The ceilings were low. That was true. My mother had been right about that. Well what did I expect? The apartment was on the ground floor of a hulking great concrete building. A dumpy grey block that made no concessions to those that might be looking at it. It didn’t bow, or straighten up, or take off its hat. It only squatted on its patch of gravel, like a dog maybe, shitting in the grass.

I loved that about it. I specifically did, especially when I tumbled out of it in the morning with B, with E, with my hair a bit more wild than I would have liked and my skirt not matching my shirt, and everything pilled and wrinkled and pulling at me. I liked to have it behind me, my great big ugly building with my beautiful apartment nestled safe inside it like a pearl.

It didn’t even have balconies or window boxes, the building. It wasn’t that kind of place. If the people that lived in the other apartments had beautiful things, if they were stylish, if they loved flowers, lace underwear or a particular shade of purple, they kept all this to themselves, behind their various doors. I had heard that was the way of things here, and it seemed to be true. People kept to themselves. Only, if you were out walking and threw something into the bin and missed and pretended not to, or really didn’t, see that you’d missed and started to walk away from the wrapper or receipt that was lying next to, but not in, the bin, then people would talk to you. Did you see that? they would say. Did you see what you just did?

There was a park with a sandbox and a water pump behind the building. We could get there by means of a little path that led between our building and the identical one next to it. I liked the path because it was always filled with tiny old ladies walking tiny old dogs and I could practise saying bonjour to them and they would nod and smile no matter how garbled I sounded. Sometimes speaking French was like having your mouth filled with rocks and expecting your tongue to just leap, flying over all the dips and drops and cracks in the words, in the sounds of them.

Our first Saturday in the apartment, M and I had made a great show of buying real Swiss-made toys to use at the park. E had chosen each toy with that grave attention particular to four-year-olds: an adjustable hand rake, a trowel and a miniature hoe. The tools were made out of wood and metal, painted red, and on each handle a tiny Swiss flag had been drawn by hand. B, being only a baby, didn’t need a toy of course, but we bought him a wooden cow to set by his crib, to watch him sleep with its peaceful hand-painted eyes. They were expensive, the tools, the cow, but M laughed away the price at the register. We were going to live like real Swiss people: toys would be handmade, expensive, beautiful, sparse and practical. For the tools we also bought the matching red-leather carry bag. We kept them by the door and I loved holding them as much as E did. The soft weight of the perfectly turned wood felt pure and promising against my skin, as if in Switzerland the trees grew without splinters, and took the shape of handles easily, without even needing to be cut. Everything was right and natural and clean, everything fell into line and stayed there.