coat, your magical, magnificent, momentous coat, you are blessed with the beauty of a rainbow. Ah, I could sing to you all night. ..'
Janice stared, no longer able to hear above the rushing in her ears the pumping in her body.
Dermot Poll, exhausted both by metaphor and by passion, loved the world and all creatures in it. 'I love you,' he said, making a grand, all-encompassing gesture. 'And I worship your womanhood . . .'
Christine de Pisan, in her fourteenth-century study somewhere in the ether, said, 'Do not listen.'
Thomas Campion and the Court of Gloriana said, 'Hark.'
It was scarcely a contest. Gloriana was yards in front.
This, then, was what she had been avoiding for so long. This, then, was true and real and beautiful. She stroked her coat. How wrong her mother had been. How unlike Mr Gentle this beautiful, poetical young man was . . .
Dermot watched entranced as her hand slid over the swelling of her belly.
She looked at him, saw the enchantment in his eyes, and saw that this, her gallant, spoke a truth so strong that it trembled. Indeed, she noticed, from time to time his voice became quite indistinct with the burr of emotion. How could she not believe? How could she not let him worship her and love her if he wished?
Poor Janice. Fatal trust. Vous ou Mort. She offered herself up.
'Tell me who you are,' she said. Her eyes never left his beautiful, shining face as she spoke. This was love, she was convinced of it. It was beautiful and real.
'My name is Dermot Poll,' he said. 'I come from Skibbereen.' His eyes grew moist. 'And one day, when I have travelled the world, I shall go back there. But meanwhile, O lovely creature, this' - he looked at the lettering in the shop window, he smiled at her, a warm smile, a blind smile, a smile that belonged to the absent Deirdre - 'is St Valentine's Eve.'
'Yes,' she breathed, skirting the voice in her head, which was her own, her former, now deceased, academic persona, which said, 'Valentine, martyr, date unknown, legend lends no credence to connection with lovers . . .' Instead she smiled and exhaled a sigh with the involuntary huskiness that befitted such romance.
'Tomorrow, then, is St Valentine's Day . . .' he breathed.
Janice disregarded the faint, last whisperings of her bluestocking ways, which pointed out to her that this was tautological since he had already said, had he not, that this was St Valentine's Eve?
Dermot Poll remembered that he could sing. Through the mists of this impassioned sensibility he recalled that it was by singing he earned his living. The Irish Balladeer, beloved at over-sixties clubs everywhere, the popular high spot at many a silver wedding, doyen of a dozen Irish clubs up and down the Kilburn High Road and beyond . . .
He burst forth, his lungs leaping readily to the task. 'I'll walk beside you through the passing years . . .' he warbled into the damp dark night and Janice Gentle's ear.
Janice Gentle continued to believe. If anything, her believing deepened. Dermot Poll was now singing for all the women in the world. Janice listened, entranced. When he had ceased, she whispered, 'Do you really think you love me?'
Deirdre had said that on the night of their first physical union, nine months since and four months before they were wed. It was an emotional remembrance. He said the same now as he had said then.
'Love you?' he said with passion. 'Love you? I will love you for ever. I will never leave you. And if ever we are torn apart, I shall come looking for you, or you for me. Though I go to Australia, America, China even, I will find you again or you will find me. Now kiss me, darling . . .' Janice had become Deirdre. Dermot was beginning to be very muddled.
Janice, cautious, desiring, restrained and obedient, leaned towards him and planted a kiss upon his pale, damp cheek. It felt strangely alluring, exotic, tight, cool and with the slightest rasping from the stubble lightly sprouti ng there. It was essence of man liness after
Janice stared, no longer able to hear above the rushing in her ears the pumping in her body.
Dermot Poll, exhausted both by metaphor and by passion, loved the world and all creatures in it. 'I love you,' he said, making a grand, all-encompassing gesture. 'And I worship your womanhood . . .'
Christine de Pisan, in her fourteenth-century study somewhere in the ether, said, 'Do not listen.'
Thomas Campion and the Court of Gloriana said, 'Hark.'
It was scarcely a contest. Gloriana was yards in front.
This, then, was what she had been avoiding for so long. This, then, was true and real and beautiful. She stroked her coat. How wrong her mother had been. How unlike Mr Gentle this beautiful, poetical young man was . . .
Dermot watched entranced as her hand slid over the swelling of her belly.
She looked at him, saw the enchantment in his eyes, and saw that this, her gallant, spoke a truth so strong that it trembled. Indeed, she noticed, from time to time his voice became quite indistinct with the burr of emotion. How could she not believe? How could she not let him worship her and love her if he wished?
Poor Janice. Fatal trust. Vous ou Mort. She offered herself up.
'Tell me who you are,' she said. Her eyes never left his beautiful, shining face as she spoke. This was love, she was convinced of it. It was beautiful and real.
'My name is Dermot Poll,' he said. 'I come from Skibbereen.' His eyes grew moist. 'And one day, when I have travelled the world, I shall go back there. But meanwhile, O lovely creature, this' - he looked at the lettering in the shop window, he smiled at her, a warm smile, a blind smile, a smile that belonged to the absent Deirdre - 'is St Valentine's Eve.'
'Yes,' she breathed, skirting the voice in her head, which was her own, her former, now deceased, academic persona, which said, 'Valentine, martyr, date unknown, legend lends no credence to connection with lovers . . .' Instead she smiled and exhaled a sigh with the involuntary huskiness that befitted such romance.
'Tomorrow, then, is St Valentine's Day . . .' he breathed.
Janice disregarded the faint, last whisperings of her bluestocking ways, which pointed out to her that this was tautological since he had already said, had he not, that this was St Valentine's Eve?
Dermot Poll remembered that he could sing. Through the mists of this impassioned sensibility he recalled that it was by singing he earned his living. The Irish Balladeer, beloved at over-sixties clubs everywhere, the popular high spot at many a silver wedding, doyen of a dozen Irish clubs up and down the Kilburn High Road and beyond . . .
He burst forth, his lungs leaping readily to the task. 'I'll walk beside you through the passing years . . .' he warbled into the damp dark night and Janice Gentle's ear.
Janice Gentle continued to believe. If anything, her believing deepened. Dermot Poll was now singing for all the women in the world. Janice listened, entranced. When he had ceased, she whispered, 'Do you really think you love me?'
Deirdre had said that on the night of their first physical union, nine months since and four months before they were wed. It was an emotional remembrance. He said the same now as he had said then.
'Love you?' he said with passion. 'Love you? I will love you for ever. I will never leave you. And if ever we are torn apart, I shall come looking for you, or you for me. Though I go to Australia, America, China even, I will find you again or you will find me. Now kiss me, darling . . .' Janice had become Deirdre. Dermot was beginning to be very muddled.
Janice, cautious, desiring, restrained and obedient, leaned towards him and planted a kiss upon his pale, damp cheek. It felt strangely alluring, exotic, tight, cool and with the slightest rasping from the stubble lightly sprouti ng there. It was essence of man liness after
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