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‘this is where she was。 we were joined here。 and they separated us。 and she died。 she couldn’t live without me。“
i felt the flutter of miss winter’s fingers tracing the crescent on my skin； saw the tender sympathy in her face。
‘the thing is—“ （the final words； the very last words； after this i need never say anything； ever again） ”i don’t think i can live without her“
‘child。“ miss winter looked at me。 held me suspended in the passion of her eyes。
i thought nothing。 the surface of my mind was perfectly still。 but under the surface there was a shifting and a stirring。 i felt the great swell of the undercurrent。 for years a wreck had sat in the depths； a rusting vessel with its cargo of bones。 now it shifted。 i had disturbed it； and it created a turbulence that lifted clouds of sand from the seabed； motes of grit swirling wildly in the dark disturbed water。
all the time miss winter held me in her long green gaze。 then slowly； slowly； the sand resettled and the water returned to its quietness； slowly； slowly。 and the bones resettled in the rusting hold。 “you asked me once for my story；” i said。 “and you told me you didn’t have one。”
“now you know； i do have one。”
‘i never doubted it。“ she smiled a poor regretful smile。 ”when i invited you here i thought i knew your story already。 i had read your essay about the landier brothers。 such a good essay； it was。 you knew so much about siblings。 insider knowledge； i thought。 and the more i looked at your essay； the more i thought you must have a twin。 and so i fixed upon you to be my biographer。 because if after all these years of tale telling i was tempted to lie to you； you would find me out。“
‘i have found you out。“
she nodded； tranquil； sad； unsurprised。 “about time； too。 how much do you know？ ”
‘what you told me。 only a subplot； is how you put it。 you told me the story of isabelle and her twins； and i wasn’t paying attention。 the subplot was charlie and his rampages。 you kept pointing me in the direction of jane eyre。 the book about the outsider in the family。 the motherless cousin。 i don’t know who your mother was。 and how you came to be at angelfield without her。“
sadly she shook her head。 “anyone who might have known the answer to those questions is dead； margaret。”
‘can’t you remember？“
‘i am human。 like all humans； i do not remember my birth。 by the time we wake up to ourselves； we are little children； and our advent is something that happened an eternity ago； at the beginning of time。 we live like lateers at the theater； we must catch up as best we can； divining the beginning from the shape of later events。 how many times have i gone back to the border of memory and peered into the darkness beyond？ but it is not only memories that hover on the border。 there are all sorts of phantasmagoria that inhabit that realm。 the nightmares of a lonely child。 fairy tales appropriated by a mind hungry for story。 the fantasies of an imaginative little girl anxious to explain to herself the inexplicable。 whatever story i may have discovered on the frontier of forgetting； i do not pretend to myself that it is the truth。“
“all children mythologize their birth。”
‘quite。 the only thing i can be sure of is what john…the…dig told me。“
‘and what did he tell you？“
‘that i appeared like a weed between two strawberries。“
she told me the story。
someone was getting at the strawberries。 not birds； because they pecked and left pitted berries。 and not the twins； because they trampled the plants and left footprints all over the plot。 no； some light…footed thief was taking a berry here and a berry there。 neatly； without disturbing a thing。 another gardener wouldn’t even have noticed。 the same day john noticed a pool of water under his garden tap。 the tap was dripping。 he gave it a turn； tightened it up。 he scratched his head； and went about his business。 but he kept an eye out。
the next day he saw a figure in the strawberries。 a little scarecrow； barely knee…high； in an overlarge hat that drooped down over its face。 it ran off when it saw him。 but the day after it was so determined to get its fruit that he had to yell and wave his arms to chase it off。 afterward he thought he couldn’t put a name to it。 who in the village had a mite that size； small and underfed？ who around here would let their child go stealing fruit from other people’s gardens？ he was stumped for an answer。
and someone had been in the potting shed。 he hadn’t left the old newspapers in that state； had he？ and those crates—they’d been put away tidy； he knew they had。
for once he put on the padlock before he went home。
passing by the garden tap； he noticed it dripping again。 gave it a firm half turn without even thinking about it。 then； putting his weight into it； another quarter turn。 that should do it。
in the night he awoke； uneasy in his mind for reasons he couldn’t account for。 where would you sleep； he found himself wondering； if you couldn’t get into the potting shed and make yourself a bed with newspapers in a crate？ and where would you get water if the tap was turned off so tight you couldn’t move it？ chiding himself for his midnight foolishness； he opened the window to feel the temperature。 too late for frosts。 cool for the time of year； though。 and how much colder if you were hungry？ and how much darker if you were a child？
he shook his head and closed the window。 no one would abandon a child in his garden； would they？ of course they wouldn’t。 nevertheless； before five he was up and out of bed。 he took his walk around the garden early； surveying his vegetables； the topiary garden； planning his work for the day。 all morning he kept an eye out for a floppy hat in the fruit bushes。 but there was nothing to be seen。
‘what’s the matter with you？“ said the missus when he sat in silence at her kitchen table drinking a cup of coffee。
‘nothing；“ he said。
he drained his cup and went back to the garden。 he stood and scanned the fruit bushes with anxious eyes。
nothing。
at lunchtime he ate half a sandwich； discovered he had no appetite and left the other half on an upturned flowerpot by the garden