The Dandelion Clock

by Guy Burt

  ‘Your dad?’

  ‘No,’ she says, impatiently. ‘Him.’ She pauses. ‘I call him dad, now,’ she adds, rather distantly. ‘But he’s not really.’

  ‘Do you like him?’

  ‘No. He doesn’t like me.’

  ‘Is he nasty to you?’

  She thinks about that, and for a moment her face alters as if she’s preparing to tell me some great story of how cruel he is. But then she shrugs. ‘Not really. He just doesn’t talk to me a lot. I think he’s boring.’

  ‘What happened to your real dad, then?’

  ‘He went away,’ she says. ‘He writes to me, though. He’s gone back home.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Hungary.’ She catches my blank look. ‘It’s another country,’ she says. ‘It’s where he used to live. We all used to live there once, and then we came here when I was very small. I don’t really remember. Mummy says it was the best thing we ever did, but I don’t really know.’

  ‘We used to live in England,’ I say.

  ‘I know.’ We walk on in silence for a while, and then Anna says, ‘Do you like your parents?’

  This is another question I’ve never considered. These past few weeks have thrown up a whole lot of questions like that. I say, ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Do you think Jamie likes his?’

  ‘I think so,’ I say. Jamie and I never talk about our parents. It seems a strange thing to talk about; when we are together, there’s so much else to do.

  ‘I think parents are crap,’ she says. ‘I think we should go off and live together somewhere.’

  ‘Really? Where?’

  ‘I don’t know. In a house of our own somewhere.’

  ‘They don’t give houses to kids,’ I say.

  ‘Well, in a cave then. Or build a treehouse like Jamie said. Just the three of us. I don’t see why we have to have parents.’

  ‘Who’d cook meals for us?’ I say, a little worried by Anna’s angry enthusiasm for the idea.

  ‘We could cook. It’s not difficult, is it?’

  ‘And who’d give us pocket money to buy food with?’ I say.

  Anna says, ‘Oh, shut up, Alex.’

  ‘Why?’ I say, hurt.

  ‘I didn’t mean it. Of course we can’t go and live together. It was just an idea, that’s all.’ She adds, ‘I was just playing a trick on you.’

  ‘It wasn’t a funny trick,’ I say.

  ‘Well, I thought it was.’

  We continue for a while without talking, Anna a little way ahead of me, kicking stones and sticks and whatever else she sees. I trail along behind her, wondering why she’s suddenly so cross.

  Then she starts to talk. She doesn’t look round, and for a moment it looks as if she’s talking to herself, though she knows of course that I’m there. She says, ‘Grown-ups always pretend like they’re in charge of everything. We always have to do what they say, we can’t do what we want. And they’re always the strong ones, and we’re not.’ She pauses. I can’t see where she’s going with this, so I keep quiet. She says, ‘But they’re not really strong, are they? I mean, the hermit’s a grown-up but he needs our help. We have to help him or he’ll die. If we don’t help him, he won’t get well. He can’t even pee unless we help him. We’re kids and he’s a grown-up but he’d have peed in his pants unless we helped him.’

  I don’t like the way her voice has gone; it’s thoughtful, but strangely cold, too. I say, ‘But he’s hurt.’

  ‘I know,’ Anna says.

  ‘Well, if you were hurt, you’d need people to help you, too.’

  ‘Mm,’ she says, but she doesn’t sound to me as if what I’ve said makes much difference to her. After a while she says, ‘I mean, we’ve even got a gun.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So – so if anyone we don’t like comes we can point the gun at them and they’d have to go away, or we’d shoot them.’

  I’m not sure what she means. After a second, it occurs to me that she may still be talking about the house where she and Jamie and I are going to live. I say, ‘But we don’t know how to use the gun.’

  ‘We could work it out. I bet it isn’t that hard. I bet I could do it, if I tried.’

  I’m even more worried to discover that I believe this. Somehow, having the gun – which before had been a reassuring thing – is now less reassuring. It’s almost threatening. The way Anna is talking isn’t the way she usually talks. It’s like she’s not the same Anna any more, as if something’s changed in her.

