Echoes of the Dance Read Online Free PDF Page B

perception.
    â€˜That’s absolutely true. Even after the accident . . .’ He paused, shocked at himself. He never talked about that ghastly moment to anybody.
    Daisy was watching him with a kind of compassion.
    â€˜How terrible it must have been,’ she said gently. ‘I’m only now beginning to realize how terrible.’
    He glanced at her quickly. ‘I hope it won’t be nearly so final for you,’ he said.
    â€˜I hope not, too.’ She felt a great need to reassure him; to see him smile again. ‘I have to be patient. Take things gently.’ She grimaced, self-mockingly. ‘I can’t tell you how dreary that seems. I am so utterly not patient.’
    She’d succeeded: the smile flashed out and she laughed too.
    â€˜I shall keep an eye on you,’ he warned her. ‘Come over when you’re ready.’
    He went down the steps and the dogs stood up, tails wagging expectantly.
    Daisy looked down at them. ‘Will you lend me a dog?’ she asked. ‘You’ve got three, after all. Surely you could spare just one of them?’
    Roly pretended to consider and then shook his head. ‘Can’t be done. Uncle Bernard believes the flat to be beneath him socially. It wouldn’t be fair to let Floss get too fond of you, she’ll be moving on soon, and Bevis has a hang-up about going up stairs. Sorry, Daisy.’
    She shrugged philosophically, waved a hand and went back inside to unpack. Roly crossed the yard, feeling surprisingly light-hearted. He’d been anxious about Daisy’s arrival since Mim had telephoned, wondering how he’d cope with a girl in her situation. However, one look at that narrow clever face, with its slanting honey-brown eyes, had shown him courage and humour; her ease of manner had done the rest.
    It was odd that someone so young had recognized and appreciated Mim’s quality of inner serenity. It was their mother’s gift. He pushed the kettle on to the hotplate and wandered out through the French doors into the wilderness garden. It was here that he remembered her best; pruning, weeding or simply standing quite still with her hands pressed against her breast – and, just occasionally, her face so full of sadness.
    When he is small, he cannot bear to see her look so sad. He shouts to her across the garden, determined to chase away such an unhappy look, and feels a great relief when her eyes brighten and she waves to him.
    â€˜Hush,’ she says, ‘you’ll wake Mim. Come and give the fish something to eat.’
    He loves to feed the fish: to see the soft blunt mouths sucking at the bread. He watches, fascinated, as those bright shapes that flicker and flash amongst the weed become braver; swimming up, so sinuous, so quick to snatch the food.
    Others are slower: the huge carp, Old Black and Big Blue, drift slowly upwards and gently mumble the crumbs of food into their mouths. If he moves too suddenly they turn with a great smack of their tails that sends ripples flowing across the pond.
    â€˜Look, Mother,’ he says, wide-eyed with surprise. ‘See the tiny ones,’ and he crouches down to watch the cloud of small black fish that cruise in the green and gold depths.
    â€˜Babies,’ she says, smiling. ‘Lots and lots of fishy babies.’
    They stand together watching the busy pond skaters who walk on the taut surface skin of the pond, casting fantastic shadows on the floor of it, whilst a dragonfly perches on the edge of a lily pad; its wings vibrate and tremble at such speed that they shimmer like bronze filaments in the sunshine. He is aware of several sensations: the heat under the trees, the feel of her hand on his shoulder, the microscopic world within the shimmering pool and the rich scents all around him.
    He wants to hold this moment for ever but he knows that it is already passing: that Mim will wake and it will be time for tea. He can hear the kettle singing on the