It was Me Jones all right. Six years older than the last time they met. Taller, wider, with breastsand no hair and slippers just visible underneath a long duffle coat. And it was Hortense Bowden.
Six years older, shorter, wider, with breasts on her belly and no hair (though she took the peculiarstep of putting her wig in curlers) and slippers just visible underneath a long, padded baby-pinkhousecoat. But the real difference was Hortense was eighty-four. Not a littleoldwoman by anymeans; she was a round robust one, her fat so taut against her skin the epidermis was having a hardtime wrinkling. Still, eighty-four is not seventy seven or sixty-three; at eighty-four there is nothingbut death ahead, tedious in its insistence. It was there in her face as Me had never seen it before.
The waiting and the fear and the blessed relief.
Yet though there were differences, walking down the steps and into Hortense's basement flat,Me was struck by the shock of sameness. Way-back-when, she had been a fairly regular visitor ather grandmother's: sneaky visits with Archie while her mother was at college, and always leavingwith something unusual, a pickled fish head, chilli dumplings, the lyrics of a stray but persistentpsalm. Then at Darcus's funeral in 1985, ten-year-old Irie had let slip about these social calls andClara had put a stop to them altogether. They still called each other on the phone, on occasion. Andto this day Irie received short letters on exercise paper with a copy of the Watchtower slipped inside.
Sometimes Irie looked at her mother's face and saw her grandmother: those majestic cheekbones,those feline eyes. But they had not been face to face for six years.
As far as the house was concerned, six seconds seemed to have passed. Still dark, still dank,still underground. Still decorated with hundreds of secular figurines ("Cinderella on her way to theBall', "Mrs. Tiddlytum shows the little squirrels the way to the picnic'), all balanced on theirseparate doilies and laughing gaily amongst themselves, amused that anyone would pay a hundredand fifty pounds in fifteen instalments for such inferior pieces of china and glass as they. A hugetripartite tapestry, which Irie remembered the sewing of, now hung on the wall above the fireplace,depicting, in its first strip, the Anointed sitting in judgement with Jesus in heaven. The Anointedwere all blond and blue-eyed and appeared as serene as Hortense's cheap wool would allow, andwere looking down at the Great Crowd who were happy-looking, but not as happy as the Anointedfrolicking in eternal paradise on earth. The Great Crowd were in turn looking piteously at theheathens (by far the largest group), dead in their graves, and packed on top of each other like sardines.
The only thing missing was Darcus (whom Irie only faintly remembered as a mixture of smelland texture; naphthalene and damp wool); there was his huge empty chair, rstill fetid, and there washis television, still on.
The, look at you! Pickney nah even got a gansey on child must be freezin'! Shiverin' like aMexico bean. Let me feel you. Fever! You bringin' fever into my house?"It was important, in Hortense's presence, never to admit to illness. The cure, as in mostJamaican households, was always more painful than the symptoms.
"I'm fine. There's nothing wrong with'
"Oh, really?" Hortense put Irie's hand on her own forehead. "That's fever as sure as fever isfever. Feel it?"Irie felt it. She was hot as hell.
"Come 'ere." Hortense grabbed a rug from Darcus's chair and wrapped it around Irie's shoulders,"Now come into the kitchen an' cease an' sekkle. Runnin' roun' on a night like dis, wearin'
flimsy nonsense! You're having a hot drink of cer ace and den gone a bed quicker den you everdid in your life."Irie accepted the smelly wrap and followed Hortense into the tiny kitchen, where they both sat down.
"Let me look at you."Hortense leant against the oven with hands on hips. "You look like Mr. Death, your new lover.
How you get here?"Once again, one had to be careful in answering. Hortense's contempt for London Transport wasa great comfort to her in her old age. She could take one word like train and draw a melody out of it(Northern Line), which expanded into an aria (The Underground) and blossomed into a theme (TheOverground) and then grew exponentially into an operetta (The Evils and Inequities of British Rail).
"Er .. . Bus. ni/. It was cold on the top deck. Maybe I caught a chill.""I don' tink dere's any maybes about it, young lady. An' I'm sure I don' know why you come'pon de bus, when it take tree hours to arrive an' leave you waitin' in de col' an' den' when you getpon it de windows are open anyway an' you freeze half to death."Hortense poured a colourless liquid from a small plastic container into her hand. "Come 'ere.""Why?" demanded Irie, immediately suspicious. "What's that?""Nuttin', come 'ere. Take off your spectacles."Hortense approached with a cupped hand.
