by C F Dunn
I watched the red tail-lights of his car until they disappeared around the corner, where he would join the main drive and pick up speed – too fast, always too fast.
“Right then,” I said with more resolve than I felt, and turned around to find Harry watching me gravely. “It’s OK if you want to go, Harry; it’s not far to my apartment. I’m sure you’ll want to get home.”
He swapped my bag to his other hand. “Thanks, Dr D’Eresby, but I’ll see you back, if it’s all right with you.”
We started to walk to the steps that led to my wing, my breath making little clouds of vapour in front of me.
“Yes, of course that’s fine, but Harry…” I considered the wisdom of what I wanted to say, then decided I would ask anyway. “Do you always do what your… what Matthew asks you to do?”
He grinned unexpectedly. “Yes, ma’am!”
“And does that include calling me by my title, or can you call me by my name?”
His face straightened. “If you don’t mind, Dr D’Eresby, I’d prefer not to be so familiar. I’ll use your title for now.”
He had distanced himself since we last met, and I felt taken aback by the degree of formality he now adopted, making me feel as if I had somehow transgressed a social nicety, and should have known better. Despite the easy grin, Harry appeared to be reserving judgment. This hardly surprised me, given what I had put Matthew through over the past months, and I wondered what the family now thought of me, and whether we could make this work.
We entered the covered pass which led to the quad, the gritty ice giving way to the dry herringbone brick path that linked the two areas. Seeing the campus eerily silent, I welcomed his company, and took the opportunity to attempt to build bridges.
“Are you at college, Harry?”
“I’m reckoning on starting college next fall; I’ve started applying for places.”
“To study what?” Dissected in places, the snow of the quad had been broken into shoe-shaped dishes, freezing now so that they crunched underfoot.
“I’m not sure, Philosophy of Science probably – but it’ll depend on the courses I’m offered, and where.”
“Do you think you’ll go into medicine as well, or get a more generalized degree in science first?” We reached the door to my building; Harry held it open for me.
“No, ma’am.”
I led the way towards the stairs to the first floor, unzipping my coat in the immediate warmth of the corridor.
“I’m sorry, Harry, I don’t follow; ‘No’ to what?”
“I mean ‘No’, ma’am – I’m not going into medicine, and I already have a general degree in science, so I won’t be doing that either.”
I stopped with my hand on the newel post of the stairs, my mouth open. He grinned, and took off his hat, riffling his spiked hair and looking like Bart Simpson.
“But you’re nineteen!”
“Yeah, but I took it early.”
I’d had a similar conversation with his sister, Ellie, about qualifying as a doctor. That must have been less than two months ago, if I recalled correctly.
“It doesn’t by any chance have anything to do with your…” I lowered my voice, just in case, “great-grandfather… Matthew… Oh, this is ridiculous, Harry – what do you call him in public?”
“‘Matthew’ is just fine, though I call him ‘uncle’ if I have to.”
I pulled a face unconsciously, masking it as soon as I realized what I’d done; but Harry’s eyes had already narrowed.
“Sometimes it’s necessary, Dr D’Eresby.”
I smiled apologetically. “Yes, of course, I’m sorry; I’ll just have to get used to… to the…”
“Lies. Yes, ma’am – we all have to get used to the lies.”
We reached my door and I fished the key out of my pocket, but it slipped from my hand and fell with a clatter on the hard floor.
“Bother,” I muttered and started to bend to pick it up, but Harry beat me to it and held it out to me. “Thanks. So, did Matthew help you with your degree?” I asked, resuming the conversation and tucking my cross back into the neck of my shirt where it sat momentarily chill against my skin. Harry’s eyes moved slowly from my neck to my face.
“He did; I couldn’t have done it without him. He knows so much, you know? And not just the basic stuff, but the history, the philosophy, the ethics of science. He made it interesting, sure, but what I really liked was that he made it relevant to people as human beings, and not just machines.”
