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
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
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.