Free Somewhere Over England by Margaret Graham

door. She turned out the light to check that it was lightproof and it was.
    She turned on the light again and ran her hands down her dress. She had not put on an apron and she was dirty but it did not matter. Sweat was running down her back but that did not matter either. She carried in the stool so that she could work at the hinged board comfortably. She lifted the board easily, peering into the bath, knowing that it would be adequate for the wet work, for the cascade system which she had made for herself. She set up the trays one above the other beneath the taps, then watched the water fall from one level to the next and realised that she was crying.
    She put the board back and set up the portable red light then went to collect her camera. Using the changing bag, she loaded the film on to the tank reel inside the bag, then put the reel in the tank. Later, much later, she had developed, printed and enlarged the photograph that Marian had taken of her andChristoph. It was lopsided but they were both smiling, holding hands, and it was full of love. She carried it to the bedroom and took from its frame her wedding photograph, throwing it on the bed. She then inserted the one of herself and her son and placed it on her bedside table. Then she took Christoph’s mattress through to his old room, and dragged his bed after her. It caught on the door but she unscrewed the feet and there was room. She took the toys, the books and finally her son, carrying him close to her, whispering into his hair before placing him in his own bed, in his own room. She then sat in the sitting-room, which was also their dining-room, and waited.
    Heine came in alone at two in the morning, his face white, his lips tight. His grey jacket was unbuttoned and he smelt of cigarette smoke and beer. He threw his hat on to the square table.
    ‘How dare you?’ he said. ‘How dare you shame me before my friends? Are you a child that you behave like this?’
    He stood before her, looming large, but she was not intimidated. The smell of beer was stronger now and she could hear his breathing, heavy but fast. His keys bulged in his trouser pocket.
    ‘Sit down, Heine,’ she said. Her voice was not hard or cold. It held nothing. ‘Sit down.’
    But he did not and so she stood, pushing herself up from the chair, feeling its wooden arm beneath her hand as she did so. ‘I am not a child. Your child is in that room, in his bedroom where he will remain. Is that quite clear?’
    Heine shook his head, shrugging his shoulders. ‘What a fuss about nothing. Does it matter where a child sleeps?’ He pointed to Christoph’s room. ‘In there, or in our room. What does it matter?’
    ‘It matters to me. I am his mother, he is my responsibility.’
    ‘I am his father, he is mine too. I love him.’ Heine’s voice was rising, his hand gripped her arm.
    ‘Do you, do you really?’ Helen was shouting now. ‘So where were you today? Where have you been for the four years of his life? We love you but we don’t know you any more.’ She pulled from his grasp. ‘We were going to fight the battles together.’
    He grabbed at her, spun her round. ‘You are a child, you see? It is only yourself you care about. Only yourself. Can’t you see that we are just fragments in comparison to this greattragedy? Just fragments.’ His face was close to hers now and she could smell the cigarette smoke on his breath and the beer, stronger still.
    She reached up and gripped his lapels, shaking him backwards and forwards. ‘How dare you call my son a fragment? Or me. We are not fragments, we are people. We are your family. You will not ignore us, you will not watch me cooking for your friends, working for money to feed them and then call us fragments.’ Her knuckles were white, her voice high, loud, insane. What was she saying, for God’s sake? Whose mad voice was this coming from her mouth, shaking the man she loved? What had happened to them?
    He slapped her then, breaking her hold on