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.
On 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 Rs, 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.
Day 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.
“Archie,” I said, bending to examine a clump of purple vetch, “couldn’t we go to Iceland as friends? I’ve been saving. I can—”
“Friends?” he exclaimed. “But we’re not friends. We’re engaged to be married.”
I picked a flower for courage and held it to my face. “I’m so grateful to you. But I’m not sure I have the right feelings. This trip will be a chance for us to make sure we’re suite
d.”
“Are you proposing”—he came to an abrupt halt—“that we travel together without being married? What would happen in hotels?” He gestured at a field of cows as if we were hotel guests and they were judging us. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”
I kept walking, counting on him to follow. If I stopped, I would have to look at him, and if I looked at him, it would be even harder to say what I was trying to say. “But we’ve been talking about going to Iceland for weeks. You never said we could only go if we were married.”
“Jean.” My false name was both a rebuke and a summons, as Archie strode past me. Now I almost had to run to keep abreast. “Anyone with a passport and enough money can go to Iceland. I invited you to go as my wife. If for some reason you’ve changed your mind—Hannah did warn me how young you are—then we won’t be taking a honeymoon. Surely you know”—his voice was almost muffled by his footfalls—“that I’m not the kind of man who goes to bed with a woman to whom he isn’t married.”
Of course you’re not, I thought. You’re not the kind of man to go to bed with anyone. To you love is just a Latin verb. The vetch was already wilting in my grasp; I let it fall. But if I succumbed to my anger . . . I pictured Hannah, Pauline, and Marian all frowning. I pictured Iceland vanishing across the ocean, the whole country sailing away. I would never get to retrace my journey. My grandparents, if they were still alive, might die. My cousins, if I had any, might forget my name.
“Everything’s just happened so fast,” I said. “I’m worried I won’t be a good wife. I am young. And then there’s Marian. She can’t manage both George and Robin.”
I stammered on in this vein for another minute or two and gradually Archie’s pace slowed. I was right, he said approvingly, to be apprehensive. Marriage was a big step, but he wasn’t looking for someone to wash his shirts and sweep the floor. What he needed was a comrade to share his interests, to remind him that being a postman was only part of his life. “I’ll talk to Marian,” he added. “Then we can set the date.”
His good mood restored, Archie changed the subject. Did I know, he asked, that Fortingall was famous for its yew tree? People said it was planted when Pontius Pilate was governor of Jerusalem. “Imagine”—his eyes glowed—“someone who heard Jesus preach the Sermon on the Mount could have sat beside that tree.”
On Monday while Marian was giving a lesson, and Robin was happily arranging his model farmyard, I once again went to use the phone. More than two months had passed since I retrieved my suitcase, but I was sure that the minister with his kindly smile would remember me. I would tell him everything and he would advise me how best to extricate myself. The phone rang only once before a woman said hello. I asked to speak to Mr. Duckworth.
“I’m afraid he’s not here. Can I help?”
“When will he be back? I can phone later.”
“The end of September. His parents were in an accident and he’s taken a leave to look after them. My husband is minding the parish. Shall I fetch him? He’ll be happy to talk to you.”
Through the window above the front door a cloud was visible, so white and substantial that it looked as if I could set a ladder up against the trees and climb aboard. Suddenly I was back on the Brough of Birsay, lying on the grass near the lighthouse while the lark sang and Mr. Sinclair slept. Then I was in Pauline and Hannah’s kitchen, clinking my glass to theirs, and to Archie’s. “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll wait until September.”
I was still staring at the cloud when, from George’s room, the sound of the hourly pips on the radio reminded me that I had promised to take him for his constitutional. He walked in the garden several times a day and Marian insisted that he be accompanied. “No jacket,” he said when I knocked on his door. We headed out. As we walked across the lawn, he pointed to the faint path he had worn through the daisies.
“You must have walked to Edinburgh by now,” I said.
“For Marian.” He stopped and, still holding his stick, put one hand over his heart.
“She loves you,” I said.
He gave a slight nod. We passed the laburnum with its cascade of golden flowers, once, twice. “Bad phone call,” he said.
Such a simple phrase to contain my disappointment. I explained that the person I had hoped to talk to was away. “I really needed to ask him something,” I said.
“Love,” said George. After several steps, he added, “Not Archie’s tea. Matter?”
A wagtail, one of the birds Coco had made fun of, was running along the edge of the flower-bed. “That’s what I can’t decide,” I said. “Archie is kind and clever. We both like history. Maybe that’s enough.”
“For him.”
It took me a moment to guess his meaning. “For him,” I agreed. “He seems to have no interest in . . .” I followed the flight of the wagtail onto the wall. What words could convey that feeling of being connected with another person, and the way in which that feeling raised a curtain between oneself and the world so that everything—a slice of bacon, a beech tree, a pair of shoes, a snail, a standing stone—was more vivid? “Certain things,” I ended feebly.
