The Remains of the Day

Dear Selection Committee,

I am pleased to recommend Martin Hale for the position of head of pastoral care. We worked together for fourteen years at St. Anselm’s, where he was reliable in matters both ordinary and difficult.

Helen read the sentence aloud, then put a line through pleased. It was true enough, but it suggested a warmth she could not locate.

Martin had called two days earlier. He was leaving the school in spring. There had been a pause before he said he was looking forward to doing something less predictable, and another before he asked whether she would write for him.

Of course, Helen had said.

She wrote that he arrived early for meetings and stayed late after parents’ evenings. She wrote that he remembered students who preferred not to be remembered. She wrote that when the school lost a teacher in the middle of term, Martin had taken six extra classes without complaint. The letter became two pages. It described almost everything that could be measured without sounding cold.

At four, Helen found a postcard inside the drawer where she kept old curriculum plans. It was from a conference in another city, sent fifteen years earlier. Martin had written only: The hotel has terrible tea. You would hate it.

In the final paragraph, she wrote that Martin had a rare patience for people whose circumstances were changing faster than they could explain. She did not write that he had once shown her the same patience. She printed the letter, signed it, and sealed the envelope.

Outside the office, the caretaker switched off the corridor lights. Helen put the postcard back in the drawer, not in the folder with the letter.