The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [164]
Such a simple phrase to contain my disappointment. I explained that the person I had hoped to talk to was away. “I really needed to ask him something,” I said.
“Love,” said George. After several steps, he added, “Not Archie’s tea. Matter?”
A wagtail, one of the birds Coco had made fun of, was running along the edge of the flower-bed. “That’s what I can’t decide,” I said. “Archie is kind and clever. We both like history. Maybe that’s enough.”
“For him.”
It took me a moment to guess his meaning. “For him,” I agreed. “He seems to have no interest in . . .” I followed the flight of the wagtail onto the wall. What words could convey that feeling of being connected with another person, and the way in which that feeling raised a curtain between oneself and the world so that everything—a slice of bacon, a beech tree, a pair of shoes, a snail, a standing stone—was more vivid? “Certain things,” I ended feebly.
George nodded again. “Careful,” he said. “Diff—, diff—”
He stopped walking and looked down at me, his mouth twisted. I looked back—he was, as always, perfectly shaved—searching for what he was trying to tell me. “Archie and I are different,” I said slowly. His watery eyes agreed. “You’re telling me,” I continued, “that those differences won’t be easy to ignore.”
“Yes.” He patted his heart again and then pointed to me. “Careful,” he repeated.
How strange, I thought, that this man, whom I had known only during his illness, sensed what Marian and Hannah and Pauline seemed so ready to ignore. But at least I had one ally. Two, if I counted Robin.
When I announced after supper that I was going for a bicycle ride, Marian said it was a beautiful evening. I borrowed Mrs. Lewis’s bike and, not bothering to phone in advance, set out. Better to risk Archie’s absence than to arouse false expectations. Nor did I plan what to say. I simply gave myself over to the journey, following the road on the north side of the river. A few weeks ago the woods had been bright with bluebells; now the flowers were mostly gone. I pedalled along, enjoying the small rush of speed on the hills and the occasional glimpses of the river. All too soon I came to Archie’s village. His red post office van was parked beside the house Hannah had pointed out. A woman in an apron, still holding a rolling pin, answered my knock.
“Archie,” she said. “Top of the stairs, on the right.”
When I knocked on that door Archie called, “Come in.” Slowly I opened it and peered in. He was sitting in an armchair, holding a book.
“Jean! What are you doing here?”
“I was out for a bike ride. May I come in?”
“Welcome to my very humble abode. Here, have the armchair. Can I get you something? I can offer tea, Nescafé, lemon barley water, and gin.”
“A glass of water, please.”
Archie stepped out to fetch the water, and I surveyed the room. Besides the armchair it contained a table and chair, a bookcase, and an umbrella stand holding several golf clubs. On the bookcase was a photograph. When I went to look I saw that it was the one Hannah had taken of me in the pottery, smiling up at her. Quickly, hearing his footsteps, I sat down again. As he handed me the glass, I noticed that the door, closed when I arrived, was now ajar. He was worried, I thought, about what his landlords might think.
While I drank the tepid water, he told me about their three children, whom he occasionally helped with homework. “They’ll miss me when we move,” he said.
I set aside the glass, unbuttoned the top button of my blouse, and stood up. Archie was sitting on the hard chair at the table, still talking about the youngest boy’s struggle with the alphabet as I approached.
“I don’t have your patience,” he said. “I’m glad you stopped by. I’ve been meaning to show you this book of early maps of Scotland.”
I put my hand on his. If he kissed me, I thought, if he started to unbutton his own shirt, if he looked at me and said, “How lovely you are,” if he put his hand down the neck of my blouse,