He’d looked into her eyes as he told her about moonlight, starlight, the place under the cabbage trees at the Basin. Katherine blushed and left the shop quickly.
But she couldn’t stop thinking. As she cooked dinner, as she sent the children to bed. She couldn’t sleep.
The next day she gazed at the black typewriter keys and thought of his hair, his eyes, the gentle, husky sound of his voice. What had Mrs Newman just said? What was she supposed to be doing?
She passed by the shop on the way home, saw his brother stacking pumpkins. Did not go in.
Her stomach felt tight. At dinner, she could not eat.
‘Are you all right, Mum?’ Edie asked.
‘What? Yes, I’m fine. Just got a stomach-ache.’ She put down her fork.
‘Brussels sprouts give me stomach-ache too,’ Robbie said, pushing his plate away.
Katherine could see him looking at her, waiting for her to argue with him, waiting for her to make him eat, but for once she said nothing.
The children went to bed and the house fell silent.
Katherine opened a book and closed it. She picked up her knitting and put it down again. She looked in at the children. Came back downstairs and paced from room to room. Not a sound from upstairs. Not a sound.
She put on her coat and walked out the back door.
It was a new moon; she could barely make out his silhouette under the cabbage trees. ‘Mrs McKechnie,’ he said, as if he’d been waiting.
How did he know it was her? How could he be waiting?
She was suddenly afraid. She’d made a terrible mistake with Donald. And now, what in God’s name was she doing?
He stood up and walked towards her, and she didn’t know what to say. She had to say something.
‘You haven’t given me a name,’ she blurted out. ‘I asked you over a month ago and you still haven’t given me a name.’ She wanted to cry. What a stupid thing to say. As if she’d come all this way – as if she’d left her children asleep in bed – just because he’d forgotten. What had come over her? It had been a stupid, stupid thing to ask of him, even then. And now . . .
A tram rattled past, turning out of Adelaide Road, into Rugby and along Sussex; another travelled along Kent Terrace. A drunk called out as he stumbled out of the Caledonian, the clip-clop of a horse-cart, the ragged sound of a motorcar.
What was he saying? Was he laughing? Not his usual gravelly laugh but something quieter, more hesitant.
The leaves of a cabbage tree shook above them.
Her face felt hot. She was shaking. She wanted to run, but her legs felt weak, as if her bones had softened, as if she were falling. ‘I . . . I have to go . . .’ she whispered.
But then he moved closer, took her in his arms as if to still her shaking.
He turned her hand and slowly traced onto her palm with his finger. She could hardly see, only movements of darkness within darkness, but she could smell ginger and aniseed, the smell of a man’s fresh sweat, and she could feel the shape of her name, the sensation of skin against skin.
‘Lai,’ he said. ‘This is Chinese family name, not name we give foreigners, not name like English. You put this name with word for bright and this is sun come out of night. You have all these colours.’ She could hear his breathing, feel her own short breaths. ‘Bik-yuk,’ he was saying. ‘This is Christian name. It means jade.’ And he was writing again, stroking her palm with her name. ‘Bik,’ he was saying. ‘This is word for king and this is white. Under is rock. Yuk. This is three jades,’ he was drawing horizontal lines, ‘and this string hold them together. Many woman have name like beautiful or flower but you are pure and clear . . .’
She heard a tram swing through her silence into Adelaide Road, felt him touch her hair, her cheek, brush her lips, which parted and left a line of moisture on his fingers.