"Not in my eye! There's nothing wrong with my eye!" "Stop fussin'. I'm not puttin' nuttin' inyour eye.""Just tell me what it is," pleaded Irie, trying to work out for which orifice it was intended andscreaming as the cupped hand reached her face, spreading the liquid from forehead to chin.
"Aaagh! It burns!""Bay rum," said Hortense matter-of-factly. "Burns de fever away. No, don' wash it off. Jus'
leave it to do its biznezz."Irie gritted her teeth as the torture of a thousand pinpricks faded to five hundred, thentwenty-five, until finally it was just a warm flush of the kind delivered by a slap.
"So!" said Hortense, entirely awake now and somewhat triumphant. "You finally dash from thatgodless woman, I see. An' caught a flu while you doin' it! Well .. . there are those who wouldn'tblame you, no, not at all... No one knows better clan me what dat woman be like. Never at home,learnin' all her isms and skis ms in the university, leavin' husband and pickney at home, hungry andmaga. Lord, naturally you flee! Well.. ." She sighed and put a copper kettle on the stove. "It iswritten. You will flee by my mountain valley, for it will extend to Azel. You will flee as you fledfrom the earthquake in the days ofUzziah king of judah Then the LORD my God will come, and allthe holy ones with him. Zechariah 14:5. In the end the good ones will flee from the evil. Oh, IrieAmbrosia ... I knew you come in de end. All God's children return in de end.""Gran, I haven't come to find God. I just want to do some -quiet study here and get my headtogether. I need to stay a few months at least till the New Year. Oh .. . ugh ... I feel a bit woozy. CanI have an orange?""Yes, dey all return to de Lord Jesus in de end," continued Hortense to herself, placing the bitterroot of cer ace into a kettle. "Dat's not a real orange, dear. All de fruit is plasticated. De flowers areplasticated also. I don't believe de Lord meant me to spend de little housekeeping money I possesson perishable goods. Have some dates."Irie grimaced at the shrivelled fruit plonked in front of her.
"So you lef Archibald wid dat woman.. . poor ting. Me always like Archibald," said Hortensesadly, scrubbing the brown scum from a teacup with two soapy fingers. "Him was never myobjection as such. He always been a level-headed sort a fellow. Blessed are de peacekeepers. Healways strike me as a peacekeeper. But it more de principle of de ting, you know? Black andwhite never come to no good. De Lord Jesus never meant us to mix it up. Dat's why he made ahoi' heap a fuss about de children of men building de tower of Babel. "Im want everybody to keeptings separate. And the Lord did confound the language of all the earth and from thence did theLord scatter them abroad upon the face of all the earth. Genesis 11:9. When you mix it up, nuttin'
good can come. It wasn't intended. Except you," she added as an afterthought. "You're about deonly good ting to come out of dat.. . Bwoy, sometime it like lookin' in a mirror-glass," she said,lifting Irie's chin with her wrinkled digits. "You built like me, big, you know! Hip and tie and rhas,and titties. My mudder was de same way. You even named after my mudder.""Irie?" asked Me, trying hard to listen, but feeling the damp smog of her fever pulling her under.
"No, dear, Ambrosia. De stuff dat make you live for ever. Now," she said, clapping her handstogether, catching Irie's next question between them, 'you sleepin' in de living room. I'll get ablanket and pillows and den we talk in de marnin'. I'm up at six, 'cos I got Witness biznezz, so don'
tink you sleeping none after eight. Pickney, you hear me?""Mmm. But what about Mum's old room? Can't I just sleep in there?"Hortense took Irie's weight half on her shoulder and led her into the living room. "No, dat's notpossible. Dere is a certain situation," said Hortense mysteriously. "Dat can wait till de sun is up tobe hexplained. Fear them not therefore: for there is nothing covered that shall not be revealed," sheintoned quietly, turning to go. "And nothing hid, that shall not be known. Dat is Mat-chew, 10:26."An autumn morning was the only time worth spending in that basement flat. Between 6 and 7a.m. when the sun was still low, light shot through the front window, bathed the lounge in yellow,dappled the long thin allotment (7 it x 30 it) and gave a healthy veneer to the tomatoes. Youcould almost convince yourself, at 6 a.m." that you were downstairs in some Continental cabana, orat least street level in Torquay, rather than below ground in Lambeth. The glare was such that youcouldn't make out the railway sidings where the strip of green ended, or the busy everyday feet thatpassed by the lounge window, kicking dust through the grating at the glass. It was all white lightand clever shade at six in the morning. Hugging a cup of tea at the kitchen table, squinting at thegrass, Me saw vineyards out there; she saw Florentine scenes instead of the unevenhiggledy-piggledy of Lambeth rooftops; she saw a muscular shadowy Italian plucking full berriesand crushing them underfoot. Then the mirage, sun reliant as it was, disappeared, the whole sceneswallowed by a devouring cloud. Leaving only some crumbling Edwardian housing. Railwaysidings named after a careless child. A long, narrow strip of allotment where next to nothing wouldgrow. And a bleached-out bandy-legged red-headed man with terrible posture and Wellington boots,stamping away in the mulch, trying to shake the remnants of a squashed tomato from his heel.
