Packing

All the way along the river, Ana tried to put Helen’s words in order, the way she put loaves on a tray. Half the bakery belonged to Michael. The sale needed his signature. Walter was going to Leeds on Friday. And Michael, who had just been told by his own father to stay away, probably had no idea that the whole future of Bridge Street was waiting for him to pick up a pen. She walked faster.

一路上沿着河走，安娜努力把海伦的话理清楚，就像平时把面包摆在托盘上那样。面包店有一半属于迈克尔。出售需要他的签名。沃尔特周五要去利兹。而刚刚被亲生父亲叫离开的迈克尔，可能根本不知道布里奇街的未来全在等他拿起笔。她走得更快了。

By the time she reached the canal, Ana was out of breath and the light was already going. The ducks were settling for the night under the old bridge. On one of the boats somebody was frying onions, and the smell drifted along the water. Everything looked exactly as it always did, which seemed unfair.

走到运河边时，安娜已经喘不过气来，天色也渐渐暗了。野鸭子正在老桥下安歇过夜。其中一条船上有人在炒洋葱，香味顺着水面飘过来。一切看起来都和往常一模一样，这显得有些不公平。

The Second Chance did not look as it always did. Its side doors were open, and there were cardboard boxes on the path next to it, some taped shut, some still empty. The little stove was out. The hatch over the engine at the back had been lifted, and Michael was kneeling beside it with a torch and an oily cloth, his sleeves pushed up to the elbows.

“第二次机会号”看起来和平时不一样了。它的侧门开着，旁边的路上放着纸箱，有的用胶带封好了，有的还是空的。小炉子熄了。船尾发动机上的盖子被掀开了，迈克尔跪在旁边，手里拿着手电筒和一块油布，袖子挽到了手肘。

He looked up when he heard her steps. For a moment his face did nothing at all. Then he went back to the engine. “If you’ve come to say sorry,” he said, “don’t. You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. I asked you to lie for me, and you did, and it cost you everything you had here. If anyone should apologise, it’s me.”

听到她的脚步声，他抬起头来。有一会儿，他脸上毫无表情。然后他继续摆弄发动机。“如果你是来道歉的，”他说，“就别说了。你没什么好抱歉的。是我让你替我撒谎，你也照做了，结果让你失去了在这里的一切。如果要道歉，那个人应该是我。”

“You’re leaving,” Ana said. It was not a question.

“你要走了。”安娜说。这不是问句。

“Tomorrow, if this engine agrees. It takes nine days to get back to Manchester at walking speed, so nobody will notice when I’m gone.” He wiped his hands on the cloth, very slowly. Then he reached into his back pocket and took out a folded piece of paper. “Priya brought me this yesterday. She cried while she gave it to me, which didn’t help.”

“如果发动机没问题，明天就走。按步行的速度开回曼彻斯特要九天，所以没人会注意到我走了。”他用布擦了擦手，动作非常慢。接着，他把手伸进后口袋，拿出一张折起来的纸。“普里娅昨天把这个带给我的。她给我的时候哭了，这真让人不好受。”

Ana unfolded it. It was a page torn from the bakery’s order book. On it, in Walter’s big, shaking handwriting, there were only seven words: Stay away from my family. W. Bell. The last letters of his name ran off the edge of the line, as if the pen had slipped.

安娜把它展开。那是从面包店订购簿上撕下来的一页。上面是沃尔特颤抖的大字，只有七个词：离我的家人远点。W·贝尔。他名字的最后几个字母滑出了横线边缘，像是笔滑了一下。

“Fifteen years,” Michael said, “and the first thing my father writes to me is seven words, and four of them are an order. That’s very Walter.” He tried to laugh and did not quite manage it. “And Jess doesn’t want to see me either. I waited outside her school yesterday afternoon. She walked straight past me with her friends, as if I was a lamp post.”

“十五年了，”迈克尔说，“我父亲写给我的第一句话只有七个词，其中四个是命令。这很沃尔特。”他想笑一下，却没能笑出来。“杰丝也不想见我。昨天下午我在她学校外面等她。她和朋友径直走过我身边，就好像我是一根路灯杆。”