  She looks round, and her pace falters. ‘Hey,’ she says. ‘It’s OK. I was just thinking.’ Then she stops. ‘Hey, Alex. Don’t cry. It’s all right – I was only kidding you. We won’t really put the gun together.’

  ‘I’m not crying,’ I say, rubbing my face. ‘I got – I got dust in my eye.’

  ‘Oh. Let me see.’ She holds my chin and tilts my head back a little. ‘It’s a bit red,’ she says critically. ‘Does it feel better now?’

  ‘Mm,’ I say.

  ‘OK.’ She looks at me, genuine concern in her face. ‘You sure?’ she says.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’

  She stares for a moment longer, and then leans in quickly and kisses the end of my nose. I blink, surprised and strangely pleased. ‘There,’ she says. Then, ‘Come on. We should keep going.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘I know. Me too. And I feel a bit weird. I think it’s getting up every hour. We need more sleep than this, I think.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘But we have to look out for each other.’

  She smiles. ‘That’s right. That’s what we have to do.’

  ‘So the one in the chapel isn’t really alone,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah. I know. Well, that’s how we’ll keep doing it for now, anyway.’

  ‘Good,’ I say.

  It’s late now, and the band – who are not the same band as were playing at the start of the evening – shift from the jauntier numbers to mellower, more atmospheric pieces. The mood alters subtly, and there are more people staring at the musicians now than before; the conversation has dropped away a little, and a kind of pleasant tiredness and slight melancholy has come over the bar. Anna pushes her beer an inch or so across the table with one finger, and gets up.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I say.

  ‘Loo. Back in a bit.’ She takes her bag from the back of the chair and eases her way through the crowd towards the band. I watch her go, and can feel myself smiling, just from watching her.

  One or two people are still coming in to join the crowd. No-one much seems to be leaving. The bar is packed close.

  ‘And some plasters, please,’ Anna says, handing over the last of our money. We put the roll of bandage and the pack of plasters in the bag and leave casually, two children on an errand from their parents. Anna is good at looking relaxed and casual; better than I am. I think how clever she is to be able to fool people like this.

  She pushes her way back through the crowd. ‘God. The whole place is heaving,’ she says. She looks a little breathless, her face slightly flushed. She glances at the table. ‘You got more beer?’

  ‘I thought it might be a good idea,’ I say.

  ‘Oh. Right.’ She slips into her chair and slings the bag on the floor. ‘So. Where were we?’

  ‘Swimming races,’ I say with a grin.

  ‘Yes. That’s it.’

  ‘You used to swear terribly when you lost, too.’

  ‘Still do,’ she says. She takes a long drink of the beer and wipes her mouth.

  ‘I used to think that was pretty cool.’

  ‘Really?’ She seems pleased at this.

  ‘Well, I used to think a lot of what you did was pretty cool.’

  ‘Cheers,’ she says. ‘I don’t get called cool often enough.’

  ‘No? I bet you do really.’

  She shrugs. ‘I don’t think the kind of people who do political theory think of each other as potentially cool,’ she says
, smiling slightly.

  ‘You said you’d tell me all about that some time,’ I say. ‘You know – the thesis and so on.’

  ‘Yeah, sure. Some time.’

  ‘How about now?’

  She puts her drink down and hesitates for a second. Then she says, ‘You know, perhaps we ought to go.’

  ‘It’s not so late,’ I say. ‘We could stay for a few more songs.’

  ‘Yeah, but—’ She glances across the room at the band. ‘I don’t like this stuff so much. It’s a bit sad, don’t you think?’

  ‘A little,’ I say. ‘But they’re playing really well. Compromise. Let’s finish our drinks first.’

  She grins and grabs her glass and downs it. ‘There,’ she says. ‘Come on.’

  ‘What is it, Anna?’ I say. She looks edgy, excited. Her eyes are gleaming.

  ‘Nothing. I’m just bored.’

