The Flight of Gemma Hardy (36 page)

I was looking for some offering for the spring—a pretty pebble, or a few flowers—when again I heard footsteps and this time a voice saying, “No, bad dog.” A tall woman with a crest of hair like Miss Seftain's and two brindled terriers, each straining at the lead, came into view. The dogs lunged towards me, but she held them in check.

“Good afternoon,” she called. “They're quite friendly. Baxter, heel.”

She walked past, still talking to the dogs, and headed down the far side of the rock towards Castle Menzies. I gathered some forget-me-nots and laid the small blue flowers on a rock by the well. Staring into the pool, I said, “Please let me find a way to go to Iceland.”

I was turning to follow the woman—I had never been to Castle Menzies and the ruin was at least a destination—when I heard the sound of another approach. Archie appeared through the trees. He raised his crook in greeting. “Here you are,” he said, not seeming at all surprised. I wondered if he had stopped by the house. “How was Latin?”

“All right. There was that passage from Virgil we did a few weeks ago, and then a short piece by Tacitus and one of Horace's poems about farmers and bees. I was glad you'd made me time myself.”

“So you're done?”

“Yes.” All I could not say made me curt. “Someone threw sixpence in the well.”

“People have been doing that for years, though I've always wondered what a naiad would do with money. My theory is that Gypsies started the custom. Periodically they come along and clean it out.”

I saw him notice the forget-me-nots but he did not comment. “In Bath,” I volunteered, “people used to throw coins and jewellery into the hot spring.”

“And votive statues, too,” he said. He stabbed his crook into the mud and, leaving it, upright but listing, came forward to dip his hand in the water and touch his fingers to his forehead, the same gesture I had made.

“I'm glad to find you alone,” he said. His eyes were very clear, and high on each cheek was a flush of colour; Hannah blushed in the same way. Hidden in one of the beech trees, a blackbird began to scold. “We share so many interests, Jean. The Everyman Library claims that books are the ideal companions, but you've taught me that the ideal is sharing books with a kindred spirit. I know you're younger than me, but I've seen how mature you are in your dealings with Marian and Robin. You don't shirk your responsibilities. I'd like to celebrate your exams results by inviting you to go to Iceland as—”

“Archie,” I burst out, “I'd love to go to Iceland.”

In my excitement I did not catch the end of the sentence. I was still debating whether to ask what he'd said when he stepped forward and kissed me on the forehead.

chapter thirty-one

A
s I followed Archie back to the village—the path was too narrow to walk side by side—I saw how white his neck was above his collar. I hadn't noticed at the well, but he must have been to the barber recently. Marian's car was parked outside the MacGillvarys' and I asked if he would come in for tea. He said he was sorry. He'd promised to help Hannah load the kiln. “Thank you, Jean,” he said, smiling at me. “I'm so happy.” Before I could thank him in turn, he headed down the lane. Watching him disappear, I thought that the naiad had answered my request with miraculous speed.

In the kitchen Robin was playing pirates; Marian was at the stove. “How did the exam go?” she said.

“All right. I really enjoyed translating the Virgil.”

“That's a good sign. When I enjoy playing I always play better. George walked round the ward today.”

The three of us ate bangers and mash as if nothing had changed. I was longing to talk about Iceland, to say that Archie and I were at last going to visit, but any mention of travel would only upset Robin. Afterwards, as I gave him his bath, I read to him from
The Little Mermaid
. It was the first time in months I'd read to him from one of his books rather than one of mine. The picture at the front showed a ship with white sails bobbing on a blue sea; nearby a mermaid was combing her hair. “Pretty,” said Robin. He was sailing his own ship, pushing it up one side of the bath and down the other. But as I read about the little mermaid's willingness to sacrifice almost everything for her prince, to walk on knives and give up her underwater garden, Robin's ship sailed more and more slowly. Finally, with a decisive shove, he sank it.

“Stop,” he said. “We'll have bad dreams.” Ever since the morning we had both reported dreaming of foxes he had regarded our dreams as communal.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “Finish your bath and I'll read you something else so we have good dreams.”

In bed, after only a page of
The Wind in the Willows
, his eyes closed. I tiptoed away to brush my teeth. It was just past eight, not yet fully dark, but suddenly I could not wait for the day to be over. All I wanted was to think of Iceland, to imagine seeing the landscape my mother had loved, with its volcanoes and glaciers and wild ponies. And perhaps, in some small village, I would find my grandparents.

T
he next morning, without an exam looming, was like a holiday. “No lessons today,” I said to Robin. Instead we went out to the garden. With Marian spending most of her time at the hospital, it had been neglected. Now I showed him several common weeds, and we set to work. As Robin pulled out the groundsel and I dug up dandelions, I told him how at school I had had a friend, Miriam, who grew beautiful blue flowers. “What happened to her?” he said. I was trying to think how to answer when Marian appeared on the edge of the lawn.

