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.Here I waited by the harbour until the town woke up, and as soon as the shipping office opened I inquired when the next steamer would be departing.One had left only the day before; the next would not be for another three days.Anxious to leave the island before Lareen or Seri found me, I took the First small ferry that came, crossing the narrow channel to the next island.Later that day, I moved again.When I was sure no one would find me—I was on the island of Hetta, in an isolated tavern—I bought some timetables and maps, and started to plan my return journey to London.I was haunted by the unfinished manuscript, the unresolved scene with Gracia.TWENTY ONEThe fact was that Gracia had brought me to an ending.Her suicide attempt was too big to be contained in my life.She swept everything aside, admitting of nothing else.Her drastic act even overshadowed the news that she was not to die as a result.Whether or not she had seriously intended to die was secondary to the gesture she made.She had succeeded in shocking me out of myself.I was obsessed by an imagined picture of her at that very moment; she would be lying semi-conscious in a hospital bed, with bottles and tubes and unwashed hair.I wanted to be with her.I had come to a place I knew: the corner where Baker Street crossed Marylebone Road, a part of London forever associated in my mind with Gracia.The rain was intensifying, and the traffic threw up a mist of fine droplets that gusted around me in the city-ducted winds.I remembered the cold moor wind of Castleton, the passing lorries.It was hours since I had last eaten, and I felt the mild euphoria of low blood sugar.It made me think of the long summer months of the year before, when I had been so intent on writing in my white room that sometimes I went two or three days without proper food.In that state of mental excitation I always imagined best, could perceive the truth more clearly.Then I could make islands.But Jethra and the islands paled before the reality of London’s damp awfulness, just as I paled before my own.For once I was free of myself, for once I looked outwards and thought sorrow fully of Gracia.At that moment, when I did not hope for her, Seri appeared.She came up the steps and out of the pedestrian subway on the far side of Marylebone Road.I saw her fair hair, her straight back, the bobbing walk I knew so well.But how could she have entered the subway without my seeing her? I was standing by the only other entrance, and she had not passed me.I watched her, amazed, as she walked quickly into the booking hall of the Underground station.I ran down the steps, slipping slightly on the rain-glossed treads, and hurried through to the other side.When I reached the booking hall she had passed the ticket barrier and was at the top of the stairs that led down to the Metropolitan Line.I went to follow her, but the inspector at the barrier asked to see my ticket.Angrily, I returned to the ticket office and bought a single fare to anywhere.A train was standing at one of the platforms; the indicator board said it was going to Amersham.I walked quickly along the curving platform, looking through windows, looking towards the carriages ahead.I could not see her, even though I walked the whole length of the train.Could she have caught another? But this was the evening; there were departures only at ten-minute intervals.I rushed back as the guard shouted that the doors were about to close.Then I saw her: she was sitting by the window in a carriage near the back of the train.I could see her face, turned down as if she were reading.The pneumatic doors hissed loudly and slid towards each other.I leapt aboard the nearest carriage, forcing myself through the closing pressure of the doors.Late commuters glanced up, looked away.Bubbles of isolation surrounded them.The train pulled away, blue-white discharge sparks flashing on the wet rails as we crossed the points and moved into the long tunnel.I walked to the back of the carriage to be at the door nearest to Seri when we stopped at the next station.I leaned against the heavy, shatterproof window set into the door, watching my reflection against the black wall of the tunnel outside.At last we reached the next station, Finchley Road, I pushed through the doors as soon as they opened, and ran down the platform to the carriage where I had seen her.The doors closed behind me [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]