tonight.’ He looked at her.
There was something there, he could feel it. He told her about himself, and a little about Tristan. Thinking about it, he realised he’d never talked to anybody, except Tristan, like this before. And she listened. She was interesting, exciting, she knew lots of music, places, people. It had come out, by accident he was sure, about her going to Lunenburg and hearing him play there. They had both got red and embarrassed then but she had come out of it laughing, talking of small worlds and how funny things could be, connections.
‘Would you come and stay, at Caergollo?’ he suddenly found himself saying out of the blue. ‘Visit me there?’
Her eyes lit. Carefully, he touched her finger-ends with his own. The magic was still there. The flush ran up her neck into her face, he saw the shock of his touch as it hit her. As it hit him. He could feel the heat in his own eyes.
‘Wh–what …?’ she said, not sure what they had been talking about.
‘Err …I …err …would you like to come to Caergollo?’ he stuttered.
Her fingers touched his back. This time the shock was gentle, didn’t wipe out his brain.
‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘I would love to visit you.’
Visitation
That night Isoldé dreamed.
She found herself in a shadowy room, it was familiar. Thick velvet drapes covered three of the French windows, the fourth was open. From the light she guessed it was late afternoon, the sunlight shone low through the windows but very bright, making the shadowy corners black. A fire crackled in the hearth, its light flickering over a dark Persian carpet. Slowly she turned on her heel. It was the same room that she had dreamed of when she dreamed of Tristan. There was the grand piano on one side, she took a step toward it, another, it all felt intensely real, not like a dream at all.
She walked slowly over to the piano, stroked the silky, dark, wood, touched the keys. They moved easily under her fingers. This piano was old, Darshan would be entranced, she thought, smiling She sat down and began to pick out Frère Jacques. The notes sang through the air, she stopped, worried that someone might hear.
Getting up, the French window called her. She went over and the smell of wet earth wafted up to her. The leaves dripped, light silvered the wet grass. She went out, crossing the lawn down to the noisy brook. There was a bridge and path going away from it along the edge of the wood. She looked up at the glimpses of moorland grass and heath beyond the confines of the garden. Another noise hid under the clamour of the stream, she listened hard. It was the sea.
Light came on in the room behind her. She turned quickly and stood still, hoping not to be seen. A tall man was there, his fine aquiline features still visible under the ravages of disease. He made for the piano and sat down. Then he noticed the lid was up, looked round and saw the French window ajar. He sat looking out into the garden.
‘If that’s you, my ghost?’ he called to her, ‘come back, comein …’
She froze, not even breathing. Everything went misty in front of her eyes and she felt giddy, like she was fainting. Then it all went away into darkness.
Next thing Isoldé knew was she was sat up suddenly in her own bed. A glance at the clock said it was two in the morning, the middle of the night. Her head felt full of cotton wool and thumping. She staggered up, pulled on a robe and made it down to the kitchen. Later, on the second cup of tea, she began to think coherently.
Was it possible to re-enter a dream, carry on from where you left off, like playback on a video? She finished up the tea and closed her eyes.
To her amazement, she stood beside the stream again, just as she had before.
‘Hello …?’ Tristan called to her from across the lawn. ‘Hello? Is that you? Please come to me, please find me. I need you …’
As Isoldé started back across the grass the French windows exploded silently in a ball of light.
3.
There was something there, he could feel it. He told her about himself, and a little about Tristan. Thinking about it, he realised he’d never talked to anybody, except Tristan, like this before. And she listened. She was interesting, exciting, she knew lots of music, places, people. It had come out, by accident he was sure, about her going to Lunenburg and hearing him play there. They had both got red and embarrassed then but she had come out of it laughing, talking of small worlds and how funny things could be, connections.
‘Would you come and stay, at Caergollo?’ he suddenly found himself saying out of the blue. ‘Visit me there?’
Her eyes lit. Carefully, he touched her finger-ends with his own. The magic was still there. The flush ran up her neck into her face, he saw the shock of his touch as it hit her. As it hit him. He could feel the heat in his own eyes.
‘Wh–what …?’ she said, not sure what they had been talking about.
‘Err …I …err …would you like to come to Caergollo?’ he stuttered.
Her fingers touched his back. This time the shock was gentle, didn’t wipe out his brain.
‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘I would love to visit you.’
Visitation
That night Isoldé dreamed.
She found herself in a shadowy room, it was familiar. Thick velvet drapes covered three of the French windows, the fourth was open. From the light she guessed it was late afternoon, the sunlight shone low through the windows but very bright, making the shadowy corners black. A fire crackled in the hearth, its light flickering over a dark Persian carpet. Slowly she turned on her heel. It was the same room that she had dreamed of when she dreamed of Tristan. There was the grand piano on one side, she took a step toward it, another, it all felt intensely real, not like a dream at all.
She walked slowly over to the piano, stroked the silky, dark, wood, touched the keys. They moved easily under her fingers. This piano was old, Darshan would be entranced, she thought, smiling She sat down and began to pick out Frère Jacques. The notes sang through the air, she stopped, worried that someone might hear.
Getting up, the French window called her. She went over and the smell of wet earth wafted up to her. The leaves dripped, light silvered the wet grass. She went out, crossing the lawn down to the noisy brook. There was a bridge and path going away from it along the edge of the wood. She looked up at the glimpses of moorland grass and heath beyond the confines of the garden. Another noise hid under the clamour of the stream, she listened hard. It was the sea.
Light came on in the room behind her. She turned quickly and stood still, hoping not to be seen. A tall man was there, his fine aquiline features still visible under the ravages of disease. He made for the piano and sat down. Then he noticed the lid was up, looked round and saw the French window ajar. He sat looking out into the garden.
‘If that’s you, my ghost?’ he called to her, ‘come back, comein …’
She froze, not even breathing. Everything went misty in front of her eyes and she felt giddy, like she was fainting. Then it all went away into darkness.
Next thing Isoldé knew was she was sat up suddenly in her own bed. A glance at the clock said it was two in the morning, the middle of the night. Her head felt full of cotton wool and thumping. She staggered up, pulled on a robe and made it down to the kitchen. Later, on the second cup of tea, she began to think coherently.
Was it possible to re-enter a dream, carry on from where you left off, like playback on a video? She finished up the tea and closed her eyes.
To her amazement, she stood beside the stream again, just as she had before.
‘Hello …?’ Tristan called to her from across the lawn. ‘Hello? Is that you? Please come to me, please find me. I need you …’
As Isoldé started back across the grass the French windows exploded silently in a ball of light.
3.
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