Lesson 158
Lesson 159
Lesson 160
Lesson 161
Lesson 162
Lesson 163
Lesson 164
Lesson 165
Lesson 166
Lesson 167
Lesson 168
IX
Lesson 169
Lesson 170
Lesson 171
Lesson 172
Lesson 173
Lesson 174
Lesson 175
Lesson 176
Lesson 177
Lesson 178
Lesson 179
Lesson 180
Lesson 181
Lesson 182
Lesson 183
Lesson 184
Lesson 185
Lesson 186
Lesson 187
Lesson 188
Lesson 189
Lesson 190
Lesson 191
Lesson 192
Lesson 193
Lesson 194
Lesson 195
Lesson 196
Lesson 197
Lesson 198
Lesson 199
Lesson 200
Lesson 201
X
Lesson 202
Lesson 203
Lesson 204
Lesson 205
Lesson 206
Lesson 207
Lesson 208
Lesson 209
Lesson 210
Lesson 211
Lesson 212
Lesson 213
Lesson 214
Lesson 215
Lesson 216
Lesson 217
Lesson 218
Lesson 219
Lesson 220
Lesson 221
Lesson 222
Lesson 223
Lesson 224
Lesson 225 – The Last
Other Books by Nikki Gemmell
About the Author
Copyright
PROLOGUE
You begin.
It feels right. At his desk. On his chair. His typewriter is the only thing left of him in the room. The ink ribbon is fresh – the metal letters cut firm and deep – as if he has placed it for this moment, just for you. You start slow, clunking, getting used to the heft of the old way. Working laboriously on the beautiful, antique machine for if you make a mistake you can’t go back and you need these pages methodical, neat. You type with his old Victorian volume by your side, that he gave you once – A Woman’s Thoughts About Women – that logged within its folds all that happened in this place, that breathed life, once. You relive the dialogue of his handwriting and yours jotted in the margins and the back, don’t quite know what you’re going to do with all the work; at this stage you’re just collating, filching everything that’s needed from this notebook whose pages are bruised with age and grubbiness and life, luminous life: sweat and ink and rain spots; sap and dirt and ash; the grease from a bicycle and a silvery snail’s trail and a cicada wing, its fragile, leadlit tracery. You reap his words and yours and then the Victorian housewife’s, her lessons about life, her guiding voice. She will lead you through this. Tell the truth and don’t be afraid of it, she soothes. Yes.
Writing to understand.
And as you work you feel a presence, a hand in the small of your back, willing you on. Every person who’s ever loved and lost, every person who’s ever entered that exclusive club – heartbreak. Your little volume always beside you, the book you came here to bury, to have the earth of this valley receive as one day it will receive your own flesh, you are sure – lovingly, gratefully, because it is so, right, you are part of it.
But first this book must serve another purpose.
You feel strong, lit.
Whole.
Writing to work it all out.
You have never told anyone this. No one knows what you really think. It has always been extremely important to never let them know; to never show them the ugliness, brutality, magnificence, selfishness, glory; never give them a way in. It has always been important to maintain your equilibrium, your smile, your carapace at all times. You could not bear for anyone to see who you really are.
But now, finally, it is time. With knowing has come release. It has taken years to get to this point.
I
‘Even in sleep I know no respite’
Heloise d’Argenteuil
Lesson 1
Let everything be plain, open and above-board.
Tell the truth and don’t be afraid of it.
You think about sleeping with every man you meet. You do not want to sleep with any of them. Couldn’t be bothered anymore. You are too tired, too cold. The cold has curled up in your bones like mould and you feel, in deepest winter, in this place that has cemented around you, that it will never be gouged out. You live in Gloucestershire. In a converted farmhouse with a ceiling made of coffin lids resting on thatchers’ ladders. It is never quite warm enough. There are snowdrops in February and bluebells in May and the wet black leaves of autumn then the naked branches of winter clawing at the sky, all around you, months and months of them with their wheeling birds lifting in alarm when you walk through the fields not paddocks; in this land of heaths and commons and moors, all the language that is not your language for you were not born in this place.
Your memories scream of the sun, of bush taut with sound and bleached earth. Of the woman you once were. She is barely recognisable now.
You do not know how to climb out, to gain traction with some kind of visibility, as a woman. To find a way to live audaciously. Again.
Lesson 2
The house-mother! Where could you find a nobler title, a more sacred charge?
Your