I heard real warmth in his voice born out of a deep regard. I smiled at him, understanding entirely how he felt, and he returned it, a little less reserved than before. “Anyway, I’ll be off then, ma’am, if you don’t mind.”
I stepped over the threshold. “Thanks for the company; can I ask just one thing of you?”
He put his head on one side, just like Matthew. “Ma’am?”
“If you could possibly not call me ‘ma’am’ quite so much; it makes me feel dreadfully old and awfully… starchy, and I don’t think I’m ready for the boneyard just yet.”
His broadening smile was totally infectious – open and engaging – before time and care might erode its innocence.
“Sure thing,” he said.
My cupboards were devoid of food, bar a dented tin of soup left behind from my first few days at the college in September. It looked as appetizing now as it had done then, and I fingered the crease, tossing up the chances of acquiring botulism if I ventured to eat it. I flipped the lid of the bin and chucked it in.
Elena must have left for the holiday with Matias. She had pushed a note under my door – an elongated bright yellow envelope lying on the floor. It was my first – and possibly last – Christmas card of the year. She had signed it from them both, finished with a little heart beneath their names. Alongside my name, she had also written “Matthew” in a slightly different style, as if she had asked Matias if she should include his name before adding it to mine a moment later. Emma and Matthew. Matthew and Emma. Names that belonged together; names that should never have been apart. Somewhere, in a place called Valmont, Matthew looked after his wife. The frantic rush to get back had made me all but forget the reason for it. Now, all alone with nothing but thoughts to occupy me, in my heart I was by his side as he tried to save her. Was this the end for her, but the beginning of something else for us? And could he even contemplate a new life when the old was just a heartbeat away? I felt callous even thinking about it.
Just a few days ago, I had stood at this same window with him looking beyond the cedar tree at the snow-covered landscape. Then, I had hoped that he would put his old life behind him and propose a new life with me, justifying our love for each other in the perpetual bonds in which we both believed. But those ties were with another woman and, no matter how old or frail, the vows he took with her were as sacrosanct now as when he made them decades ago.
As if on cue, my mobile buzzed furiously from the pocket of my coat, draped where I’d left it over the armchair.
“What’s happening?” I asked, as soon as I heard his voice. “How’s Ellen? Are you OK?”
He sounded drained, his voice flat and without expression.
“She’ll be all right. We managed to stabilize her. It’s not the first time it’s happened and the doctors here do a good job… but it’s specialized work and we’d rather be on hand…”
I heard a siren somewhere in the distance. “Are you in the car?”
“No. I’m still at Valmont – outside.” As if to confirm it, a nearby door clanged open, then closed. He waited, then said, “Emma, I’ll stay on until I’m certain Ellen’s stable.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“I understand.”
“Make sure you eat, won’t you? The staff dining hall will be shut but the store should be open. Go while it’s still light and stick to the paths – they’ll have gritted them.”
“Matthew, I’ll be fine.”
/>
This conversation had nothing to do with food and everything to do with our current situation.
“You could order something from town…”
“I doubt they’d come this far with a pizza. Don’t worry, I can take care of myself.”
I visualized the can of soup and tried to sound upbeat. “I have something in the er… cupboard.”
“Mmm,” he sounded dubious.
Neither of us spoke of love, or of missing each other; it wasn’t necessary and didn’t seem decent, somehow.
As I terminated the call, I noticed the tubby little cactus sitting on the shelf above my desk. After weeks without water, the determined plant lived on, seemingly unscathed. Mr Fluffy, I’d called it, because the light-brown prickles covering the bulging green body reminded me of my father’s lowered eyebrows when in one of his moods, and he was anything but fluffy. Elena had said, “You are a survivor, Emma” when she had handed me the bright-orange pot in the days following Staahl’s attack. “Like this cactus, you will survive.” And I had – despite Staahl, despite Guy, and now this.
