There was gravel on his drive now and the pots by the front door had been changed too. Day by day he was conquering this free world, ridding it of its frippery, giving it back bone, shape. He felt like casting coins in his image, heavy enduring coinage for a Caesar. The dog came into the room, saw him, and left. Discipline, Paul Rowlands told himself, discipline.
But he was still waiting for Demeter and the sounds of laughter and eating came from the kitchen, taunting him with their carelessness and then more cries of fun and still here he was, alone, wearing heavy black shoes that he had had to polish himself as he was trained to.He was the best and they would know it, they would respect it; but they did not visit him, Demeter, he corrected, did not visit.him. Not ever. She passed through his world like a zephyr, all colours and noises whipped up heading towards outside. And here he sat alone.
The back door closed and from the garden, laughter, giggles. That bloody friend again! She was even influencing Callum now and talked to him( him) ! as if he was some holiday romance that Sylvie had brought home for the summer. Talked to him straight in the eyes, measuring him, lightly ignoring the weight of his words, always playing with that unkempt mass of hair. And Demeter adored her, of course she did. He had told Sylvie. He had sat her down and told her that Amy was too much there, here, everywhere and she had nodded and then smiled, shrugging her shoulders and wafting away an insect.
He looked at his shoes. They were solid. Deepest, uncompromising black laced tightly, nobly too so that he never had to tie again during the day. They shone. They had dignity.
Everyone was in the garden chasing Sam who could leap over any flowerbeds and pawed the lawn as he made for freedom past them all. Even Sylvie screeched as she lunged after him and missed him as he whipped past her barking madly with joy.