George nodded again. “Careful,” he said. “Diff—, diff—”
He stopped walking and looked down at me, his mouth twisted. I looked back—he was, as always, perfectly shaved—searching for what he was trying to tell me. “Archie and I are different,” I said slowly. His watery eyes agreed. “You’re telling me,” I continued, “that those differences won’t be easy to ignore.”
“Yes.” He patted his heart again and then pointed to me. “Careful,” he repeated.
How strange, I thought, that this man, whom I had known only during his illness, sensed what Marian and Hannah and Pauline seemed so ready to ignore. But at least I had one ally. Two, if I counted Robin.
When I announced after supper that I was going for a bicycle ride, Marian said it was a beautiful evening. I borrowed Mrs. Lewis’s bike and, not bothering to phone in advance, set out. Better to risk Archie’s absence than to arouse false expectations. Nor did I plan what to say. I simply gave myself over to the journey, following the road on the north side of the river. A few weeks ago the woods had been bright with bluebells; now the flowers were mostly gone. I pedalled along, enjoying the small rush of speed on the hills and the occasional glimpses of the river. All too soon I came to Archie’s village. His red post office van was parked beside the house Hannah had pointed out. A woman in an apron, still holding a rolling pin, answered my knock.
“Archie,” she said. “Top of the stairs, on the right.”
When I knocked on that door Archie called, “Come in.” Slowly I opened it and peered in. He was sitting in an armchair, holding a book.
“Jean! What are you doing here?”
“I was out for a bike ride. May I come in?”
“Welcome to my very humble abode. Here, have the armchair. Can I get you something? I can offer tea, Nescafé, lemon barley water, and gin.”
“A glass of water, please.”
Archie stepped out to fetch the water, and I surveyed the room. Besides the armchair it contained a table and chair, a bookcase, and an umbrella stand holding several golf clubs. On the bookcase was a photograph. When I went to look I saw that it was the one Hannah had taken of me in the pottery, smiling up at her. Quickly, hearing his footsteps, I sat down again. As he handed me the glass, I noticed that the door, closed when I arrived, was now ajar. He was worried, I thought, about what his landlords might think.
While I drank the tepid water, he told me about their three children, whom he occasionally helped with homework. “They’ll miss me when we move,” he said.
I set aside the glass, unbuttoned the top button of my blouse, and stood up. Archie was sitting on the hard chair at the table, still talking about the youngest boy’s struggle with the alphabet as I approached.
“I don’t have your patience,” he said. “I’m glad you stopped by. I’ve been meaning to show you this book of early maps of Scotland.”
I put my hand on his. If he kissed me, I thought, if he started to unbutton his own shirt, if he looked at me and said, “How lovely you are,” if he put his hand down the neck of my blouse, then perhaps, still, everything would be all right. We could be married and go to Iceland and share a room in a way that mattered.
“This first map was done in stages. It shows the route of the Border riders.”
“Archie,” I said. “Do you like me?”
“Of course I like you. That’s why we’re getting married. See how the map-maker drew in a cross for each abbey and a little flag for each castle.”
“But marriage isn’t all about skalds and old maps.” I moved my hand from his hand to his forearm. Through the cotton of his shirt I could feel the heat of his skin.
“I walked this path once.” As if unaware of my touch, he lifted his hand to trace the route. “It took three days and each night I slept in an abbey. I was probably breaking the law, but it made me feel like a pilgrim.”
I stroked his arm. “Archie.” One of my Latin translations had been about Caesar hesitating on the banks of the Rubicon. To lead his troops across the small stream was to declare war with Rome. “Would you like to kiss me?”
“Jean. What’s got into you?”
A blaze of colour appeared high on each cheek. Still holding the book, Archie was on his feet. Three steps carried him to the door. “My van’s been making a strange noise,” he said. “Mr. Stewart promised to take a look at it this evening. Can you let yourself out?”
His feet thudded on the stairs. Looking out of the window, I saw him hurry down the garden path and, still clutching the book, without a backward glance, climb into the postal van and drive away.
I pocketed the photograph and followed. I knew now exactly what I was going to do. Pedalling at top speed, I headed back along the narrow road, hoping to arrive home before Marian went to bed. My efforts were rewarded. As I stepped into the kitchen, I heard a low hum of conversation from George’s room. I tiptoed up the stairs to her bedroom. The dim light filtering through the curtains revealed Robin, already asleep in his bed, and next to him the chest of drawers. Holding my breath, I glided across the room. The underwear drawer opened easily, the money made no noise, but as I closed the drawer, Robin asked drowsily what I was doing.
The Flight of Gemma Hardy Page 37