"Dat is Mr. Topps," said Hortense, hurrying across the kitchen in a dark maroon dress, the eyesand hooks undone, and a hat in her hand with plastic flowers askew. "He has been such a help to mesince Darcus died. He soothes away my vexation and calms my mind."She waved to him and he straightened up and waved back. Me watched him pick up two plasticbags filled with tomatoes and walk in his strange pigeon-footed manner up the garden towards theback kitchen door.
"An' he de only man who made a solitary ting grow out dere. Such a crop of tomatoes as younever did see! Me Ambrosia, stop starin' and come an' do up dis dress. Quickbefore yourgoggle-eye fall out.""Does he live here?" whispered Me in amazement, strugglingto join the two sides of Hortense's dress over her substantial flank. "I mean, with you?""Not in de sense you meaning," sniffed Hortense. "He is jus' a great help to me in my of' age.
He bin wid me deez six years, God bless 'im and keep 'is soul. Now, pass me dat pin."Me passed her the long hat pin which was sitting on top of a butter dish. Hortense set the plasticcarnations straight on her hat and stabbed them fiercely, then brought the pin back up through thefelt, leaving two inches of exposed silver sticking up from the hat like a German pickelhaube.
"Well, don' look so shock. It a very satisfactory arrangement. Women need a man 'bout de house,udder wise ting an' ting get messy. Mr. Topps and I, we of' soldiers fightin' the battle of de Lord.
Some time ago he converted to the Witness church, an' his rise has been quick an' sure. I've waitedfifty years to do so meting else in de Kingdom Hall except clean," said Hortense sadly, 'but deydon' wan' women interfering with real church biz ness Got Mr. Topps do a great deal, and 'im let mehelp on occasion. He's a very good man. Butim family are nasty-nasty," she murmuredconfidentially. The farder is a terrible man, gambler an' whoremonger ... so after a while, I arks himto come and live with me, seem' how de room empty and Darcus gone. "Im a very civilized bwoy.
Never married, though. Married to de church, yes, suh! An' 'im call me Mrs. Bowden deez six years,never any ting else." Hortense sighed ever so slightly. "Don' know de meaning of being' improper.
De only ting he wan' in life is to become one of de Anointed. I have de greatest hadmiration for him.
He him proved so much. He talk so posh now, you know! And 'im very good wid de pipin' an' plumming also. How's your fever?""Not great. Last hook .. . there that's done."Hortense fairly bounced away from her and walked into the hall to open the back door to Ryan.
"But Gran, why does he live '
Me 1990, 1907"Well, you're going to have to eat up dis marnin' feed a fever, starve a col'. Deez tomatoes friedwid plantain and some of las' night's fish. I'll fry it up and den pop it in de microwave.""I thought it was starve a fe '
"Good marnin', Mr. Topps.""Good mornin', Missus Bowden," said Mr. Topps, closing the door behind him and peeling off aprotective cagoule to reveal a cheap blue suit, with a tiny gold cross pendant on the collar. "I trustyou is almost of a readiness? We've got to be at the hall on the dot of seven."As yet, Ryan had not spotted Me. He was bent over shaking the mud from his boots. And he didit formidably slowly, just as he spoke, and with his translucent eyelids fluttering like a man in acoma. Me could only see half of him from where she stood: a red fringe, a bent knee and the shirtcuff of one hand.
But the voice was a visual in itself: cockney yet refined, a voice that had had much work doneupon it missing key consonants and adding others where they were never meant to be, and alldelivered through the nose with only the slightest help from the mouth.
