Amherst: A Novel - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

William Nicholson is a screenwriter, playwright, television writer, and novelist. In addition to his Academy Award–nominated screenplays for Shadowlands and Gladiator, he is the author of Motherland; several young adult and fantasy novels; and a sequence of contemporary adult novels set in England. He lives in Sussex, England.

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Amherst

1

The screen is black. The sound of a pen nib scratching on paper, the sound amplified, echoing in the dark room. A soft light flickers, revealing ink tracking over paper. Follow the forming letters to read:

I’ve none to tell me to but thee

The area of light expands. A small maplewood desk, on which the paper lies. A hand holding the pen.

My hand, my pen, my words. My gift of love, ungiven.

Lay down the pen and cross the room. The light in the room grows. There’s a window on the far side. Outside it’s daylight.

Now the window frames the view. A road, a hedge, a strip of land planted with trees and shrubs. A path runs between the trees to the neighboring house, the Evergreens. A middle-aged man is coming down the path, his head a little bowed.

I know him well, I love him dearly. He is my brother.

Moving faster now, across the bedroom, out onto the landing. To the right is a bright window, to the left, a flight of stairs. Down the stairs, the hem of a white dress brushing the banisters, to come to a stop in the hall. The door to the parlor is ajar.

Pause before the almost closed door. Through the crack a thin slice of the room is visible within: a fire burning in the grate, a wing chair by the fire, the middle-aged man settling himself down with a sigh into the chair.

I know that sigh. I know that he’s unhappy. I know that he leaves his home and comes to my house because he finds no joy in his marriage. I am his refuge.

Open the door, and enter. He raises his bowed head. He has a heavy lined face, a sweep of thick hair above a high forehead, bushy whiskers. He smiles.

“Here I am again,” he says.

Sit down before him, not speaking, waiting for him to speak. After a little while he rises to his feet, paces up and down before the fire. He talks in fits and starts, as if to himself.

“I’ve been remembering Mattie, Mattie Gilbert, Sue’s sister. You liked her, I know. She was the quiet one. She was fond of me, I think. I wrote her a letter, after Sue and I became engaged, but she never answered. Now I wake in the night and think, What if I’d married Mattie?”

He paces in silence for a few moments. Then he comes to a stop and stands before the fire, his eyes cast down.

“I had such great hopes. And what have I left? I have nothing.”

Reach out a hand and touch his arm.

“I call it very unkind of you, brother.”

He smiles at that.

“Am I the unkind one?”

“You think only of yourself. Remember, you’re living for me too.”

“What am I to do?”

“There’s joy to be had in the world,” I say. “You’re to find us joy.”