The Forester’s Daughter
When he is getting into his car, a stranger who holds his cards close to his chest approaches.
‘I understand you have a dog you’d sell.’
‘A dog?’ says Deegan.
‘Aye,’ he says, ‘a gun dog. Do you still have him?’
‘Well, I do.’ Deegan is set back on his heel but he recovers quickly. ‘I bought him last September but I’ve little time for hunting and it’s a shame to see him wasted.’
Deegan goes on to describe a retriever. He begins to talk easily about pheasants and how his dog can rise them, how the soup off a pheasant tastes finer than anything you can find in a hotel. He talks about the turf basket and how it is never empty since the dog came to the house. As soon as he mentions turf, the man smiles but Deegan does not notice, for he is remembering the girl on her birthday and how she and the retriever now bathe in the same water. But it is too late to back down.
From the archives
·
1993
On Love
The telephone becomes an instrument of torture int he demonic hands of a beloved who doesn't ring. When Chloe called a few days later, I had rehearsed my speech too often to deliver it correctly. I was caught unprepared, handing socks on a rail. I ran to the bedroom to pick up. My voice carried with it a tension and an anger that I might more skilfully have erased from a page. Authorship becomes tempting to those who can't speak.
'What a surprise to hear from you,' I said unconvincingly. 'We must have lunch some time.'
'Lunch. Goodness. I really can't this week.'
'Well, how about dinner?'
'I'm just looking at my diary, and you're not going to believe this, but that's looking difficult too.'
'No problem,' I said, in a tone that strongly implied its opposite.
'I tell you what, though, can you take this afternoon off by any chance? We could meet at my office and go to the National Gallery or something.'
Read more of this excerpt...
On Love
The telephone becomes an instrument of torture int he demonic hands of a beloved who doesn't ring. When Chloe called a few days later, I had rehearsed my speech too often to deliver it correctly. I was caught unprepared, handing socks on a rail. I ran to the bedroom to pick up. My voice carried with it a tension and an anger that I might more skilfully have erased from a page. Authorship becomes tempting to those who can't speak.
'What a surprise to hear from you,' I said unconvincingly. 'We must have lunch some time.'
'Lunch. Goodness. I really can't this week.'
'Well, how about dinner?'
'I'm just looking at my diary, and you're not going to believe this, but that's looking difficult too.'
'No problem,' I said, in a tone that strongly implied its opposite.
'I tell you what, though, can you take this afternoon off by any chance? We could meet at my office and go to the National Gallery or something.'
Read more of this excerpt...
“There was only one catch and that was Catch-22, which specified that a concern for one's safety in the face of dangers that were real and immediate was the process of a rational mind.”
NON-FICTION
