Free The Chalk Giants by Keith Roberts Page A

take a gun with me. Everywhere I went, even if it was only a step.
    I should have done. I should have listened. But nobody ever came. Apart from just that once. It was as if people didn’t exist any more, we’d have the place to ourselves for ever.
    I’d come down to the shore, to go out to the pots. She was still asleep, I didn’t want to wake her. I forgot, I honestly did. I remembered when I was going across the yard. But I was only going to be gone a little while, it only took a few minutes to row out. It wasn’t worth going back.
    The mist was bad. I don’t think it will ever clear. I’d pushed the boat off, I was getting in. Then I heard this pebble scrape.
    I looked up. I could just see him. I thought for a minute it was Stan Potts again. But he was too tall.
    I suppose I panicked. If I’d just got into the boat, he’d never have followed me. I could have landed anywhere, run back to the house ...
    I backed away instead. Up the beach. I didn’t say anything. All I could think of was, I hadn’t got a gun.
    He said, ‘It’s all right. Don’t run away. . .’ But I ran anyway. I heard him following.
    He was between me and the house. I couldn’t get past him. Then I caught my foot, landed in some bushes. I thought he’d get me; but I got away just in time.
    He was still following. I couldn’t scream, it wouldn’t be any good. She wouldn’t have heard me, she was too far away.
    I didn’t know what he wanted. He kept on calling but I wouldn’t answer. I was climbing as quietly as I could. But he still knew where I was.
    There’s another path up by the pillbox. It crosses a stream, goes up where the cliffs are lower. Like big steps, all grass and clay. I think he’d lost me; but I slipped and he heard me again. I thought perhaps the bombs had sent him mad. I was sure he was mad, I don’t know why. I kept thinking how upset she was going to be. I was crying, I hated to think of her that upset. It was all my fault because I hadn’t taken the gun.
    He shouted up to me. ‘I own this place. Who are you?’ But I didn’t believe him.
    There was a place where the path went up between two mounds of rock. I’d climbed one before I thought, I lay there panting. There was a big piece of stone, I picked it up. I knew he wouldn’t see me, against the rock.
    The light was brighter. Almost as if the sun was bursting through. I waited. When he came, I was going to hit him with the rock. Then I heard his feet below me on the path. He was closer than I’d thought.
     
    RICHARD
     
    Remembering afternoons at bungalow. Lawn bald under cypress tree, stretching to rockery. Purple and yellow bedding plants, sunken lane beyond. Birdbath, stone rabbit patched with lichen. Shadow of pedestal stretches across grass. In my painting I would solve such an equation.
    Remember doing series that was nothing but the lichen. Orange scumble over olive green, old faces from hills peering through.
    Castle visible from lounge windows. Stone shell set above valley, open to air and light. Wild sun’s nest. View framed by white glazing bars. White house, smelling of nineteen-thirty-five. Made me feel nearer to him. Middle phase before Junkers, rolling suns.
    Pity about Maggie. She didn’t live there. Don’t know if she ever lived anywhere. Talked a lot about the school. Angry image, wasp-hive. Gone now. One-second slum clearance plan.
    Glad castle still there. Wonder how long it will last. Can’t imagine dissolution. But can’t imagine dissolution of anything. Playing music the last day. Reger, Buxtehude. Read spec, on record sleeve. Tierce and blockflute, quintflute. Rohr Gedacht., Take a book to describe death of one church organ.
    Remembering rest of room. Fleecy half-moon rug in front of grate, slip mats on wood-block floor, leather-covered Spanish chest in corner. Silver on sideboard, white china swan. Framed pastel, head of saluki. Whisky in side cupboard, as aid to concentration. Carved Swiss hat-rack outside door, family of