He had pictures of her walking through the city streets, distant shots slipped between traffic, a nearer image as she bent slightly to shift the weight of her shopping bags from one hand to the other. He had caught her profile as she looked into the window of a mobile phone shop. Her look was thoughtful, her hand up to the side of her head, frozen in the act of brushing her hair from her eyes.
This was the one he had decided to print.
He picked the paper up carefully, sat for five minutes examining every line, every hair. He pinned the picture of her to the wall beside his bed. Along with the others.
Robyn had promised herself that she would take a day in school. The head of her department had decided that he wanted to change the texts for the junior classes and she needed to do a bit of homework. It would be penance for the shopping safari.
Instead of turning towards the school gate she was drawn towards the Botanic Gardens. Lunchtime would be time enough to be at her desk. There were fewer people about.
In an uncultivated corner, beneath some trees, four tall foxgloves swayed elegantly out of the undergrowth. Two pink and two white. She stopped. Just at this spot, a riot of orange nasturtiums twined and tangled through the railings and tumbled over the edge of the path. The rhythmic clicking of a dog’s paws made her look round quickly. A woman in a track suit jogged past, her red setter waving the feathers of his jaunty tail.
On the steps of the Museum she stood and looked out over the grass and the shrubbery, across to the main gate. Back outside the Palm House, she sat for an hour, reading through some notes. The park was so quiet, almost eerie. She looked up and down the path. It was lunchtime, time to grab a bite and get to work. She shouldered her bag and walked towards the school.
At the gate, she looked back, looked around. Nevertheless, she thought, it is a lonely row to hoe.
That night her mother rang. She was annoyed.
“Poor Neil. I’ve talked to him. He says you don’t ever want to see him again. Surely you could have been a bit kinder? He’s devastated and look what’s happened. He could have been killed!”
Robyn let her talk, answering none of her questions, but learning that Neil was still at Gemma’s house. He wasn’t fit enough to make the journey home.
“You know of course,” Anne continued, “that his accident will mean difficulty for his business. You didn’t have to be so blunt, Robyn.”
“I don’t know what he’s told you but I’m sure it was colourful. I didn’t make him have the accident.”
“You upset him so much.”
Robyn took a deep breath and tried to change the subject. “So will you be coming up to look at houses soon?”
“What’s the point? Poor Neil can’t do anything at the moment. Anyway, you’ll be down when he manages to get back home, I’m sure. We’ll talk then.”
Another person wasn’t listening to her. Anger broke through.
“Mum, don’t you get it? I won’t be back. He’ll be fine as long as he has you. You’re bloody besotted with him.”
There was a silence and then Anne, furious. “How dare you? That man has done more for this family than any man ever has and well you know it.”
“I thought he was helping us. Not buying us.”
“I love you, Robyn. But I don’t think I want to see you for a while.”
“Fine by me.”
Robyn slammed the phone down and flung herself on the couch. Finally she crawled into bed. Under the duvet, she rubbed her right wrist. She would not go back. She was in control of her own life.
She was.
It was just a bit harder than she had imagined.
13
NEXT MORNING SHE left her flat early and sat outside the Palm House again. Beowulf was open on her lap but her concentration was fitful. At last she smiled, her face hidden by her hair, as a voice spoke behind her.
“Holophrastic. Adjective.” A long leg was thrown over the back of the bench. “From the noun holophrase.” The second leg followed and he vaulted onto the seat beside her. “A single word expressing a whole phrase or combination of ideas.”
“Go to the top of the class,” she said.
“How about a gold star?”
She glanced round. “Where’s Manna?”
“At home with an enormous bone. Dad said he’d take him out later.”
She closed her book and sat back. “Do you often jump over park benches and land beside strange women?”
“Only the really strange ones.”
“And without your guard dog? Risky.”
“I live dangerously.”
Yes, he did. This was dangerous. Reckless. Easy. So, so easy.
He leaned forward, restless, and lifted her book from where she had set it. He flipped the pages. “You haven’t got far through it yet.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you turned one page in ten minutes.” He stood and took a turn to the far side of the path and back, drumming the book between his fingers. He was in jeans and a faded denim shirt. There was a hint of agitation in the quick glance that he flicked to her face.
She stood up. “The roses should be in full bloom at the moment,” she said. “I think I’ll check them out. Of course,” she mused, “you could come with me, unless it would damage your image to be seen walking round rose bushes.”
He turned into the rhythm of her steps. “I’ll issue a statement on the evening news. It wasn’t me. It was a look-alike. Honest.”
“That should sort it. Except…”
“Except what?”
“Nothing. Can I have my book back?”
He gave it to her and she tucked it into the large bag that she carried slung across her body. There were more pigeons than people. David still seemed rather restless, turning to walk backwards for a few steps every now and then, scanning the park. Two magpies bustled across the grass some distance away.
“Two for joy,” she said automatically.
“Good omen.”
“I didn’t think you’d believe in omens,” she said.
“Sometimes I do. Maybe not magpies. Do you?”