"Fine mornin', Mrs. B." fine mornin'. Somefing to fankthe Lord for."Hortense seemed terribly nervous about the imminent likelihood that he should raise his headand spot the girl standing by the stove. She kept beckoning Me forward and then shooing her back,uncertain whether they should meet at all.
"Oh yes, Mr. Topps, it is, an' I am ready as ready can be. My hat give me a little trouble, youknow, but I just got a pin an '
"But the Lord ain't interested in the vanities of the flesh, now, is he Mrs. B.?" said Ryan, slowlyand painfully enunciating each word while crouching awkwardly and removing his left boot.
"Jehovah is in need of your soul.""Oh yes, surely dat is de holy troot," said Hortense anxiously, fingering her plasticatedcarnations. "But at de same time, surelya Witness lady don' wan' look like a, well, a buguyaga in de house of de Lord."Ryan frowned. "My point is, you must avoid interpretin' scripture by yourself, Mrs. Bowden. Infuture, discuss it wiv myself and my colleagues. Ask us: is pleasant clothing a concern of the Lord's?
And myself and my colleagues amongst the Anointed, will look up the necessary chapter and verse ..."Ryan's sentence faded into a general Erhummmm, a sound he was prone to making. It began inhis arched nostrils and reverberated through his slight, elongated, misshapen limbs like the finalshiver of a hanged man.
"I don' know why I do it, Mr. Topps," said Hortense shaking her head. "Sometime I tink I couldbe one of dem dat teach, you know? Even though I am a woman ... I feel like the Lord talk to me ina special way ... It jus' a bad habit.. . but so much in de church change recently, sometimes me kyankeep up wid all de rules and regulations."Ryan looked out through the double glazing. His face was pained. "Nuffin' changes about theword of God, Mrs. B. Only people are mistaken. The best thing you can do for the Truth, is justpray that the Brooklyn Hall will soon deliver us with the final date. Erhummmm.""Oh yes, Mr. Topps. I do it day and night."Ryan clapped his hands together in a pale imitation of enthusiasm. "Now, did I 'ear you sayplantain for breakfast, Mrs. B.?""Oh yes, Mr. Topps, and dem tomatoes if you will be kind enough to ban' dem over to de chef."As Hortense had hoped, the passing of the tomatoes coincided with the spotting of Irie.
"Now, dis is my grand darter Me Ambrosia Jones. And dis is Mr. Ryan Topps. Say hello, Irie, dear."Irie did so, stepping forward nervously and reaching out her hand to shake his. But there was noresponse from Ryan Topps, and the inequality was only increased when on the sudden heMe 1990, 1907seemed to recognize her; there was a pulse of familiarity as his eyes moved over her, whereasMe saw nothing, not even a type, not even a genre of face in his; the monstrosity of him was quiteunique, redder than any red-head, more freckled than the freckled, more blue-veined than a lobster.
"She's she's Clara's darter said Hortense tentatively. "Mr. Topps knew your mudder, long time.
But it all right, Mr. Topps, she come to live wid us now.""Only for a little time Me corrected hurriedly, noting the look of vague horror on Mr. Topps'sface. "Just for a few months maybe, through the winter while I study. I've got exams in June/Mr. Topps did not move. Moreover nothing on him moved. Like one of China's terra cotta army,he seemed poised for battle yet unable to move.
"Clara's darter repeated Hortense in a tearful whisper. "She might have been yours."Nothing surprised Me about this final, whispered aside; she just added it to the list: AmbrosiaBowden gave birth in an earthquake .. . Captain Charlie Durham was a no-good djam fool bwoy.. .
false teeth in a glass .. . she might have been yours .. .
Half-heartedly, with no expectation of an answer, Me asked, "What?""Oh, nuttin', Me, dear. Nuttin', nuttin'. Let me start fryin'. I can hear bellies rumblin'. Youremember Clara, don't you Mr. Topps? You and she were quite good .. . friends. Mr. Topps?"For two minutes now Ryan had been fixing Me with an unwavering stare, his body heldabsolutely straight, his mouth slightly open. At the question, he seemed to compose himself, closedhis mouth and took his seat at the un laid table.
"Clara's daughter, is it? Erhummmm .. ." He removed what looked like a small policeman's padfrom his breast pocket and poised a pen upon it as if this would kick start his memory.
