Lark's Eggs Read Online Free PDF

convent.
    Again we were in the green. In the middle of singing the song I realized my brashness and also my years of loneliness, destitution, at the hands of nuns who barked and crowded about the statue of the Infant Jesus of Prague in the convent courtyard like seals on a rock. They hadn’t been bad, the nuns. Neither had the other children been so bad. But God, what loneliness there’d been. There’d been one particular tree there, open like a complaint, where I spent a lot of time surveying the river and the reeds, waiting for pirates or for some beautiful lady straight out of a Veronica Lake movie to come sailing up the river. I began weeping in the green that day, weeping loudly.There was his face which I’ll never forget. Jamesy’s face changed from blank idiocy, local precociousness, to a sort of wild understanding.
    He took my hand.
    I leaned against his jumper; it was a fawn colour.
    I clumsily clung to the fawn and he took me and I was aware of strands of hair, bleached by sun.
    The Protestant church chimed five and I reckoned I should move, pushing the child ahead of me. The face of Jamesy Murphy became more intense that summer, his pink colour changing to brown. He looked like a pirate in one of the convent film shows, tanned, ravaged.
    Yet our meetings were just as few and as autumn denuded the last of the cherry-coloured leaves from a particular house-front on the other side of town, Jamesy and I would meet by the river, in the park—briefly, each day, touching a new part of one another. An ankle, a finger, an ear lobe, something as ridiculous as that. I always had a child with me so it made things difficult.
    Always too I had to hurry, often racing past closing shops.
    There were Christmas trees outside a shop one day I noticed, so I decided Christmas was coming. Christmas was so unreal now, an event remembered from convent school, huge Christmas pudding and nuns crying. Always on Christmas Day nuns broke down crying, recalling perhaps a lost love or some broken-hearted mother in an Irish kitchen.
    Jamesy was spending a year between finishing at school and his father goading him to do dentistry, reading books by Joyce now and Chekhov, and quoting to me one day—overlooking a garden of withered dahlias—Nijinsky’s diaries. I took books from him about writers in exile from their countries, holding under my pillow novels by obscure Americans.
    There were high clouds against a low sky that winter and the grotesque shapes of the Virgin in the alcove of the church, but against that monstrosity the romance was complete I reckon, an occasional mad moon, Lili Marlene on radio—memories of a war that had only grazed childhood—a peacock feather on an Ascendancy-type lady’s hat.
    â€˜Do you see the way that woman’s looking at us?’ Jamesy saidone day. Yes, she was looking at him as though he were a monster. His reputation was complete: a boy who was spoilt, daft, and an embarrassment to his parents. And there was I, a servant girl, talking to him. When she’d passed we embraced—lightly—and I went home, arranging to see him at the pictures the following night.
    Always our meetings had occurred when I brushed past Jamesy with the pram. This was our first night out, seeing that Christmas was coming and that bells were tinkling on radio; we’d decided we’d be bold. I’d sneak out at eight o’clock, having pretended to go to bed. What really enticed me to ask Jamesy to bring me to the pictures was the fact that he was wearing a new Aran sweater and that I heard the film was partly set in Marrakesh, a place that had haunted me ever since I had read a book about where a heroine and two heroes met their fatal end in that city.
    So things went as planned until the moment when Jamesy and I were in one another’s arms when the woman for whom I worked came in, hauled me off. Next day I was brought before Sister Ignatius. She sat like a