by Robyn Sisman
Later, Lloyd never quite knew what had got into him—pity for the flower-seller, a desire to recompense Betsy for her disappointing time in England, a craving to provoke an emotional high through one grand gesture. He produced a reckless handful of notes. “I’ll take them all.”
“Lloyd!” Betsy protested. “We can’t afford—”
But quickly, before the generous gentleman could change his mind, the flower-seller deposited the flowers in Betsy’s arms. They spilled everywhere, blood red against the white tablecloth. The other diners stared, entranced by the drama.
“Oh, Lloyd. How romantic!” Betsy gathered the roses to her face and inhaled deeply. “Does this mean what I think it means?”
Before Lloyd could answer, the unctuous waiter was at their table. “Luigi will wrap these for you,” he announced, clicking his fingers to summon a minion. His soulful brown eyes rested for a moment on Betsy, then he kissed his own fingertips expressively. “You are a lucky man,” he told Lloyd sternly, and retreated from their table humming the “Wedding March” in a jaunty baritone.
Lloyd watched him go, as through a mist. The waiter was bouncing his tray off his knee to the tune, and Lloyd found himself silently singing along. “Here comes the bride”—bounce—“all fat and wide”—bounce. His head felt as light as a bubble. A waterfall was pouring through his ears. Far away he could see Betsy’s expectant face. She was smiling. Then her mouth moved.
“I love you, Lloyd.”
In the flickering candlelight the cutlery seemed to rise from the table and explode into a million silver shards. Black spots danced in front of Lloyd’s eyes. His spine stiffened, as if he had just received a freight truck in the small of the back. A voice was speaking—his own. “Betsy,” he said formally, “will you marry me?”
Chapter Sixteen
“Isn’t this the turn coming up?”
“I don’t think so. It says Salisbury. We aren’t going to Salisbury, are we?”
“No, but Harry’s house is in that direction—they pronounce it ‘Sawlsbree’ here. You don’t have to go all the way exactly to where a sign says, you know.”
“I know that.”
“Well, is this the right road or not?”
“I guess it might be.”
“Could you take a look at that map?”
“. . . Are we on a blue road or a red road?”
“We’re on the motorway, kind of like the highway, and we’ve just passed a place called Basingstoke. You must be able to see that.”
“I’m looking. It’s just that the roads are so wiggly. Oh! What about this? I can see a black line with funny little marks across it.”
“That’s the railroad track. I’m turning off anyway.”
Lloyd slowed the car, wondering what had been God’s intention when He had decided to leave out the map-reading part of women’s brains. It was a relief, anyway, to be out of the traffic. He had never seen people drive so fast. There was supposed to be a speed limit of seventy miles per hour, but clearly the English regarded this as a general principle, like socialism, not necessarily to be followed to the letter. As soon as he could, he stopped the car and leaned over Betsy’s shoulder to show her the route. “Look,” he pointed, “that’s where he lives. Winterbourne Gummer, pronounced Winegum.”
“It isn’t!”
“You’re right. It isn’t.”
She gave him a playful tap on the cheek, then pulled him close to nuzzle his ear. “Do you still love me?”
“Of course I do.”
Gradually the roads became narrower and leafier, the air fresh and sweet with the smell of meadows and hedgerows. The countryside looked astonishingly green, considering that Britain was supposed to be in the grip of severe drought. On the way out of London they had heard a radio account of the heat wave that had now persisted for no fewer than five consecutive days. Couples were being urged to share their bath water, then collect it in buckets to pour on the garden. Old people were exhorted to postpone shopping trips until conditions were less severe, dog owners reminded not to leave their pets in cars. Scientists speculated on the imminence of desert conditions. Had he not been living here, Lloyd might have concluded that England had drifted out to sea and re-anchored itself somewhere around Tristan da Cunha. It was eighty-one degrees.
The road meandered up gentle hills, outlined green and yellow against a soft blue sky, then dipped into valleys cooled by small streams that sparkled in the sunlight. Along the way old-fashioned wooden signs, painted black on white, pointed the way to OVER WALLOP, MIDDLE WALLOP and NETHER WALLOP, to BROUGHTON and HOUGHTON, to WOODBURY RING and BARTON LACEY. They passed through villages so serenely beautiful it was hard to believe that real human beings lived there. Each had its own church and pub among a sprawl of thatched cottages with gardens ablaze. Lloyd felt a surge of elation. Was this happiness?
