Alys, Always (27 page)
Suddenly, a fragment of poetry came to mind: a piece of Emily Dickinson. Worth a pop, I thought.
‘He won’t give up on you,’ I said. ‘And neither will I. There’s this line from a poem, one particular poem which has always meant a great deal to me, and I can’t stop thinking about it:
Hope is the thing with feathers
… Thing is, without that hope, he’s finished. He’s clinging to it. So we’ll wait. Take your time. Please, just take your time.’
I stood up and went to the counter and paid for three coffees, and then I pushed the door open and stepped out into the street.
I heard her footsteps behind me and when I turned around I knew it was going to be all right.
So now I leave the papers and my cup on the refectory table and go out into the garden. I step beyond the cool shade that falls away from the house and I look up. It’s going to be another hot day: above the shimmering wall of trees, the sky is the thin blue-white of skimmed milk. At some point, I’ll have to think about what to give the Azarias, who are coming for supper. But not just yet.
Laurence has been in his study since mid-morning, consulting his fluttering wall of colours: planning, plotting, piecing the story together. He’s coming to the end of his first draft. Last week he asked whether I’d be interested in taking a look at it, once he has knocked it into shape.
I wonder whether this novel will have my name printed at the front upon an otherwise blank page. Well, if not this one, the next one will.
I’m sitting on the bench stroking the cat, my bare feet in the grass, when he comes out to join me, walking along the brick path that winds between the fruit trees. Without saying anything, he sits down next to me and puts his hand out for mine; and after a moment I place his palm on my belly, even though there’s nothing to feel quite yet, and rest mine on top. We sit there in silence as the sun moves over us.
It’s very tranquil. A dog barks. Someone turns on a hose. Distantly, a child shouts, ‘Coming, ready or not!’
I’m listening for it, not quite expecting it yet, but they are early. I do not hear the key in the lock or the feet on the stairs, and neither does Laurence. When they come out of the French windows, we are both sitting there side by side in the sun, the cat twisting around our ankles, enjoying the peace.
While they make their reconciliations, I stand back. Smilingly, I stand back, my eyes lowered, and I wait for their eventual gratitude.
My wonderful editor Arzu Tahsin, for being so sure of what needn’t be said.
For additional insights, Anna deVries, my editor at Scribner.
The early readers: Rachel Thomas, my parents David and Sara Lane, and my sister Victoria.
For various kindnesses: Sophie Buchan, Morag Preston and Damian Whitworth, Jane Dwelly, Lucy Darwin, Juliet Knight, Lynne Riley, Daisy Cook, Anna Mazzega, Jane Goldthorpe, Bethany Wren and Natalie Roe.
Dr Gordon Plant and his colleagues at Queen Square, particularly Merle Galton.
Clare Johnson, Penny Faith and the Thursday group at Lauderdale House.
Poppy and Barnaby, who suggested buns for tea, ‘because that’s what they have in
The Railway Children
’.
Two people seemed to believe in this book long before I did: my agent Cat Ledger and my husband Stafford Critchlow. For that and other things, many thanks.
Harriet Lane has worked as an editor and staff writer at
Tatler
and the
Observer
. She has also written for the
Guardian
, the
Telegraph
and
Vogue
. She lives in north London.
A Weidenfeld & Nicolson ebook
First published in Great Britain in 2012
by Weidenfeld & Nicolson
This ebook first published in 2012
by Weidenfeld & Nicolson
Copyright © 2012 Harriet Lane
The right of Harriet Lane to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Excerpt from
Rudolf Nureyev: A Life
by Julie Kavanagh (Penguin Books 2007). Copyright © 2007 by Julie Kavanagh.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN
: 978 0 297 86504 9
The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
Orion House
5 Upper Saint Martin’s Lane
London, WC2H 9EA
An Hachette UK Company
