On Sunday afternoons， when the world pauses and waits<br >for the next great event， when the streets are empty and<br >unnaturally still and the weight of obligation hangs over<br >the land， the residents of Wincaster Row come calling on<br >me. They come out of kindness because I am blind; and out<br >0fkindness to them， in the desolation of Sunday afternoon，<br >I gather past and present together and tell them stories.<br >Today I tell them about Isabel， who fell in love， and in so<br >doing made the whole world falter and take a different<br >turning.<br >Pit-pat， spitter-spat. Listen! How the rain blows against the<br >window-pane. Easy to feel， on such a day and in such a<br >place， that great events are nothing to do with us， that we<br >are cut off from sources of worldly energy， that people and<br >politics are entirely separate; that the mainstream of life is，<br >in fact， a long way off.<br >qt isn t so， I tell them. Isabel lived next door， The river<br >flows at the end of the garden; what s more， it s deep， wide，<br >muddy and tricky: not the tranquil flowing stream you<br >might hope for. Isabel almost drowned! <br >Pit-pat， spitter-spat. In the end we will all know more than<br >we did before. Shouldn t that be enough to base a life upon?<br >The women of Wincaster Row don t agree， of course<br >
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