Damascus by Richard Beard Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Richard Beard
on a cloth. Definitely not at ease with himself, William judged, and not enough sleep either.
âWhat does she do as a job? I bet Jessica has a better job.â
âSheâs a teacher,â Spencer said.
âItâs Monday. Sheâll be late for school.â
On his way out to the hall, controlling himself and his voice, Spencer patiently explained that she was a distance-learning teacher. This meant that she taught adults by correspondence and telephone, and surprisingly, because it was the first time heâd ever thought about distance-learning, William discovered that he didnât like the idea of it. At the same time he knew he ought to give Spencer a chance, because maybe this girl was the one. It was unlikely, because it was always unlikely, but it was also always possible. There was even the cautionary example of William at the same age, but history didnât have to repeat itself. Expecting it to do so was a sure sign of growing old.
Spencer unlooped his raincoat from a crucifix-shaped pole they used as a coat-stand. He shrugged himself inside it and picked up the plastic bag full of books which heâd left by the door.
âI have to take my library books back.â
'I thought you said she was reading one.â
âIâll take it back tomorrow. One day for one book wonât make any difference.â
Just before Spencer opened the door, William put a restraining hand on his arm.
âBut sheâs not Jessica, is she?â he said. âThatâs my point.â
âI donât know,â Spencer said, reaching for the latch. âShe might be.â
It is the first of November 1993 and somewhere in Britain, in Carrick or Kidderminster or Redditch or Holt Heath, in Howe of Fife or Egham or Marlborough or Herne Bay, Hazelâs mother is taking charge. As often as she can, she drives back from the hospital in her husbandâs Ford Mondeo or Peugeot 405 or Vauxhall Cavalier. Mr Burns is away on a sales trip to New York or Delhi or Moscow, but he telephones at least once every hour, either to the hospital or the house, where Hazel is thirteen years old and all alone. She knows that at her age she shouldnât mind so much, but today everything is different.
She stays mostly in the front room, where she sits on the beige sofa or on one of the matching chairs. She turns the television on or off. She plays the piano or she doesnât. She reads a paragraph in the newspaper or starts one of Oliveâs books. She makes chess moves on the board where the king of the black pieces is Napoleon or King Richard or Mao Tse-tung. She tries a crossword book or stacks dominoes or loiters by the window, waiting for the arrival in the drive of Mum in Dadâs car.
Everything around her, which only yesterday seemed so familiar, is both all she can be sure of and instantly forgettable. A print of Vermeerâs
Guitar Player
over the fireplace, that much she remembers, or it might be a Lowry or a Van Gogh. A shelf displaying card invitations to the New Paradigm Conference or
The Times
Dillons Church Debate or the Getty exhibition at the Royal Academy. The bookcase neatly filled with the complete works of Orwell or Kipling, Kenneth Grahame or Edward Lear,
Rebecca
or
Pride and Prejudice
or
Little Women
or
Kasparov vs Short 1993
, The glass corner cabinet with its collection of china animals: at last, something which never changes.
Hazelâs Mum likes to collect them in pairs. She already has dogs, cats, rabbits, seagulls, goldfish and horses, and every time they move house Dad buys Mum some new ones. The latest addition is a pair of badgers, a good sign because they move house whenever Dad gets a better job, to somewhere slightly larger, quieter, and a little further from the town centre. This year Hazelâs Dad has been voted Salesperson of the Year â93, and theyâve moved house again.
Hazel sees all these objects and herself and her family moving
âWhat does she do as a job? I bet Jessica has a better job.â
âSheâs a teacher,â Spencer said.
âItâs Monday. Sheâll be late for school.â
On his way out to the hall, controlling himself and his voice, Spencer patiently explained that she was a distance-learning teacher. This meant that she taught adults by correspondence and telephone, and surprisingly, because it was the first time heâd ever thought about distance-learning, William discovered that he didnât like the idea of it. At the same time he knew he ought to give Spencer a chance, because maybe this girl was the one. It was unlikely, because it was always unlikely, but it was also always possible. There was even the cautionary example of William at the same age, but history didnât have to repeat itself. Expecting it to do so was a sure sign of growing old.
Spencer unlooped his raincoat from a crucifix-shaped pole they used as a coat-stand. He shrugged himself inside it and picked up the plastic bag full of books which heâd left by the door.
âI have to take my library books back.â
'I thought you said she was reading one.â
âIâll take it back tomorrow. One day for one book wonât make any difference.â
Just before Spencer opened the door, William put a restraining hand on his arm.
âBut sheâs not Jessica, is she?â he said. âThatâs my point.â
âI donât know,â Spencer said, reaching for the latch. âShe might be.â
It is the first of November 1993 and somewhere in Britain, in Carrick or Kidderminster or Redditch or Holt Heath, in Howe of Fife or Egham or Marlborough or Herne Bay, Hazelâs mother is taking charge. As often as she can, she drives back from the hospital in her husbandâs Ford Mondeo or Peugeot 405 or Vauxhall Cavalier. Mr Burns is away on a sales trip to New York or Delhi or Moscow, but he telephones at least once every hour, either to the hospital or the house, where Hazel is thirteen years old and all alone. She knows that at her age she shouldnât mind so much, but today everything is different.
She stays mostly in the front room, where she sits on the beige sofa or on one of the matching chairs. She turns the television on or off. She plays the piano or she doesnât. She reads a paragraph in the newspaper or starts one of Oliveâs books. She makes chess moves on the board where the king of the black pieces is Napoleon or King Richard or Mao Tse-tung. She tries a crossword book or stacks dominoes or loiters by the window, waiting for the arrival in the drive of Mum in Dadâs car.
Everything around her, which only yesterday seemed so familiar, is both all she can be sure of and instantly forgettable. A print of Vermeerâs
Guitar Player
over the fireplace, that much she remembers, or it might be a Lowry or a Van Gogh. A shelf displaying card invitations to the New Paradigm Conference or
The Times
Dillons Church Debate or the Getty exhibition at the Royal Academy. The bookcase neatly filled with the complete works of Orwell or Kipling, Kenneth Grahame or Edward Lear,
Rebecca
or
Pride and Prejudice
or
Little Women
or
Kasparov vs Short 1993
, The glass corner cabinet with its collection of china animals: at last, something which never changes.
Hazelâs Mum likes to collect them in pairs. She already has dogs, cats, rabbits, seagulls, goldfish and horses, and every time they move house Dad buys Mum some new ones. The latest addition is a pair of badgers, a good sign because they move house whenever Dad gets a better job, to somewhere slightly larger, quieter, and a little further from the town centre. This year Hazelâs Dad has been voted Salesperson of the Year â93, and theyâve moved house again.
Hazel sees all these objects and herself and her family moving