I reached out and delicately pressed my finger against ginger spines. The bristles gave an illusion of softness, but the spikes pierced my skin like tiny swords, leaving fine beads of blood on the surface, and spines embedded in my skin. Yes, I had survived – I would survive. I pressed my thumb against my forefinger and wiped the blood away. None sprang to the surface in its place, but I felt the remnants of the attack in the bruising that lay invisibly beneath my skin. Like those tremors, I thought, that had shaken me so conclusively days before, I would feel the effects until time and altered circumstances rendered the memory impotent. And the change in circumstances would be wholly dependent on the life of the frail old woman whose claim on her husband was absolute and just. Every moment Matthew and I spent together lay heavily on our consciences.
I remembered Guy’s wife. I remembered imagining myself in her shoes and how I would feel if I discovered that the person with whom I had spent so many years had betrayed the trust placed implicitly in our marriage. Matthew said that Ellen knew of me. He implied she had given her consent to our relationship, but neither of us believed that made it right.
I switched my mobile onto silent and left it charging on my desk, and went to put the kettle on, retrieve the soup, and change my thoughts.
Later, I phoned Dad to let him know when I would be leaving to stay with Matthew and to catch up on family news.
“There you are.” My father sounded particularly cheerful. “It’s good to hear from you. Pen’s in bed sewing seams on Archie’s jersey – whatever that means; I can take the phone to her, if you want a chat?”
“Sorry.” I squinted at my watch, counting on in my head. “I forgot; it must be very late. Don’t bother her now. How’s Nanna?”
“That’s all right, I couldn’t sleep; I wanted to check the heater’s working – can’t risk the seedlings getting chilled – make sure everything’s all right, you know. Marvellous present, Em. Couldn’t wait until Christmas.” I smiled to myself. “Isn’t Matthew with you? I thought you were going away.”
“Yes, we’ve been away, but Matthew’s had to rush off. So Nanna’s OK? And Mum?” I could hear something rattle in the background; it sounded like hail on the brittle glass of the potting shed. “Are you outside, Dad?”
“Yes, I’m getting used to this heater. Doing a splendid job of bringing these cineraria on. Thought I might get the tomatoes going early, too. Perhaps even try peppers this year. Should be able to avoid damping off altogether with this thing – has a built-in fan, you know. Wonderful.” And he laughed. I didn’t join in because gardening represented a foreign language to me and “damping off” sounded like something you did with a bonfire.
He continued, “But you want a situation report on Nanna? It’s all fine, situation normal. Quite chirpy when I saw her last, and she asked after you, of course. Always asks after you – and that young man of yours. Quite taken with him, by all accounts. I rather think she hopes to be around to hear some good news in that direction, Em. Formalize the arrangement. Make his intentions clear.” Subtlety didn’t figure in my father’s vocabulary. When I didn’t answer because I had no answer to give, he made a rumbling noise as he cleared his throat. “When are you going to Matthew’s family for Christmas; have you a date in mind?”
As it was just a week to Christmas, it would be soon.
“Er, not sure. Soon – I’ll let you know.”
I could almost imagine the level frown emerging across his forehead at the lack of precision in my forward planning, but his voice didn’t betray him if it did.
“That’s fine, let us know when you do.”
“Will do, Dad. Love to the family.”
“And returned.”
That counted as the second conversation with my father in under a week that hadn’t resulted in an argument; it must be a record. My family would be preparing for Christmas now. The twins would have drawn up their lists in ever-burgeoning hope, and my sister and father would have planned Christmas lunch down to the last sprout. I wrinkled my nose. Sprouts. And suddenly I remembered I was out of food.
