(ii) I’m going to stay out here, where
nothing is frightening — GREGORY
I’m cold. This old rag keeps nothing out. (It looks nasty, too.) I fasten it up all the time, but that only reminds me how poorly protected I am.
I’m walking east, behind the house, towards the D-Pond (the D-Pond isn’t in our land any more. A yid owns it now, but you’re still allowed to go there). The grass on the lawns is rank and knotted, smelling faintly of dirt and cheap scent. In the overhung pathways by the abandoned rose-garden the air seems dark suddenly and I want to run back to the house — but when I re-emerge, and climb over the stile into the sloping field, I sense that the day still has some life in it. The sky is clear and colourful. The shepherds are delighted by what they see.
I’m not going back. To what, anyway? I’m not going back to spend my life peeing in kitchens. Ursula has gone. (Papa has gone.) And now Terry has gone too. I hope he comes into his own at last. This was the part he was meant for, the stage at which his life would begin to be good (he hated all the other bits). Not me, though. I can help mother — there are still some things left to run (God, I hope she can afford me). This will just have to do for the time being. I’m not going back. I’m going to stay out here, where nothing is frightening.
I’m cold. Dew is falling. In the distance, to my left beyond the Indian file of silver birches, the railway line runs on its banked mound. Something’s coming. I pause as a smart blue train streams by. I look down to see that my hand is waving childishly. How absurd. Why? Always wave to trains, my nanny or my mother or my grandmother said. I remember now. Someone nice might see you and wave back.
I’m entering the woods that gird the water (I used to play there as a boy). The D-Pond glistens whitely, two hundred yards away, through the lattice of bark and darkness. It really is dark. I pause again. Can I get there and back before nightfall? The woods are drenched, dripping with dreams and death. A wind blows. The trees attempt to shake their shoulders dry. Why won’t the wind let the leaves alone? The lake is trying to warn me — danger in the streets of the trees. The wood is fizzing. A log rolls over on to its back. One bird sings.
I stand behind the row of birches. I’m cold — I want to shiver and sob. I look up. Something’s coming. Oh, go away. Against the hell of sunset the branches bend and break. The wind will never cease to craze the frightening leaves.
Martin Amis, Success
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