**Diary Entry**
It all began quite simply, almost textbook-perfect, Id say: theyd been in the same class since primary school, and by the time they reached sixth form, theyd fallen in love. That love blossomed over their last two years of school, charming everyone around themboth were lovely to look at, and their bond seemed pure and noble. Everyone assumed theyd marry after graduation; it was just a matter of time. Oliver and Emily.
And Olivers faith that it would happen was as unshakable as a Scouts honour. Emily, for her part, never doubted himher trust in him was as certain as Big Ben chiming at midnight on New Years Eve.
As their form tutor, I adored them both. Oliver was disciplined, driven, already mapping out his future as a barrister, which meant he poured himself into history and politics. Emily, meanwhile, was destined to become the greatest English novelist of all time, or so Oliver declared. She wrote endless chivalric romances, which he always read first. I was the second reader, naturally, since I taught their English lit and language classes.
Her stories had everything: heart-wrenching love, the kind where She renounced all worldly comforts, and He fought endlessly to protect Her. Castles, drawbridges over bottomless chasms, wicked mothers and domineering fathers who, blind to their childrens true happiness, imposed their own idea of it. Yet in the end, the dark enchantments shatteredonly for Her, or Him, to perish in the final pages. Truth triumphed, but always too late, leaving a bittersweet ache.
Despite the florid tales, Oliver and I believed in our Emily. Oliver because his heart and eyes seemed forever bound to her. Me because, every now and then, a startlingly precise phrase would cut through the ornate prose: *The brittle husks of last autumns leaves crackled underfoot* or *The monks cowls drifted above the crowd like sugarloaves of sin* or *The door groaned open, and the house sank back into morning slumber* Bits of her writing still cling to my memory.
But all things end, sooner or later. They left school. Emily won a place at a prestigious writing programme, studying under a celebrated poet. She invited me to a few workshops, where I once heard a friend of Larkins speak. She excelled, publishing earlyby her first year, even. I was proud of her. Proud of myself, too. After all, Id spotted her talent, nurtured it, helped it grow.
Olivers pride was hers alone. With every new publication, hed visit me at school, fidgeting as I read, rubbing his hands, pointing out passages I *had* to revisit. Then hed search my face and ask, *Well?* That single word held everything: awe, hope, a jealous dread of criticism, love, adorationthe whole fervent soul of a man not yet twenty.
Yet Olivers mother never warmed to Emily. Dont know why. She worked subtly, patiently, to unravel their love, careful that neither noticed. She didnt enlist meknew Id be no allybut stayed cordial, even overly so. How? Imagine drinking tea already laden with jam, syrup, and ice cream, then being pressed to take sweets, honey, more. A greeting so cloying it curdles into cruelty.
In the end, she succeeded. Oliver left to study law at Oxford. Emily told me first, arriving at school with the *clouded gaze of a sorceress,* her voice hollow as she announced it. Then she brightened: once he graduated, theyd marry. His leaving was *good*, she insistedshed landed a book deal, needed to clear university debts. Now shed have time.
And so, peace returned. They studiedjust not together. He was a tad west of Paris, shed say, a smidge east. Visits grew rare. Oliver wrote even lesslife in Oxford was steady, dull.
Then, a year later, Emily appeared unannounced. An invitationto her wedding. To a classmate. *A poet,* she added, as if that were the real hurdle. Her look warned against questions. I asked none. Life, after all, unfolds as it must.
No need to feign wisdom here. You know how it goes.
*The nightingales have sung their last for Davy and Nagul, the wheat whispers farewell, the nameless stream murmurs over stones from the high moors. And thats all*
All, indeed. Another love fallen. Another case of *grown-up sense prevailing.* Another tidy, ordinary family born. Soon, perhaps, Oliver would start his own.
Emily never came again. Moved away with her poet. Oliver, too, stayed gone.
Then yesterdayMay, warm, everything green and goldI left school after sixth period. There he stood, older but unmistakable. Sixteen years, at least.
*Hello. I waited Yes, alls well. Married, two girls. Work? My own firm. Emilys husband died. Nine days today. Shes alone with their daughter. Come see her. Ive the car.*
His eyes said: *Dont ask.* So I didnt. By then, I knew well enough how life works.
