Transcription

by Kate Atkinson

When she had finished her sandwich, she stood to shake the crumbs off her coat, causing alarm to an attentive retinue of sparrows which rose as one and fluttered away on dusty London wings, ready to return to their scraps as soon as she was gone.

The wounds of war, Juliet thought, rather pleased with the way the words sounded in her head. It could be the title of a novel. Perhaps she should write one. But wasn’t artistic endeavor the final refuge of the uncommitted?

“Juliet?” the man said contemplatively. “As in Romeo and Juliet? Very romantic.” He laughed as if this was some kind of private joke. “I believe it was actually a tragedy, sir.” “Is there a difference?”

The future was coming nearer, one relentless goose step after the next. Juliet could still remember when Hitler had seemed like a harmless clown. No one was amused now. (“The clowns are the dangerous ones,” Perry said.)