The blasting wind screams along the narrow street, engulfing me within its solemn immensity like a frosty cloak. Tickling sensations rush through my body. I imagine giant ants, like those I have seen on TV earlier, relentlessly crawling under my skin. As I think more about these little creatures, I’m suddenly suffused with a profound sense of inescapable sadness.
At a book fair in a church on a square in Inveraray, I read a poem by Liz Lochhead. It’s the only poem she ever wrote about her husband dying, a friend I’m there with says as she shows me the book. My eyes pass each word slowly, while I travel up the road with her, Liz Lochhead, and her late husband, savouring the Gaelic names of towns and expressive phrases, sitting down on a wooden bench at a book fair in a church on a square in Inveraray.
The jittering in Beth’s hands had returned. It was worse in the left than in the right: some quirk of evolution no doubt. The left half of her body was always more emotional than the right. But it was uncomfortably moist in the room; dampness covered the seat on which she was tensely perching.