[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
Well, I thought; they made me. They produced me; their genes. And they brought
me up. School and university still hadn't changed me as much as they had;
maybe even the rest of my life could never compensate for their formative
effect. If I was too embarrassed, too full of shame to go and see them, it
wasn't just my fault; it was theirs too, because of the way they'd brought me
up
(God, I thought I'd stopped using that excuse when I left Lochgair Primary
School). But there was a grain of truth in there.
Wasn't there?
And hell, I thought; I had been tired; I was tired still, and I would phone
that evening -
definitely - and say I'd fallen asleep, and nobody would be too bothered, and
after all a chap could only cope with so much sorrow-saying in one day . . .
of course I'd phone. A bit of soft soap, a bit of flannel, like dad would say.
No sweat; I could charm them. I'd make everything all right.
*
Still, it was the hangover of that piece of moral cowardice at Lochgair
station, along with everything else, that led to me feeling so profoundly
awful with myself that evening (after the train finally did get into Queen
Street and I walked back, soaked and somehow no longer hungry, in the rain to
the empty flat in Grant Street), that mum had to call me there, because I
hadn't been able to bring myself to phone her and dad . . . and I still
managed to feign sleep and a little shame and a smattering of sorrow and
reassure her as best I could that really I was all right, yes of course, not
to worry, I was fine, thanks for calling . . . and so of course after that
felt even worse.
I made a cup of coffee. I was feeling so bad that I treated it as a kind of
moral victory that
I was able to empty most of the water out of the obviously Gav-filled kettle
and leave the level at the minimum mark. I stood in the kitchen waiting for
the water to heat up with a distinct feeling of eco-smugness.
It was just as I was sitting down in the living room with my cup of coffee
that I realised I'd left my bag on the train.
I couldn't believe it. I remembered getting out of my seat, putting on my
jacket, wondering about trying to get something to eat, deciding I didn't feel
hungry, glancing at the empty luggage
file:///F|/rah/Iain%20Banks/Banks,%20Iain%20-%20The%20Crow%20Road.txt (84 of
187) [5/21/03 1:52:24 AM]
file:///F|/rah/Iain%20Banks/Banks,%20Iain%20-%20The%20Crow%20Road.txt rack,
and then heading through the station and up the road. With no bag.
How could I? I put the coffee down, leapt out of my chair and over the couch,
ran to the phone, and got through, ten minutes later, to the station. Lost
Property was closed; call tomorrow.
I lay in bed that night, trying to remember what had been in the bag. Clothes,
toiletries, one or two books, a couple of presents . . . and the folder with
Uncle Rory's papers in it; both folders, including the one I hadn't read yet.
No, I told myself, as panic tried to set in. It was inconceivable that I'd
lost the bag forever. It would turn up. I had always been lucky that way.
People were generally good. Even if somebody had picked it up, maybe they had
done so by mistake. But probably a guard had spotted it and it was right now
sitting in some staff-room in Queen Street station, or Gallanach. Or maybe -
in a siding only a mile or two from where I lay - a cleaner's brush was at
this moment encountering the bag, wedged back under the seat. . . But I'd get
it back. It couldn't just disappear; it had to find its way back to me. It had
to.
Page 110
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
I got to sleep eventually.
I dreamt of Uncle Rory coming home, driving the old Rover Verity had been born
in, the window open, his arm sticking out, him smiling and holding the missing
folder in his hand; waving it. In the dream, he had a funny looking white
towel wrapped round his neck, and that was when I woke up and remembered.
My white silk scarf; the irreplaceable Mobius scarf, the gift of Darren Watt,
had been in the missing bag as well.
'Noooo!' I wailed into the pillow.
*
Waking up was a process of gradually remembering all the things I had to feel
bad about. I rang
Lost Property first thing. No bag. I got them to give me the number for the
cleaners' mess-room and asked there. No bag. I tried Gallanach, in case the
train had got back there before the bag had been discovered under the seat by
some honest person. No bag.
I tried both stations again in the afternoon; guess what?
I did the only thing I could think of, and retired to bed; if I was to be a
blade of grass doomed to be trampled flat, then I might as well accept it and
lie down. I stayed in bed for the next twenty-four hours, sleeping, drinking a
little water, not eating at all, and only rousing myself when Gav arrived back
(from his parents', I wrongly assumed), loudly declaring himself to be of
unsound liver but totally in love.
Oh, lucky ewe, I said, does she come from a respectable flock?
Ha ha, it's your au - fr . . . parents' friend, Janice, Gav beamed, radiating
unrepentant guilt; came round here the other day looking for you we got
talking went for a curry had a few drinks ended up back here one thing led to
another know how it is always liked older women they're more experienced know
what I mean arf arf anyway spent an extremely enjoyable New Year at her place
apart from the usual visit to my folk's of course oh by the way she's coming
round here tonight I'm cooking lasagne can you swap rooms seeing Norris won't
be back until tomorrow it's just I didn't expect you back until then either,
that okay?
