‘I think we need to discuss the terms and conditions of a “fling”,’ Ross says dryly, ‘before we let you loose on the male population.’
‘Shut up and stop interrupting.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Right, well, I went to visit my new neighbour. I brought him a plate of blueberry scones—’
‘Nice move. I can never resist baked goods. Especially homemade.’
Ava glowers at him. ‘Anyway, he was great. It was the first time I’d ever really, properly talked to someone, let go, stopped monitoring myself … There was something about him, so free and liberating. Anyway, then I saw the worst event of his life and, of course, I couldn’t just chit-chat after that. I haven’t seen him since.’
‘What?’ Ross exclaims. ‘But he could have been prime fling material. He sounds perfect.’
‘Not really,’ Ava says. ‘He’s in love with a ghost.’
‘Aye?’ Ross raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued, though this piece of information is clearly not as intriguing as the other. ‘So, what was the worst event of his life?’
‘That.’
‘What?’
‘The being in love with the ghost. It’s going to – for various reasons – give him the greatest joy and cause him the greatest pain of his life.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Yes. It’ll give him the greatest joy when they are together and the greatest pain when she leaves.’
‘Leave? Why will she leave?’
Ava shrugs. ‘I don’t know the why, I can only see the what.’
‘So, how long will they have together?’
‘I don’t know. I usually can see the timing of things, but I couldn’t,’ Ava says. ‘I just saw that, one day, she’ll disappear. And it’ll break him.’
‘Shit,’ Ross says. ‘That sucks. So maybe you should tell him. He might be able to avoid a lot of grief, nip it in the bud now, before it breaks his heart, y’know?’
Ava shakes her head. ‘He wouldn’t have ended it, even if I had told him. He’s in love. Love doesn’t end for any rational reason, no matter how much sense it’d make. Love is the opposite of sense.’
‘Aye,’ Ross says, ruefully. ‘You’re right there.’
Ava gives him a wry smile. ‘Which is probably why I’ve never been in it.’
‘Never? Not even with your husband.’
A shadow of sadness falls across Ava’s face. ‘No. I thought so then. But no, it wasn’t love.’
‘Oh, dear, how depressing,’ Ross says. ‘Then no wonder the thought of a fling doesn’t appeal – your heart is probably half desperate to fall in love already.’
Ava looks at her half-eaten falafel, suddenly finding it intensely interesting.
‘So, whatever the worst event of my life is – death or worse – you can’t see it?’
Ava shakes her head. ‘I’ve been given a reprieve. The chance to make a friend.’ She smiles. ‘Either that, or you’re immortal and will lead an entirely blessed life free from any pain or disaster.’
Ross grins. ‘Aye, I like the sound of that.’ Then he considers. ‘When you were a bairn, how did y’ learn to swim?’
Ava frowns. ‘Sorry?’
‘A bairn. A kid.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Ava says. ‘I was just a little thrown by the sudden and strange shift of subject. Um, I don’t really remember, I took lessons, I guess.’
‘All right, so,’ Ross says, ‘in my experience there are two ways to learn to swim. The first: being thrown in the deep end and figuring it out through thrashing and flailing. The second: paddling in the shallow end and building up to it from there.’
‘Ah, okay, yes, well, I’m definitely in favour of the second option. I’d probably have been so traumatised by the first that I’d have been scared of water for the rest of my life.’
Ross nods. ‘Aye, alright. So y’ prefer the more softly, slowly approach? Personally, I was chucked into the deep end of Loch Kilconquhar, and I was the strongest swimmer in all of county Fife. I nearly made it to the regional championships, but I … met a girl.’
Ava smiles. ‘So you were working your magic on women early on, then.’
‘Aye.’ Ross grins. ‘But, enough of me. Back to you. So, I reckon, when it comes to the fling, we should take the backdoor approach.’
Ava raises her eyebrows. ‘Excuse me?’
Ross laughs. ‘I’m not suggesting anything dirty. We’ll just take a more gentle route, build up y’ confidence a bit, before we set off to slay the dragon, so to speak.’