When with Matthew, I didn’t have to think about food – he did that for me. When alone, however, I had to fend for myself. In Cambridge, provisions were within easy reach, and I didn’t have to use my imagination to devise a menu and cook it. Food arrived on a plate and, more often than not, I would eat it. I ate in Hall when obliged to do so, but I preferred the relative anonymity of the riverside cafes where I could secrete myself in a corner with a book for hours on winter nights, when the water beyond the window became no more than a series of shifting reflections. Or I might take myself to the deli across the park which stayed open late and sold the sorts of things you only have a yearning for in the middle of the night, like olives, and stuffed vine leaves, and fine chocolate. I had taken to going there after my break-up with Guy. The place used to be almost empty late at night, which suited me very well – fewer people I knew to ask me how I fared. Now, however, as I stared at the white carcases of the kitchen cupboards, I had nowhere to go. The problem with being fed on a regular basis is that your stomach gets spoilt and starts to expect food at the most inconvenient times – such as now – when there isn’t any. By my watch, the college store would shut in about fifteen minutes. I slammed the cupboard door in resignation, grabbed my coat and bag, and set off for the dismal trudge to the store across the abandoned campus.
The conversation with Matthew left me feeling hollow and achingly alone, and Dad’s assumption that an engagement was imminent prickled. Hunger didn’t help. Trees pressed in on the poorly lit path, ghostly in the subtle darkness, and even the moon and stars, so vivid and alive the night before, were veiled by the cloud that stealthily covered the sky. Wheezing a little with the cold, by the time I reached the store I felt all over the place and on edge.
The shop window represented the only real brightness spilling onto the snow. The girl perching on a tall stool by the till gave a phlegmy cough in my direction and continued reading her magazine as I entered the stale warmth of the store. The stock must have been run down before the holiday because reject Christmas cards loitered on a wire rack near the door and most of the shelves stood empty. I inspected the last, squashed bag of sliced bread and decided that I must be a beggar tonight, since I had no choice. As no fresh food remained on the shelves to make me feel guilty about not choosing it, I selected dried pasta and sauces that would take little time and no imagination to cook, which suited me just fine. I had to squint at the minute writing on the labels that waved and flowed under the inadequate lighting, so I wasn’t paying much attention when the door of the shop opened and then closed, quietly, bringing with it a slip of cold air.
Plonking the heavy basket down beside the till, I groaned inwardly as the girl slowly scanned and packed my purchases in two large, brown paper sacks. Although I deemed the common use of paper sacks commendable, they were a blessed nuisance w
hen only a good old-fashioned, non-biodegradable, politically incorrect and frankly downright useful plastic carrier bag would do. I paid, thanked her and, managing to balance both bags, began to turn around, promptly colliding with an immovable object.
“Heck – Sam!”
I didn’t mean to say it out loud and I almost dropped one of the bags in my harried confusion. I put it back on the counter before the contents spilled all over the floor.
“That’s one way of greeting an old friend, I suppose, Em; nice to see you too. What a coincidence.”
His dark hair grew too long and he hadn’t shaved for a couple of days, but it gave a rakish air to his good looks that the shop assistant found irresistible; I silently wished her luck. Sam leaned around me – closer than comfortable – and handed over a twenty-dollar bill without looking at her. He tucked a small bottle in his side pocket.
“Want some help?” he asked, eyeing up the bag as I tried to pick it up again, but he took it from me anyway, languid brown eyes taking in every inch of my face. Hugging the other bag, I avoided looking at him.
“You gave me a surprise, Sam; I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Yeagh we-el,” he drawled, “I reckon I’ve got nowhere else to go.” I tried to regain possession of the bag. “Nah, I’ll get that,” he said, holding it beyond my reach. “Didn’t expect to see you again, Freckles; thought you’d gone for good.”
I looked towards the door, thinking I could make an excuse and leave without him.
He interpreted my glance correctly. “Going back to your place? I’ll carry this for you – and the other one.”
He took it from me before I could object, and began walking towards the door, ensuring I followed him. We pushed into the cold air.
“Sam, have you been drinking?”
“Nope, not yet, honey, not yet.” He patted his pocket with his elbow. “Pl-enty of time for that.”
He walked quickly out of the pool of light and into the dark along the path down which I had come. I trotted to keep up with him.