"You see, many of the episodes, people and events from my earlier life have been, as it were,severed from myself by thealmighty sword that cut me from my past when the Lord Jehovah saw fit to enlighten me withthe Truth, and as he has chosen me for a new role I must, as Paul so wisely recommended in hisepistle to the Corinfians, put away childish things, allowing earlier incarnations of myself to beenveloped into a great smog in which said Ryan Topps, taking only the smallest breath and hiscutlery from Hortense, 'it appears that your mother, and any memory I might 'ave of her, 'avedisappeared. Erhummmm.""She never mentioned you either," said Me.
"Well, it was all a long time ago now," said Hortense with forced joviality. "But you did tryyour best wider Mr. Topps. She was my miracle child, Clara. I was forty-eight! I taut she was God'schild. But Clara was bound for evil .. . she never was a godly girl an' in de end dere was nuttin' tobe done.""He will send down His vengeance, Mrs. B.," said Ryan, with more cheerful animation than Mehad yet seen him display. "He will send terrible torture to those who 'ave earned it. Three plantainfor me, if you please."Hortense set all three plates down and Me, realizing she hadn't eaten since the previousmorning, scraped a mountain of plantain on to her plate.
"Ah! It's hot!""Better hot clan lukewarm," said Hortense grimly, with a meaningful shudder. "Ever so, ha men"Amen," echoed Ryan, braving the red-hot plantain. "Amen. So. What exactly is it that you arestudy inT he asked, looking so intently past Me that it took a moment before she realized he wasaddressing her.
"Chemistry, biology and religious studies." Me blew on a hot piece of plantain. "I want to be adentist."Ryan perked up. "Religious studies? And do they acquaint you with the only true church?"Me shifted in her seat. "Er .. . I guess it's more the big three. Jews, Christians, Muslims. We dida month on Catholicism."Ryan grimaced. "And do you have any uwer inter-rests?"Irie considered. "Music. I like music. Concerts, clubs, that kind of thing.""Yes, erhummmm. I used to go in for all that myself at one time. Until the Good News wasdelivered unto me. Large gatherings of yoof, of the kind that frequent popular conceits, arecommonly breeding grounds for devil worship. A girl of your physical .. . assets might find herselflured into the lascivious arms of a sexualist," said Ryan, standing up from the table and looking athis watch. "Now that I fink about it, in a certain light you look a lot like your mother. Similar .. .
cheekbones."Ryan wiped a pearly line of sweat from his forehead. There was a silence in which Hortensestood motionless, clinging nervously to a dishcloth, and Irie had to physically cross the room for aglass of water to remove herself from Mr. Topps's stare.
"Well. That's twenty minutes and counting, Mrs. B. I'll get the gear, shall I?""Oh yes, Mr. Topps," said Hortense beaming. But the moment Ryan left the room the beamturned to a scowl.
"Why must you go an' say tings like dat, hmm? You wan' 'im to tink you some devilish heathengal? Why kyan you say stamp-collecting or some ting? Come on, I gat to clean deez plates finish up."Irie looked at the pile of food left on her plate and guiltily tapped her stomach.
"Cho! Just as I sus peck Your eyes see more clan your belly can hoi'! Give it 'ere."Hortense leant against the sink and began popping bits of plantain into her mouth. "Now, youdon' back chat Mr. Topps while you here. You gat study to do an' he gat study too," said Hortense,lowering her voice. "He's in consultation with the Brooklyn gentlemen at de moment .. . fixing definal date; no mistakes dis time. You jus' 'ave to look at de trouble goin' on in de world to know weThat far from de appointed day."Chalfenism versus Bovcdenism"I won't be any trouble," said Me, approaching the washing-up as a gesture of goodwill. "Hejust seems a little .. . weird.""De ones who are chosen by the Lord always seem peculiar to de heathen. Mr. Topps is jus'
misunderstood. "Im mean a lot to me. Me never have nobody before. Your mudder don' like to tellyou since she got all hitey-titey, but de Bowden family have had it hard long time. I was barnduring an cart-quake. Almost kill fore I was barn. An' den when me a fully grown woman, my owndarter run from me. Me never see my only grandpickney. I only have de Lord, all dem years. Mr.
Topps de first human man who look pon me and take pity an' care. Your mudder was a fool to letimgo, true sir!"Irie gave it one last try. "What? What does that mean?""Oh, nuttin, nuttin, dear Lord... I and I talking all over de place dis marnin .. . Oh Mr. Topps,dere you are. We not going to be late now, are we?"Mr. Topps, who had just re-entered the room, was fully adorned in leather from head to toe, ahuge motorcycle helmet on his head, a small red light attached to his left ankle and a small whitelight strapped to his right. He flipped up the visor.
