Life_ An Exploded Diagram - Mal Peet [70]
“Yeah. Ideal.”
“I’ll drop the homework round later, then, shall I? Fiveish?”
The weather was in two minds. Behind the veils of mizzle, the sky was a white glare. Half a mile along the Gunston road, Clem, sweating, stopped and took off the raincoat. He rolled it up and belted it to his handlebars, then stood gazing into the blurred ocher distance. His moment of liberation had passed; now the thought of the lonely and silent day ahead was dreadful. Instantly, he was overwhelmed by self-pity, dizzied by it. He leaned his forearms on the bundled raincoat and lowered his head, gasping in air, fighting back tears.
He couldn’t go home. The house would be empty, but some nosy bleddy neighbor would see him and be around as soon as his mother came home, pretending concern for his health.
Onward to Franklins, then. There was nowhere else.
The approach to the remains of the house was carpeted with big five-pointed sycamore leaves: stars cut out of yellow paper by inexpert children. They attached themselves to his wet shoes. He trudged around the corner of the barn, then, at the doorway, recoiled in shock when he found himself face-to-face with Marron. The horse was alarmed, too, throwing its head up and backing away.
“Frankie?”
A small frightened cry from above. A scuffling.
He thought, She’s here with somebody else.
Her face, all eyes, appeared below the rail of the loft.
“Clem?” It was not much more than a whisper.
He eased past Marron and stumbled up the stairs. The shutters were only slightly ajar, and he stood unsighted for several seconds, holding on to the stair post. Neither of them spoke; they stared at each other almost as if each had trespassed onto the other’s private space. Caught each other out.
She was alone. Thank God, thank God. Kneeling. Wearing a black turtleneck sweater and brown cord trousers. A heavy-looking waterproof jacket was spread over the sleeping bag.
At last she said, “I’ve never seen you in your school uniform. It’s terribly smart.”
“Frankie.”
“How did you know I was here?”
“I didn’t. I just . . .”
“You just knew.”
She lifted her arms toward him, and he stumbled over to her and knelt and held her.
After a while he sensed that she was hiding from him. He lifted his hands to her shoulders and pushed her gently back.
“You’ve been crying.”
She snuffled.
“Haven’t.”
“Have.”
She unbuttoned his blazer and slid her hands inside it. She pressed the side of her face against his shirt.
“Yes, all right, I have. I’ve been here a couple of times for a jolly good cry.”
“Hev you? Why?”
“Because, you idiot, it’s not exactly possible to do it at home. It might just arouse suspicion if I traipsed about the house in tears, wailing your name.”
Shamefully, he exulted in the thought, the image, of her doing it.
“And,” she said, “when I come here and wrap the bag around me, it’s almost like you’re here, too. I can smell you. I mean that in the nicest possible way, actually.”
“I think about you all the time, Frankie. All the time. I’ve been going nuts.”
For some reason this made her giggle.
“What?”
She didn’t explain. She lifted her face to his.
Halfway through the long kiss, they let themselves fall sideways onto the floor.
“How long’ve we got?”
She propped her head on her hand and looked down at him.
“I have to be home for lunch at one o’clock.”
“What about this afternoon? I’ll wait here for you.”
“No. Tomorrow afternoon should be all right, though. Unless the weather is beastly.”
She lifted herself up and knelt over him. She pulled the turtleneck off over her head and threw it away. Loosened his green-and-gold tie, pulled it off him, and draped it around her own neck. Looked down at him coquettishly.
And for him it was as though everything had fallen apart, rearranged itself according to some pattern beyond his imagining or courage. The dark tumble of her hair, her teasing eyes, the stupid school tie