I, Lloyd Rockwell, am getting married. He tried to picture it: the ceremony itself, committing himself to Betsy for ever and ever, children, joint bank accounts, growing old, Betsy’s mother . . . He frowned.
“What are you thinking about?” Betsy asked dreamily.
“I was just wondering how that airline knew your mother was flying to England. Which one did you say it was?”
“Stateside, I think. Who cares? Can’t you forget about work for one day?”
At the end of a dusty lane that led down from a church they reached an impressive entrance flanked by old stone pillars.
Betsy tensed. “I wish you’d worn your nice jacket.”
“I told you, Harry said it would be very casual.” Immediately Lloyd felt guilty at his sharp tone. After all, he had stared into the closet this morning considering the exact same thing, before opting for chinos and a casual shirt. Was this a sign that he and Betsy were made for each other? He glanced over at her, immaculate in white linen, and smiled. “Besides, you look good enough for both of us.”
They entered a driveway that looped between tall hedges and opened into a gravelled parking area surrounded by rich green lawn. In front of them was a large house of rosy brick, its windows shrouded with creepers. As they came to a halt, a girl and a boy, perhaps five and eight, erupted shrieking from the bushes. Apart from sneakers and random streaks of dirt, they were naked. Behind them cantered a golden retriever carrying a plastic duck in its mouth.
“What a darling dog!” Betsy exclaimed.
As Lloyd pulled the hand brake tight, he became aware of a presence. The little girl’s eyes just reached over the window ledge. “Hello,” she said expectantly. “Are you really a lord? Do you have any knights?”
“He’s not a lord, you idiot.” The boy shoved her out of the way. “Just an ordinary person called ‘Lloyd.’ ”
Lloyd thought this was a pretty fair summary. “An ordinary person, however, who has brought largesse,” he said mildly, reaching into the back seat for a plastic bag. “I’m sorry it’s not wrapped.”
Lloyd wasn’t too sure what children liked. All he knew was that when he had seen the toy in a store display, it had made him laugh.
“It’s a parrot!” squealed the girl in delight, pulling it from the bag.
“A very intelligent one too,” Lloyd agreed. “Look, you have to turn it on here.” He showed her a switch on the bird’s perch.
“What can it do?” asked the boy skeptically.
Immediately, the parrot flapped its lurid wings and shrilly repeated, “What can it do? What can it do?”
The children were entranced, fighting to be the first to make it repeat silly things. There was a welcoming shout, and Harry Fox emerged from an archway at the side of the house, wearing khaki shorts and a disreputable sun-hat. Behind him came a slender, barefoot woman with the sort of pale coloring and light eyes that reminded Lloyd of folktales about women who turned into seals. Harry introduced her as his wife, Lorna.
“What a beautiful home!” Betsy exclaimed, handing her the lavishly wrapped hostess present over which she had agonized for days. Lloyd had kept hims
elf aloof from the debate and now couldn’t remember if she’d decided on the set of napkin rings or the embroidered hand towels.
“Say ‘bottom,’ ” the boy was shouting.
Lloyd looked ruefully at Lorna. “I’m afraid that may not be every parent’s favorite toy.”
“Don’t be silly.” She smiled. “The only question is how soon we can get the children to bed so that we can play with it ourselves.” Her voice was low and lilting, with a distinctive accent Lloyd could not place, her eyes frank and intelligent. He liked her at once.
In the cool hallway she paused. “I assume you’ll want to be in the same room.”
“If that’s convenient.” Lloyd cringed at his polite, hesitant tone. He became aware of thought-waves beaming from Betsy. Inexplicably, the words he knew she wanted him to say would not come.
“Aren’t you going to tell them?” she prompted.
“Of course.” He cleared his throat. “I—that is, we—in fact, yesterday—”
He felt Betsy link her arm through his. “We’re engaged,” she announced.