"No, we're all right, by the grace of God. Where's your helmet, Mrs. B.?""Oh, I've started keepin' it in the oven. Keeps it warm and toasty on de col' marnins. IrieAmbrosia, fetch it for me please."Sure enough, on the middle shelf preheated to gas mark 2 sat Hortense's helmet. Irie scooped itout and carefully fitted it over her grandmother's plasticated carnations.
"You ride a motorbike," said Irie, by way of conversation.
But Mr. Topps seemed defensive. "A G S Vespa. Nuffink fancy. I did fink about givin' it away atone point. It represented a life I'd raaver forget, if you get my meaning. A motorbike is a sexualmagnet, an' God forgive me, but I misused it in that fashion. I was all set on getting' rid of it. Butthen Mrs. B. convinced me that what wiv all my public speaking, I need somefing quick to getMe 1990, 1907around on. An' Mrs. B. don't want to be messin' about with buses and trains at her age, do youMrs. B.?""No, indeed. He got me dis little buggy '
"Sidecar," corrected Ryan tetchily. "It's called a sidecar. Minetto Motorcycle-combination, 1973model.""Yes, of course, a sidecar, an' it is comfortable as a bed. We go everywhere in it, Mr. Topps an'
I."Hortense took down her overcoat from a hook on the door, and reached in the pockets for twoVelcro reflector bands which she strapped round each arm.
"Now, Me, I've got a great deal of biz ness to be getting' on with today, so you're going to haveto cook for yourself, because I kyan tell what time we'll be home. But don' worry. Me soon come.""No problem."Hortense sucked her teeth. "No problem. Dat's what her name mean in patois: Irie, no problem.
Now, what kind of a name is dat to .. . ?"Mr. Topps didn't answer. He was already out on the pavement, revving up the Vespa.
"First I have to keep her from those Chalfens," growls Clara over the phone, her voice aresonant tremolando of anger and fear. "And now you people again."On the other end, her mother takes the washing out of the machine and listens silently throughthe cordless that is tucked between ear and weary shoulder, biding her time.
"Hortense, I don't want you filling her head with a whole load of nonsense. You hear me? Yourmother was fool to it, and then you were fool to it, but the buck stopped with me and it ain't goingno further. If Irie comes home spouting any of that claptrap, you can forget about the SecondComin' 'cos you'll be dead by the time it arrives."Big words. But how fragile is Clara's atheism! Like one of those tiny glass doves Hortensekeeps in the lounge cabinet a breath would knock it over. Talking of which, Clara still holds herswhen passing churches the same way adolescent vegetarians scurry by butchers; she avoids Kilburnon a Saturday for fear of streetside preachers on their upturned apple crates. Hortense senses Clara'sterror. Coolly cramming in another load of whites and measuring out the liquid with a thriftywoman's eye, she is short and decided: "Don' you worry about Me Ambrosia. She in a good placenow. She'll tell you herself As if she had ascended with the heavenly host rather than entombedherself below ground in the borough of Lambeth with Ryan Topps.
Clara hears her daughter getting on the extension; an initial crackle and then a voice as clear asa carillon. "Look, I'm not coming home, all right, so don't bother. I'll be back when I'm back, justdon't worry about me." And there should be nothing to worry about and there is nothing to worryabout, except maybe that outside in the streets it is cold packed on cold, even the dogshit hascrystallized, there is the first suggestion of ice on the windscreens and Clara has been in that housethrough the winters. She knows what it means. Oh, wonderfully bright at 6 a.m., yes, wonderfullyclear for an hour. But the shorter the days, the longer the nights, the darker the house, the easier it is,the easier it is, the easier it is, to mistake a shadow for the writing on the wall, the sound ofoverland footsteps for the distant crack of thunder, and the midnight chime of a New Year clock forthe bell that tolls the end of the world.
But Clara needn't have feared. Irie's atheism was robust. It was Chalfenist in its confidence, andshe approached her stay with Hortense with detached amusement. She was intrigued by theBowden household. It was a place of end games and after times full stops and finales; where tocount on the arrival of tomorrowwas an indulgence, and every service in the house, from the milkman to the electricity, was paidfor on a strictly daily basis so as not to spend money on utilities or goods that would be wastedshould God turn up in all h............