By Nia Wyn
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Additional resources for Blue Sky July
Sometimes Alex stands in the living room and stares at the photographs on the wall as if we’re trapped inside them, as if we’ve been kidnapped into another world. Sometimes, when Joe arches back in the night, he holds him with arms and hands turned upward, like an offering to the gods. One night Alex sits up all through, staring out at the flat, wet stars, and next morning he says: “It’s like death,” and slams the door. I watch him walk under the small shape of sky trapped between the chimney pots of Market Road and bury his head in the steering wheel of his silver car.
Judit arrives at seven-thirty on the dot each morning, our private Peto-trained conductor, who charges fifteen pounds an hour and has her own key. She comes into our room and lifts him out of our bed. We roll toward each other, Alex and I, as she carries him through to the front, opens the blinds and the light stretches down the landing and over the wooden floors into our room. We listen as we lie here and can now predict her every line. ” Judit ends her strict routine with a butterfly kiss, putting her eye-lash to his cheek and fluttering it.
He holds me as if I’m godsent. In the study, the quietest room on the landing, we have filled four brown boxes to make room for the nursery. Odd bits and pieces, old camera parts, articles and magazines—stuff we don’t need and can live without. Alex has filed all his photographs in one and I’ve thrown letters and diaries in another. They sit side-by-side now, In two little piles of word and light, waiting to go up to the attic. There’s been a sense of recueillie in Market Road, a gathering in of who we are, as we’ve idled away these hours, sorting through photographs and flicking through diaries.