The Flood
“At first Harold tried to talk about his book, but Lottie said, ‘It’s a beautiful day, don’t feel you have to talk about it darling. I absolutely know your book’s wonderful. You don’t have to prove a thing to me … And if not, your next one certainly will be.’ After that, Harold shut up about the book. He was used to Lottie. He didn’t much mind. He had put six copies of the finished book into the post to publishers yesterday: he’d wanted to impress her with his drive and ambition, but after twent...y years, it was too much to hope for. Instead, as so often, they talked about Lola. The Giant Baby, as they called her.
‘I try to remember if Davey was like that,’ Lottie said. ‘It was years ago, of course. But I think he wasn’t. He always seemed quite grown up. I think he used to tell me off about things.’ ‘Boys are different,’ said Harold, absently. ‘I don’t really know any, but I was one once. There weren’t any teenagers then, of course. Now they’re a tribe, especially the girls.’ ‘Oh God,’ said Lottie, ‘there aren’t any trains.’ The track was flooded between Central and Gardens.MoreLess
‘I try to remember if Davey was like that,’ Lottie said. ‘It was years ago, of course. But I think he wasn’t. He always seemed quite grown up. I think he used to tell me off about things.’ ‘Boys are different,’ said Harold, absently. ‘I don’t really know any, but I was one once. There weren’t any teenagers then, of course. Now they’re a tribe, especially the girls.’ ‘Oh God,’ said Lottie, ‘there aren’t any trains.’ The track was flooded between Central and Gardens.MoreLess
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