“George is coming home,” she announced jubilantly. “An ambulance will bring him after lunch. And Jean, Hannah phoned to ask you to supper. I said you'd let her know if you couldn't.”

Exams had interrupted my weekly suppers with Hannah and Pauline and I was glad to think they'd noticed. They would understand my pleasure in going to Iceland—I pictured Pauline bobbing, Hannah's long smile—and advise me how to contribute to the trip. While Marian went to buy groceries, I hoovered George's room and picked sweet peas for the bedside table. Remembering my own convalescence, I got Robin to help me clean the windows. We were polishing the last pane when Marian returned.

“Jean, you're a wonder,” she said. “I don't know how I'd manage without you.”

“Robin helped me,” I said, storing up her words of praise against the blame I feared was coming.

P
auline answered the door wearing a green dress I had never seen before. She was still kissing me on both cheeks when Hannah appeared; she too was smartly dressed in black trousers. “Congratulations,” she exclaimed, hugging me so hard my feet left the ground. Was it possible that somehow, perhaps through the headmaster, they knew the results of my exams?

“We couldn't be happier,” Pauline added.

By now they had whisked me into the kitchen, where the table was set with Hannah's plates and flowers and wine-glasses. I was taking all this in, and my hosts' greetings, as Hannah remarked that Archie would be here any minute. He had gone to get wine.

“But—” I stared down at my faded corduroy trousers, my scuffed shoes.

“I know,” she said. “It's all wrong, the groom providing the wine at the celebratory dinner. Pauline thought I'd pick up a bottle and I thought she would. Your future sisters-in-law are enthusiastic hosts but inept.”

Emily bounded over, and as I bent to bury my face in her warm fur, I knew, as clearly as if he were speaking them now, the words I had missed at the well. Archie's proposal to visit Iceland had been linked to another proposal; I had, unwittingly, accepted both. But to admit my error in the midst of Hannah and Pauline's festivities, to voluntarily cast myself out of this glowing circle, was more than I could manage. “Good dog,” I murmured to Emily and asked how I could help.

“Light the candles,” said Hannah, handing me a box of matches. “So tell us, did Archie propose on bended knee?”

Before I could answer, there was the sound of a van pulling up outside. The door opened and my second fiancé stepped into the room, a bottle of wine in each hand. He too was smartly dressed, in a grey suit with a pale blue shirt and a red tie.

“Jean,” he said, “you're already here. I could have given you a lift.”

“It's a lovely evening. I needed the walk.” I bent to light the candles; the wicks caught at once. “They sent George home from the hospital today.”

“Oh, I had no idea.” Pauline bobbed. “How does he look?”

As Archie uncorked the wine, I described George's return. How his hair had turned from pewter to snow and how thin he'd grown but that he'd managed to walk from the garden gate to the house with two canes. “He's different,” I said. “He stopped in the garden to admire the laburnum. And he said hello to Robin and me.”

Archie started to say something, but Hannah interrupted with glasses of wine. “Here's to the two of you. Many congratulations. We couldn't be happier and we wish you all happiness.”

“Congratulations,” said Pauline.

We clinked glasses—“Hear our good crystal,” said Hannah—and drank. Archie remarked that the custom of clinking was thought to have originated with the Greeks, a way of proving that the wine wasn't poisoned. Pauline asked if poisonous wine sounded different. Archie smiled and started to explain. Any kind of wine still tasted bitter to me, but I had eaten almost nothing that day and I could tell, after only one sip, that it would make everything easier. While Hannah remarked how romantic it was, Archie finding me by the side of the road, the two of us falling in love, I kept drinking. We sat down to salmon, fresh peas, and new potatoes. Seeing Archie and Hannah by candlelight, I was struck all over again by their matching blue eyes, their high cheekbones and long chins.

“The one thing I regret about getting married,” Archie said, “is leaving here. I've applied for a transfer to Edinburgh so that I can keep Jean company at university.”

“You've already applied?” My glass almost toppled to the table.

“Just today. Often transfers take months to come through.”

“We'll miss you,” said Hannah, “but it'll be nice to have an excuse to visit Edinburgh. Is it too soon to ask if you've set a date?”

“Yes,” I blurted out. Surely that too hadn't been arranged when I wasn't looking.

“But not too soon to ask where we're going for our honeymoon,” said Archie, smiling at what he took to be my modest confusion. “We're planning a trip to Iceland.”

“Oh, yes,” said Pauline, “you've both got a bee in your bonnet about that place.”

Archie began to rhapsodise about the sagas. Meanwhile Hannah refilled everyone's glasses; Pauline offered more food. “Eat up, Jean,” she urged. Looking down, I discovered my plate almost untouched. My long training at Claypoole triumphed over my turbulent feelings. I picked up my knife and fork and set to work.

