Louise Hudson

Emily always sleeps with the window open. 

Even in the colder months, when the wind howls across the hills and the air in the room cools so much that her breath becomes visible in slow, gentle puffs. Even when other people are pulling their blinds down and their curtains tight, carefully putting on extra layers and finding an additional quilt to curl up beneath. Even when she knows she’s going to wake up with her toes, ears and nose so cold that she needs to pull the blankets right over her head to warm up. Even then, the window stays open. 

The window itself is heavy and takes some effort to push up. Their house is old, built in the early Victorian era, and has retained much of its grace and elegance from times gone by. The ceilings are high, the rooms pale and airy, and they have all the space they could want. She spends her days decorating or adding vases of flowers here and there, strategically placing books and magazines to enhance her country-chic aesthetic, and enjoys pulling back the curtains, shaking them out, and pinning them in place so she can gaze out over the rolling fields down to the forest beyond. And, of course, cleaning the high, thick-paned windows. 

The summer months are the most enjoyable, in every way of course, but lying in bed with the window open during the hotter months of the year is one of her favourite things to do. The air is warm and balmy, the breeze poking gently through her hair and causing the curtains to sway, and the sounds of her garden rising up to the bedroom window. Owls, calling to each other in lilting hoots, foxes barking into the darkness, birds fluttering past the window, and the snuffling of hedgehogs poking through her flowerbeds. From where her bed is positioned, she can see out of the window and up, up into the endless inky skies scattered with stars and she can imagine worlds upon worlds just out of reach. Sometimes, when it’s cloudy and the stars are hidden from her, she chooses shapes in the clouds – her method of counting sheep. A rabbit here. A rainbow over there. A baby, just at the edge of her vision.

It’s been a long time since Emily has spent any time at all with a baby, and for that she is mostly thankful. Her children are older now, and asleep in their own beds just along the corridor, their breath flowing slowly and evenly. Her eldest daughter with her golden hair swept up into a loose braid and her nails painted pink, her son with his arms wrapped lovingly around his favourite bear even though he would never admit as much to anyone, and her youngest daughter with her thumb in her mouth, snuffling in her sleep and turning over to hug her pillow. 

Emily lies alone in the darkness, thinks of the peaceful faces of her children as they lose themselves in dreamland, and she smiles. Jane, so strong-willed even at barely ten years old, determined to follow in the footsteps of her father and go to medical school. Matthew, quiet and bookish, her forever shadow. And Alice, curly-haired and bright, always smiling, always getting into mischief. They keep her young, the children, and they keep her smiling. It hadn’t been easy at first, their attempts at having a child fruitless and filled with sorrow, but eventually they were blessed with a baby, then went on to have two more. Emily had always wanted a full, lively home, filled with joy and happiness, and she’s one of the lucky ones. She’s been granted her wish. 

Deep in the house somewhere, she can hear the dog scuffling around, no doubt in his attempts to get comfortable in his own soft bed. He’s old now, finds it difficult to climb the stairs so she often carries him up so he can sleep at her feet, but not tonight. Tonight she wants the bedroom all to herself, wants to burrow beneath the blankets if she feels like it or throw them off if she becomes too warm. It’s that time of year now, where the nights are growing shorter and the days drawing out, and deciding what clothes to wear to bed can become a little hard. She usually sheds a layer during the night, waking only in her husband’s t-shirt, the aroma of his cologne lingering around her and she misses him greatly.

She should try to sleep, she knows she should. It’s growing late and she has a long day ahead, but her mind is alight with a million thoughts. She’s been reflective of late, the milestone of her thirty-fifth birthday on the horizon and the many accomplishments in her life, both recent and from some time ago, are being brought to the forefront of her mind like a beautiful carousel, turning slowly so as to be admired from all sides. 

She’s had a full, rich life already, resplendent with trips to the far-flung corners of the globe, sent there by her job or following her partner at the time and her friends. She spent the days basking in the sunshine and the nights in the languid pleasure of friendship and romance, exploring the world around her and the people she met on the way. She moved from one country to the next, one island to another, always on the move and never thinking to put down roots until later, when she returned home. She found that the years of travel had enriched her, yet made her so fond of her own small village that staying and settling down with her childhood sweetheart seemed the most natural thing to do.

Then, later still, a wedding. A beautiful affair with flowers everywhere and a golden summer’s day, where they cut the cake and drank champagne and laughed, and laughed, and laughed. They kept the company of their friends until the early hours, then the next morning flew to Paris for a week of culture, contentment and, of course, more champagne. The nights there were her favourite, and remain so until this day. Standing on their balcony while her husband slept, wrapped in a cashmere blanket, looking out over the city of love and its glittering lights, mirrored in the sky by the sparkle of endless stars. The aroma of nighttime in the city, sweet perfumes and wine, bread already baking for the morning breakfasts, the air cool and fresh in her lungs. She had pulled the balcony doors closed behind her and leaned on the railings, gazing up into the sky, feeling a swell of happiness that felt as though it would last forever. Her hair had been long then, a dark caramel, flowing down her back as the breeze stroked through it and she pushed it back off her face, a habit formed long ago. 

