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His three-roomed “castle” stood among ramshackle farm buildings in the middle of a small plain, no more than 150 acres wide. And well they remembered the spacious guest room in the outer wing, its whitewashed walls hung with hunting rifles and antlers.

They hadn't visited for years, but Mother would often speak of her brother's “estate” and the little reedy brook that hid at the foot of the hill, where, as a child, she had launched her paper boats.

They kept postponing the trip.

But this year, every letter that arrived from the plain closed with the same entreaty: come and see us at last, come as soon as you can.

In May they had finally made up their minds to go. But summer came and went as usual, with preparations for winter, the cooking of preserves, the bottling of apples, pears and cherries.

By the end of August they wrote to say it was too late again. They were still stuck at home, too old to feel like moving. But they'd send their daughter instead. Just for a week. She worked so hard, a break would do her good.

Their relatives were overjoyed with the news.

The postman called every day. Uncle Béla wrote to the girl and so did his wife, Aunt Etelka. The girl wrote back, Mother wrote to her sister-in-law, Father to his brother-in-law, asking him to be sure to wait at the station in person with his chaise, for the farmstead was a good three-quarters of an hour on foot. Everything was agreed.

Yet even in the last couple of days the telegrams went on crossing, clearing up the minutest of details. Now there was no going back.

Mother returned with the toothbrush. Father wrapped it carefully in tissue paper.

They made one last inspection of the room, then, satisfied that nothing had been overlooked, they pressed the lid down on the wicker basket.

But the key refused to turn and the lock kept springing open. Finally, they tied the basket shut with packing twine, father bearing down upon the lid with his hollow chest, the veins bulging on his forehead.

They had all risen with the dawn that day, setting about the task of packing at once, bustling to and fro in their unaccustomed excitement. They had hardly even stopped for lunch; one thing or another would always come to mind.

Now everything was ready.

They set the wicker basket down on the floor beside the suitcase. A luggage trolley rattled over the paved courtyard path that led all the way from Petőfi Street, across the garden and right up to the veranda.

A gangling youth strolled in and threw suitcase and basket indifferently on to the trolley before wheeling it out again and heading off towards the railway station.

Father wore a mouse-grey suit, the exact colour of his hair. Even his moustache was the same light shade of grey. Large bags of crumpled, worn, dry skin hung beneath his eyes.

Mother, as always, wore black. Her hair, which she slicked down with walnut oil, was not yet altogether white, and her face showed hardly a wrinkle. Only along her forehead ran two deep furrows.

Yet how alike they looked! The same trembling, startled light in their eyes, their gristly noses narrowing to the same fine point and their ears tinted with the same red glow.

They glanced at the grandfather clock. Father checked his pocket watch, which was a little more reliable. They went out on the veranda and called in unison:

“Skylark!'

A girl sat on a bench by the flowerbeds, beneath the horse-chestnut tree. She was crocheting a tablecloth from a ball of yellow cotton.

Only her black hair could be seen, casting — like the leaves of the horse-chestnut tree upon the ground below — a heavy shadow on about two-thirds of her face.

She did not move at once. Perhaps she hadn't heard.

In any case, she liked to sit like this, head bowed, peering at her work even when she had tired of it. The experience of many long years had taught her that this posture suited her best.

Perhaps she heard some sound, but still did not look up. She governed herself with all the discipline of an invalid.

This time they called louder:

“Skylark!'

Then louder stilclass="underline"

Skylark!'

The girl raised her eyes to the veranda, where, on the top step, her mother and father stood waiting.

They had given her that name years ago, Skylark, many, many years ago, when she still sang. Somehow the name had stuck, and she still wore it like an outgrown childhood dress.

Skylark breathed a deep sigh — she always sighed thus deeply — wound up her ball of yellow cotton, dropped it in her work basket and set off towards the little arbour overgrown with vine leaves. So it was time, she thought; the train would soon be leaving; tonight she'd be sleeping at her uncle's on the Tarkő plain. She waddled along a little like a duck.

The elderly couple watched with fond smiles as she drew near. Then, when her face finally revealed itself between the leaves, the smiles paled slightly on their lips.

“It's time to go, my dear,” said Father, looking at the ground.

II

in which we walk the length of Széchenyi Street to the railway station and the train pulls out at last

They passed beneath the row of poplars lining Sárszeg's only tarmacked street, Széchenyi Street, running in one straight line to the railway station. They might just have been taking one of their daily walks: Mother to the right, Father to the left and Skylark in between.

Mother talked about how she had packed the toothbrush only at the last minute, and explained where she had put this and that. Father carried a white striped woollen blanket and a flask he had filled with good well-water from home, for the journey.

Ákos Vajkay said nothing. He tramped along in silence, looking at his daughter.

She wore an enormous hat with outmoded dark-green feathers, a light dress and, to protect herself from the scorching sun, opened a pink parasol which sifted shards of light across her face.

Skylark was a good girl, Ákos would often say, to himself as much as anyone else. A very good girl, his only pride and joy.

He knew she was not pretty, poor thing, and for a long time this had cut him to the quick. Later he began to see her less clearly, her image gradually blurring in a dull and numbing fog. Without really thinking any more, he loved her as she was, loved her boundlessly.

Five, ten years must have passed since he had abandoned all hope of one day giving Skylark away in marriage. The idea no longer even crossed his mind. Yet whatever happened to the girl affected him profoundly. Even if she simply changed her hairstyle, or put on a winter coat at the end of autumn or a new dress for the spring, he could be miserable for weeks before he grew accustomed to her altered appearance.

And Ákos was miserable now. He pitied his daughter, and took his pity out on himself. He watched her intently, almost offensively, still unable to get used to her face, at once both plump and drawn, the pudgy nose, the flared, horsy nostrils, the severe, masculine eyebrows and the tiny watery eyes which somehow reminded him of his own.

He had never really understood women, but knew only too well that his daughter was ugly. And not just ugly any more, but withered and old. A veritable old maid.

It was only in the flood of almost theatrically rosy sunlight cast by the parasol that this became irrevocably clear to him. A caterpillar under a rosebush, he thought to himself.

He ambled along in his mouse-grey suit until they reached Széchenyi Square, the only square, the only agora, in Sárszeg, where instinctively he strode a couple of paces ahead, so as not to have to walk beside her.

Here stood the Town Hall, the Baross Café, the old grammar school with its worn and hollowed stone steps, its little wooden tower whose bell would chime each morning, calling the children to school; here was the King of Hungary restaurant and, across the square, the Széchenyi Inn, backing on to the Kisfaludy Theatre and offering a slanting view of a one-storey palace, decorated with climbing roses and a bright gold lightning conductor, one of the finest buildings in the town, and home of the Gentlemen's Club. Further down began the shops: the paint shop, two ironmongers, Vajna's stationery and bookshop, the St Mary Pharmacy and a new, smartly furnished leather-goods store, Weisz and Partner. The owner stood smoking a cigar in the doorway, bathing his cheerful watermelon face in the sun. Removing the cigar from his mouth, he bowed and greeted the Vajkays with a broad grin.