Miss Lucy was the only guardian present. She
was leaning over the rail at the front, peering into the rain
like she was trying to see right across the playing field. I
was watching her as carefully as ever in those days, and
even as I was laughing at Laura, I was stealing glances at
Miss Lucy’s back. I remember wondering if there wasn’t
something a bit odd about her posture, the way her head
was bent down just a little too far so she looked like a
crouching animal waiting to pounce. And the way she was
leaning forward over the rail meant drops from the
overhanging gutter were only just missing her – but she
seemed to show no sign of caring. I remember actually
convincing myself there was nothing unusual in all this –
that she was simply anxious for the rain to stop – and
turning my attention back to what Laura was saying. Then
a few minutes later, when I’d forgotten all about Miss Lucy
and was laughing my head off at something, I suddenly
realised things had gone quiet around us, and that Miss
Lucy was speaking.
(Excerpt from Never Let Me Go, by Kazuo Ishiguro. Available on
https://www.nobelprize.org/prizes/literature/2017/ishiguro/prose/)