*****
Eric scowled at his word-processor. Where the hell was this story going? He had no idea beyond the vague possibilities suggested by the last sentence, and the evidently crucial significance of the ring. It sat there on his desk, defying him to think up anything remotely interesting to follow what he flattered himself was quite a respectable start; respectable, that is, as far as it went - just three paragraphs, not enough to fill a single page. He picked up the ring and gazed at it as he had done scores of times before.
He had bought it for Miriam many years before, when they were courting, and it had caught her eye as they looked through a collection of bric-a-brac in an antique shop that offered the nearest refuge from a sudden cloudburst. Nothing else had interested them there, the shopkeeper was as gloomy as his stock, and the purchase was little more than a sop to conscience over taking advantage of his shelter and fruitlessly occupying so much of his time. Nevertheless Miriam had become quite attached to it, until after a piece of more than usually crass thoughtlessness on his part she had hurled it at him and walked out. He never saw or heard from her again, and only months after the event had he learned from a friend about her death some years later in a particularly stupid road accident. If only … But what was the use? Their relationship had been worsening for some time, and Eric knew himself well enough to realise that the break would have come eventually in any case; his own character would be intolerable in the long run to any woman not prepared to be a doormat.
Doormats were boring, and he could find better company in a book than with most of the unattached women he had met. Miriam had been unusual, and the memory of how he had treated her still made him cringe with shame. As the only way to restore a measure of self-esteem he had carefully built up a façade of consideration for others. It must have been at least superficially convincing, to judge by his enduring friendships with many people he respected for their personal qualities, but he knew that it was supported only by a conscious effort of will and unlikely to pass any sustained test. With other acquaintances, an easy affability came naturally and cost nothing. Of course, the usual instincts had lost none of their power, and occasionally drew him into brief, unsatisfactory flirtations: however, they never looked like developing into anything more, and he remained essentially alone.
The ring was a constant reminder of his fundamental selfishness and the need to control it very firmly, much as in former times a skull might be kept in a prominent position as a memento mori. Moreover its design had a curious fascination for him, with an elaborate Celtic knot cut into the otherwise plain metal band. A double symbol of eternity there; the ring itself, with no beginning or end, and the knot more flamboyantly making not quite the same point. Over the years he must have wasted hours in idly tracing the pattern through every bewildering twist and reversal before returning inevitably to wherever he had started. What if by some miracle he could get back with greater wisdom to that point in his life where he had wrecked that one promising chance of a congenial marriage? Would he behave any differently? Probably not. The pattern was already fixed.
Pebbles from a Northern Shore Page 16
