The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [163]
I kept walking, counting on him to follow. If I stopped, I would have to look at him, and if I looked at him, it would be even harder to say what I was trying to say. “But we’ve been talking about going to Iceland for weeks. You never said we could only go if we were married.”
“Jean.” My false name was both a rebuke and a summons, as Archie strode past me. Now I almost had to run to keep abreast. “Anyone with a passport and enough money can go to Iceland. I invited you to go as my wife. If for some reason you’ve changed your mind—Hannah did warn me how young you are—then we won’t be taking a honeymoon. Surely you know”—his voice was almost muffled by his footfalls—“that I’m not the kind of man who goes to bed with a woman to whom he isn’t married.”
Of course you’re not, I thought. You’re not the kind of man to go to bed with anyone. To you love is just a Latin verb. The vetch was already wilting in my grasp; I let it fall. But if I succumbed to my anger . . . I pictured Hannah, Pauline, and Marian all frowning. I pictured Iceland vanishing across the ocean, the whole country sailing away. I would never get to retrace my journey. My grandparents, if they were still alive, might die. My cousins, if I had any, might forget my name.
“Everything’s just happened so fast,” I said. “I’m worried I won’t be a good wife. I am young. And then there’s Marian. She can’t manage both George and Robin.”
I stammered on in this vein for another minute or two and gradually Archie’s pace slowed. I was right, he said approvingly, to be apprehensive. Marriage was a big step, but he wasn’t looking for someone to wash his shirts and sweep the floor. What he needed was a comrade to share his interests, to remind him that being a postman was only part of his life. “I’ll talk to Marian,” he added. “Then we can set the date.”
His good mood restored, Archie changed the subject. Did I know, he asked, that Fortingall was famous for its yew tree? People said it was planted when Pontius Pilate was governor of Jerusalem. “Imagine”—his eyes glowed—“someone who heard Jesus preach the Sermon on the Mount could have sat beside that tree.”
On Monday while Marian was giving a lesson, and Robin was happily arranging his model farmyard, I once again went to use the phone. More than two months had passed since I retrieved my suitcase, but I was sure that the minister with his kindly smile would remember me. I would tell him everything and he would advise me how best to extricate myself. The phone rang only once before a woman said hello. I asked to speak to Mr. Duckworth.
“I’m afraid he’s not here. Can I help?”
“When will he be back? I can phone later.”
“The end of September. His parents were in an accident and he’s taken a leave to look after them. My husband is minding the parish. Shall I fetch him? He’ll be happy to talk to you.”
Through the window above the front door a cloud was visible, so white and substantial that it looked as if I could set a ladder up against the trees and climb aboard. Suddenly I was back on the Brough of Birsay, lying on the grass near the lighthouse while the lark sang and Mr. Sinclair slept. Then I was in Pauline and Hannah’s kitchen, clinking my glass to theirs, and to Archie’s. “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll wait until September.”
I was still staring at the cloud when, from George’s room, the sound of the hourly pips on the radio reminded me that I had promised to take him for his constitutional. He walked in the garden several times a day and Marian insisted that he be accompanied. “No jacket,” he said when I knocked on his door. We headed out. As we walked across the lawn, he pointed to the faint path he had worn through the daisies.
“You must have walked to Edinburgh by now,” I said.
“For Marian.” He stopped and, still holding his stick, put one hand over his heart.
“She loves you,” I said.
He