And then, back to me: the tape measure. Mrs. Hanekom’s firm, feminine hands. So mooi ’n meisie is jou, she’d say. And my mother suggesting, commenting, speaking to Mrs. Hanekom, a red tulle this time, lovely! I said nothing.

I had worn one of the dresses, a pale blue one, to a dance with Howard, that was one of our first dates. Falling in love with Howard. I remembered it.

The dresses hung and rustled as I touched them then in the wardrobe, all those years later, their bell skirts jostling for room, like girls. I pushed the wardrobe door shut.

AFTER THE FEW DAYS IN VILLIERS we drove home to Johannesburg. We got home late on a Sunday afternoon, the children tired and happy, they still had school holidays for a while, they would see some of their friends, swim in the pool, that week. Howard, especially, seemed revived. He’d lost his preoccupied look, and laughed and played more readily with the children. Emilyyyyyyy!! the children called, Chester!!!!! Teddy!!!! The dogs bounded to greet us, Emily came out of her room in the yard, she wasn’t in her uniform, she wore a brown skirt, a blouse, the only one I’d ever seen her wear, when not in her uniform.

We were home.

And Joseph. Everything alright with Joseph, Howard asked. Yes, Emily said. I just carried on with the meals, with the food. All the same with Joseph, she said. I felt a small release, some part of me must have been worried, and I think Howard too. Who knows what might have happened in our absence? The men still coming at night to pick him up, Emily? I asked. Oh, yes, same-same, she said. Just the same. Wake me up every time, the dogs, but is fine, is fine.

Perhaps, I thought, I would visit my painting again. My painting, so long abandoned, some days I didn’t think of it at all.

AFTER JOSIAS CAME HOME on January 2nd, I felt we were complete, our family. Our household. I thought of us as shipwrecked survivors, of a strange and violent storm. I had no idea what was still to come.

And the next week I went to see Eric. I’d not been for a while. He was stacking boxes on a ladder at the back of the store when I came in, and I felt a rush of gratitude for him, for his friendship. I’d missed him, I thought.

I’ve not been painting at all, I said, explaining, I thought, my long absence. Eric made us tea, his milky, mine black, and brought a plate of his biscuits. We settled on his high chairs, and the shop, as usual, was quiet. It was ours, our space. Then a woman came in, a customer, and Eric had to answer some questions from her, help her find something, while I sat alone on my chair and sipped my tea.

And then we caught up on each other’s news. My news, all my news, except for my secret, our secret, the secret in the corner of our lives, at the end of my garden. I talked about the stasis with my painting. It’s terrible, I told Eric. I told him about the sketches, the pencil sketches, my diversion: my trees. That’s alright, he said, what else can you do? He had been through fallow periods as well, perhaps every artist has. And Eric was still making his way. He took out some sketches of his own, studies for paintings. His hand was firm; they were good. He had an interest in figures, he drew figures in motion, figures at rest; figures in various states of undress; of dress. But his grasp of anatomy was strong, his sense of rhythm too. I told him so. We spent a companionable hour that way. I felt strengthened by it as I said goodbye, and drove home, slowly, slowly along the streets.