and chatted with dad about budgets
for a while till the proximity of his voice and the easy way in which he
spoke relaxed me. Soon I didn't mind being alone again. I listened to a
John Lee Hooker album but that only made me think of Harriet; funny how
you can be sad about someone even when a relationship is going well. I
suppose it's the self-doubt everyone lingers over from time to time.
Wondering how people will react to news of your death, that sort of thing.
Tragedy is not completely unattractive.
I didn't want to go to bed in such a solemn mood but it was my own fault.
Even the TV couldn't help. Of the stations still broadcasting, one was
showing an Ingmar Bergman film dealing with incest, the other a play about
a cancer ward. I switched off and took a book upstairs.
I must have dozed because the telephone made me jump and the book slid to
the floor. It was mum. She told me Grandma had died; a heart attack
apparently, as she was making a cup of tea. I didn't feel sorrow, only
fear. I tried to reassure mum and told her I'd be over in the morning.
When I replaced the receiver the air had somehow thickened.
Trying to force sleep to claim me only made me restless. The pillow was
full of prickles, the blankets hot and itchy. Each time I closed me eyes,
Grandma's meaty lips loomed and I smelled naphthalene clinging to that
heavy coat she always wore. Something stirred over my head; the muffled
creak of weight shifting on floorboards. Her mouth twisted and pursed and
tightened, fluting her words into my ear. What had she said to me that
day? It seemed critical I remember. I wished Harriet was with me. I wished
I'd not left home. I wished I had less of an idea of what lay buried in
the garden.