Mrs. Stevens Hears the Mermaids Singing by May Sarton

Author:May Sarton [Sarton, May]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781497646278
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2014-07-22T04:00:00+00:00

Epilogue: Mar

During the night, fog crept in.

Hilary woke late to a hushed, milky world, glad to be spared the brilliant light, and to move rather more slowly than usual about the morning chores; even Sirenica felt the change in atmosphere, and had curled herself up in a tight ball in the rocking chair, one paw over her nose. Hilary stood looking down on that pool of peace for a long moment, tasting the silence. Then she went into the big room where it was rather sad and lonely as if the fog had crept in. The daffodils had shriveled at the edges: there was the dead smell of the ash in the fireplace, and bits and pieces of the interview sloshed about in her mind, flotsam and jetsam, not yet absorbed, not yet settled down. It would take an effort to renew this stale world.

“What now?” young Hilary prodded

“Can’t we just exist for a day?”

“Too depressing. Invent something.”

“The silver needs cleaning. We could go out and do some transplanting.” Even young Hilary was aware that work was out of the question, but the garden, yes.

She pulled on rubber boots and a heavy jacket over corduroy slacks—the comfort of old clothes, the relief of not being “on show” for anyone today!—opened the door, took a deep breath of the chill air, and looked about her.

Amazing how this small world changed in the changing weather. The apple trees loomed up like strangers through the whiteness, their trunks black and sweating. What was so familiar had become mysterious. It might be Japan, she thought, observing with delight the condensation of bright drops of water on a branch of apple blossom. It all seemed to be poised there waiting for a shift in the wind. Very quietly she closed the door and stepped out.

And soon she was on her knees, tearing out weeds, throwing them into the little cart at her side, too absorbed to look up or to notice how often they landed on the ground. Her heart pumped away like a fierce animal inside her. It was good to be alive.

There Mar found her, as he had hoped he would, a streak of mud across her cheek, a cigarette in the corner of her mouth.

“Hi.”

She looked up, startled. The boy could be as silent as a cat “It’s you, is it?” Seeing him, a weight fell away, and with the relief of it, she teased, “Well, is it yesterday or today?”

“I went sailing. When I came back it was dark, but that car was still there. They stayed a long time.”

“They certainly did, but it was my fault. I got on a talking jag, bent their ears back, I expect. When they left I was as empty as the bottle of Scotch we finished off. But I’m all right now. Give me a hand up!”

She stood there, looking at him. “A good day for a walk on the moors—we might get lost in the fog,” she said, “pretend we’re somewhere else, in a different world.

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