Long Lankin: Stories Read Online Free PDF

fitfully dozing. Her hands were clasped over her swollen stomach. From the window he looked down into the yard. Lilian stood among the chickens, throwing food to them from her apron. The clucking of the birds came faintly to his ears. The last light was dying, soon it would be night. He stood with his forehead against the glass and gazed out over the darkening fields to the dark hills in the distance.
    —Stephen? came Alice’s drowsy, querulous voice. He turned to her, saying:
    —Did I wake you? I’m sorry.
    —It doesn’t matter.
    He sat beside her on the bed. She lifted her arm and touched his cheek with a damp palm. He sighed.
    —What is it? she asked.
    —I don’t know. I was thinking about father. I don’t seem to … I don’t …
    He stopped, and lifted his hands in a helpless gesture.
    —All I can remember is his knuckles. They were white, you know, and they used to curl around his stick — like that. Imagine your father being dead two days and all you can remember is a little thing like that. Today at the grave I couldn’t cry. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. I looked at the coffin and it didn’t seem to have anything to do with me.
    —It’s the shock, she said.
    He stood up with his hands in his pockets and paced the room. Frowning at the floor he said:
    —I loved him. I know I did.
    —Of course.
    —Then what happened to that love is what I want to know? How did it die so easily? I loved him more than anything in the world.
    He stopped and looked down at her, asking:
    —How does love just die like that, Alice?
    She said:
    —Things kill it.
    He stared at her. She bit her lip, as though she knew she had said too much and was afraid of saying more.
    —What things? he asked, apprehension rising through his words.
    —I don’t know.
    —Look at me, Alice. What things?
    But her eyes skittered away from his like frightened animals. She touched her face with agitated fingers.
    —I don’t know anything about it, she cried. Why do you ask me? Why? Things just do — terrible things.
    He sat beside her again, and stared at his hands clasped before him.
    —You’re lying, he said, frowning. You’re talking nonsense. That is all … this … I know this is all wrong.
    He stared down at her, but she had shut her eyes.
    —It’s all wrong, he said again, shaking his head.
    For a time all was still. Faint sounds came to him, the clucking of the chickens in the yard, the small winds singing in the slates. He laid his hand gently on the rise of her stomach. She gave a little moan, and turned her face to the wall, and as she did he felt the strange child move beneath his hand.

The Visit
     
    —It’s going to rain, the old woman said. Pull up your hood.
    She took the girl’s hand. Before them, at the top of the crooked field, the roof of the house shone in the light and three trees stood against the sky. It was the first day of spring and the wind from the mountains blew cold and clear, and shadows raced across the fields. They came to the lane behind the house and the old woman stopped to rest. The girl looked out at the distant sea, and the wind lifted her long yellow hair. A damp gust rattled the trees, and drops of rain flashed in the sunlight. Close by there was the sound of water falling over stones, and a thrush suddenly whistled.
    —Tantey, said the girl. Why are there seasons?
    The old woman looked at her startled.
    —What sort of question is that?
    In the kitchen the stove roared and the wind in the chimney blew the smoke back into the room. The old woman grumbled to herself as she struggled out of her cape. She gave it to the girl to hang behind the door and hobbled across and sat in the chair. The girl went to the window and looked out over the fields. The sound of the wind made her feel restless and vaguely excited, and she wanted to go out again and run madly through the grass. Behind her the old woman said:
    —What are you at there?
    —Nothing. Just looking out.
    She went and sat on