I broke off, confused. I had never said these sorts of things to anyone, certainly not to any of my mates at school. Not to Mum. Hardly even to myself.
He said, gently, 'Is it that you're afraid too of trying to look harder, in case you find out things you don't want to?'
I stared at him, knowing that was precisely the case, though I hadn't known it properly till then. My heart beat fast, because he understood. He understood so well, it was so weird. Disorienting. And wonderful. I stammered, 'It's not that I really think he's like some kind of master criminal or something because that's silly. And I'm not exactly angry that he left us – it's hard to feel really angry at someone you've never met – but I guess it's because I'm kind of afraid he'll turn out to be too much like me. I'm so different to my mum, I really don't take after her, not in my looks and not in my personality, and so I think maybe I'll be just like him and that maybe I'll turn out to be a hopeless, untrustworthy person like him.' A part of me was absolutely terrified, screeching, what do you think you're doing, telling this total stranger the deepest feelings in your heart? But another part felt so relieved to be letting it all out at last. 'What's more, I've had this feeling for a couple of years that I know just what I want to do when I'm older. Do you want to know what it is?' He nodded. I rushed on, 'I thought maybe I could apply to work for ASIO, that's the Australian secret service, and become a secret agent or at least an undercover detective or an investigator or something. Mum would have an absolute fit if she knew. She'd think it was another betrayal, and not just because of my father, but because that kind of job – well, it goes against everything she loves and believes in, I suppose. Sneaking around spying on people. Trying to catch people out. Pretending to be what you're not. She would hate the idea. And I suppose she'd be right. It's a really pathetic and stupid idea, really.'
'Oh Fleur,' he said. 'Don't think that. I know just how you feel. You want to follow what you feel is your life-path, but above all you don't want to hurt your mother. You're all she's got. I – my mother, she brought me up in this remote place not only to get away from what happened but also because she wants me to have nothing to do with the police. She said that's what killed my dad and my uncle, and if she knew what I have in my heart – how I've dreamed of doing police work for years – well, it would kill her. It really would, Fleur. After Raymond ... after Raymond died, and the police came to interview us because they were interviewing anyone who knew him – well, she freaked out completely. She was so upset. Not only because of what had happened to Raymond but also, I think, because there was a policeman in the house. That's why I can't tell her. I don't know how I will ever be able to tell her. And I don't know what will happen to her if I leave here.'
Our eyes met, for a long moment. I felt like my voice would shake badly, because I felt trembly all over. But it sounded almost normal when I said, 'Oh well, I expect things will work out for us, Remy. Somehow.' And then, too late, I realised exactly what I'd said and how he might take it and blushed red. I know that's not a good look at all when you've got red hair, but thinking that made me blush even harder. His eyes crinkled up with laughter – again, he seemed to read my mind. Of course he could! He said, 'I sure hope they do, Fleur.' I wanted suddenly to beat him up again like before because I'm just not used to this kind of feeling and it was driving me mad. But before I could even take a step towards him, he had turned away and was loping up the path with Patou who, bless her or curse her, had been standing there grinning at us like she knew what was going on and thought it was all a great joke.
The rest of the way to his house, which wasn't very far, we talked about other things. I told him how we'd come to be here, how Mum had corresponded with Raymond, about the Christmas cards he used to send me, about the library, stuff like that. Remy talked about his mum and her relationship with Raymond, how they'd become friends after she'd done some artwork for one of his books.
'They didn't see each other that often, but they always got on well,' he said. 'She liked his books. She's read them all, you know. And he used to buy stuff from her sometimes, illustrations, things like that. Once she even made a tarot deck for him. A special one, which he'd designed himself.'
'Don't tell me,' I said, my spine tingling. 'It was the Lady of the Lake deck.'
He looked at me, surprised. 'That's right. How do you know?'
'He sent it to my mother as a present,' I said. 'Mum uses it all the time. She loves it.'
