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‘but what am i supposed to do？“ i asked miss winter。
‘cut my hair； of course。“
‘cut your hair？“
‘yes。 don’t look like that。 there’s nothing to it。“
‘but i don’t know how。“
‘just take the scissors and cut。“ she sighed。 ”i don’t care how you do it。 i don’t care what it looks like。 just get rid of it。“
‘but i—“
“please。”
reluctantly i took up position behind her。 after two days in bed； her hair was a tangle of orange； wiry threads。 it was dry to the touch； so dry i almost expected it to crackle； and punctuated with gritty little knots。
‘i’d better brush it first。“
the knots were numerous。 though she spoke not a word of reproach； i felt her flinch at every brushstroke。 i put the brush down； it would be kinder to simply cut the knots out。
tentatively i made the first cut。 a few inches off the ends； halfway down her back。 the blades sheared cleanly through the hair； and the clippings fell to the sheet。
‘shorter than that；“ miss winter said mildly。
‘to here？“ i touched her shoulders。
‘shorter。“
i took a lock of hair and snipped at it nervously。 an orange snake slithered to my feet； and miss winter began to speak。
i remember a few days after the funeral； i was in hester’s old room。 not for any special reason。 i was just standing there； by the window； staring at nothing。 my fingers found a little ridge in the curtain。 a tear that she had mended。 hester was a very neat needlewoman。 but there was a bit of thread that had e loose at the end。 and in an idle； rather absent sort of way； i began to worry at it。 i had no intention of pulling it； i had no intention of any sort； really… but all of a sudden； there it was； loose in my fingers。 the thread； the whole length of it； zigzagged with the memory of the stitches。 and the hole in the curtain gaping open。 now it would start to fray。
john never liked having hester at the house。 he was glad she went。 but the fact remained： if hester had been there； john would not have been on the roof。 if hester had been there； no one would have meddled with the safety catch。 if hester had been there； that day would have dawned like any other day； and as on any other day； john would have gone about his business in the garden。 when the bay window cast its afternoon shadow over the gravel； there would have been no ladder； no rungs； no john sprawled on the ground to be taken in by its chill。 the day would have e and gone like any other； and at the end of it john would have gone to bed and slept soundly； without even a dream of falling through the empty air。
if hester had been there。
i found that fraying hole in the curtain utterly unbearable。
i had been snipping at miss winter’s hair all the time she was talking； and when it was level with her earlobes； i stopped。
she lifted a hand to her head and felt the length。
‘shorter；“ she said。
i picked up the scissors again and carried on。
the boy still came every day。 he dug and weeded and planted and mulched。 i supposed he kept ing because of the money he was owed。 but when the solicitor gave me some cash—“to keep you going till your uncle gets back”—and i paid the boy； he still kept ing。 i watched him from the upstairs windows。 more than once he looked up in my direction and i jumped out of view； but on one occasion he caught sight of me； and when he did； he waved。 i did not wave back。
every morning he brought vegetables to the kitchen door； sometimes with a skinned rabbit or a plucked hen； and every afternoon he came to collect the peelings for the post。 he lingered in the doorway； and now that i had paid him； more often than not he had a cigarette between his lips。
i had finished john’s cigarettes； and it annoyed me that the boy could smoke and i couldn’t。 i never said a word about it； but one day； shoulder against the door frame； he caught me eyeing the pack of cigarettes in his breast pocket。
‘swap you one for a cup of tea；“ he said。
he came into the kitchen—it was the first time he had actually e in since the day john died—and sat in john’s chair； elbows on the table。 i sat in the chair in the corner； where the missus used to sit。 we drank our tea in silence and exhaled cigarette smoke that rose upward toward the dingy ceiling in lazy clouds and spirals。 when we had taken our last drag and stubbed the cigarettes out on our saucers； he rose without a word； walked out of the kitchen and returned to his work。 but the next day； when he knocked with the vegetables； he walked straight in； sat in john’s chair and tossed a cigarette across to me before i had even put the kettle on。
we never spoke。 but we had our habits。
emmeline； who never rose before lunchtime； sometimes spent the afternoons outdoors looking on as the boy did his work。 i scolded her about it。 “you’re the daughter of the house。 he’s a gardener。 for god’s sake； emmeline！” but it made no difference。 she would smile her slow smile at anyone who caught her fancy。 i watched them closely； mindful of what the missus had told me about men who couldn’t see isabelle without wanting to touch her。 but the boy showed no indication of wanting to touch emmeline； though he spoke kindly to her and liked to make her laugh。 i couldn’t be easy in my mind about it； though。
sometimes from an upstairs window i would watch the two of them together。 one sunny day i saw her lolling on the grass； head on hand； supported by her elbow。 it showed the rise from her waist to her hips。 he turned his head to answer something she said and while he looked at her； she rolled onto her back； raised a hand and brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead。 it was a languorous； sensuous movement that made me think she would not mind it if he did touch her。
but when the boy had finished what he was saying； he turned his back to emmeline as though he hadn’t seen and continued his work。
the next morning we were smoking in the kitchen。 i broke our usual silence。
‘don’t touch emmeline；“ i told him。
he looked surprised。 “i haven’t touched emmeline。”
‘good。 well； don’t。“
i thought that was that。 we both took another drag on our cigarettes and i prepared to lapse back into si