“I’d noticed. When he’s agitated. Yes. Doesn’t every boy?”
“No, they don’t! The only other person I’ve seen doing that is you, Joe.”
“Me?”
“It’s so automatic you don’t even notice. I used to think it was because your brow wound was itching, but it wasn’t. You do it when you’re upset.” She turned his troubled face towards her and peered at him.
“Like now. Go on, Joe, you know you’re longing to do it.” Her lips curved into a teasing smile. She was so close he could smell peppermint toothpaste on her breath.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Scratch your eyebrow. You’re as tense as a bowstring, but you can’t release the tension because I’m sitting on your left hand.”
“You don’t think the two might be connected?”
“You can’t use the right. The family trait doesn’t allow for that. I think it has most probably a genetic origin, passed down the generations like blue eyes or pigeon toes.”
Joe swallowed, closing his mind to the shaft of hope that stabbed suddenly through him. “I don’t believe a word of it. That’s the sort of mumbo-jumbo that gets psychology a bad name. But it’s strange, he felt like my son. Didn’t look the least little bit like me, but I think I knew, and Nancy’s denial didn’t make me sad and disappointed. It made me want to wring her neck.”
The thought seemed to cheer Dorcas. She patted his arm encouragingly. “Glad to see that specter from the past howling off back into the woodwork. But look, Joe, no need to indulge in whimsicality. Do a bit of detective work! Women always think men know nothing about the cycle of generation and pregnancy and birth—”
“There’s a reason for that.”
“Well, it’s time you found out. Science is on the march, and you must keep in step. Dates, Joe! I can’t possibly help with this but I’m sure you kept a diary of some kind in 1922. Blushing? I see you did! Well, just work out the date, ask Jack the date of his birthday, and I can tell you whether you can be excluded from the equation—or not. It’s not everything but.…”
“I know about collecting evidence.” Joe smiled. “Never investigated myself before, but I’ll do what you suggest.”
“Poor Joe. You must be in turmoil—family pressures on one side, heavy court cases looming on the other, the enquiry coming up, and political storms brewing. You don’t know which way to look. I expect you’ve called me out here for a good reason.”
“A reason?”
“Yes. Time, I think, for a bit of distraction. Like the great crested grebes. When it all gets too much, just ignore it, and go off and find some seeds to peck. Stop fidgeting!”
She put up a hand and turned his face towards her. The dark eyes were shining with an emotion he’d never encountered before. Joe still hesitated to put a name on it, but whatever it was, it was undisguised, unveiled, unchallenging and totally hypnotic.
“You won’t yell for help, will you, if I put my arms round you, hug you close and give you a proper kiss?” she asked.
“Great heavens, Dorcas! Do you know how? Are you sure you want to? I have to ask.”
“Yes, I do, and yes, I do, and no you most certainly don’t. I’ve been meaning to for years. Now, don’t be such a weed! Lie back, take a deep breath, and think of England in springtime.”
Joe took a deep breath, several deep breaths, but remained sitting upright.
“No. Sorry, Dorcas. I can’t. High jinks in a contraption like this at my age? It could all end in shrieks of laughter. Look, I sent the men off to repair the barn roof. If you’ll take a stroll with me down to that patch of ancient woodland, you can whisper in my ear, and I’ll consider any indecent suggestions you care to make in perfect seclusion.”
“Ah! You know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows?”
“Wild garlic anyway. It’s growing very thickly this year. They say its scent is very invigorating.”
He stepped down and lifted her from the hammock. He held her tightly and kissed the top of her head. “Sorry, Dorcas. It’s taken me rather a long time to see it. I’m still struggling with the idea that you might love me. It’s a very strange thing, but I begin to understand when I look at it with the Bard’s eyes—as young Gosling would say:
So we grew together
Like to a double cherry, seeming parted,
But yet an union in partition:
Two lovely berries moulded on one stem.
He grinned. “Well, one lovely berry, anyway. The other’s a bit bashed about.”
“Joe, can we leave the bards out of this? I like a man who does his courting in his own words. Or no words at all.”
Not My Blood Page 32
