The hard Word (dedikált példány) [antikvár]

Miriam'Look what I've found,' Philip says. When all I'd sent him to the laundry for was frozen peas.'See?' he says again when I don't turn.'Philip,' I say, 'I'm trying to get this roast in the oven. If it doesn't go in this minute, it'll be nine o'clock before we eat.'Though this isn't the reason I don't turn. The reason I don't turn is that I know whatever Philip has found that isn't frozen peas will be just another of his childish, schoolboy jokes.That I normally love.But not now. Not today. Not right at this minute.'Okay,' he says. 'I can wait.'And he does, standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the laundry. I do not look at him, but he fills the corner of my gaze each time I move between the bench and the shelves, between the shelves and the stove. I lay the sprigs of rosemary across the pale dusted skin of the lamb, sprinkle the last of the oil, and then lift the tray into the oven.'There,' I say, but still I don't turn or raise my eyes. At the sink I peel the last resistant orange glue of flour and paprika from my fingers and look out into the yard. In the reflections of the glass, I try to guess what it is that Philip is holding. Without giving him the satisfaction of actually looking. Something white and solid projects from his chest. It bounces languidly up and down in his hand.'It's melting,' he warns.I dry my hands, breathing. Before I look. I am not going to be surprised, I tell myself, whatever it is.'God, Philip -' It's Laura, my daughter, who's surprised. Who's come bursting into the kitchen and given me the chance to look. The-3-