Sleep that night had come like the crashing of the waves, immediate and deep, the peaceful sleep that only the truly content can ever experience. She had woken entwined with him, his arms around her and his face buried in her neck, and neither had moved until long after breakfast. Yet the smell of baking pastry followed them the rest of the day, and they certainly didn’t go hungry. 

He’s a strong, quiet man, her husband. Known among his peers for his intellect and wry wit, known among their friends for his ability to choose the best wine at a dinner party and as the best person to ask obscure general knowledge questions to, and known to his children as the person who builds the best snowmen in winter and the person who can always make them smile through their tears.

To her, he’s just Henry. Her very own Henry. Slightly absent-minded, slightly rounder in the face than he once was, always able to make her laugh that loud snort that she knows is so undignified, complains about the price of bread and milk, Henry. And tonight, he isn’t here. 

He works a lot. The Dean of Medicine at the university in the capital, he spends many nights away but she’s used to it by now. She doesn’t mind, and quietly values the evenings spent with the children, then in her own company once they’ve been put to bed and read their required stories and cuddled and given warm milk to help them drift off. A glass of wine and a book, either by the fire when it’s cold and frost glistens on the window panes, or out on the terrace in summer as the nights grow lighter and lighter. She goes to bed late when he’s away, undresses slowly and hangs her clothes up in the wardrobe before turning to their private bathroom to wash her face and hands, remove the faint traces of make-up she wears out of habit now more than anything else, brush her hair and tie it up, then climb into bed and enjoy a comfortable sigh at the feel of the high thread count sheets. Henry always buys her sheets for her; he knows how much she loves climbing into bed at the end of a long day, and habitually finds the best little shops to buy them from. 

Tonight, the sheets are pure Mulberry silk in a beautiful clear white, and she relishes the soft feel on her skin as she turns to lie on her side, looking up at the skies above. The pillowcase is cool beneath her cheek and she presses a hand in between the fabric and her skin, resting on her hand and sighing in contentment. A breeze flows pleasantly into the room and ruffles her hair, worn in a shorter style in recent years, and she pushes a few strands off her face. She can smell the fine, delicate scents of jasmine and lavender, planted directly below her bedroom window by Henry last summer, and she closes her eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply and filling her lungs with the balmy night air.

There had been a time when she wasn’t as happy being alone at night. When they had just moved to the countryside and she wasn’t quite used to how dark it could get, was unfamiliar with the bark of a fox or how low an owl would swoop when she went out to bring the laundry in from the line just after sunset. It unnerved her, and she wanted the warm security of Henry’s body to curl into while she slept. He stayed as often as he could, working remotely, but many days she waved him off as he left for the train in the mornings with tears in her eyes as her children pulled at her skirt and hands, wanting mummy even as she wanted nothing more than the return of their father. 

‘It isn’t for long,’ she would tell them, a gentle reassurance to herself more than to anyone else, as they gazed at her with wide, innocent eyes and half-smiles already lost to thoughts of ice cream and jigsaws and books and summer. ‘Not for long. Daddy will be home soon, of course he will.’

They would run off to play and she would wish for the evening, when she could be alone and miss him openly in quiet solitude.

She sometimes wonders what her friends and colleagues think of her, during idle moments when her mind wanders. Kind, she hopes. Generous, even more so. Conscientious and studious, absolutely. Funny, she’s sure. But what else? Successful? A good mother? A good friend?

Happy?

For she is all of those things, and so much more. A confident woman since her teenage years, she’s sure of herself and rarely falters. Usually, the outside validation isn’t needed, but occasionally it’s nice to be complimented on more than how lovely her hair looks or how superb the appetisers were at her dinner parties. Just occasionally.   

Down the corridor, one of the children stirs in their sleep. Matthew, she thinks, turning over to face the wall and sighing, lost in dreamland. The bedroom door always remains open too, a habit formed when the children were tiny and she would have to go to them in the night when they needed her. Now, they come to her if they wake in the night but those occurrences are becoming rarer and rarer as the years go by. She does miss it, sometimes. Little hands pulling at the quilt, the feel of a small body clambering into bed and tucking itself neatly at her side, cold little feet seeking warmth against her legs. She would wake in the morning at the edge of the bed, while her child sprawled happily across her side and Henry’s, feet on one pillow and head on the other, a sweet little smile greeting the morning light. Now, she does miss the presence of her little ones in bed with her, but the peace, quiet, and space are more than welcome. 

