The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [159]
I was turning to follow the woman—I had never been to Castle Menzies and the ruin was at least a destination—when I heard the sound of another approach. Archie appeared through the trees. He raised his crook in greeting. “Here you are,” he said, not seeming at all surprised. I wondered if he had stopped by the house. “How was Latin?”
“All right. There was that passage from Virgil we did a few weeks ago, and then a short piece by Tacitus and one of Horace’s poems about farmers and bees. I was glad you’d made me time myself.”
“So you’re done?”
“Yes.” All I could not say made me curt. “Someone threw sixpence in the well.”
“People have been doing that for years, though I’ve always wondered what a naiad would do with money. My theory is that Gypsies started the custom. Periodically they come along and clean it out.”
I saw him notice the forget-me-nots but he did not comment. “In Bath,” I volunteered, “people used to throw coins and jewellery into the hot spring.”
“And votive statues, too,” he said. He stabbed his crook into the mud and, leaving it, upright but listing, came forward to dip his hand in the water and touch his fingers to his forehead, the same gesture I had made.
“I’m glad to find you alone,” he said. His eyes were very clear, and high on each cheek was a flush of colour; Hannah blushed in the same way. Hidden in one of the beech trees, a blackbird began to scold. “We share so many interests, Jean. The Everyman Library claims that books are the ideal companions, but you’ve taught me that the ideal is sharing books with a kindred spirit. I know you’re younger than me, but I’ve seen how mature you are in your dealings with Marian and Robin. You don’t shirk your responsibilities. I’d like to celebrate your exams results by inviting you to go to Iceland as—”
“Archie,” I burst out, “I’d love to go to Iceland.”
In my excitement I did not catch the end of the sentence. I was still debating whether to ask what he’d said when he stepped forward and kissed me on the forehead.
chapter thirty-one
As I followed Archie back to the village—the path was too narrow to walk side by side—I saw how white his neck was above his collar. I hadn’t noticed at the well, but he must have been to the barber recently. Marian’s car was parked outside the MacGillvarys’ and I asked if he would come in for tea. He said he was sorry. He’d promised to help Hannah load the kiln. “Thank you, Jean,” he said, smiling at me. “I’m so happy.” Before I could thank him in turn, he headed down the lane. Watching him disappear, I thought that the naiad had answered my request with miraculous speed.
In the kitchen Robin was playing pirates; Marian was at the stove. “How did the exam go?” she said.
“All right. I really enjoyed translating the Virgil.”
“That’s a good sign. When I enjoy playing I always play better. George walked round the ward today.”
The three of us ate bangers and mash as if nothing had changed. I was longing to talk about Iceland, to say that Archie and I were at last going to visit, but any mention of travel would only upset Robin. Afterwards, as I gave him his bath, I read to him from The Little Mermaid. It was the first time in months I’d read to him from one of his books rather than one of mine. The picture at the front showed a ship with white sails bobbing on a blue sea; nearby a mermaid was combing her hair. “Pretty,” said Robin. He was sailing his own ship, pushing it up one side of the bath and down the other. But as I read about the little mermaid’s willingness to sacrifice almost everything for her prince, to walk on knives and give up her underwater garden, Robin’s ship sailed more and more slowly. Finally, with a decisive shove, he sank it.
“Stop,” he said. “We’ll have bad dreams.” Ever since the morning we had both reported dreaming of foxes he had regarded our dreams as communal.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Finish your bath and I’ll read you something else so