Altered Land

Jules Hardy

Contents (12)

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

ISBN: 978-1-61145-675-2

For Malcolm and Tessa because I wasn’t there; for my mother and Amanda because they were.

The hospital - its heavy freight
lashed down ship-shape ward over ward —
steamed into the night with some on board
soon to be lost if the desperate
charts were known. Others would come
altered to land or find the land
altered. At their voyage’s end
some would be added to, some diminished.

Jon Stallworthy
from ‘The Almond Tree’

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Many people have contributed to this novel, wittingly or otherwise, and I suspect they’ll know who they are. Far too many to name, unfortunately, so they’ll have to accept my thanks here. Those whose work I would particularly like to acknowledge are my agent Maggie Phillips for her good-humoured professionalism, and my editor, Suzanne Baboneau, for the pain-free excisions. But above all my hat goes off to Melissa Weatherill, whose enthusiasm for the manuscript led her to relentlessly badger people into reading it.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I would like to record my thanks to Peter Porter for permission to quote from his poem, ‘The Great Poet comes here in Winter’, as well as Elementary Logic by W.V.O. Quine, and the following songs: Ts That All There Is?’ by Peggy Lee, ‘How can I be sure?’ (Felix Cavaliere and Edward Brigati Jnr), ‘Zing Went the Strings of My Heart’ (Hanley Chappell & Co Ltd/MCPS), ‘Sh-Boom - Life Could Be a Dream’ by Keyes, Feafter, Edwards and McRae (Carlin Music Corps/MCPS) and ‘The Boy from New York City’ by The Ad Libs.

JOHN

Ian’s black hands are stark against white marble as we wrestle Hercules from his plinth, sweating fingers slipping on the capital’s volutes (I remembered, Ma, I remembered) made slimy by moss. Even Ian and I struggle to carry the god up the steps of the deck. We edge like crabs down the side of the house, resting the bust on the path every few feet, and then there is the problem of hoisting him into the removal van. I climb into the echoing space and grab Hercules’ ears as Ian pushes at his bearded chin. A passer-by trots over to help, a short, skinny man who looks ludicrous next to Ian’s bulk. He says something as Hercules thuds on to the van floor and Ian smiles, shakes the man’s tiny hand.