Signs for Lost Children Sarah Moss (best way to read books .TXT) 📖

let oneself lose interest. At the Royal Albert Hall the Choral Society performed Judas Maccabeus, the orchestra being swelled for the occasion by the band of the Coldstream Guards. On Regent Street there was a zither concert by the zitherist to HRH the Princess of Wales. The London Orphan Asylum must urgently plead for help in maintaining the 550 orphans currently in their care. On the 29th of October, at Langham Lodge, Barnes, the wife of Rev. Henry Hayman, prematurely of a daughter, who survived her birth but a short time. They are leaving Osaka and there is snow on the ground, at first only a sifting, stones dark through grains of ice, and then more, a covering moulding itself to the shape of the land as a sheet rests over a body. Each tree bears its own ghost in snow, and the blades of Japanese flora, of bamboo and reeds, etch themselves black and vertical. On the 5th of Sept, at Rosslyn House, Double Bay, Sydney, NSW, the wife of Charles Telford, of a boy. Unto us a boy is born, he thinks, nearly three months ago. A letter from Australia to London, the printing of The Times, the diplomatic bag from London to Tokyo and the child already smiling, grasping. Charles Telford proud in the knowledge that his name and the way his hair grows over his ears will stay in the world when he is dead and buried. His iniquities, Tom thinks, passed down unto the third and fourth generation. Ally does not want a family. One child, she said, if you wish it very much; I would not deny you fatherhood. But not until we can keep a nurse. At first he thought she feared to give birth, had seen too many women die in the course of delivery to approach such an event herself, but it’s not that. It’s something to do with his mother-in-law, whom he has not met, who opposed their marriage, and with whom his wife is now living. Mamma is a difficult woman, she said when he pressed her. I cannot be certain that I would make a better mother than I have had. Mrs. Dunne took him aside one day; Tom, no good comes of interfering relatives, but I have warned you about my sister. She is but it is not good for Ally, perhaps they are not good for each other, and you should keep her away. He shakes his head at the Christmas snow. He liked to think of Ally in Falmouth.

He opens the newspaper. Liverpool to Bombay via the canal, first class steamers fitted expressly for the trade, surgeon and stewardesses carried. The New Zealand Shipping Company will dispatch the following ships for Auckland, Canterbury, Otago and Wellington. Those wishing to take passage should address themselves immediately to the Company’s offices. He should book his own passage home. Change at Singapore for Falmouth, and one day he will come on deck to see the Wolf Rock light and then, if the morning is clear, the Lizard peninsula rising over the horizon grey and veiled in mist. There will be bluebells under the oak trees on Pendennis Head and the gorse flaming yellow across the peninsula, wild garlic along the hedgerows and cow parsley bobbing amid long grass. No. It is like trying to raise an appetite when suffering sea-sickness, or trying—he recalls one night in Aberdeen, the only such occasion—to raise desire when there is only shame and distaste. He does not want daffodils and lambs. He wants to be here as spring turns to summer, wants to see the rice paddies green and growing, the orchids creeping in the woods as rain falls and the sun strengthens week by week. He wouldn’t mind seeing the cherry blossom, and especially seeing the people seeing the cherry blossom. He folds up The Times and leaves it on the seat beside him. Let it ride the rails; it is a waste to spend in reading any time that could be used in committing to memory the mountains of Japan.

Snow has been swept from the platform, but more is falling outside the canopy, flakes drifting to the ground like leaves. He feels rising excitement: a new place, new snow, new work. The porters are unloading luggage from the last van and he takes his wooden token and Makoto’s note from his pocket. Show this paper to anyone in a railway uniform, Makoto said, and he will explain to the jinrikisha man. I trust you will find your lodging satisfactory. Professor Baxter asked me to retain Tatsuo as your guide; he will come and find you in the morning. Tom nods, bows his thanks for the return of his trunk and holds out Makoto’s note. It is like being the hero of a fairy tale, travelling alone in Japan. When you meet a man in a peaked cap, give him this paper and you will be conducted to a place where you may pass the night. Give him this carved wooden amulet and he will give you your books.

Darkness is falling as they leave the station, Tom in one jinrikisha and his trunk in another. Red lanterns float under the awnings of shops and restaurants and the streets are busy with men and umbrellas. There are fewer European suits than in Osaka and Tokyo, and less noise. He feels as if he’s inside one of De Rivers’ glass domes, inside a snow globe, where banners with Japanese lettering hang over the silent streets and figures enfolded in silk glide across small stone bridges. He doesn’t want it to end.

A

SYLUM

Condensation drips from the wooden handle at the end of the lavatory chain, carved to the likeness of a pine cone and once compared by Freddie to something more obviously relevant to its purpose. Her knees rise from water turned green by Aunt Mary’s bath salts, and she inhales lime-scented steam. She tips back her head and feels the heat reaching through