and the maths of that all added up to Harrow never having been hers to begin with.
At the funeral her parents told her she had to come home, had to grow a life out of whatever she had. They talked about universities and scholarships and jobs in the city and fish in the sea. They were the way she used to be, she saw that now: they were doers. She told them she would get around to it but right now she had to look after Harrow’s mother and she hoped they understood.
She was called Sarah and was older than most of the other parents. Nora thought her sort of beautiful; she looked, anyway, a bit like Harrow and held herself in the same unselfconscious way. She’d not seemed to have much comment to make on them marrying but she had, Nora thought, liked her.
Those days Sarah didn’t always seem to know where she was and sometimes she talked about Harrow as if he’d just gone out for a stroll or was running errands. Though these were not things Harrow would ever have done.
Nora did the cooking and cleaned and the rest of the time she read or sat in the sort of stupor that comes from losing the trick of sleeping. She didn’t try any more. There wasn’t any use trying once it had gone that way.
Nora knew what people said about her. She was up-and-down odd and now Harrow was gone she should move on into a life that more befitted a broad-hipped, glasses-wearing girl who looked – well, it was fine – old before her time.
Part of her always thought Harrow would come back. Maybe she thought it because they were particles entangled. Or because her want was surely strong enough to curse him awake. Or because she’d given up things and – a balancing – needed something in return.
In the end it was none of these things. It was only Sarah.
What are you doing? Nora asked when she found the fragments of tiny animal bones in the bin, tripped over piles of smooth stones in the front garden, tried to make sense of the small dirt offerings: in a cup in the airing cupboard, under her bed, in the bath.
Sarah would not answer her, went out into the garden with her mixing bowl.
When Harrow came back Nora decided she wasn’t going to overthink it. Only be a little grateful she hadn’t argued harder for a cremation the way she’d wanted to.
There was dirt all over him and he must have – the way they did in the films – dug himself out because there was blood on his hands and most of his nails were cut badly.
Sarah had brought him back, wished him out. Still – she put the kitchen table between her and him and, scouting around for something to wield, picked up the rolling pin and held it at chest height.
It’s all right, Nora said. She held her hand up to Harrow’s mouth. He pressed his lips to it hard, leaving a dirt-shaped kiss, and she saw that he was just as relieved as she was.
Let’s run a bath, she said. He’ll be fine when he’s clean.
She took off his suit in the bathroom and then poked and prodded till he climbed into the hot water and stood, arms swinging a little. He wouldn’t sit down so she got the sponge and scrubbed until he looked as clean as she could manage, then she towelled him down. He didn’tsay anything, though he followed her motions with his eyes, touched her hands. She didn’t say anything either, only waited. Outside the bathroom she could hear Sarah waiting too.
There were signs she could have read off him that she did not see or chose to ignore: his breathing high and a little laboured, as if air didn’t work well in him any more; the odd smell of him: like concrete setting or the cold dredged up on riverbanks.
In the morning she turned in the bed and he was looking at her the way he used to across the classroom or as they passed in the hall when everything they were doing was a secret so he could save face. She felt the rise of him against her leg, held him in her fist and moved her hand. A little later, feeling the comfortable known of his hips against hers, she thought that his
At the funeral her parents told her she had to come home, had to grow a life out of whatever she had. They talked about universities and scholarships and jobs in the city and fish in the sea. They were the way she used to be, she saw that now: they were doers. She told them she would get around to it but right now she had to look after Harrow’s mother and she hoped they understood.
She was called Sarah and was older than most of the other parents. Nora thought her sort of beautiful; she looked, anyway, a bit like Harrow and held herself in the same unselfconscious way. She’d not seemed to have much comment to make on them marrying but she had, Nora thought, liked her.
Those days Sarah didn’t always seem to know where she was and sometimes she talked about Harrow as if he’d just gone out for a stroll or was running errands. Though these were not things Harrow would ever have done.
Nora did the cooking and cleaned and the rest of the time she read or sat in the sort of stupor that comes from losing the trick of sleeping. She didn’t try any more. There wasn’t any use trying once it had gone that way.
Nora knew what people said about her. She was up-and-down odd and now Harrow was gone she should move on into a life that more befitted a broad-hipped, glasses-wearing girl who looked – well, it was fine – old before her time.
Part of her always thought Harrow would come back. Maybe she thought it because they were particles entangled. Or because her want was surely strong enough to curse him awake. Or because she’d given up things and – a balancing – needed something in return.
In the end it was none of these things. It was only Sarah.
What are you doing? Nora asked when she found the fragments of tiny animal bones in the bin, tripped over piles of smooth stones in the front garden, tried to make sense of the small dirt offerings: in a cup in the airing cupboard, under her bed, in the bath.
Sarah would not answer her, went out into the garden with her mixing bowl.
When Harrow came back Nora decided she wasn’t going to overthink it. Only be a little grateful she hadn’t argued harder for a cremation the way she’d wanted to.
There was dirt all over him and he must have – the way they did in the films – dug himself out because there was blood on his hands and most of his nails were cut badly.
Sarah had brought him back, wished him out. Still – she put the kitchen table between her and him and, scouting around for something to wield, picked up the rolling pin and held it at chest height.
It’s all right, Nora said. She held her hand up to Harrow’s mouth. He pressed his lips to it hard, leaving a dirt-shaped kiss, and she saw that he was just as relieved as she was.
Let’s run a bath, she said. He’ll be fine when he’s clean.
She took off his suit in the bathroom and then poked and prodded till he climbed into the hot water and stood, arms swinging a little. He wouldn’t sit down so she got the sponge and scrubbed until he looked as clean as she could manage, then she towelled him down. He didn’tsay anything, though he followed her motions with his eyes, touched her hands. She didn’t say anything either, only waited. Outside the bathroom she could hear Sarah waiting too.
There were signs she could have read off him that she did not see or chose to ignore: his breathing high and a little laboured, as if air didn’t work well in him any more; the odd smell of him: like concrete setting or the cold dredged up on riverbanks.
In the morning she turned in the bed and he was looking at her the way he used to across the classroom or as they passed in the hall when everything they were doing was a secret so he could save face. She felt the rise of him against her leg, held him in her fist and moved her hand. A little later, feeling the comfortable known of his hips against hers, she thought that his
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