Ava eyes him. ‘You have an odd use of metaphors. But yes, okay, gentle sounds good.’
Ross stands. ‘Right, then, let’s get on with it!’
Ava looks up at him. ‘With what?’
‘With finding you a new job.’
Edward presses his ear against the wood of the kitchen door. Beyond it he can hear Greer and Tilly giggling. He smiles. Despite his own desires, it gives him the greatest pleasure to hear them both happy. Indeed, the sound of their happiness is probably the greatest sound in the world and, always, instantly, injects him with a flush of great joy. A joy, too, that lasts, that simmers in him like the scent of bubbling caramel in a kitchen long after it’s been eaten.
He stands, taking his ear from the door, suddenly struck by something. It’s an idea so simple but so radical, that it’s a moment before he can make sense of it, filter it down from its lofty heights to plain building blocks that his basic mind can understand. The thought that alighted upon him, that descended from somewhere, settles and stretches and reshapes until, at last, he can see it: clear and bright and true.
The thought is this: is it possible that, what he thinks will make him happiest is not actually what will? Could it be that he’s been wrong or, at the very least, a little misguided? He’s been so certain that having his wife back, just as she was, is what would be best for him. In the same way that he’s been certain about every other thing that would make him happy, though he hasn’t, in retrospect, always been right. And now he feels, in this moment, regarding this particular subject, that he’s been wrong. And, he’s missed something vital, the opportunity for an even greater joy than the one he’d been striving for.
Edward has never before doubted his own rightness, not really. He’s always been quite certain about things, sometimes in relation to other people and things but mostly when they pertained to himself. Born into the upper classes, Edward was raised in a culture that invested him with a sense of certainty. He attended Eton, followed by Cambridge, excelled at both and stepped into the bright, fresh world already a success, a man always confident of his own convictions.
Thus, Edward was absolutely sure about many things. He liked his eggs fried, with runny yolks. He liked the breast of the chicken but not the leg. He liked cricket but not football. He favoured France, especially Paris, over Italy. He listened to classical music, preferably Mozart, but never jazz or pop. He took showers, not baths. He believed in the power of inspiring architecture to spiritually uplift and thought it was a very bad idea to build functional, uninspired blocks of flats that would depress both their inhabitants and society at large.
And, throughout his life, Edward had never really had cause to doubt his own rightness. He’d made the right choice of study, career, spouse. Of course, the death of his first wife had sent him into somewhat of a spin, the death of his second wife even more so, and her reappearance perhaps most of all. But, even then, Edward was still quite sure of himself, what he did and didn’t like, what pleased and what displeased him.
And yet, now, as this new epiphany settles onto the seabed of his knowing, Edward finds himself decidedly askew, the compass of his certainty having been knocked quite off-kilter. It’s in this stirred-up space that a long-forgotten memory rises up and resurfaces, breaking through the wet sand: on the Christmas that Edward was ten years old, he received every present he asked for. His stocking was full and overflowing. And he spent a very satisfactory morning, from dawn till noon,
playing with, counting up and categorising all his new acquisitions. Then, before the feast of lunch, as was family tradition, he went with his parents and siblings to church. Edward had insisted, much to his mother’s chagrin, on taking his very favourite new toy with him: a foot-tall, hand-painted tin toy soldier with full working parts. Edward hardly listened to a word the vicar said, until he accidentally caught the old man’s eye and was fixed with a gaze of great disapprobation and displeasure. For a few moments then, little Edward rested his new toy on his lap and heard the vicar tell a story about a saintly orphan who’d given away her only Christmas present to a gypsy girl who was even more deprived than she. The vicar assured his congregation that the gift of the gypsy girl’s gratitude and delight was a greater gift for the little orphan than the Christmas present had been. At the end of this story, Edward gave such a loud sniff of disbelief that he earned a look of disapprobation from his mother this time, though that still didn’t serve to dissuade him from his surety that the story was silly and wrong. The possession of a new toy, in Edward’s decided opinion, was far better than the questionable action of giving away said toy to a total stranger.
