‘I don’t know. It just doesn’t.’
‘But it might, over time.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. The war has made the present more important than the past, and far more certain than the future. How I feel right now is all I can rely on. And after all that you’ve told me, I think I love you more.’
Few words have as many variants as love. I felt it resonate deep in my chest and knew it to mean something different to any other version I’d heard or uttered. But the sadness on Gareth’s face remained. He took my hand and kissed the scars, then he turned and went into the Press.
When I stirred the next morning, the house felt frigid. I could hardly raise my body from the bed. Gareth’s words should have been a relief, but they were tempered by his sadness. He was holding something back from me, as I had from him. I shivered and wished that Lizzie was there.
I dressed quickly and walked in near darkness to Sunnyside.
Lizzie was up to her elbows in suds when I came into the kitchen. The bench was crowded with breakfast things: dirty bowls and teacups; plates with crumbs of toast.
‘The range is blazing,’ she said. ‘Go warm yourself while I finish the dishes.’
‘Where’s the girl who normally comes in the morning?’ I asked. There had been a few, and the name of the current one escaped me.
‘Gone. At least the war’s good for some people: the factories pay more than the Murrays ever could.’
I removed my coat and took up a tea towel. ‘Any chance Mrs Ballard could come out of retirement?’
‘She struggles to get out of her chair these days,’ said Lizzie.
I cut a thick slice of bread and spread it with jam.‘I made an extra loaf,’ said Lizzie. ‘Take it with you when you leave tonight.’
‘You really don’t need to do that,’ I said, licking jam from my fingers.
‘You’re in the Scrippy dawn to dusk and no maid – I really don’t know why you let the maid go. Someone needs to look after you.’
When I was warm to my bones and my stomach was full, I walked across the garden to the Scriptorium. I was grateful to find it empty. No one would arrive for an hour at least.
It had barely changed since I’d hidden beneath the sorting table, and for a moment I could imagine my world with Da in it and no war. I trailed my fingers along the shelves; it was a way of remembering.
I sat at my desk and listened to the hush. There was a whisper from the hole in the wall, and I raised my hand to feel the breath of cold air. It was sharp, almost painful, and I thought about those native peoples who mark their skin at moments in life that define them. Words would be inscribed upon me. But which words?
There was a clang against the Scriptorium wall, and the whispering stopped. I pulled my hand back from the hole and looked through. It was Gareth.
He propped his bicycle and straightened, checked inside his satchel and closed it with care. I had spied him a hundred times and come to love how he ushered the words back and forth as if they were fragile and precious.
But I was nervous. I checked myself. Curls had sprung from my bun, and I tucked them back. I pinched my cheeks and bit my lips. I sat with my back uncomfortably straight, expecting Gareth to come through the Scriptorium door. I was afraid of what he might say.
He didn’t come. I bent to my work and let the curls fall loose.
A quarter-hour passed before I heard the Scriptorium door open.
‘Does Dr Murray know you’re here from sparrow’s?’ he asked.
‘I like the solitude,’ I replied, searching his face for some clue to his frame of mind. ‘But I’m glad for the interruption. I heard you arrive; what took you so long?’
‘I thought I’d find you in the kitchen, with Lizzie. I couldn’t say no when she offered me tea.’
‘She likes you.’
‘I like her.’
I looked at Gareth’s satchel, supported by his hand. ‘It’s a bit early to be delivering proofs.’
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead he gazed at me as if recalling my confession. I looked down.
‘No proofs. Just an invitation for a picnic lunch,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be another beautiful day.’
I could only nod.
‘I’ll be back at midday, then.’ He smiled.
‘Alright,’ I said.
When he left, I took a shuddering breath and leaned my head against the wall. Light from the hole fell across the old scars on my hand. When Gareth approached the back of the Scriptorium to retrieve his bicycle, the light dimmed then brightened. Dimmed again. Morse code, I thought, but I couldn’t read it. I felt the weight of his body as he leaned against the iron wall, heard the metal hum through my skull. Did he know how close he was to me? He stayed there a long while.
Just before midday I was sitting at the kitchen table with Lizzie.
‘Let me fix that hair of yours,’ she said.
‘There’s no point. It always finds a way of escaping.’
‘When you do it, it does.’ She stood behind me and rearranged the pins. When she was done, I shook my head. The curls stayed put.
Through the kitchen window, we saw Gareth. He strode across the garden towards us, his satchel slung over his shoulder, a picnic basket in one hand. Lizzie jumped up to open the door and usher him in.
Gareth nodded at Lizzie and smiled wide. ‘Lizzie,’ he said.
‘Gareth,’ she replied. Her smile a mirror image.
There were whole sentences behind that greeting that I couldn’t fathom. Gareth put his picnic basket on the kitchen table, and Lizzie bent to the range to remove a flan she had been warming. She placed it in the bottom of the basket and covered it with a cloth. Then she filled a flask with tea