  ‘I’ve heard that somewhere before,’ I say, laughing. ‘You always—’

  ‘Alex,’ she says, and something in the way she speaks stops me dead. She puts her elbows on the table and makes a little platform with her hands to rest her chin on.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I really think we ought to go.’

  I blink. ‘All right. Why?’

  She takes a breath. ‘Look – what you were saying before—’

  I interrupt her. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘You were right.’

  I stare at her. No words come.

  She says, ‘You were right. I think part of me’s been – waiting, for it. All this time. I think that’s why I – did what I did, when we were here last. It just took me until now to realize.’

  She leans across the table and kisses me on the mouth. It’s only the second time she’s ever done that. There is the barest touch of her tongue against my lips and then she breaks away, keeping close but not kissing me any more. Her eyes are dark now, this close. She says, ‘I think we should go and fuck now.’

  I can’t think of a thing to say. I nod dumbly.

  She reaches behind her and picks up her bag, all the while looking at me. When we push our chairs back and get up, another couple are quick to move in to take them.

  ‘Here,’ the young man says. ‘You’ve left your beer.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say. Anna is leading the way through to the exit, and her hand has found mine and is pulling me after her. The young man must see something in my face, because suddenly he grins broadly.

  ‘OK,’ he calls after me.

  I turn to follow Anna. The room seems hazy, the music and the people all out of focus. For a second, I think I catch a glimpse of the woman I’ve seen before, in among the press of people, but I can’t be sure.

  The air outside feels cold as water, and clean. I pull Anna against the side of a closed-up newspaper kiosk and kiss her again. Each touch of our mouths feels like a jolt of some kind of drug, as though we are feeding off each other. She has her hands round my shoulders; my hands are in her hair and then on her breasts.

  ‘God, yes,’ she says.

  I go to kiss her again, but she pulls away fractionally.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Let’s get back to the hotel,’ she says; and then puts her chin on my shoulder quickly. I feel the heat of her breath against my ear as she whispers, ‘I want you inside me. Come on.’

  We stumble along the street, arms round each other. At the junction with the next road there is a taxi rank and we get into a cab, clutching each other as we tell the driver where to go, and giggling like children.

  * * *

  Her head strains back into the pillow and she gasps out a kind of strangled, inarticulate cry. I feel her body clench for a second, and then she shudders and her muscles relax. There is a long silence broken only by the gradually less laboured sounds of our breathing. I can feel my heart thudding almost painfully in me, but slowly that too starts to be less insistent. One of Anna’s hands stirs on the pillow, and then with a slight, heavy clumsiness, reaches for my hair. She strokes my head very slowly.

  Outside, car horns and the waspish sound of mopeds signal that the city is still there. The window stands wide, and I wonder briefly what people passing by have heard.

  ‘Oh, God,’ Anna says. ‘God.’

  She stirs under me and I move off her. She sits up and swings her legs off the bed.

  She says, ‘I wasn’t expecting that. It isn’t usually that good first time.’

  The easy comparison with other times shocks me for a moment, and I feel a twinge of something – regret, perhaps. Of course there have been others. I try to ignore it.

  She says, ‘Well? What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t think I can think any more,’ I say. ‘Think about what?’

  She gets up and stands in front of me naked, hands by her sides, not posing, just standing there. She says, ‘This.’

  I haven’t really had the chance to see her. The only light in the room has been from the streetlights outside. I’ve touched her – felt her skin and her hair – but I’ve only glimpsed her body. The curve of one shoulder, her belly, her hands, her breasts. I look at her.

  ‘Good,’ I say.

  ‘So you think tits are an improvement?’

  ‘Definitely. I always thought that, though.’

  ‘Good,’ she says. ‘Just checking.’

  She goes over to the window and looks out. I say, ‘Careful. Someone might see you.’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ she says. She doesn’t move, though; she stands there with the balance of weight on one foot and one hand on the edge of the wooden shutter. The light from the street casts a narrow line of colour down her side, showing the curve of one breast, one hip, and the underside of her arm, orange against the shadow that is the rest of her. The windows are tall, the windowsills low down, at thigh height. She says, ‘Don’t you like that, though? I do. Like maybe someone I’ll never meet and never know can see all of me right now, all my body, just for a moment. And they’ll never know who I am, either.’

