Perfect Happiness by Penelope Lively Read Free Book Online Page B

of an electric toy, as though it were impossible she should ever run down.
    ‘Well, it's quite a country! If you're ever there, stop by and visit – I'll give you the address. We're vacationing, of course – first time we were over since nineteen seventy-five and we see changes, I can tell you. We just love France, and last week when we were in Chartres, believe me there were…’
    Ruth Bowers laid her hand, as she spoke, on Frances's arm and the physical contact was like a burn, distracting her totally. Two days after Steven's death she had lain in bed and thought, I shall never again feel someone else's arms round me, another person's body close up against mine, not sex, not nakedness, just physical closeness, often, casually, with another human being. And now the touch of others – Zoe's quick hugs, Tabitha's dutiful brushing of the cheek – had this disproportionate effect. To be touched was both a sacrilege and a joy.
    ‘… But I guess nothing stands still and you've got to accept that. Now your country I just love. We had two weeks in London in seventy-five.’ The hand, the friendly emphasizing hand, had been removed and Frances, picking herself up, said, ‘I live in London.’
    ‘Is that so? Is your husband joining you on vacation?’
    Frances looked out at the glittering rivers of light, the myriads of strangers, at the permanent impervious skyline of dome and spire. ‘No. He died eight months ago. And I'm not on vacation, I'm here because my son is in hospital here. He was hurt in the airport explosion.’
    Ruth Bowers gave a kind of hiss. For a few moments she said nothing. Then, ‘Well, I guess you must think me really stupid, going on about vacations. One thing you can be sure of in this life, nothing's ever the way you think it is. I saw you on the boat, and back there in the hotel and I just had this impression of someone – well someone the sun shone on, if you see what I mean. You get to looking at people, when you're on your own. It's kind of nosy, I guess, but not all that much. I'm really sorry, Frances. How is your son?’
    ‘He's not very badly hurt. A broken leg, and some cuts.’
    ‘That's really rough, though, having a kid caught up in something like that. You must've been worried sick. I don't have any kids myself – not married, for that matter – and I often think I missed something there. Someone you carried around inside your body – it grabs me just to think about it. Is he the only one?’
    An oil tanker was passing between the quay and the distant skyline of Giudecca. Frances watched its huge grey bulk blot out the dome of San Giorgio. ‘As a matter of fact he isn't my son. He's adopted. There's a girl, too, a bit older. She was adopted too.’
    Ruth Bowers sighed. She gestured at the waiter. ‘If you'll excuse me, Frances, I'm going to buy us a couple more drinks. Oh my, this sure is my night for getting things wrong. But it's the same, I guess, isn't it, if you've had them from babies?’
    ‘Oh yes,’ said Frances. ‘It's the same.’ She tried to find her purse. ‘Look, please let me…’
    ‘Another time. You sit tight. You still look a bit rocky. You'd think they'd keep those darn great things out of the lagoon, wouldn't you? I read somewhere each of them carries enough crude oil to pollute twenty miles of coast-line. And from everything you hear this city's in enough trouble as it is. Did you see this booklet they have in the hotel about how they're appealing for…’
    The tanker's silent passage extinguished the lights of the distant shore in sections, printing its shape upon the bright night. People passed and re-passed: singly, in groups, loitering, hurrying. It seemed amazing that there could be so many people, that the supply was endless, replenished every day, year in year out. The paving was worn smooth by feet, the joins between the stones almost obliterated. Probably, Frances thought, I walked along here with Steven, though I don't now remember. Maybe I