Lunch was a festive occasion, lubricated by champagne and eaten on the terrace in the shade of a rampant wisteria. Egged on by Betsy, Lorna told the story of how she had met Harry on a Scottish hillside near her childhood home. “He just sort of pounced,” she said, in a droll, wondering way that made Lloyd laugh. “I don’t even remember getting engaged. You certainly never gave me a ring, you old skinflint.” She prodded her husband’s leg with her foot. “To be honest I didn’t even know his full name until we were in the church. If he’d told me his middle name was Hannibal I might have changed my mind.”
“Love at first sight,” Harry agreed. “Why not? If you see something, grab it. Isn’t that right, Lloyd?”
Lloyd looked up sharply and met Harry’s quizzical smile. Not for the first time, he felt that he was undergoing some secret test. Was Harry implying that he had missed an opportunity? Before he could think of a response, the boy spoke up. “But you had to get married. Otherwise”—his tone was aghast—“otherwise you wouldn’t have been able to have us.”
They lingered at the table, chatting over coffee, then lemonade, until the children bullied them into playing a family version of cricket, hampered by the presence of the dog, who believed the ball to be his and almost knocked Betsy over when she was trying to bowl. They were great kids, Lloyd thought. After the game, while Betsy went indoors to take a nap, he rolled up his trousers and chased them around the garden with the hose until they collapsed exhausted on the grass. Then he told them how his father had taken him camping in Canada when he was ten years old and they had seen a grizzly bear. Lorna promised him a job as a nanny if he ever tired of the advertising world.
When the light turned mellow and golden, they all drifted up the lane to look at the church. On the way Lorna told Lloyd the story of the sixteenth-century nobleman, son of the village squire, who had fallen in love with a local girl. The marriage was forbidden and when the girl found herself pregnant she had hanged herself from a yew tree. Her lover never married and when he came into his inheritance he had ordered the girl’s body to be exhumed from the unconsecrated ground outside the church walls and placed in a lavish marble vault inside the church—big enough for two, so that when the time came he could lie beside her for eternity.
“What a sad story.” Lloyd was moved.
“But romantic, don’t you think? Imagine being that much in love with someone you can’t see or touch.”
Lloyd couldn’t. Life seemed too urgent, too fast. Even the things right in front of one’s eyes passed in such a blur that it was easy to make mistakes. Behind them he could hear Harry being nice to Betsy, drawing her out about her thesis and her future plans. Her replies made him smile. Evidently Lorna, too, had been listening, for at the lych-gate she paused and turned to speak to Betsy. “Did you know that Jane Austen’s house is nearby? Why don’t I drive you over there in the morning? You must be longing to see it. We can let the children run about in the garden.”
“Oh.” Betsy seemed hesitant. “That’s very gracious of you, but we had planned that Lloyd would take me.”
“Nonsense. Men are always bored by that kind of thing. Much better to let him go off fishing with Harry.” She took Betsy’s arm, woman to woman, and drew her up the path. “Now that you’re to be married, it’s vital to devise cunning ways of getting rid of your husband sometimes. You’ll want to, I promise.”
She turned with a mischievous smile to check that Harry was listening, and Lloyd, who was standing between them, intercepted a look so teasing and tender that it stabbed his heart with an emotion almost like envy.
“Your best bet at this time of year is a Greenwell’s Glory, or a Kite’s Imperial if it warms up and a hatch starts. That’s the little white bugger.” Harry pointed.
Lloyd took the small box of fishing flies, each ingeniously lodged in its own plastic compartment. He hadn’t been fishing since he was a boy, using worms and a makeshift arrangement of string and sticks that he had dangled hopefully in the muddy creek at the back of his grandparents’ house in Iowa. This was very different.
They were standing beside a little river. It was mid-morning. The stream ran clear and smooth over gravel, making gurgling and sucking sounds as it flowed, teasing long trails of green weed back and forth. The banks on either side had been mown smooth. On the way they had stopped off at an absurdly picturesque thatched fishing hut, where careful records were kept of the catches and a grubby map displayed on the wall. There was a terse account of piscatorial protocol, in which Lloyd saw no mention of worms. Trout-fishing in England was clearly a gentlemanly pursuit, where it mattered not who won or lost but how you played the game.
