Хвилі
Ishallhavechildren;Ishallhavemaidsinaprons;menwithpitchforks;akitchenwheretheybringtheailinglambstowarminbaskets,wherethehamshangandtheonionsglisten.Ishallbelikemymother,silentinablueapronlockingupthecupboards.
’NowIamhungry.Iwillcallmysetter.Ithinkofcrustsandbreadandbutterandwhiteplatesinasunnyroom.Iwillgobackacrossthefields.Iwillwalkalongthisgrasspathwithstrong,evenstrides,nowswervingtoavoidthepuddle,nowleapinglightlytoaclump.Beadsofwetformonmyroughskirt;myshoesbecomesuppleanddark.Thestiffnesshasgonefromtheday;itisshadedwithgrey,greenandumber.Thebirdsnolongersettleonthehighroad.
’Ireturn,likeacatorfoxreturning,whosefurisgreywithrime,whosepadsarehardenedbythecoarseearth.Ipushthroughthecabbages,makingtheirleavessqueakandtheirdropsspill.Isitwaitingformyfather’sfootstepsasheshufflesdownthepassagepinchingsomeherbbetweenhisfingers.Ipouroutcupaftercupwhiletheunopenedflowersholdthemselveserectonthetableamongthepotsofjam,theloavesandthebutter.Wearesilent.
’Igothentothecupboard,andtakethedampbagsofrichsultanas;Ilifttheheavyflourontothecleanscrubbedkitchentable.Iknead;Istretch;Ipull,plungingmyhandsinthewarminwardsofthedough.Iletthecoldwaterstreamfanwisethroughmyfingers.Thefireroars;thefliesbuzzinacircle.Allmycurrantsandrices,thesilverbagsandthebluebags,arelockedagaininthecupboard.
- Немає глав