Turquoiselle by Tanith Lee (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

Turquoiselle

Tanith Lee

Turquoiselle

By Tanith Lee

© 2014

This is a work of fiction. All the characters andevents portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to realpeople, or events, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved, including the right toreproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

The right of Tanith Lee to be identified as theauthor of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright,Design and Patents Act, 1988.

Cover by John Kaiine from artwork by Tanith Lee

New (future) Author Web Site, as the original hasbeen stolen: http://www.tanith-lee.com

Immanion Press Edition 2014

Kindle Edition 2014

http://www.immanion–press.com

info@immanion–press.com

Whisky, wine and shiny pins –

Pourthem out and stick them in;

Allthe graces, all the sins,

Allthe games that you can win:

Andso the Fighters’ Feast begins.

One

The shed lookedlike a railway carriage, especially through the trees that grew up beyond theproperty. Some were silver birches, which gave a Russian effect, somethingChekovian, Tolstoyan...

Theshed itself had once been the colour of marmalade, but had faded through theseveral wet English seasons it had had to endure. Now it was a pale rustybrown. Only by night, however, did the shed seem truly a little strange, forthis was when an unusual muted glow began to be visible through the glazedwindows. The colour was soft and faded. Some sort of Christmas lights mightseem to have caused it, old ones that still, unusually, worked, and all in thisone shade, this vague eerie greenish–blue,.

Johnston,who lived farther along the lane, had concluded it was something like that. Thefew people who otherwise went that way after dark, drinkers from the local pubmostly, and assuming even they paid it any attention, took it for variousilluminatory devices. Even, now and then, a bit of plastic over an ordinaryhousehold bulb. Or maybe an old–fashioned oil–lamp with that colour glass.

Itwas none of those things, of course. Just as the shed was a shed and not arailway carriage. And the area was not late nineteenth century Russia. Not muchis what it seems. Some things are not even – what they are.

“Ohshit,” said Donna, “oh shit.” And getting up quickly she ran out of thekitchen.

Shewas going to the downstairs cloakroom, he supposed, in order to vomit.

Yes,he could hear her.

Carverturned up the sound of the TV she always liked to have going above thebreakfast bar. Not that he enjoyed or valued the early morning news show thatwas on, but he needed a sound to block out the noises from Donna. (The TVflickered, settled; weather interference – it was prone to that.)

Atfirst he had judged she had bulimia, but then she had said she believed she waspregnant. She said too she was pleased, and would go to the health centre in aweek or so to get the idea confirmed. “Won’t it be wonderful,” she said to him,“a child.” She spoke asif a “child” was anothermust–have thing, like the mile–long TV in the front room, and all the otherappliances, and her clothes and cosmetics, and the exercise club and thepedicure place and so on. One more lovely yet essential addition to herexistence. Although she seemed not to like being sick. Nor had she been, so faras he knew, to the doctor, though her first fertility announcement wascurrently two months old.

Hehad never grasped she wanted a child.

Hehad simply thought she liked having sex.

Orreally, he had simply never thought about that aspect of her needs and wants,even though, or perhaps because, the rest of them generally seemed omnipresent.Donna had never said to him, “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I had a baby – wouldyou like that? Shall we try?” Or, she hadnever said, “I want a baby so much. Is that all right? Could we? Can we? Yes?”

Ithad only been her throwing up suddenly, and then: “I think I’m pregnant. I’llgo to the doctor soon and then we’ll know.” Or words to that effect.

Whenshe returned from the lavatory, he quietened the TV down a littleand poured himself another coffee. He said did she want some water.

“No,can’t – just – not yet.”

“I’msorry.”

“No– it’s – OK. God.” She scowled,then relaxed, and abruptly, looking blissfully up at him, she said, “But it’sworth it, isn’t it?”

“Isit?” A genuine question.

Donnalaughed in a patient and archly knowing way.

“Yes,darling. It is. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I am already. It never lasts.”

“I’mglad.”

Shehad golden hair, slightly enhanced, cut to a luxuriant shoulder-length, andthis morning caught by a window-full of the early autumnal sun. It was like anaureole, the hair, a halo round her, beaming. Such beauty nature and falsecontrivance between them could erect.

“Youare happy, aren’tyou?” she asked.

“Ifyou are. But,” he hesitated, trying not to push beyond their ordinary limits oflack-of-communication, “you still have to see Chenin–”

“Thedoctor. Yes, I know. But well, it’s a formality really. I know, don’t I?”

Shewas just thirty-one, and had no fears. No one could insist she must undergoover-intrusive checks to be sure whatever cargo she carried was unharmed byexcessive extra years. And she was slim, not over or under weight, healthy,mentally active, and in a five-year-old relationship with a solvent malepartner, apparently committed.

Hesmiled at her.

Donnasmiled back from her golden nimbus.

Hethought, she isn’t pregnant. She’s just so certain she is she’s got the symptoms.Bleakly he glanced out of the window into the joyous brightness of the morning.In twenty more minutes he would need to leave for work.

Carver’sjourney into central London routinely took an hour and a half. But today,leaving at about eight, the traffic was far more heavy and obdurate. He did nothave to reach the Mantik building before ten-fifteen, which was just as well:he reached it at ten-ten.

Throughout the drive the sun had blazedon the roads and highways. In London, even the city’s polluted ceiling scarcelymarred its brightness. The terrace of dull white buildings that stretched alongTrench Street behind Whitehall had a veneer of blurred shine, all save the lastthree, which were encased in scaffolding and tarpaulins. Carver parked in the littleside street where normally he left his car – someone would garage it later –walked around the corner and went past the scaffolded facade of the lastbuilding, to the side door. Here he used his three security keys to let himselfin.

Beyondthe door, the