“Not magpies anyway. There are too many single ones about.”
They turned a corner and the trellises of the rose walk came into sight. Around it were the rose beds, great arcs of red, yellow, pink, gold and all hues between. Robyn stopped and inhaled deeply. The breeze strengthened momentarily and the air was thick with scent and the hum of insects.
“This is our country. Where beautiful roses grow,” she said.
David said nothing, simply waited for her to move on. She led the way across the grass and wandered between the flowers, bending to smell a great head of pink petals.
“Smell that. It’s powerful.”
The name of the rose was written on a wooden peg at the front of the bed. He stopped and turned his back to it, hiding it from her. “Guess the name of it.”
She laughed. “Don’t be silly. I’ve no idea what it’s called.”
“That’s why it’s a guess.”
“Pink something. Pink lady.”
“No.”
“Pink slipper.”
“No.”
“Give me a clue.”
“It’s one word.”
“Pinkness.”
He grinned. “No.”
“Another clue.”
“An Irish river.”
“Lagan.”
“Too far north.”
“Lee.”
“Too far south.”
“Liffey.”
“Too far east.”
“Shannon.”
He moved away to let her see the sign. “Got it in two hundred and forty-seven.”
She moved along to a bed of yellow roses and stood in front of the name board. “OK smart guy. What’s the name of these ones?” He came too close and she motioned him away. “No peeking.”
He tapped his chin and pretended to concentrate.
“One word?”
“No.�
�
“Two words?”
“Maybe.”
“Is it yellow something?”
“Possibly.”
“Yellow peril.”
“This is a rose here, not a disease.”
“Yellow … sunset.”
“Better. No.”
“Clue time.”
“OK. It’s a book. A big book.”
He walked in a circle, thinking. “Yellow pages.”
She revealed the sign. “Got it in… I think I lost count.”
Robyn was feeling light-headed. This was fun. This was thoughtless, stupid, idiotic, pointless fun. They wandered on, taking turns to guess, making up the most hilariously unlikely names. Then David stopped by a sea of deep red, where exceptionally large flower heads swayed gently, each on a single stem.
“You’ll never get this one,” he said.
She shook her hair back over her shoulders. “One word or two?”
“Two, but you’ll not guess it.”
“You just want me to give up.”
“Why should I? There’s no prize.”
She came a bit closer. “Actually, I think I might know that one. Is it Uncle Walter?”
His brows rose in surprise. “It is. How’d you know?”
“We had some roses in the garden at home.” She hunkered down and brushed one of the great flowers against her cheek. “I just happen to remember this one.” She took a quick look round, then twisted and pulled the rose. “Look into it. It’s so intricate, so beautiful.” She held it up so that he couldn’t avoid doing as she asked. “Folds within folds. A master design. Look right into the heart of it. I remember someone once saying roses were God’s origami.”
She glanced up, knowing he would smile at that. He did. She explained: “One of these roses grew just beside the back door and I used to sit on the step wondering why something so beautiful had no scent. It just seemed pointless to me. What good is beauty if it leaves no trace of itself in the air around it? Beauty can be very dead, very selfish.”
David went back to the bed of pink roses where they had started the game. He chose one and plucked it without hesitation. “Don’t judge a whole species by a bad example.” He held out the pink rose. “This is a rose too.”
She took it, smelling the scent instantly. “I wasn’t judging the whole species. Just some of them.” She put the two blossoms together. “‘Red darkness of the heart of roses.’”
“Rupert Brooke,” he said.
She looked up, delighted. “Yes! Can you go on?”
“Not really. Something about ‘unnameable sightless white’ and all the colours that lie between darkness and darkness.”
“I can just remember the next line. ‘Red darkness of the heart of roses, Blue brilliant from dead starless skies.’”
She wandered round to the rose walk, where tall stone pillars formed a long arcade, roofed at intervals by wooden cross beams. Tendrils of fine rose creepers twined and tumbled wherever they could seize a grip. He strolled beside her, following wherever she wanted to go. A young couple came from the other end and passed them with a polite nod. Suddenly she gave a yelp and dropped the red rose. Blood ran between her fingers. He chuckled.
“No scent, but it has some bite!”
She sucked her palm. “Are you always so sympathetic?”
“No. Sometimes I can be an unfeeling bastard.”
She examined her hand where the thorn had pierced the mound beneath her index finger. They were about half way up the rose walk when he said: “Speaking of wounds, how’s the Elastoplast fix working out?”
She hesitated, not sure she wanted to revisit this. She shrugged. “Getting tugged a bit. But it’s still there.”
He was quiet for a few steps. Then: “What’s going on under it?”
“I don’t know.” She dodged a dragon fly. “I’m afraid to look.”
He nodded. “I know.”
She frowned, her mind tilting away from his tranquillity, his certainty. His ability to reach through her carapace and circle dangerously close to the ice at her centre was a threat. A sudden headlong rush of anger broke.
“You know? You think you know. You know damn all!”
