"I've cooked dinner," said Harold, with a shy, crooked smile when she (finally) opened the door.
"Thank you, Harold," she said.
The words tasted odd in her mouth, like the thickened balls one put in one's wardrobe to keep the moths away from the coats. Why should she thank him for cooking dinner?
And yet she felt, somehow, that it ought to be said. Perhaps it was because Eustace Clarence would always say thank you for cooking, and she and Harold were so used to hearing it. That must be it, a matter of habit.
But when she looked up, there was a small glow in Harold's eyes, and something in her softened.
"What did you prepare?" she asked, so gently she half surprised herself.
"Couscous- with the last of the capsicum."
He looked so proud, standing there with the tea towel still curled around his left hand, so like Eustace Clarence (when he had pinned his first butterfly, traced out his first diagram of a simple circuit). It was as though a hand thrust itself into her back and twisted, as one would wind a clock.
She burst into tears.
"What, Alberta- it's all right," she heard him say distantly, worriedly, felt his arms slowly rubbing her own. "It's not gummy or dry, I tested it- you don't need to worry about last time-"
And how, how very like Harold to completely misunderstand her! How like a man!
(But then, that wasn't true, not entirely. And she was tired- tired- of the bitterness that crept in after those thoughts, cyanide vines seeping and withering into her bones.)
"It's all right," she said instead, briskly fishing out her handkerchief. It would have been so much more effective and efficient if a suspiciously mucus-like substance had chosen not to drip from her face to her sleeve. "And- I wasn't thinking about your last couscous salad."
(It had been amusing, Harold's first attempt at cooking couscous. She had of course been angry at the time- supplies had not been particularly high then, and he had wasted a perfectly good amount of the semolina by soaking it in boiling water. Dinner had been so dreadfully gluggy that, in the end, they had ended up having pears and tea for dinner. Eustace Clarence had thrown a sulk, and Harold had not entered the kitchen for three months.)
Hesitant relief filled Harold's face, and she smiled at him (how wan her smile must look).
"Well," he said, twisting the tea towel around his other arm, "shall we eat, then?"
"I spoke with Mark- about the lease," said Harold, after they had sat down. "He says it should be fine; apparently Frances Partridge has been making some enquiries to the firm as to a place in London, though it doesn't seem that she and Ralph have any intention of selling Ham Spray just yet. And- well, being in Bloomsbury…"
"Of course," said Alberta, taking up her cup and forcing down a sip. "Ideal, naturally."
Why was her water shaking?
Belatedly, she realised it was her hand, and she quickly placed the cup back on the table.
"Susan says thank you," she added, as the water slashed its way down her throat.
He moved forwards in his chair, peered at her.
"Alberta," he began slowly, and she bit her lip. "Alberta, what happened?"
"I don't know what happened," she snapped caustically. "Am I supposed to be able to describe everything to you, Harold?"
He looked somewhat taken aback, and she felt a flush of triumph.
"I only asked because- oh damn it, Alberta, I just wanted to know how you are."
He eyed her plate, stabbed some more capsicum onto her couscous.
Would you like some vegetables with that knife?
"Well, I don't know," she snapped, disliking how petulant her words sounded. "Thank you, Harold."
He looked at her coolly.
"There's no need to take that tone, I only wanted to see if I can help," he said edgily.
"I have lost my brother and my son to a wayward train. Unless you can change that then you probably can't," she bit out.
Harold looked as though he had been struck. His mouth opened, shut, and he swallowed, his face bloating red then draining of all colour.
"You don't own grief, Alberta," was all he said.
The scrape of fork against cold ceramic plate formed uneven stitches in fraying air.
You don't own grief!
What a thing to say! As if grief was something to be owned, something that she wanted! As if she wanted that horrible ache that throbbed constantly, pulsed whenever she passed Eustace Clarence's room, saw that wretched painting, visited Susan, thought of the dear Jills; as if she wanted that!
And she did know that Harold was hurting! (Even if he was always the one to reach out to her, the one to ask if-)
She stabbed a piece of capsicum rather fiercely and it clattered off her plate. As she picked it up, she glanced over at Harold, her mouth already open-
- but something in his face had changed in the past few moments. It was almost like one of Mama's unfinished drawn-work patterns that she and Victor had divvied up all those years ago; a subtle loosening of the thread here, a gap there, and something lurking in the nothingness here here I am here.
The triumph turned sour in her stomach and the shame settled like a heavy shroud about her throat. Her words echoed in her ears- childish, petulant, cruel.
Something burned against her skin, and she had the oddest vision (and that in itself was odd, because visions and imaginings were Victor's thing, not hers). Yet it was as though she was standing atop a tall mountain- and all she could see was herself and a darkness, like clouds before a storm, gathering beneath. She tried to look upwards, or across, but her gaze was fixed, and she could see nothing except the clouds rushing up to meet her, and herself falling- half hidden in cloud- now shrouded in shade.
You don't own grief.
"I should not have said that," Harold's voice said, cutting into her thoughts, and suddenly the mountain and the clouds and darkness dispersed, and she was still holding her fork, unmoving.
"No," she said slowly, "maybe not the way you said it. But I think-" (and she didn't want to say the words to realise them and realise their truth she didn't want to say didn't)- she swallowed. "I think I needed to hear them."
Her neck felt heavy, but she felt she should look at Harold, and so she raised her head (slowly slowly) to meet his gaze. There was something warm and different in his eyes. Relief? (Pride?)
And the unspoken words threaded the air with a palpable pulse, and Harold smiled gently at her, gesturing the corner of his mouth until she wiped away the stray food, and she felt something oddly like peace nestle against her.
A/N: I initially joined this chapter to the next one but it just didn't work. Next chapter should be up tomorrow or so; if they're better off joined together, just say so in the review. Not that I live upon them, but reviews would be appreciated J