Glass

The lake was necklaced in frost today; all around the rushes and
jetties. Since the mud on the opposite side was frozen into stony ruts
and hard, winding ridges, and not the belching bog it had been in
earlier months, Helen and Mary decided it was safe to go for a trek
round the lake. They brought Hen and Manley with them, Hen pulling down
the flaps of his Russian hat so they covered his ears, Manley donning a
woollen hat for the first time. The girls both wore snow white
ear-muffs and thick coats, and they all brought out gloves that had
been folded away warmly at the backs of wardrobes.

The raw sky, and the black trees fracturing its borders, reminded Hen
of how he had first described Si?n's face and hair. It tried to blind
them as they trudged around the ring of ice, past the life belts and
freezing metal signs, but was gradually cut apart by looming branches.
They stopped to rest on a bench, prompted by Helen.

"My feet hurt," she moaned, lifting up her legs to examine her
boots.

"We've only been walking for ten minutes," said Manley.

"But I've got chilblains?" she unlaced a boot, and pulled it off
roughly, then peeled off her sock to show the boys. Her foot remained
cleanly, elegantly curved but her long toes shone, round and fierce as
cherry tomatoes. She began kneading them, wincing like a snare
drum.

"Toma?toes," said Hen. "Have you tried bathing your feet in brandy and
salt?"

Helen laughed and said, "That sounds expensive and silly. We need to
keep our brandy to warm our cockles at Christmas."

"Oo," Mary sang, "It's getting near the end of the semester already.
And it feels like we've only just arrived."

"Hasn't the time gone quickly, Mary?"

"It certainly has!"

The cold was making her glow, but not her usual glow. She was, Hen
considered, redder than usual, and not as freckly. It wasn't unpleasant
- she looked even more like a robin.

"Looking at your foot reminds me, Helen," Hen said aloud, squinting as
if the thought were forming in front of him like condensation. "I went
round to Wolfson Close for a drink a while ago. You remember, the night
that Si?n kicked me out of bed for being drunk and having a
cough?"

"Of course I remember, you inconsiderate bastard," Helen laughed
again, and nudged Hen with an elbow before starting to pull her sock
back on.

"Well, I think it was that night I accidentally broke a vodka
bottle."

"Hen?" Manley growled.

"It was an accident!" Hen protested. "It slipped out of my hand while
I was passing it to someone."

"That's not what I mean and you know it."

"Anyway," Hen continued, "The bottle was smashed to pieces. Glass
shards all over the kitchen floor. We thought we'd swept them all up,
but we were all a little worse for wear, you know - "

At that point, Mary saw what was coming and stammered, "Stop. I don't
want to hear any more."

"So the next morning?"

"No, stop, Hen. This is worse than Seb's broken toenail."

"My friend, Dent - the one with the beard - he came into the kitchen
in his bare feet."

Manley stood up, clawing his hands further into his pockets and
looking down on Hen with the fierceness of Helen's chilblains.

"How about me and Mary go on ahead, and you two catch us up after
you've finished your story?"

Hen pretended to be thrown by this suggestion. He blinked twice,
coughed, and then agreed that it was alright, "if you want to." As soon
as Mary had risen from the bench, he continued, more loudly than
before, glancing repeatedly at the retreating figures. Helen finished
tying the lace of her boot, and leant forward to listen, statuesque,
her eyes watching greenly.

"Anyway, Dent walked into the kitchen, and immediately stepped on a
piece of the one piece of glass we'd missed when we were clearing it
up. Only a really tiny piece, but enough for him to feel it. He looked
at his heel and found it was just lodged there, nice and deep. No
blood, but he was too squeamish to want to try and dig it out, so he
just ignored it. And after a while, it didn't hurt very much at all, so
he forgot about it completely. He told me about this yesterday - turns
out he only just recently remembered, and when he looked at his foot,
the skin had completely healed over. So the piece of glass is stuck
inside his foot now, forever."

"That's horrible!"

"Yeah, but you know what's worse, Hel?"

"What?"

She rooted herself in chilled anticipation, her mouth red and
open.

"It's also an allegorical fable," said Hen. "We're looking out at a
field of broken glass, and we're gonna walk right across it. We'll be
too bored to dig it out, so it'll sink in, and as we grow old we'll
become glass ogres, prickly with it, rubbing ourselves against one
another's bodies in order to brush it off. And eventually, we'll be
ready to lay down and make a floor for the next lot of bare footed
fools."

A dog's bark echoed over the lake. Helen scraped her boot across the
hard earth.

"That's a very pessimistic view, Hen."

"But I think we're being trained for it."

"Well, I don't think like that? Come on," she stood up, briskly,
holding out her hand. "Let's catch up with them!"

-

Back at Waveney, Manley made coffee, while Hen ploughed furrows in a
slab of cheese with his fingers, enveloping the excavated pieces in
pockets of French bread.

"Low on money, Hen?" Manley put a cup down on the table in front of
him.

"Not really. Trying to save."

"Lost your knives?"

"Can't be bothered to root for them."

"Sounds like a terrible mood."

Hen tore savagely at the cheese-filled bread with his teeth, and
chased it with a swig of coffee.

"Mubley," he said, chewing. "I don' thunk I'm munking porguss."

"Making progress with what?"

Hen swallowed.

"Helen and Mary. Or Lianne and Besse for that matter, but I thought
I'd start out on the easy meat."

Manley kneaded his mask of stubble, and sat down opposite Hen. He
seemed vexed.

"What kind of progress were you hoping to make?"

"I don't know. I hadn't any plans. Jeez," Hen caught Manley's eye.
"What kind of person do you take me for?"

"I didn't mean to imply anything."

"I suppose you weren't. But look. I?" Hen gazed about the room in
search of inspiration. "I just feel like we've come up against the
painted backdrop on a stage set. The view is fine, but you can't go any
deeper into that Venetian city. I don't feel close enough, but we're as
close as you can get."

"I think I get what you mean. There's no need to elaborate."

"So what do I do?"

Hen took another angry mouthful of bread and cheese, stuffing the torn
ends into his mouth. Manley watched him do this, and said, "I wish I
could help you. All I can say is stick to simpler things."

"Luck truss?" mumbled Hen.

"Yes, like trash, if that's what you want. Or stick to your writing.
How's the novel coming along?"

Hen harrumphed, and shook his head.

"Well, keep at it."

Manley sipped his coffee, looking through the misted glass of the
window at the grass's frost skin and the sky's luminous nudity.

"Ah. Heaven," he sighed, and Hen wasn't sure what he was referring to:
the coffee, the sky or the problem of Helen and Mary.