The river is the river by Buckley Jonathan;

Author:Buckley, Jonathan; [Jonathan Buckley]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 2077825
Publisher: Sort Of Books
Published: 2015-05-20T16:00:00+00:00

IV

18.

The air is fresh and moist and still, and a bright mist lies over the houses and the Paddock. The leaves of the trees and bushes around the Paddock are a pallid monochrome. It is almost silent; attention is required to distinguish the sound of the traffic in the centre of town. Kate looks at her watch; it is almost eight thirty and she has been sitting here, at the end of the terrace, for more than half an hour now. Minute by minute the haze is lifting from the summit of the castle; she watches the stone walls coming into focus. Behind her, cutlery jangles in the drawer: Naomi has come downstairs. For a few minutes more, Kate stays on the terrace. She wanders to the end of the lawn and looks back at the house. The kitchen lights are on, all of them, and Naomi is standing below one of the spotlights, holding a pot of honey; she raises the pot above her eyes and swivels it slowly, examining it as if it were something marvellous.

In Kate’s mind, a scene begins to coalesce: a village; she is sauntering with Naomi; a street of plane trees; green light under the leaves, and a fountain; they pass a bottle of water back and forth without a word. A rack of honey jars stands at the door of a shop. Inside, on the counter, in a track of sunlight, stands an unlabelled flask, lidless; the honey that half fills the flask has the colour of mahogany. With a small wooden spatula, Naomi takes a scoop and dribbles it onto her tongue; she closes her eyes; the taste seems to require concentration. Delicately, as if placing a thermometer, Naomi puts the spatula into her sister’s mouth; her forefinger brushes Kate’s lower lip. The honey burns like a spice; there is a smokiness in it, like the air of the scorched hillside above the village. ‘Strange,’ says Naomi; her hair, struck by the sun, is a thicket of golden filaments; there is not a sound in the shop. Remembering, Kate experiences the faintest taste-echo, an instant of elusive smoky warmth.

She steps into the kitchen.

‘Good morning,’ says Naomi; she seems cheerful.

‘Coffee?’ Kate asks.

‘I’m fine, thank you’ Naomi answers. She watches her sister at the machine; for half a minute neither of them speaks. ‘Having book thoughts?’ she asks.

‘Not yet.’

‘Something else then.’

‘Not really thoughts.’

‘Tell,’ Naomi commands.

‘Just remembering something.’

‘Tell.’

‘The honey shop in France.’

‘The obese cat,’ Naomi responds.

Kate remembers no cat.

‘There was a vast cat, on the opposite side of the road,’ states Naomi. ‘Grey. Shaggy. Yellow eyes. Horrible.’

Naomi’s memory of that afternoon turns out to be more replete than Kate’s. The waiter at the café under the plane trees had taken a shine to their mother, apparently; some one-sided flirtation had gone on when he brought the change; Naomi mimics the waiter’s smarmy smile as he put the dish of coins on the table. Their father, says Naomi, was unamused, and reduced the tip in retribution.

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