The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [157]
“A cat,” he said, grinning at Emily.
“People will rally round,” said Hannah. “Robin can help me in the pottery. And won’t some of the neighbours mind him?”
“But what about the exams?” I repeated. Hannah still didn’t seem to understand how demanding Robin was, how much I needed to study.
“Marian will be back. Here,” she said to Robin, “let me show you how to make a vase out of snakes.” Kneeling beside him, she began to roll out a coil of clay.
We had been back at the house for an hour when there was a knock at the door and a voice called, “Hello.” Hannah must have telephoned Archie as soon as we left.
For the next four days he came every afternoon after his deliveries. He played with Robin, helped me study, and, to my surprise, took over the cooking. This last he approached like a chemistry experiment, measuring ingredients and timing each stage precisely. “Is this finely chopped?” he would ask. “What does thickened mean?” After supper, when Robin was safely in bed, we sat at opposite ends of the kitchen table, both reading. Sometimes Archie quizzed me on that night’s subject. His French was hopeless, but he read over the essays I had written in history and English and made suggestions. At nine-thirty he would close his book, get to his feet, and bid me good night. Once he praised my Horace translation, another time he wished me sweet dreams, but for the most part our conversation seldom strayed beyond the immediate demands: Robin, groceries, news of George, my studies.
On Friday evening the three of us were in the kitchen when a car drove up the lane. Often, at the sound of visitors, Robin still vanished beneath the table. Now he was running for the door. A minute later he reappeared in the arms of his grandmother.
I had not known that a few days could so greatly change a person who had money and a bed. Marian’s skirt hung in folds, her hair, unwashed, clung to her head, and her cheeks had a bruised look. She greeted Archie and me quietly. Still carrying Robin, she went upstairs to unpack. Half an hour later they joined us for supper. While Robin told her about the wigwam he had built with the Lewis children, she toyed with Archie’s vegetable pie.
Finally I said, “How is George?”
“This was delicious.” She set down her knife and fork. “The doctor says he should be ready to come home in a fortnight, but he won’t be able to manage stairs. I thought we could turn the dining-room into a bedroom for him? It’s warm and near the loo. We usually eat in here anyway.” She clasped her hands, looking from me to Archie.
“What does Dr. Grady think?” Archie said cautiously.
“He hasn’t seen George since the operation, but I expect he’ll say what he always says: that it’s a lot for me to cope with. What he doesn’t understand is that George hates being in hospital. The nurses are very nice but there’s no privacy. And they only allow visitors for a couple of hours a day.”
“Still,” Archie persisted, “George is a big man. What if you need to lift him?”
“The district nurse will help with all that,” said Marian firmly.
Soon afterwards she went upstairs with Robin and didn’t return. Over the washing-up, Archie talked about Ovid’s exile to the Black Sea. While there he had written a curse poem called The Ibis. Who did he curse? I asked. Did it work? But Archie didn’t know. When he put on his jacket and gathered up his books, I followed him outside. The night was clear and moonless, and I at once wished that I too had brought a jacket. As we leaned against his van, looking across the valley at the lights of Aberfeldy, I tried not to shiver.
“Marian looks awful,” I said.
“Does she? I thought she was just a little tired.”
“I’m worried she won’t understand that I can’t take care of Robin next week. All she can think about is George.”
“No,” said Archie, his stiff green jacket creaking. “She knows how important your exams are. Speak to her tomorrow, when she’s had a good night’s sleep.”
Somewhere above us on Weem Rock a bird was crying,