III: House Affairs

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Howards Building

I sink my face into the collar of my coat, my breath warming the wool, as I cut beneath the huddle of the towns centre buildings. Faced in metal cut glass and rich red brick. The buildings at either side of the road seem to be stacked on top of one another, exposing arched wide enough to fit a single person. As if they were holding each other up and the small cracks were all the space that could be spared between them.

Each row of buildings framed the wide park between the University proper and the Howards building. Known for it's underground systems and old arching tunnels under the expanse of would be green park lawn, if it wasn't for the snow. Students passed me with steaming coffees and book bags clutched between gloved fingers.

A few half-melted snowballs littered the cement walkway just before the steps of the Howards building.

Walking across the sleepy town centre seemed like a faded dream, as if I was meeting Porthcrawl for the first time, through a lens of hazy film. I used to know this place. I used to play between the arches that, I know, still lead to courtyards and cobble stone entrances. I used to know the names of each statue– smoothed now from well wishers hands. But the lions now didn't have names. If they ever really did.

As I ascend the steps, I habitually run my hand along the statues mains, for luck or to cement the fact that I was actually standing in a place that used to stand for, to mean, so much. Sixteen years since I had been back and it seemed like I was the only one that changed.

The inside of the Howards building seemed to be made of staircases and railings. Three full satires towered over the entrance. My footsteps echo as I walk through the first floor, down a hallway lined with framed lithographs of the campus in it's youth.

"Can I help you?" A light voice inquires from the front desk. A young student smiles at me. Her hair twisted into a bun with a pencil sticking out the top. Yellow against deep orange.

"No need, Poppy. Doctor Whitfield is a guest of mine." Another, lower, voice says from somewhere just above. An older women steps around the front desk, waving off the student, who'd gotten up from her seat by the time Ana Crane had reached the desk. Her white hair cresting around her shoulders, in a wave of indifference. "I spotted you from the staircase and tried to meet you at the front, but you're much faster than I thought."

"It's the cold," I smile at her, "It's rushing people inside. I hope I'm not late, the bakery across the park has it's back door open and the smell was very persuasive."

"Then it must be fate because I stopped by this morning, and picked something up for us both. Are you okay to meet in my office? It's up a few levels but I'm happy to take the scenic route." Ana beams, fluttering one of her hands at the student in dismissal. Poppy settles back behind her desk, not paying the woman any mind as she walks away from her.

She casts me a wink before returning to her papers.

Ana Crane had her hands slipped into her pockets already a few steps up one of the staircases. Her suit jacket pushed behind her elbows. Her beige suit blends into the architecture while standing part from it all at the same time. The metal staircases and open gothic windows were just as clean as the lines of her suit.

Over her shoulder, through the iron decorated window, the University stands proud and wide. I did my best to avoid walking past it this morning. Being in Porthcrawl felt like tiptoeing through life, trying not to set off memories like landmines. The University was simple another one.

A place dear to Edmund Whitfield. There was no place as special or as sacred to him. There wasn't a place that felt more like a dream whenever I thought about it. Which wasn't often. On more than one occasion, thought, it wasn't my own thoughts that set off landmines. Colleagues and professors, alumni and industry scientists tried to avoid talking about him.

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