The setting was idyllic, the weather perfect, the air lively with birdsong and Sunday-morning church bells. But Lloyd was troubled. Last night he had woken up quite suddenly, as if a voice had spoken in his ear. He had gotten out of bed and stood at the window, staring out at the lawn silvered by moonlight, while he tried to trace the source of his anxiety. All week he had been tripping over little pieces of a puzzle that still made no pattern he could understand. But one thing his instinct told him: something funny was going on at Schneider Fox. This morning he had determined to find an opportunity to speak to Harry alone. There was no one else with whom he could discuss his unease. Sheri always seemed to be busy when he called, and Betsy was bored by shop talk. He opened his mouth to speak.
At that moment Harry put an urgent hand on his arm. “Look,” he said quietly, “there’s a trout just in front of that clump of weeds. Why don’t you see if you can get him to rise to your fly? Remember, don’t shadow the water or you’ll spook the fish. This is hunting.”
Lloyd clambered down the bank, awkward in the thigh-high rubber boots that Harry had lent him, brushing some green leaves as he went. Immediately his hand began to sting, and he shook it violently.
“Wimp.” Harry laughed. “Don’t you have nettles in America?”
Self-consciously Lloyd began to swish the rod back and forth in the air, as Harry had shown him. This morning they had practiced casting in the garden, and after half an hour Lloyd felt he was getting the knack of it. But that had been on an empty lawn, without a hook at the end of his line.
“Gently, man!” warned Harry. “Figure-of-eight. You’re not trying to club them to death.”
It was too late. The rod went slack and the line dropped in heavy coils in front of him. The nylon tip had formed an ingenious tangle. Meanwhile his quarry announced its departure with a majestic upstream bow-wave.
Lloyd sorted himself out and rejoined Harry, who gave him a sly grin. “Not as easy as it looks, eh?”
“No. Er, Harry . . . I’ve been wanting to talk to you about some things that are bothering me at work,” he began in a rush.
Harry’s genial expression vanished. “Listen to me, Lloyd.” His eyes were cold. “I’m not much of a man for rules, but there’s one that I never break. Family is famil
y, and business is business. I never mix the two. Today you’re my guest—mine and Lorna’s. If you have something to say to me about Schneider Fox, tell me in the office. Have you got that?”
“Yes,” answered Lloyd. Under the pressure of his fingers the fly box he was holding snapped shut with a sharp click.
“Good. I’m going upstream to have a bash,” Harry continued, friendly once more. “Meet you back at the car in an hour.”
Lloyd watched him go. He felt foolish but also irritated to have been so ruthlessly silenced. Just then an obliging trout rose within casting distance, in a run of fast water beneath a tree stump on the far bank. Crouching on one knee, Lloyd started to work out line. The fly dropped softly on the water, then began to drift downstream on the current. There was a “plop,” and the fly disappeared.
Lloyd jerked the rod in surprise and felt an answering tug. Then the surface exploded as the trout leaped clear of the water, scattering droplets in the sunlight. It crashed down again and set off at a frightening speed, pulling the line screaming off the reel. But after a few wild dashes across the river, the fish began to tire, and soon Lloyd was able to draw it across his outstretched net. He lifted the fish out of the water and waded to the bank. He was trembling.
The fish lay panting in the net, one eye glaring defiantly at him. Lloyd was amazed by its beauty. Its sides were golden, speckled with dark brown spots. It looked full of life. To hold this wild thing trapped, at his mercy, was a powerful sensation. Lloyd hesitated. It would be satisfying to wipe that sly grin off Harry’s face. He saw himself swaggering back to Betsy and Lorna, homo hunter-gatherus, jangling the buckles of his macho boots. But these seemed unworthy reasons to kill such a magnificent creature. Lloyd reached down and unhooked the fly. Then he lifted the trout with both hands and carried it to the water’s edge, where he knelt down and gently placed it in the shallows. For a moment the fish lingered, as if unsure whether to trust this reprieve; then it shot forward into the deeper water and was gone.