And then, in the way that strange twists of fate sometimes have life imitating art, Edward found himself walking out of the church with his mother, behind another mother and son, who seemed to be the same age and height as he, but far more skinny and shabbily dressed. As they all emerged out into the sharp chill of the icy air, Edward’s mother leant down to whisper the details of the boy in front. His father had died a month before, in an agricultural accident, and the family were very poor and, no doubt, the boy had received no Christmas presents. Perhaps, Edward’s mother suggested, then nodded meaningfully at the precious toy soldier her son gripped firmly to his chest. Edward had responded to her look with his own, one of absolute horror. So, his mother shrugged and they walked on.
Demons and angels fought within Edward as they passed through the gate and turned down the lane. He was mightily relieved when the road forked and the other boy and his mother took the opposite route. Out of sight, out of mind, he thought and resumed gazing lovingly at his toy. And yet, as he walked, he couldn’t stop thinking about the other boy and, at the end of the lane, Edward let go of his mother’s hand and turned and ran back to the boy. Tapping him on the shoulder, he handed his toy over quickly, so he couldn’t change his mind. A look of confused shock passed over the face of the skinny, shabby little boy. And then, when Edward explained his gift, it was passed over by a look of such pure, heartbreaking joy, that Edward actually felt a lump rise in his throat and tears spring into his eyes. He hastily wished the boy a happy Christmas, then turned and ran back to his own mother, who kissed him.
And, though he wouldn’t admit it to anyone, Edward had to admit to himself that the vicar had been right. Owning the toy had given him great satisfaction and delight, but its possession hadn’t at all swelled his heart in the way the giving away of the same toy had. In that act, Edward had been touched with a depth of feeling he’d never experienced before and it carried him all through Christmas Day on a sort of cloud. It had been a singular lesson in being wrong. One Edward had forgotten until now.
Greer and Tilly’s giggles burst out behind the kitchen door again and Edward smiles a second time. He loves his wife and yet he must let her go. He loves his daughter and yet, one day, he must let her go too. When Greer died he raged against it, he thrashed and brawled against the turns of life and, for three years, he refused to let go. This brought him neither peace nor happiness but, as he’s now learning, the mind is a belligerent and, clearly, often very misguided master. Now he’s been given the miraculous gift of having his wife back, not in the way he wanted, yes, but she’s here all the same. And he can either cling on miserably or let go and trust that he might find even greater happiness than he’s known before.
Edward turns away from the kitchen door and begins walking down the corridor. And, as the giggles fade behind him, he decides that he will take the job offered to him by A&B Associates after all.
‘What’s wrong with the job I already have?’ Ava hisses, as they enter the library.
‘Nothing,’ Ross says, ‘since it’s the perfect place to find y’ new one.’
‘Is that why you came back with me?’ Ava regards him with a horrified look. ‘You said you wanted to look up a legal precedent on Roe vs Wade.’
Ross laughs. ‘And why would I want to do that?’
‘I don’t know,’ Ava hisses. ‘It’s what you said.’
‘And you believed me? Silly girl.’ Still smiling, Ross strides over to the bulletin board and studies it, rocking back on his heels, absorbing each notice. Then he strides back to the desk behind which Ava is turning on her computer and sliding into her seat.
‘Aye, that gave me some interesting ideas,’ he says. ‘Now I need to see the papers. You have them all on file?’
Ava scowls at him. ‘Yes, of course we do.’
‘Grand. Shall I wait here while y’ bring them up?’
Ava sighs. ‘Yes, I suppose so. Though, strictly speaking, you’re not a student here, so I shouldn’t be bringing you anything.’
‘Ah, but you’ll make an exception for wee auld me, right?’
Ava raises her eyes to the ceiling but since, strictly speaking, he’s stalked her with the intention of helping her out, rather than himself, she can’t really object.
‘Okay, I’ll go and get them.’ She stands. ‘But please, don’t cause any mischief while I’m gone.’
