THOMPSON
An extract from
The Prologue
She was sitting on the balcony, as she
often did at this hour of the evening. Twilight was slowly creeping up over
the garden below, drawing a soft, warm, indigo-coloured pashmina across the
lawn. L’heure bleue. That was how the French described it. The blue hour.
Her favorite time.
Her book – Jane Eyre – was lying on the ground at her feet, a crushed
petunia blossom marking the place. The pichet of red wine on the table
beside her was half full. House martins were diving in and out of the eaves,
white underbellies gleaming in the last light of the low-slung sun and
sparrows were laying claim to dormitories, beating each other up in the
process, like small thugs.
Maddie stretched luxuriously, enjoying the comforting, soporific drone of a
bee somewhere nearby, surrendering herself completely to the irresistible
languor of l’heure bleue. She ran a hand down her bare arm. Her skin felt
satiny to the touch. It was golden now from days from days of lying lazily
on beaches, and fragrant with the sun balm she’d rubbed on earlier. There
was a pot-pourri of scents in the air this evening. The bee – clearly a
workaholic – was buzzing round the lavender that burst exuberantly from a
big earthenware pot on a windowsill, disturbing the purple flowers and
sending their unique perfume drifting into the dusk.
She’d been like that once – a busy bee: working late, working weekends,
working her ass off. In her old life she’d never, ever envisaged herself
being lazy. Even her free time had been devoted to a dizzying round of
social activity. In her old life she’d never found it easy to sit still.
Her old life. Was this, then, her new? No. She knew she’d have to go back
there, to that old life - that other country – and confront her demons. It
was ironic, she thought, that her biblical namesake, Mary Magdalene, had
been plagued by demons, too. The Magdalene’s had been exorcized, but Maddie
still wasn’t sure if hers had been.
And yet, and yet… She’d had no more demonic visitations since the evening
the nightingale had sung to her. How long ago was that!? She had no idea –
she’d lost all track of time. Anyway, she didn’t want to think about it. She
wanted this blue hour to herself: undisturbed, reposeful, utterly
sequestered. Maddie picked up the notebook that was her constant companion
these days, and reread what she’d written earlier. She’d called her sonnet
‘Becoming Madeleine’.
The past’s another country. Who lives there?
My loved ones, absent friends, some quick, some dead,
Some loving and supportive, some misled.
This renaissance will take some time and care
Especially since I’m healing solitaire:
No soul to help me in my quest to shed
The demonic possessions I so dread
From that time past, that old Real Life nightmare.
At least I’ve left the fast lane. Now I drowse
In deckchairs, dream and drink pichets of wine,
Write silly poems like this, and idly browse
Through stacks of books. I think I’m doing fine.
I raise my glass. Good health! Santé! Amen
To me at last becoming Madeleine.
L’heure bleue was nearly over. Darkness loomed. Maddie closed the notebook
and reached for her wineglass. Then she shut her eyes and leaned back in her
chair, wishing that some evening soon she might hear the nightingale sing
its song of ecstasy again.
© 2005 Kate Thompson
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