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of
incomprehension;
frowning, she shook her
head at the child.
Amanda lifted her bouquet
of flowers the right way
up; the hanged man
restored to buoyant and
rude health.
‘Oh,’ the woman said, and
touched the petals of one
of the flowers, smoothing
the pink satin between
her fingers as if measuring
its quality.
Amanda would remember
this gesture all her life;
her upraised arm, how
small she must have been
then, and yet how strong
and generous she felt. But
Amanda was also aware
then, as later, that she
didn’t quite know what
she was doing, what she
meant to happen. Did
she mean to give these
flowers to the woman so
that she could take them
and sell them once again
to Monsieur Arbot? Or
was she communicating
something else to the
woman, something about
her appreciation of the
woman’s talent, of the
beauty of the flowers.
Or perhaps a meaning
which was even greater;
a reminder of happy days,
of beauty, of life?
But the woman did not
take the flowers from
Amanda’s
outstretched
arm; instead she suddenly
withdrew her hand, turned
her back and hurried away.
Amanda watched her go,
saw how her shoulders
were hunched against the
bitter cold of the sunless
morning, and she grew
aware of the frost that
crept up through the soles
of her boots, chilling her
to the bone.