Spare by Prince Harry (As is)

Prologue

We agreed to meet a few hours after the funeral. In the Frogmore gardens, by the old Gothic ruin. I got there first.

I looked around, saw no one.

I check my phone. No texts, no voicemails.

They must be running late, I thought, leaning against the stone wall.

I put away my phone and told myself: Stay calm.

The weather was quintessentially April. Not quite winter, not yet spring. The trees were bare, but the air was soft. The sky was gray, but the tulips were popping. The light was pale, but the indigo lake, threading through the gardens, glowed.

How beautiful it all is, I thought. And also how sad.

Once upon a time, this was going to be my forever home. Instead it had proved to be just another brief stop.

When my wife and I fled this place, in fear for our sanity and physical safety, I wasn’t sure when I’d ever come back. That was January 2020. Now, fifteen months later, here I was, days after waking to thirty-two missed calls and then one short, heart-racing talk with Granny: Harry… Grandpa’s gone.

The wind picked up, turned colder. I hunched my shoulders, rubbed my arms, regretted the thinness of my white shirt. I wish I’d not changed out of my funeral suit. I wished I’d thought to bring a coat. I turned my back to the wind and saw, looming behind me, the Gothic ruin, which in reality was no more Gothic than the Millennium Wheel. Some clever architect, some bit of stagecraft. Like so much around here, I thought.

I moved from the stone wall to a small wooden bench. Sitting. I checked my phone again, peered up and down the garden path. Where are they?

Spare by Prince Harry (Edited)

Prologue

I was the first one to arrive at the Frogmore Cottage and wait by the Gothic ruins as we had agreed to meet there a few hours after the funeral.

I leaned against the stone wall checking my phone for messages and calls. Finding none, I thought to myself that they must be running late and reminded myself to stay calm.

I felt the vibes of a typical April day, not quite winter and not yet spring. Tulips popping although the trees were bare. The indigo lake through the garden still glowed although the sky was grey and the light was pale.

The beauty of the place took me back to the time when I thought this would have been my home forever. But I was pricked with a sense of sadness realizing that it just proved to be another brief stop for me instead.

Fifteen months ago, in January 2020 when my wife and I fled from here in order to ensure our sanity and physical safety I was not sure when I would be back here again. It had taken thirty-two missed calls and a short, melancholic call from Granny announcing that Grandpa was gone, to bring me here today.

It turned colder as the winds picked up and I hunched my shoulders and rubbed my arms regretting why I had changed from the funeral suit to a thin white shirt which was not able to keep me warm in the sudden turn of weather.

Turning back, I saw the Gothic ruin which in essence was no more Gothic than the Millennium Wheel. It made me realize that it was the work of some clever architect with stagecraft- similar to something which went around here a lot.

I seated myself on a wooden bench and checked my phone once again, looking up and down the garden path and wondering where were they.

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde (As is)

Chapter 1

The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.

From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremendous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flame-like as theirs; now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window, producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of those pallid jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium of an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness and motion. The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unknown grass, or circling with monotonous insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. The dim roar of London was like the bourdon note of a distant organ.

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde (Edited)

Chapter 1

The light summer wind stirred the trees of the garden sending in the overpowering scent of lilac or the more delicate perfume of the pink flowering thorn through the open door of the studio which was already filled with the velvety fragrance of roses.

Lord Henry Wotton was lying on the divan of Persian saddle-bags and smoking innumerable cigarettes. The tremendous branches of laburnum in the garden could hardly bear the burden of the beautiful honey-coloured blossoms. Now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window at the studio. This natural picturesque produced a monetary Japanese effect in the mind of Lord Henry making him think of pallid jade-faced painters of Tokyo whose expressions were immobile yet their movements conveyed the sense of swiftness, as part of their art.

The monotonous circling of the bees round the dusty gilt horns of the sprawling woodbine along with their sullen murmur seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. The vague rumbles of London seemed like the ringing of the lowest set of bells of a musical organ.

Adneen Mourin Hussain

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