He strikes another, shielding it this time from the wind, then takes a draw and exhales a white funnel into the street’s grey canyon. A middle-aged couple stop on the curb opposite; with their flapping map and umbrella they look like lost crows. Something about the woman – the dark fur of her collar and the hint of comfort it bestows – makes him think of Maud. A boulder turns within William’s chest at the thought of his wife – a great rock of sadness, affection and escape, irreconcilable movements pulling everywhere and nowhere. William continues around the corner. In another moment, the wrought iron statue of Henry Irving appears. Cool rain drips down his collar as he watches the gaunt features of the actor take shape in black. Footsteps clatter around the little square; the dampness amplifies everything. William stops in front of the black rail and looks up. The sculptor could not have known Irving. There is a dignity of bearing, an authenticity about the figure that William never saw in Irving’s living flesh.
