figure, that had rolled under the bench.
She wrote to Lucas: “Matt was killed in action in Crete, perhaps on the day that you visited. I do not seem able to stay here. I am going to Matt’s parents.”
She took a brush and a tin of distemper up to the bedroom and painted over the dancing nudes. The other frescos she left untouched—the ducks and the willows. On the last night, she sat gazing at these, looking and looking.
And thus they went, she and Molly, and the cottage sat empty, but filled with the legacies of their occupancy: the painted walls, and the table and chairs and bed and couch, the pots and pans, the axe, the oil lamps. The farmer’s wife came and took what she could use, as requested, and presently another family moved in, a man who worked on the farm, with his wife and children, and they made their own adjustments, left their own mark, as did others, year by year, decade by decade, passing through. The only permanence was the building itself, the cob of the walls, the slate of the roof. From time to time, some remedial work was done—a coat of limewash, a roof repair. Piped water arrived, within, and electricity. The frescos downstairs flaked and faded, but were left as they were, because people quite liked them, the place was a tenancy anyway and it was said that the farm wouldn’t want them done away with, for some reason. The shed became a depository for animal feed, fertilizer, bikes, garden tools, discarded children’s toys. The oak tree grew a few more feet, an ash sprang up from nowhere, someone planted a quince. The century moved on, taking the cottage with it.
Part 2
FOR THE FIRST YEAR in the Welsh border town Lorna did not care where she was, or what she did. The Faradays were kind, concerned, and themselves paralyzed by grief. She took a job behind the counter at a local shop in order to be able to pay her way. Molly started school; in that muted household, her bright presence was the only solace.
Eventually, Lorna began to look around her and realized that she could not stay here, like this, forever. She must make a home for Molly, somehow she must be independent, she must earn a living. Mrs. Faraday had suggested a secretarial course; Lorna took afternoons off from the shop and learned how to type and do shorthand, whose strange hieroglyphics helped with the process of anesthetization, which was all that she sought. She moved from day to day, her head full of hooks and dots, and the lettering of the keyboard, and the face of the cash register in the shop. In the evenings, she was too tired to do anything but see to Molly, eat, sleep. She had no interest in the future but saw that there had to be one, for Molly, if not for herself. If it were to be here, well and good, but she must live otherwise, find somewhere of her own, different work.
Marian Bradley had written, suggesting that Lorna join them: “Daddy and I could move out of the hotel, and rent a little house, where there would be room for you and Molly.” Lorna had known that this would never do, but was touched by the gesture; she was gently evasive.
Lucas wrote: “No news of you for quite a while. I trust things go as well as they can do. Here at the Heron Press, there is great disarray. The splendid Miss Kelly has abandoned me—retiring, if you please. I must advertize for a successor, and shrink at the thought of some supercilious young woman who will run rings around me.”
Lorna replied by return of post. She said: “Please may I apply for Miss Kelly’s job?”
The house in Fulham had three floors and a basement. The Press occupied the basement, with the office and packing room on the ground floor, alongside the kitchen. Lucas himself lived untidily on the floors above but insisted now on making over the top floor to Lorna and Molly. They would have a bedroom, a sitting room, and share the bathroom with him. He was apologetic: “You should have a place of your own, but it would be quite impossible
She wrote to Lucas: “Matt was killed in action in Crete, perhaps on the day that you visited. I do not seem able to stay here. I am going to Matt’s parents.”
She took a brush and a tin of distemper up to the bedroom and painted over the dancing nudes. The other frescos she left untouched—the ducks and the willows. On the last night, she sat gazing at these, looking and looking.
And thus they went, she and Molly, and the cottage sat empty, but filled with the legacies of their occupancy: the painted walls, and the table and chairs and bed and couch, the pots and pans, the axe, the oil lamps. The farmer’s wife came and took what she could use, as requested, and presently another family moved in, a man who worked on the farm, with his wife and children, and they made their own adjustments, left their own mark, as did others, year by year, decade by decade, passing through. The only permanence was the building itself, the cob of the walls, the slate of the roof. From time to time, some remedial work was done—a coat of limewash, a roof repair. Piped water arrived, within, and electricity. The frescos downstairs flaked and faded, but were left as they were, because people quite liked them, the place was a tenancy anyway and it was said that the farm wouldn’t want them done away with, for some reason. The shed became a depository for animal feed, fertilizer, bikes, garden tools, discarded children’s toys. The oak tree grew a few more feet, an ash sprang up from nowhere, someone planted a quince. The century moved on, taking the cottage with it.
Part 2
FOR THE FIRST YEAR in the Welsh border town Lorna did not care where she was, or what she did. The Faradays were kind, concerned, and themselves paralyzed by grief. She took a job behind the counter at a local shop in order to be able to pay her way. Molly started school; in that muted household, her bright presence was the only solace.
Eventually, Lorna began to look around her and realized that she could not stay here, like this, forever. She must make a home for Molly, somehow she must be independent, she must earn a living. Mrs. Faraday had suggested a secretarial course; Lorna took afternoons off from the shop and learned how to type and do shorthand, whose strange hieroglyphics helped with the process of anesthetization, which was all that she sought. She moved from day to day, her head full of hooks and dots, and the lettering of the keyboard, and the face of the cash register in the shop. In the evenings, she was too tired to do anything but see to Molly, eat, sleep. She had no interest in the future but saw that there had to be one, for Molly, if not for herself. If it were to be here, well and good, but she must live otherwise, find somewhere of her own, different work.
Marian Bradley had written, suggesting that Lorna join them: “Daddy and I could move out of the hotel, and rent a little house, where there would be room for you and Molly.” Lorna had known that this would never do, but was touched by the gesture; she was gently evasive.
Lucas wrote: “No news of you for quite a while. I trust things go as well as they can do. Here at the Heron Press, there is great disarray. The splendid Miss Kelly has abandoned me—retiring, if you please. I must advertize for a successor, and shrink at the thought of some supercilious young woman who will run rings around me.”
Lorna replied by return of post. She said: “Please may I apply for Miss Kelly’s job?”
The house in Fulham had three floors and a basement. The Press occupied the basement, with the office and packing room on the ground floor, alongside the kitchen. Lucas himself lived untidily on the floors above but insisted now on making over the top floor to Lorna and Molly. They would have a bedroom, a sitting room, and share the bathroom with him. He was apologetic: “You should have a place of your own, but it would be quite impossible
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