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[email protected] в категроии Английский язык, вопрос открыт 15.06.2017 в 06:43

They had all returned to Scotland together and then failed to keep in touch.
Perhaps they hadn't wanted to break their memories or to find themselves ambushed by sentiment. For himself, he hadn't wanted to let them down, to be anyone less than he had been here and with them. It was a shame they'd seen his best.
Shouldn’t have been that way. If he could, he would have saved something back to give his wife - a pre-payment for those nights and nights when he'd lain beside her with his whole existence shearing down and through his skull. He’d kept her awake. A lot.
One morning he eased his head over to look at the one woman he bad ever prayed on his knees to touch, to talk to and then to marry. They had spent and shared and hoarded large parts of a compromising but not unhappy life. There had been no one and nothing but her. He didn't have hobbies, resented the time their work kept them from each other. It had all been going really very well. Then he'd seen her that morning and been unable to reach any feeling for her.
She appeared a little interesting because of the way the light was falling on her, that was all. He had wasted his last experience of fear, sweating it into the pillow next to hers. Then, in a matter of days, everything went. By the time he realised that nothing could touch or be touched by him, he could not even manage to be concerned, He was an occasional observer of his life’s impossible accidents — sick leave, redundancy, benefits assessed and denied, the shortening of his wife's temper, the decline of their furniture and fittings, not to mention household morale, the thanking of God for giving them no children - he’d been around for most of it.

For his recovery, it was hoped, he would be away - here. His good health was hiding out, somewhere along the valley, written in the grain of the hill. It must be. He considered how his wife could have brought herself to find the money that sent him here. That strength of purpose alone must mean he would get better now. If he thought about it, he did have faith in her purpose, which might help his strength.
She had also given him a plan, they had discussed it frequently. Working a few hundred yards at a time, be would leave the hotel and walk up the street. In a matter of days he would make it past the church and then - this would take a week or so - he would begin to climb the deep unwieldy steps he remembered leading to the Chateau de la Madeleine. By this time he would have used up ten or eleven of his fourteen days. When he reached the top of the hill and stepped on to the chateau's battlements he would be better. That was the plan.
Before he arrived, this all seemed a good idea. He had imagined leaning back on a hot parapet wall, looking at the opened valley and its sky and feeling the big, flat peace it would bring. This view had even loomed through his short dreams, but today he couldn't focus on it properly. Now that his shoes were on and his mind had fixed intentions of walking, he could only think of going to sit by the river and writing a letter in the sun. He wanted to tell his wife about the eel-grass and the way she could look quite interesting in a certain light. He wanted to tell her he was true. Still true.