through the swing doors but his voice came after her. ‘And so I see this architect on TV last night is proposing a floating city. I like the idea. Do you like the idea?’ Yes, she said, she liked it very much indeed.
‘I’ve forgotten how it would work, but every window would have this magnificent changing view. How about that?’
‘Yes, wonderful,’ said the woman. But she kept moving on because they had to be rather strict about time here and the hour passed quickly.
‘But I’m not so sure,’ his voice pursued her, ‘about the sort of city that goes a mile up into the sky.’ This time she didn’t turn round and wasn’t meant to. His eyes were already fixed on the passage to the left and on a door at the far end of it. Her own route took her up a flight of stairs and along a corridor on the other side. They parted abruptly as they always did, he to the left and she to the right.
It happened that they met again in the evening at the seven to eight visiting hour. For some time back they had come in on both afternoon and evening visits, though they did the double shift for different reasons – the man because his son was very ill, the woman because her daughter was almost well. It seemed the two extremes demanded most. For the second time that day they stood at the plate glass windows staring across. But the transformation from afternoon to evening was always spectacular. In place of solid buildings were row upon row of incandescent light cubes set in blackness, giving a vision which was almost clairvoyant into the rooms opposite. Here and there among the white cubes were a few dim rooms lit by blue, and visitors tended to stare at these with particular intensity as though the distant blue rooms held the secret of life and death – a secret being unaccountably withheld from themselves. Tonight, however, brightness came from the ground as well as the walls. Even the skimpy trees spiked with snow looked theatrical. On the bowling-green the line of the heart showed up thicker and clearer than before.
As usual, the man and the woman arrived early, and after their first few comments, they fell silent. It was not a vast silence but the woman decided it was too long for comfort. They did not know one another well enough for this. She had also become accustomed to the non-silence policy of the hospital. This was not made too obvious but it could be felt. When necessary a good deal of chatter, not to say clatter, covered certain black pits of feeling. Even the brisk rattle of curtain rails round an emotion was better than nothing. The woman could chatter herself when she had a mind to.
‘If the forecast’s anything to go by it’s to be colder than ever,’ she said. ‘But no more snow meantime. Well, thank goodness for that. The bus had the worst time ever on that hill tonight. There was one moment I thought we’d all be out on the road pushing. What’s your opinion of double-deckers on a hill like that? Last year there were letters to the paper. Do you think double-deckers are dangerous on that particular stretch?’ The man nodded but gave no opinion, so she answered for him. ‘Yes, they are more dangerous and not just in snow – in a wind too. In a high wind they can pitch and swing like a ship at sea.’ Again there was silence as they stared ahead. The woman took courage from the brilliant patches of light below. ‘What did your son think of the cook?’ she asked, smiling. The man unfocused his gaze reluctantly. His eyebrows indicated a complete noncomprehension. ‘The chef turning preacher,’ said the woman with still unfaltering brightness.
‘Oh that.’ He waved it impatiently aside. ‘Absolutely nothing. It didn’t interest him at all. There was nothing to it, of course.’ The woman could have stopped there. She was virtually being invited to take no interest in anything herself. But she felt the need to go further. ‘The floating city – what does he make of that idea? If it doesn’t sound ludicrous to put it that way – isn’t it his line of country?’
‘He hardly heard it. He thought it scarcely worth while listening.’
The woman looked down quickly and started to rearrange some of the things in her bag, but a moment later she was startled by his tense voice, suddenly much louder. ‘There was one thing he took up. One thing he listened to. He took great exception to my mention of the heart.’ The woman stopped rustling in her bag and took a quick look down at it. She had almost forgotten it was there.
‘Never again!’ said the man. ‘What a mistake to talk about outside things. How stupid I’ve become. How thick!’
‘But what happened?’
‘Nothing – except he worked himself into a fury. And don’t think,’ said the man as though picking her up, ‘don’t think he’ll forget it. I know my son. He’s going to lie there and meditate on hearts and the people who draw hearts.’
Sometimes the doors would be opened for early visitors. It happened this evening. At least fifteen minutes before time the friendly nurse came through and wedged them back. She noticed that this pair were tired and that the cold glass where they leaned had taken colour from their cheeks. They looked deserving of comfort, of some privilege for themselves. But whatever it was they didn’t take it. They acknowledged the open door but remained where they were.
‘Who are they then?’ said the woman. ‘Who are these people who draw hearts?’
‘Vandals!’ the man cried. ‘And no different from any other kind. So he says. Secret vandals!’ They both stared at the bowling-green, the woman in some surprise, the man with bitterness. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘harmless this time. That he admits. But whoever could do that could do it in much worse and lasting ways. It’s the brand-new hearts chiselled on standing stones he’s thinking of, hearts dug out of trees and slashed across pillars. He’s seen himself a hideous double heart complete with dates and arrows branded on a temple wall. Can you blame him? Buildings are his job. Oh, it’s not only hearts! He is thinking of every effacement he ever set eyes on. And I set him off!’
‘It will melt,’ said the woman who could think of nothing better to say.
‘But not from his mind,’ said the man. ‘I know my son.’ He turned and walked quickly away through the open door. The woman waited on for a bit. She felt she was getting to know the young man too. And she had to admit that with the best will in the world she didn’t absolutely care for the sound of him. Had never in fact cared. On the whole her opinion was that illness made neither devils nor angels. She took the view that it brought out and perhaps exaggerated what was already there. From what she had heard, there was and always had been a born complainer there. Long before his illness he had complained. She had never seen him and she was exceedingly sorry for him. She was sorry for any obsessions he might have. But she was not, she was thankful to say, obliged to like him.
She didn’t see the father next day. But on the following afternoon they met in the corridor. It was colder than ever – colder if possible than on the last few days. Not a scrap of snow had melted or shifted. On the trees the snow blossoms had set like icing sugar. The heart on the bowling-green had not altered its shape by a single ice crystal. It was clear when the man spoke that his son had not altered his views either. He was preoccupied with vandalism. It had been no good trying to change the subject. The boy had kept an irritable silence before bursting out in the same vein. They had not mentioned the heart again, but it was the basis of the business. And the vandalism had broadened to include all spoilings in country as well as city, past damage and damage to come.
‘Is it so strange?’ said the father. ‘He’s an architect, isn’t he? As far as he’s concerned nothing in its final shape comes up to what was planned. Everything falls short. Just now he exaggerates. Yes. But he was always like that. His expectations are high.’
‘I’m sure,’ said the woman quickly.
‘A perfectionist.’
‘Yes, of
