Bill Hare knows he can only be a disappointment now. He says that he worries he’s built this up into something big and she gives him a little thumbs up, psyching him along. When he starts to talk he won’t look at her, partly through embarrassment but also because, away over her shoulder he can actually see the past again, or at least a version of it where things seem to have become separated into their component parts for ease of classification. Under Nervous Apprehension he sees a parking meter, a bottle of wine. A weeping willow stands for Romance. He doesn’t remember the kids with a bucket bong being under the willow but memory works in strange ways like that, holding back some of the details until you are ready to embrace them all. Romeo and Juliet, he begins, but it isn’t much of a beginning. He finds there is less to say than he expected. Clare College Gardens. 1975. One of those outdoor theatre things. The nurse raises an eyebrow and he says, It wasn’t my idea. You do these things for people, don’t you?
         He says ‘people’ in the same way he says ‘you do these things’ but the pretty nurse sees it is not the same at all. She pats his hand. I’m listening, she says. Take it away, mister.
         She is right about how hard it is to tell a story. He tries one opening and then another. When he settles on a final version, not the most detailed but accurate enough, the words come out of him in a rush like a flock of tiny demented birds. It was dark and we were waiting for a lift I kept talking about the show I should have shut up but the night was like a miracle I wanted to tell someone the night was a miracle but those were the words I couldn’t seem to find. The words fly high and fast and free.
         This was a person you were in love with?
         Loved, is all he can say, relieved.
         But you didn’t tell them.
         No.
         Couldn’t you have…?
         Moments go, love, he says.

15

  

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