I stared at Gav from my bed, blinking and trying to take in this torrent of
exponentially catastrophic information. I attempted desperately to convince
myself that what I was experiencing was just a particularly cruel and hateful
dream concocted by some part of my mind determined to exact due penalty from
my conscience for my having behaved with such despicable lack of grace during [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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Well, I thought; they made me. They produced me; their genes. And they brought
me up. School and university still hadn't changed me as much as they had;
maybe even the rest of my life could never compensate for their formative
effect. If I was too embarrassed, too full of shame to go and see them, it
wasn't just my fault; it was theirs too, because of the way they'd brought me
up
(God, I thought I'd stopped using that excuse when I left Lochgair Primary
School). But there was a grain of truth in there.
Wasn't there?
And hell, I thought; I had been tired; I was tired still, and I would phone
that evening -
definitely - and say I'd fallen asleep, and nobody would be too bothered, and
after all a chap could only cope with so much sorrow-saying in one day . . .
of course I'd phone. A bit of soft soap, a bit of flannel, like dad would say.
No sweat; I could charm them. I'd make everything all right.
*
Still, it was the hangover of that piece of moral cowardice at Lochgair
station, along with everything else, that led to me feeling so profoundly
awful with myself that evening (after the train finally did get into Queen
Street and I walked back, soaked and somehow no longer hungry, in the rain to
the empty flat in Grant Street), that mum had to call me there, because I
hadn't been able to bring myself to phone her and dad . . . and I still
managed to feign sleep and a little shame and a smattering of sorrow and
reassure her as best I could that really I was all right, yes of course, not
to worry, I was fine, thanks for calling . . . and so of course after that
felt even worse.
I made a cup of coffee. I was feeling so bad that I treated it as a kind of
moral victory that
I was able to empty most of the water out of the obviously Gav-filled kettle
and leave the level at the minimum mark. I stood in the kitchen waiting for
the water to heat up with a distinct feeling of eco-smugness.
It was just as I was sitting down in the living room with my cup of coffee
that I realised I'd left my bag on the train.
I couldn't believe it. I remembered getting out of my seat, putting on my
jacket, wondering about trying to get something to eat, deciding I didn't feel
hungry, glancing at the empty luggage
file:///F|/rah/Iain%20Banks/Banks,%20Iain%20-%20The%20Crow%20Road.txt (84 of
187) [5/21/03 1:52:24 AM]
file:///F|/rah/Iain%20Banks/Banks,%20Iain%20-%20The%20Crow%20Road.txt rack,
and then heading through the station and up the road. With no bag.
How could I? I put the coffee down, leapt out of my chair and over the couch,
ran to the phone, and got through, ten minutes later, to the station. Lost
Property was closed; call tomorrow.
I lay in bed that night, trying to remember what had been in the bag. Clothes,
toiletries, one or two books, a couple of presents . . . and the folder with
Uncle Rory's papers in it; both folders, including the one I hadn't read yet.
No, I told myself, as panic tried to set in. It was inconceivable that I'd
lost the bag forever. It would turn up. I had always been lucky that way.
People were generally good. Even if somebody had picked it up, maybe they had
done so by mistake. But probably a guard had spotted it and it was right now
sitting in some staff-room in Queen Street station, or Gallanach. Or maybe -
in a siding only a mile or two from where I lay - a cleaner's brush was at
this moment encountering the bag, wedged back under the seat. . . But I'd get
it back. It couldn't just disappear; it had to find its way back to me. It had
to.
Page 110
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
I got to sleep eventually.
I dreamt of Uncle Rory coming home, driving the old Rover Verity had been born
in, the window open, his arm sticking out, him smiling and holding the missing
folder in his hand; waving it. In the dream, he had a funny looking white
towel wrapped round his neck, and that was when I woke up and remembered.
My white silk scarf; the irreplaceable Mobius scarf, the gift of Darren Watt,
had been in the missing bag as well.
'Noooo!' I wailed into the pillow.
*
Waking up was a process of gradually remembering all the things I had to feel
bad about. I rang
Lost Property first thing. No bag. I got them to give me the number for the
cleaners' mess-room and asked there. No bag. I tried Gallanach, in case the
train had got back there before the bag had been discovered under the seat by
some honest person. No bag.
I tried both stations again in the afternoon; guess what?
I did the only thing I could think of, and retired to bed; if I was to be a
blade of grass doomed to be trampled flat, then I might as well accept it and
lie down. I stayed in bed for the next twenty-four hours, sleeping, drinking a
little water, not eating at all, and only rousing myself when Gav arrived back
(from his parents', I wrongly assumed), loudly declaring himself to be of
unsound liver but totally in love.
Oh, lucky ewe, I said, does she come from a respectable flock?
Ha ha, it's your au - fr . . . parents' friend, Janice, Gav beamed, radiating
unrepentant guilt; came round here the other day looking for you we got
talking went for a curry had a few drinks ended up back here one thing led to
another know how it is always liked older women they're more experienced know
what I mean arf arf anyway spent an extremely enjoyable New Year at her place
apart from the usual visit to my folk's of course oh by the way she's coming
round here tonight I'm cooking lasagne can you swap rooms seeing Norris won't
be back until tomorrow it's just I didn't expect you back until then either,
that okay?
I stared at Gav from my bed, blinking and trying to take in this torrent of
exponentially catastrophic information. I attempted desperately to convince
myself that what I was experiencing was just a particularly cruel and hateful
dream concocted by some part of my mind determined to exact due penalty from
my conscience for my having behaved with such despicable lack of grace during [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]