He swung round on her instantly. “Don’t do this again! Not with me.” Every line of him had tensed, voice temper-strong. “You have no idea what I know about anything.”
“You know nothing about me!” She had raised her voice and hated herself for it.
His eyes sparked, deference nowhere in sight. “I know a hell of a lot more than you know about me.”
Robyn spun away from him and paced quickly to the end of the walkway. Alarm began to edge out anger. What was she doing? There was enough conflict in her life without having a row with someone she would have to face in school in a few weeks. Yes, they knew each other already. But not like this. Yes, in any other circumstances they could banter, bicker like friends. But not in these circumstances.
There was a line he should not cross. She took some deep breaths to calm herself. It was a pity, but the lessons she had learnt were true. There is no such thing as a good day without a reckoning. There is no such thing as free fun. The price will always be asked, always paid. Better to stay hidden, expect nothing and don’t be disappointed. She sucked her palm. Roses have thorns. Don’t forget it. Better still, don’t go near the roses.
She turned, sure that he would have walked away, given up on her for the last time. He was still there, feet planted solidly apart, hands by his sides, his face dark and tense.
Still there.
Slowly she walked back. She couldn’t blame him. He hadn’t crossed that invisible line alone. She had stepped over it too. Indeed, maybe she had been the leader. When she was two pillars away from him, she hesitated. A gust of wind blew her hair across her face and she brushed it away. A bee, heavy with pollen, bumbled slowly from one blossom to another. David looked at her with an expression she could not read. He lifted one hand slightly and she heard him repeat, in a tone now devoid of anger:
“Don’t do this again. Not with me. There’s no need for it with me.”
She studied the trellis above her head for a moment, watched a butterfly. Life held its breath, hesitant and trembling at a turn in the road. She took a few more steps towards him. “I’m afraid I’m not… very good at people.”
His lips curved into a slow smile. “No-one said you had to be.”
They wandered to the building housing the Tropical Ravine, with its banana trees and controlled ecosystems. Inside it was heavy with humidity.
“My mother remembers the old building, the one that used to be here,” said David. “She said she used to love watching the big koi swimming though the water lilies in the fish pond that was in the old Ravine.”
It was so warm and oppressive inside that they didn’t stay long. They sat on a bench outside and Robyn wave a hand to cool her flushed skin.
“That Rupert Brooke poem was about a fish, wasn’t it?” said David.
“Yes, it was. And that’s reminded me of another line. ‘Red darkness of the heart of roses, Blue brilliant from dead starless skies, And gold that lies behind the eyes.’”
His mobile bleeped the arrival of a text message. He ignored it, and she could see he was in what she was beginning to call his ‘thinking mode’. She waited.
“I envy people who can express their feelings in words like that. Do you think,” he asked slowly, “that we can purge ourselves of the past simply through words? Simply by saying – and being – sorry?”
“I suppose being sorry is the important bit.”
“You have to say it too.” He was emphatic.
A pigeon churred contentedly in the depths of a chestnut tree.
“If you can, I suppose.” She looked at his still profile. “But saying sorry, or having it said to you, isn’t always possible. And then you just have to live with it.”
For several minutes, he was silent. It was OK to be with him and to be silent. Easy. So, so easy
. In one of his quick changes of mood, he swung round and said: “Hey, it’s hot. How about somewhere cooler?”
His mobile phone rang. With a frown of annoyance, he turned it off without looking at it. Robyn bunched her hair away from her neck and fanned her cheeks.
“Sounds good. I’m a puddle here!” she said.
He seemed to find that very funny.
“Ssssh!” He put out a hand to stop her, a finger to his lips. They had wandered round a secluded patch of shrubbery, away from the tarmac, where the paths were earthen soft with layers of leaves. Silently she followed his look. A plump song thrush stood statue-still under a bush, his speckled breast fluffed and proud.
“He’s a beauty,” she breathed.
In one quick twist the bird was gone, vanished into the deeper undergrowth.
“Looks good for an accident of random molecules,” David said.
“Look here.” Robyn squatted beside a flat stone at the edge of the path. He hunkered beside her. “This is the thrush’s anvil. See these pieces of snail shell? He’s been smashing his dinner here.”
He lifted a piece of shell and turned it over. “Cleaned his plate.” They dusted their hands and walked on. “Do you know a lot about birds?” he asked.
“Very little. My father took me and my brother camping once. He showed us a thrush’s anvil in Gortin Glen. He was a keen ornithologist. He used to write articles for the local paper sometimes.”
“Used to?”
“He died about a year ago.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“David?”
“What?”
He was sitting on a branch above her, one leg drawn up and the other dangling by her ear as she leaned against the trunk.
“How’s Penny?”
She noticed a definite delay in his reply.
“Penny’s Penny.”
She shifted slightly. At least he hadn’t said “Penny who?”
She got to the till first and he didn’t make a fuss.
“Now we’re even,” she said as they settled at a table in the busy Museum café.
He pushed her orange juice across the table. “Even?”
“You bought me a drink at the Hooley, remember?”
Healer of My Heart Page 10