  I laugh. ‘You haven’t changed,’ I say.

  She is quiet for a moment, and then she pulls the shutter across. The bars of shadow fold around her body. When she turns back towards me, I can’t see her face properly any longer. She says, ‘I’m going to have a shower.’

  The sound of running water from the next room beats a faint rhythm through the wall. On the bed, I drift gently between dozing and wakefulness, my mind stirring itself every so often to wonder at Anna – the smell of her, how she feels against me, the urgency and eagerness of the way she moves, the sound of her breathing.

  Once in a while, as I drift, other thoughts fade through the haze of images and tastes and sounds, but they have nothing of the drug-like wonder of these thoughts of Anna. I push them aside, and they go easily enough. Instead I wonder whether, when Anna comes back, we can perhaps make love a second time; and it is as I begin to think that we will that I fall finally asleep.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sunshine is breaking through a crack in the shutters when I wake. For a while I just lie in bed, drowsily remembering last night. Anna, when I turn to look, is still fast asleep, her outline under the sheet breathing slowly and deeply.

  I get up and go to the window. It’s earlier than I expect, and the little grocery at the corner of the square is still setting out its merchandise on the pavement. I look at Anna’s face as she lies sleeping, and can’t bring myself to wake her. I decide instead to find breakfast and bring it back, to surprise her with croissants and fruit juice and stuff in an hour or so. I get dressed as quietly as I can, and do my teeth and wash my face with the water running slowly into the basin, and close the door of our room carefully and silently behind me.

  Spring has reached Florence fully, and the air is warm and clear. In the street I buy myself a plastic cup of coffee and sip it as I walk. For some reason I can’t bring myself to sit down indoors and drink a proper cupful; I feel I need to keep moving. The slow beat of
my footsteps on the pavements and cobbles is pleasant, and I am looking at the city as if I haven’t seen it before: details keep catching my eye, and more than once I see something which I would like to return to, later, to sketch. Faintly I realize that it’s the same city, and that it is I who have changed; but the sense is pervasive.

  Perhaps this is what I was anticipating when the city seemed to move.

  How did it happen? I keep thinking. There was a moment, out in the street, when I was sure it was impossible. She sounded like she had never even considered this. Then – in the club – the moment when she tells me she’s always wanted it. It’s amazing – unbelievable.

  Something else. There’s something I can say, now. I can say it in my head – even say it aloud. I love her. I’ve always loved her. I can admit it now, and it’s OK, because I know at last that she loves me as well.

  I won’t let anything go wrong this time. It’s a second chance: I have to get it right.

  Anna often reads a paper in the morning, I’ve noticed; it’s something that strikes me as odd, at first, a habit too serious and sedentary for my Anna. But when I think it through I realize she must need to keep in touch with world events, for her thesis and so on. A pleasant idea comes to me: I shall buy her a morning paper, and buy it from the one newspaper kiosk which now holds more significance for us than any other in Florence. It’s an utterly foolish notion; the kiosk and the jazz bar are a good half an hour out of my way. But it’s still early, and I feel like walking; and so I start to retrace our journey of the night before, heading up towards the university quarter.

  As I go, thoughts of Anna drift in and out of my head. Still it seems incredible to me what has happened to us. Once or twice, it seems more like a dream than something real, as though I might go back to the hotel to find that Anna doesn’t know what I’m talking about, that – worse – she might laugh at me.

  Oh, she says, laughter in her voice. That kind of dream. A sex dream. Was it like that?

  Then I smile to myself, because I know really that it did happen – that at last, it did happen.

  I wonder what we will do now; how this will change things.

  I wonder where we will be in five years’ time; in ten. It feels like anything could happen now. I think back over the years when we’ve been apart, when we’ve – drifted, and realize that they’re over now. Whatever happens, we’ll never let those kind of distances get between us again.