Ross gives her a wicked smile. ‘Y’ know I cannae promise you that, lassie. So ye better be quick.’
Not needing to be told twice, Ava hurries away and, when she returns, finds Ross sitting on her chair, behind her desk, dispensing life advice to an enthralled young female student who hangs on his every word. At the sight of this, any last hopes Ava had that they might end up together, that Ross might break his rule for her, fades. She would have to be a stronger woman than she is to spend a lifetime with a man whose vocation it is to inspire women to be the brightest most brilliant version of themselves. No, Ava thinks, as she walks towards the desk, Ross is not the one for her. Then, as she gets nearer, Ava finally sees it. And the papers she’s holding fall, scattering like upturned ships across the floor.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Our Otto,
Our son took his first step today. Can you believe it? Not quite eight months old and already he’s making a bid for freedom – but can you blame him? Perhaps this is why he’s so quick to walk, because he knows he is trapped and wants to be free. I cannot blame him for that.
I’m sorry to say that, although he’s quick to walk, he’s hardly speaking. For which I blame myself, since I’ve imposed silence on him for so long, it’s not surprising he barely whispers a single sound, let alone a word. So he still hasn’t said ‘Mama’, though I think he probably should be saying such things by now. Mrs X certainly seems to think so. She is very kind to us, especially since little Otto came. She loves to hold him, to coo and – I think – pretend that he is hers. Of course, I allow this, how could I not? With everything that they are doing for us, I am grateful to be able to offer this small thing in return. When she visits us in the cellar, when she stays while we eat, I try to make myself invisible, so she can be just with him, so she can imagine they are alone together, that he is her son. You’ll be happy to hear that she brings him treats, things from the black market that she never brought me: a peach, a tiny piece of cake, a cube of chocolate … Of course, little Otto adores Mrs X in return, for all the attention and the treats. He reaches for her with chubby, grasping hands when she opens our door and his face lights up in a grin. It’s my greatest delight to see him happy and we both look forward to these visits all day. I hope you have some light in the darkness of your days too, whatever it is, I wish it for you.
Ever Yours,
Marthe
Clara holds his hand across the car. The letters – originals and Pieter’s translatio
ns – are on her lap. She presses her other hand atop them as they bump along.
‘Did I thank you, for doing all this?’ she asks.
Pieter smiles, not taking his eyes off the road. ‘Perhaps a hundred and fifty times.’
Clara sighs. ‘Okay, so I’m starting to get annoying. But I just, I just … It’s so kind of you. I’m not sure I’m brave enough to do it alone.’
Pieter laughs. ‘Not brave? You could do anything you wanted alone. I’m touched that you wanted me to accompany you, but this is not from weakness, not at all.’
Clara looks out of the window, at the limitless fields, at the light white sky.
‘I don’t know what you see in me,’ she says, ‘but I certainly don’t see it in myself.’
Pieter smiles. ‘Yes, well, isn’t that always the way? How many of us actually see ourselves clearly?’
Clara considers this. ‘I’ve never really thought about it before.’
Pieter squeezes her hand. ‘You’re doing a wonderful thing,’ he says. ‘And I think, somehow, that it will make a difference.’
‘What do you mean?’ Clara frowns. ‘How? To whom?’
‘I don’t know, I can’t explain. I just do.’
They fall into silence, the car speeding along, the fields flashing past, the letters clutched on Clara’s lap.
When Herzogenbusch at last comes into view, it is dark grey against the white sky. Clara feels it before she sees it. Her gaze is pulled, suddenly, unexpectedly, from the gentle lull of another wheat field to the horizon of the road. She shivers. And, until Pieter finally pulls into the parking lot outside, the car skidding slightly in the dirt, Clara says nothing. She says nothing as she gets out of the car, clutching her letters. She walks silently, stoically, behind Pieter as he makes his way to the gates. She pretends not to see the offer of his hand, continuing to press the letters to her chest, as if they are her final possession on earth, in danger of being snatched away, and she will protect them at all costs.
The Lost Art of Letter Writing Page 19