which clunked Newton’s crown, giving him gravity in the truest sense, to the decadence of the Big Apple.
The longer she pored over her books, the more it became apparent to her that the jargon for immensity had long been rendered vitiate by the scientists. Bereft of a language grand enough, they had had to resort to the terms of their childhood. Big bangs, black holes and superstrings. And when they gazed upwards, to their own galaxy, cerebral though they were, milk was what came to mind.
She, of course, was looking for Sam, in stars, in milk, in language.
Although she understood little of what she read, she could not put the books down. Sometimes, in the early hours of the morning, she would find herself staring at a series of complicated equations which made no sense to her, but she liked the fact that they made sense to someone.
At times it seemed as if anything was indeed possible. The passage of a particle from A to B had to be allowed what was called a sum of histories, so that from the possible, theorists might extrapolate the probable. It was even possible that in an infinite meta-universe anything that is possible will happen an infinite number of times in an infinite number of places. It was also possible, if not entirely probable, that everything she saw in the night sky was there for no other reason than to sustain life on a tiny blue planet orbiting an insignificant star near the inner edge of one of the spiral arms within the Milky Way galaxy.
It was possible that there were other universes, other dimensions which existed within these universes and consequently other laws of physics which would be comprehensible only to intelligent life observing these laws. And she wondered if in some contractionary state of the universe, in some inexplicable dimension, if there might not be a moment, a moment which would occur infinitely, when, in a reversal of time, Sam would swoop upwards to land on a stone bridge and fall into her outstretched, waiting arms.
Jennifer could not understand why Julia was so adamant about going to Ireland. Five months on, it was time to put away the books and face the harsh reality of his nonexistence. Julia could neither summon the energy nor the inclination to explain to her mother that she had to be where Sam was buried, a place he loved – but more importantly, a place where she might find him. She could not see him in Hampshire.
He had fallen from her, succumbed to gravity, aptly named she considered, being in effect its own open grave.
The force of the wind made her take a step back. It blew from the west, from the horizon, straight at her from the expanses of the Atlantic. She stood on the crest of a high peninsula which trailed into the sea like a crooked finger separating two bays. Ahead of her, across the quartering sea, another mountainous peninsula dipped into the waters, hidden in part by the hummocked back of an island. Below, small fields with grey dry-stone borders gradually declined in terraces to the ocean. Her gaze moved slightly to the right. The house, whitewashed over dry stone, faced the west at an angle so that its narrow gable end caught the worst of the gales. Behind it, the long rusted corrugated-iron shed was sheltered to some degree by the house. Sheep plucked at the stubby grass in a field to the right of the shed and stone outhouses. A few threadbare pines stood in an emaciated line, offering little protection. Other farmhouses spread out widely spaced and equally exposed along the decline. The scent of turf fires coupled with the pure salty air was a heady combination. Julia breathed in deeply and coughed. Her lungs were not used to such purity.
Above, the garish white sky with patches of milky blue raced inland, casting shadows over the landscape one moment, bathing it in a flat white light within seconds. She watched a spool of light unwind from behind a low dark cloud over the middle of the bay; where the light fell on to the grey sea, it made turquoise circles on the water’s surface.
She returned to her car and drove down the narrow winding track, indicating left at the second turning downwards. The dog, a black-and-white collie or what remained from the fleas, circled the car and barked half-heartedly. She pushed him away and stood by the door with her hand on the latch, then she decided to knock.
He had a tea-towel over his shoulder and the sleeves of his striped, brushed-cotton shirt rolled up to just above the elbows. He stared at her for a moment as if trying to remember who she was, then, with an almost imperceptible nod of his head, gestured her inside. She ignored him and returned to the car to pull her suitcases out; at the door again she stood in front of him and lifted her eyebrows. He did not reach for the suitcases.
‘You’re staying,’ he said. It was not a question.
‘Is that all right?’ she asked.
He did not respond but inclined his head slightly again. She followed him in, dragging the suitcases after her. He made directly for the stairs which led off the downstairs kitchen, which was in effect the lower half of the house. At the top, he opened the door of the bedroom where she and Brian used to sleep. Nothing had changed. The same nylon flowery quilt covered the small bed, two walnut lockers on either side, an oak wardrobe, bare floorboards and the drawn orange sateen curtains casting an eerie rufescent glow around the room. It smelled of must, salt, an accumulation of dust and something sweet too, something sugary like the grainy scent of stewing blackberries. She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, ‘the other.’ She jerked her head back toward the door behind her. He opened it without a comment.
It was Sam’s room. A tiny cell, eight by eight, a single bed along a narrow window that faced directly on to the sea, a highbacked chair and hooks forced into the stone walls to carry clothes hangers. A lamp without a lampshade on the chair. That was it. She nodded. ‘Thank you.’
‘D’you want tea?’ he asked. The way he said ‘tea’ sounded like ‘tay’.
‘Please,’ she responded. ‘That would be nice.’
He returned downstairs again. She gazed around the room. Seagulls gyrated just beyond the window panes. They called then swooped then called again in rapid staccato shrieks as they soared up on a lift of wind. She thought that they must surely make the loneliest sound in the world, but she remained untouched. The bed was hard when she sat on it. The horsehair mattress had a deep indent in the middle. She ran her finger around the circle.
Downstairs, she watched him scald the battered aluminium teapot. He allowed the hot water from the kettle to lap around three times, discarded it into the basin of dirty dishes in the sink and scooped up three tablespoons of loose black pungent tea-leaves from a tin.
‘Will you want milk?’ he asked over his shoulder.
‘Yes, please.’
‘There’s none,’ he said. ‘Today,’ he added.
‘That’s all right. Black is fine.’
They sat in silence and sipped from chipped mugs without saucers. He sifted a huge amount of sugar into his cup directly from the packet on the table. The cup looked awkward in his hand, he sat the base of it in his curled palm and forced his head low enough to meet the rim. She figured the rarely made gesture of not using the saucer for his tea was in her honour. She almost wished he had, she had never seen anything quite so clumsy-looking.
The dog scratched at the door outside. Julia moved to let him in.
‘Lev him out,’ Jeremiah said, without looking up.
The dog ran in anyway. He made for Jeremiah and performed an intricate series of circles with his tail tucked between his hind legs and his top lip moving up and down over his teeth in an ingratiating obeisance. Jeremiah lashed out with his leg and sent the whimpering creature sprawling toward the door of the back kitchen.
‘Maybe