Usually at Honeysuckle Cottage I helped to serve and clear, but tonight Hannah and Pauline waited on us, and it wasn't until the last morsel of pudding was gone, and Archie said well, we all had to work in the morning, that I pushed back my chair. As the meal progressed I had noticed the candles growing brighter, my companions wittier. Now my legs wobbled, as if I had just stepped from a boat to dry land.

“Oh,” I said, clutching the back of my chair, “I've had too much to drink.”

“Good for you,” said Hannah.

“No harm in getting a little tipsy,” Pauline added, and gave me the advice Nell had given Coco: a glass of water and two aspirin before bed.

“And you'll come next Wednesday, won't you?” said Hannah. “We have to make the most of your company.”

At the MacGillvarys', Archie walked me to the door and asked if I could manage the stairs. “Of course,” I said with dignity. I wondered if he would take advantage of my state to kiss me on the mouth or slip a hand under my sweater, but he kissed my cheek and told me to hold on to the banister. As I undressed, fumbling with buttons and bra hooks, I couldn't help giggling. Archie didn't fancy me, not one jot. And no wonder, I thought, when I caught sight of my flushed cheeks in the bathroom mirror. In bed, I watched the chest of drawers and the desk rise into the air. Then I took two aspirin and turned off the light.

O
n Friday, as soon as Marian left for the shops, I searched the telephone directory until I found the number for a travel agent in Perth. “Oh, we don't get many enquiries about Iceland,” said the man who answered. “You can fly, or take a boat. Do you have a preference?”

“Whatever's cheapest,” I said, trying to speak quietly. The phone was in the hall, outside George's room. The man promised to investigate and asked me to call back tomorrow. I put down the receiver with the sense that I had taken a small step towards sorting things out with Archie. Once I knew the cost, I could offer to contribute to my ticket, and explain that I did not want to get married. And I would at last reveal why I wanted to go to Iceland. Somehow, in my flight from the Orkneys, my awful days in Pitlochry, I had lost sight of the fact that not everything about my past was a secret.

Robin and I were at the kitchen table, writing rows of
R
s, when we heard Marian's car. A moment later she came into the room, almost running, and embraced me. “Jean, I was at the chemist's, picking up George's prescriptions, and Pauline told me the wonderful news.”

Even as I apologised for not telling her I could not help contrasting the response to my second engagement with that to my first.

“No, no,” said Marian, “it's my fault. I said to Pauline I've been in such a state about George. You could have told me you were going to the moon and I'd have said, ‘Can you buy some milk?' Many congratulations.”

“What about?” said Robin. “What's happening?”

“Jean and Archie are getting married,” said Marian. “Isn't that nice?”

He shook his head vehemently. “You'll drown.”

“Robin, what are you talking about?”

“He's thinking of the Little Mermaid,” I explained. “That was a made-up story. Mermaids don't exist. People thought they did because sometimes fishermen mistook seals for women. They both have long eyelashes. Look, I'll draw you a picture.”

I did, carefully giving the seal whiskers and the mermaid a scaly tail. Robin protested that they didn't look at all alike. How could anyone confuse them? “Maybe,” I said, “a seal got some seaweed stuck on its head and a sailor thought it was hair.”

“Like your aunt.” He giggled.

When I telephoned the travel agent again, he said I could fly from Glasgow to Reykjavik at the end of June for 195 pounds. Since coming to the MacGillvarys' I had saved 83 pounds.

D
ay by day more people learned that Archie and I were engaged, and day by day I felt more helpless to explain that we weren't. By virtue of his job he was a well-known and well-liked figure in the valley. Several elderly people claimed to owe him their lives. He had been the one to notice curtains still drawn, milk on the doorstep, and raise the alarm. Two women credited him with getting them to the midwife in time. Once he had interrupted a burglary. People were glad that he was getting married and glad that he was marrying the girl he'd rescued. It was, as Hannah had said, a romantic story, and gradually, I too became swept up in it. Archie was a kind, truthful, clever man. He would help me at university, encourage me to pursue my interests. I pictured evenings like the ones we had spent when George was in hospital—Archie cooking supper, both of us reading and studying. As a married woman, I told myself, I would have certain freedoms. I would never again have to sleep in a church. But at night I dreamed of barred windows and small, dark rooms.

On Saturday Archie suggested an outing to the village of Fortingall. It was a nice walk, and the hotel there did afternoon tea. We left his van parked in a lay-by and set off down the narrow road. In the fields on either side the cows and sheep drowsed in the heat. Nearby bees buzzed among the buttercups and scarlet campion. Archie remarked that he'd like to keep a hive or two, maybe after I finished university when we lived in the country again. He began to tell me his ideas for our honeymoon. A week, he thought, would give us a couple of days in Reykjavik and time to visit various sites in the western part of the island. Maybe we could go to Reykholt, where Snorri Sturluson, the author of several sagas, had lived. He was said to have received visitors in his bathing-pool.