What's wrong with him this time
It's what you don't say...
She says he’s got one of those looks on. He probably has. She’s asked him something about their life, now – maybe something about a dentist’s appointment, feeding the cats, whether they need milk, whether he wants a cup of tea.
He can’t answer.
She wants to know what’s wrong this time.
Nothing.
Well, why does he have that look?
He doesn’t.
He does, she says. It’s a different one from last time, but it’s a look.
What can he say? Last time it was in 1689, when he was crouching in undergrowth as he watched the Battle of Killiecrankie unfold, trying to keep out of sight in order to observe two master generals who should have been leading each others’ forces if there hadn’t been so much politics at play. This time it’s about 8000 years ago as he struggles to understand the changes in an island environment where his tribe have been persuaded to settle rather than continuing life on the move.
But he can’t say that, can he?
So he says: I’m writing.
Oh, that again, she says.
Aye. That again.
