a door closing and hurry up the last few stairs. Everything is still. The only door closed is that of Hector’s study and I find myself opening it. We have an unwritten rule that I don’t come in here, that this is Hector’s place.
The big black tree outside the window blocks the light. Flicking the light on, the room is empty. I see sheets of unordered paper; strange lists of symbols, numbers and equals signs, with Hector’s red marks in the margins; piles of journals; the sheaves of an old newspaper. There is a coffee ring on the faux mahogany which I trace with my fingers, and a nearby mug, still half full, with a thick white scum forming on the surface.
The notice board glares down at me from the far wall, studded with colourful postcards from old students neatly lined up, held on tight with a drawing pin in each corner. It has been here since I moved into the house: one of the first things Hector showed me. They were important to him, these young women, and the cards they sent were a sign that he was important to them too. I sensed that whatever it was they gave him was something I was now expected to provide.
I walk over to it, reach up and unpin a postcard: a black-and-white print of a girl sitting in a cafe, a cigarette in her hand. Turning the card over, I see slanted blue writing.
Thanks for all your help . . . I wouldn’t be here without you.
I place it back on the board, being careful to line it up with the others. I turn over another, a blue Matisse woman. Different writing on the back.
Interview went well . . . lucky we went over differential equations!
When I see the kisses on the end of this one, I pull it off the board and let it go, watching it drop towards the ground.
Underneath, there is a photograph I recognize. My younger face smiles out at me, looking straight into the camera. My hair is short and dark, level with my chin, and I have a dark fringe which almost covers my wide grey eyes. I can see the buds of new life on the bare trees in the background, and the valley rising behind me.
I have seen this picture before, many times, and I remember the story of it. Hector has always said it was a Saturday morning. We had followed our usual routine: Hector slept in while I fried his eggs and bacon. I had spinach and one poached egg. I remember that the pregnancy demanded a strict diet, which Hector had written out and stuck on the fridge for me. We wanted to give Kylan the best possible chance of being healthy and strong. We had discussed it, and I understood, taking a huge amount of satisfaction from having a new, important reason to take care of myself, of my body. As usual, we took our walk around the valley at exactly ten o’clock.
Before, when I have seen this picture and listened to Hector’s words, I could picture the valley in a general way: the leaves, the green fields. Hector told me that we walked arm in arm, and so I saw us doing that. I can’t usually remember any smells or feelings, but as I look at the photograph now, I remember a particular day, the one this photograph was taken. I can hear the birdsong and the sound of gravel underfoot. Hector had brought his camera, an old Nikon, and took pictures of the beginnings of spring. The crisp, clean light made everything feel untouched. There were orange crocuses bursting through the sterile brown earth; the trees were punctuated with green. Hector took my picture as I put my hand out to touch the new leaves emerging from dark bark. I looked at him, surprised, and he smiled.
We always followed the same route, but that day, I felt odd, my usual energy slipping away as I watched Hector’s walking boots march on and on. Looking upwards at the stretches of green and the blue sky beyond them, I had vertigo, as if I was standing on top of the mountains looking down, rather than the other way around. My knees buckled and Hector caught me, his strong hands grasping my arms.
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘You’re safe.’
He led me
The big black tree outside the window blocks the light. Flicking the light on, the room is empty. I see sheets of unordered paper; strange lists of symbols, numbers and equals signs, with Hector’s red marks in the margins; piles of journals; the sheaves of an old newspaper. There is a coffee ring on the faux mahogany which I trace with my fingers, and a nearby mug, still half full, with a thick white scum forming on the surface.
The notice board glares down at me from the far wall, studded with colourful postcards from old students neatly lined up, held on tight with a drawing pin in each corner. It has been here since I moved into the house: one of the first things Hector showed me. They were important to him, these young women, and the cards they sent were a sign that he was important to them too. I sensed that whatever it was they gave him was something I was now expected to provide.
I walk over to it, reach up and unpin a postcard: a black-and-white print of a girl sitting in a cafe, a cigarette in her hand. Turning the card over, I see slanted blue writing.
Thanks for all your help . . . I wouldn’t be here without you.
I place it back on the board, being careful to line it up with the others. I turn over another, a blue Matisse woman. Different writing on the back.
Interview went well . . . lucky we went over differential equations!
When I see the kisses on the end of this one, I pull it off the board and let it go, watching it drop towards the ground.
Underneath, there is a photograph I recognize. My younger face smiles out at me, looking straight into the camera. My hair is short and dark, level with my chin, and I have a dark fringe which almost covers my wide grey eyes. I can see the buds of new life on the bare trees in the background, and the valley rising behind me.
I have seen this picture before, many times, and I remember the story of it. Hector has always said it was a Saturday morning. We had followed our usual routine: Hector slept in while I fried his eggs and bacon. I had spinach and one poached egg. I remember that the pregnancy demanded a strict diet, which Hector had written out and stuck on the fridge for me. We wanted to give Kylan the best possible chance of being healthy and strong. We had discussed it, and I understood, taking a huge amount of satisfaction from having a new, important reason to take care of myself, of my body. As usual, we took our walk around the valley at exactly ten o’clock.
Before, when I have seen this picture and listened to Hector’s words, I could picture the valley in a general way: the leaves, the green fields. Hector told me that we walked arm in arm, and so I saw us doing that. I can’t usually remember any smells or feelings, but as I look at the photograph now, I remember a particular day, the one this photograph was taken. I can hear the birdsong and the sound of gravel underfoot. Hector had brought his camera, an old Nikon, and took pictures of the beginnings of spring. The crisp, clean light made everything feel untouched. There were orange crocuses bursting through the sterile brown earth; the trees were punctuated with green. Hector took my picture as I put my hand out to touch the new leaves emerging from dark bark. I looked at him, surprised, and he smiled.
We always followed the same route, but that day, I felt odd, my usual energy slipping away as I watched Hector’s walking boots march on and on. Looking upwards at the stretches of green and the blue sky beyond them, I had vertigo, as if I was standing on top of the mountains looking down, rather than the other way around. My knees buckled and Hector caught me, his strong hands grasping my arms.
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘You’re safe.’
He led me
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