Their story was simple, almost textbook, you might say: theyd been classmates since Year One, and by Year Eleven, theyd fallen in love. That love blossomed over their last two years of school, admired by everyone because both were beautiful, and their bond seemed pure and noble. Everyone assumed theyd marry after graduationit was only a matter of time. Oliver and Emily.
And Olivers faith that this would happen was as unshakable as a Scouts oath. Emily, in turn, never doubted Oliver, trusting him as surely as the chimes of Big Ben on New Years Eve.
As their form tutor, I admired them both. Oliver was disciplined, driven, already set on becoming a barrister, so he focused on history and politics. Emily, meanwhile, was destined to be the greatest English writer of all timethats how Oliver put it. She wrote endless medieval romances, which Oliver always read first. I was the second reader, naturally, since I taught them English literatureand language, of course.
Her stories had it all: love so fierce it made Her renounce every worldly comfort, while He battled endlessly to protect Her. There were castles, drawbridges over chasms, wicked stepmothers, and fathers blind to their childrens happiness, forcing their own vision upon them. Yet, in the end, the dark enchantments shatteredonly for Her, or Him, to die unexpectedly in the final act. Truth triumphed, but always too late, leaving a bittersweet ache.
Despite these florid tales, both Oliver and I believed in Emily. Oliver because his heart and eyes seemed forever bound to her. Me because, beneath the ornate prose, shone startlingly precise wordssometimes whole images:
…the brittle husks of last autumns leaves crackled underfoot…
…the monks cowls, drifting above the crowd, loomed like sugar-loaves of sin…
…the door yawned heavily, and the room sank back into morning slumber…
I remember them still.
But all things end. They left school.
Emily won a place at a prestigious creative writing programme, studying under a celebrated poet. She invited me to a few workshops, where I even met one of Larkins old friends. She wrote effortlessly, published earlyfirst year, even. I was proud of her. Proud of myself, too, for nurturing her talent.
Oliver was proud only of her. After each new publication, hed visit me at school, fidgeting as I read, urging me to linger on certain passages, then searching my face: Well? That single word held everythinghope, adoration, the fierce protectiveness of a soul barely twenty.
Yet Olivers mother never approved of Emily. Subtly, relentlessly, she worked to unravel their love, too shrewd to recruit meshe knew Id oppose her. Instead, she drowned me in sickly sweetness, like being force-fed tea laced with syrup, jam, ice cream, chocolates, honeyall offered with a smile that masked its cruelty.
In the end, she succeeded. Oliver left to study law at Oxford. Emily told me first, arriving at school with the hollow stare of a tragic heroine, declaring it meant nothingtheyd marry once he graduated. His leaving was a blessing, she insisted: she had a book deal pending, coursework to finish.
For a while, things settled. Both studiedhim west of Paris, her east, as shed say on her rare visits. Oliver wrote even less; life in Oxford was steady, dull.
Then, a year later, Emily appeared unexpectedly, inviting me to her weddingto a fellow student, a poet. Though hes in the poetry stream, she added, as if that were the greatest hurdle. Her eyes warned against questions. I asked none. Life, after all, unfolds as it must.
No need for grand quotes. Another love had fallen. Another victory for grown-up reason. Another statistically perfect family. Soon, Oliver would likely forge his own.
Emily never visited again. Oliver neither.
Then, yesterday, leaving school after sixth periodMay, golden, brimming with youthI spotted Oliver, older now but unmistakable. Sixteen years, at least.
Hello. I waited for you. He spoke briskly. Yes, married. Two daughters. Work? My own firm. Emilys husband died. Nine days today. Shes alone with their girl. Come with meIve got the car.
His eyes held the same unspoken warning. I asked nothing. Some truths need no words. Life simply is.
