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.He made several calls—six, I count—all of them after midday, all, therefore, from the boat.His last call was timed at 23.50, to the house.Earlier there was a call to Katie, or rather to the Oakwood House staff number, which is the only one parents can call in on.Going back through the other calls, I look for numbers I don’t know, I look for numbers I know well.There is nothing I don’t expect to find.I fold the bill and place it in the centre drawer of the desk.Moreland’s number faces me from the message pad.As I dial I wonder briefly what he does in the evenings.Whether he goes to the pub, or out to dinner with people like the Dartingtons, or swaps sailing stories around the yacht club bar.I place him everywhere, and nowhere.He answers straight away.“How are you?”“I’m all right, thanks.”“And Josh?”“I don’t really know.” Which is the truth, though I hadn’t meant to say it.“He’s got it into his head that he wants to go to boarding school.”“Ah.Not a good idea?”“I’m trying to keep an open mind.I’m trying to—” My throat seizes, I dry up.Filling the silence, Moreland says, “Perhaps he’ll forget about it in a few days.”“Perhaps.” But I say it without conviction.It occurs to me that Moreland would be a good person to talk to Josh.His opinion, being male, neutral and greatly respected, is likely to carry more weight than mine.At the same time I’m wary of involving him more deeply in our affairs.It is partly my lingering confusion about his motives, partly an instinct to keep him at a manageable distance.I compromise.“You were sent away at eight, weren’t you? You should explain the minus side to him,” I say, tying him down to a limited role.“Tell him how homesick he’ll get, how the other boys’ll bully him if he cries, how they’ll force him into becoming a regular-issue public schoolboy—all male bonding and locked-in English emotions and suppressed anger—“I halt, aware of the harshness in my voice.Moreland gives a soft laugh.“I could warn him, of course.But these places are much better than they used to be, Ellen.”Old emotions barrel down on me.“They still produce people who’re unhappy with their feelings,” I say with sudden heat, “who bottle things up, who, after their parents have dumped them there, never really trust or relate to anyone ever again.Who learn to live on two levels, to hide things, to deny their real emotions.” I break off.“We’re not all as bad as that, I hope!”“Maybe not.But it can never be right.Not at eight! They’re just babies at eight.”“Ah, now that’s another argument altogether.”“It certainly is!”I’m glad when he lets it go and says after a short silence, “I’ll do what I can, Ellen.”I exhale slowly.“Margaret said you wanted to see me about something?”“Would you mind? It won’t take long.Shall I come over tomorrow evening?”“No,” I say immediately, calculating that I can make a duty call to Diana on the way.“No.I’ll come to you.”We fix on eight.I answer three more letters of condolence.If I had qualms about what to say, they seem to have faded, and I pitch my reply in the sort of brave understatement and widowly fortitude that is expected of me.By the end of the third letter I have polished one or two phrases until they have something of a ring to them.The more poignant the words, the less they seem to relate to me or Harry, though writing ‘We will miss him very much’ still fills my throat with sadness.I put my pen down and watch the darkness creep out from beneath the thick canopy of beech trees.I am beginning to miss my talks with Bob Block; I miss his robust guidance, his benign good sense, his refusal to register the slightest shock.I try to imagine what he would tell me now.To take one day at a time? To start to put the past behind me and get on with my life? But how, Bob? How can I take one day at a time when each day brings new and disturbing shifts? How can I get on with my life when the past blocks every turn?It is eleven a.m.California time.Bob will be with a client and, even if he calls me back, he’s unlikely to have more than a minute or so to spare.A letter would, anyway, be better.The writing will be cathartic; I might not even need to send it.I’ve never learnt to use Harry’s personal computer, and Margaret’s electronic typewriter, which has come from the office, has complicated things like memories and deletion systems that I don’t understand.In the end I fetch my comfortable old portable from its home on a high shelf in the utility room.I set it up, dusty and battered, on the shiny surface of Harry’s desk, and search for paper.The desk drawers contain nothing but a few sheets of Ainswick stationery, and some notepaper headed ‘Harry Richmond’ in grey 24-point Times Europa Bold.I designed the letterhead, my only direct contribution to Harry’s business.The rest of the stationery is kept in one of the cupboards that support the long line of bookshelves.Inside, on the top shelf, are boxes of printed paper in various styles, with a sample of its contents fixed to the lid.Below are the headed cards and compliments slips.And on the bottom shelf the plain A4, three boxes of it, from which I draw five or six sheets.I wind a sheet into the machine.I sit and look at the last streaks of colour in the sky, I think about turning on more lights, I consider what I will say to Bob Block.Then, following some instinct to leave no corner of Harry’s world unexplored, I go back to the plain A4 and riffle through each box in turn.The sheets fan past my fingers, blank and innocent.I move to the boxes of printed stationery and go through each one: the two-thirds A4 headed ‘Pennygate’, the full size A4 of the same, the cards, the compliments slips, the ‘Harry Richmond’ paper in two different sizes.The box whose lid announces ‘Ainswick Properties Ltd’ (in scarlet 30-point Medici Script) contains a collection of different paper sizes, envelopes and compliments slips culminating, at the bottom, in full A4.I lift the block of A4 and let it ripple past my thumb, Ainswick…Ainswick…in a flickering lantern show of red print.The streak of black disturbs the flow of scarlet like a flaw in a jewel.Even as I go back and draw out the sheet, I know what I will see.Ever since Tim Schwartz’s visit I have been glimpsing this in some recess of my imagination.I sink back on my heels and read in black 36-point Century Old Style: Mountbay (Guernsey) Ltd.Chapter 7“Simmonds Mitchell.” A female voice, professionally uplifting.To my annoyance I stumble, I explain myself awkwardly.“Do you want billing or broking?”I hesitate
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