Sleep beckons. 

She still sees her friends, of course, although not as frequently as she once did. Marriage and motherhood and a career have eaten into the free time she once had, and now dinners and lunches and cocktail evenings are pencilled into the diary months in advance – years, on occasion. And her friendship group has shifted, too. More mothers from the school gates. But that’s alright. People change, as life changes. Time ebbs and flows without care, sweeping relationships along with it, bringing new people in and sometimes helping ease others out. Nothing can prevent it or change it. It just is, and always will be.

She can feel her eyelids growing heavy with it, the pace of her breath flowing slowly past her lips. Her shoulder rises and falls in a rhythm, no longer tense and held up towards her ear as it usually is during the day. She carries too much tension around, she knows she does. She’s enrolled in a mindfulness course and does meditation every morning, sitting in the shaft of sunlight beneath the window, legs folded gracefully, palms on her knees, eyes closed and her focus solely on her breath. It helps, sometimes. But sometimes she has too much to think about so she abandons her morning practice in favour of a cup of coffee alone in the kitchen before the children wake and join her, rubbing bleary eyes, still mostly asleep, asking for juice and fruit and pastries. 

She reads, of course, in an effort to wind down after long days at work, long evenings with the children, long weeks when Friday night seems entirely out of reach. Magazines mostly, on travel and culture and the arts, her attention span not quite what it was so books tend to make her drowsy rather than captivate her. But occasionally something will pique her interest and she’ll find the night half gone while she sits with her feet tucked beneath her on the sofa, the delicately-furnished living room lit only by one small lamp, as she turns page after page, lost in the world so intricately crafted by the words before her. Those nights are wonderful; she goes to bed with her mind full of colour and life, endless possibilities, and her dreams are vibrant and exciting and she wakes invigorated the following morning. 

She must read more, she thinks vaguely as she rubs her face against the silk pillowcase, eyes falling closed then being forced open again as the wind blows the curtains against the wall with a soft whoosh. It’s dark enough now that the lamps on the street have been extinguished and the world is now illuminated only by starlight and moonlight. Midnight has come and gone, likely some time ago while she was lost in thought. Gazing up at the scattering of stars, she wonders if Henry is looking at them too from his room in the city, or if he’s fast asleep as he should be. She hopes he’s missing her, just a little. Just a fragment of the way she misses him. 

Another movement from somewhere in the house rouses her just a little. The cat, she supposes, chasing a toy or her own tail, or jumping lightly from one piece of furniture to the next. She thinks fondly of little Alice, following the cat religiously every day, holding her blanket to her cheek as she reaches out to stroke soft, fluffy ears and a long, waving tail. She refers to the cat as her ‘best friend’, and watching them play together she certainly can’t deny it. She finds herself mildly surprised that the cat hasn’t come to see her yet, to curl up on her feet or in her basket beside the dressing table. There must be more interesting things to do tonight than sleep, for both of them. 

She dozes lightly, off and on, her dreams sweeping her under with little resistance and taking her on child-like journeys filled with freedom, excitement, memories and love. Henry’s face surfaces then melts away, as do the faces of friends and colleagues, her children, her parents. Her dreams, when she has them, are always a myriad of life and colour, yet she scarcely remembers them come morning. Her eyes flutter open, dark lashes against pale skin, and she finds herself lying on her back, staring up at the ceiling above, she quilt pushed mostly onto the floor. She retrieves it, curls up again, and looks out of the window.

Outside, the sky is beginning to pale. Slowly, of course, dawn is still a while away, but it is a simple sign that she should have been asleep long ago. But the company of her thoughts and memories has been pleasant enough tonight that she hasn’t missed it at all, although she may find herself regretful come mid-afternoon. The stars are fading now, the light of the North Star the only one strong enough to fight the approach of the dawn, and the moon a perfect crescent just peeking out from behind a misty cloud. 

She should get up soon. Shower, comb her hair and dress, make coffee, rouse the children, cook their breakfast and ferry them to school. The dog will need walking, the cat will no doubt demand fish and cream or will cry pitifully into the afternoon. Henry will be home, later, in the early evening and she should have a meal ready for them all when he does. They like to sit down together, laugh over dinner and share stories of their days. Mostly, she sits quietly and listens, content in the presence of her family, watching as they smile at each other and pass bread and juice and salad back and forth across the table. She has a lot to do today, she really does. 

But as the sun begins to glimmer on the horizon, throwing a cascade of pinks and oranges and yellows up into the sky and outshining the stars, she snuggles down under the quilt again, closes her eyes, and smiles.

Just five more minutes.