'Oh my God,' he said, and we looked at each other, and neither of us said anything more for a while. My thoughts were churned up and all over the place. There was no way, I thought. No way you could fall in love with someone just like that. No way you could have that kind of magical connection so quickly, that so many things clicked. It was like something out of one of Raymond's books, or the legends of King Arthur, damsel meets knight in the forest, and bang! They're hooked on each other straightaway. It doesn't happen in real life. It can't. Not to me. Not to an ordinary, wary, 16-year-old Australian like me. To someone like Mum, maybe. She believes in all that. But I don't. Even while my sensible side protested and yelled and screamed that it wasn't happening, something else in me was celebrating – yes, yes, yes – thrilled to bits, that in fact it was all as real as the nose on my face or the trees in the wood. Or the deer. The white deer.
We had come to a crossroads in the path. One part of it went straight on, deeper into the woods. The other took a right turn that, in a few seconds, brought us into a clearing. 'This is it,' said Remy unnecessarily, because I could see the house quite clearly. It was at the far end of the clearing, set in a flourishing garden, surrounded by a fence ('to keep the deer away from the vegetables; they'll get in and just eat everything if you let them'), and was a simple single-storeyed construction of wood, with a shingle roof, rather like a woocdcutter's cottage in a fairytale. There was smoke coming out of the chimney, though it was such a warm day. You wouldn't think anyone would want a fire burning in summer. But then I remembered how Marie Clary had said the house had no electricity and thought maybe they needed the fire for cooking or hot water or whatever (which was, in fact, exactly right).
Coming up the path towards the front door, I suddenly felt very nervous. What on earth would Remy's mother think of some total stranger suddenly turning up unannounced? I thought of how I'd set out that morning planning somehow to get to this place and knew now just how arrogant I'd been, how ignorant too, just thinking I could turn up on a stranger's doorstep because I was curious. But it was too late to turn back now, and besides, I was with Remy and whether I liked it or not this day wasn't in my control at all.
As we reached the door, Remy turned and smiled at me. 'She'll be pleased to see you. Don't worry.'
I swallowed. Once again, he'd seemed to know what I was thinking.
I went in behind him. Inside it was cool and dark, a real contrast to the bright day outside so that for a moment or two I had a bit of trouble seeing anything much. Then my eyes got used to it and I saw that we had come into a kitchen with a pine table and chairs, a big wood stove at one corner but only a mingy window. There was something bubbling in a pot on the stove. It smelled strong, kind of herby and for an insane instant I wondered if it was some kind of witch's brew and what on earth was going to happen to me now? Putting his bow and arrow away in a cupboard near the door, Remy then led the way through the kitchen to the next room at the back of the house, which was much lighter than the kitchen because there was a big window looking out over the woods. By the window, seated at a table with her back to us, intent on a sketchbook in front of her, was a small, slim woman dressed in a floaty white blouse over a flowery skirt. Her feet were bare and her hair hung in a long, thick, pure white plait all the way to her waist. At the sound of our footsteps, she half-turned her head, and I saw Valerie Gomert for the first time.
My first thought was how beautiful she was. She had a heart-shaped face, with eyes the same colour as her son's, a startling colour against the snowy whiteness of her hair. Her features
were delicate and, despite the colour of her hair, she looked quite young. But then she stood up and turned fully towards us and I only just managed to hold back a little gasp. For the other side of her face was wrinkled and puckered and shiny, with the corner of her eye pushed upwards and the side of her mouth lifted in a kind of snarl. It was as if she was wearing some awful double-headed mask, and to say it gave me a shock is to put it very mildly. I'd expected it, but nothing could really have prepared me for the terrible sight of that poor woman. But I forced myself to look her in the eye when Remy introduced me, to smile and say, 'Hello,' in as normal a voice as I could. Remy told her what I was doing and how my mother had the Lady of the Lake Tarot, and lots more besides. Valerie Gomert listened to him in silence, but her eyes never left my face. When he stopped talking, she said, in a soft, musical sort of voice, 'I am very glad to meet any friend of Raymond's. And now Remy's, so mine as well, of course.' She held out a hand and we shook. 'Welcome to our home, Fleur. You must have had a long hot walk. Would you like a drink of something? Some mint tea, perhaps? Or lemonade? We make our own. Cake, perhaps, too?'
'Oh, thank you,' I said, 'but I'm not –'
'Remy, go and make some mint tea. And get the rest of that cake,' she said, as if I hadn't spoken.
She wasn't really like what I'd expected. Not hermit-like at all, despite what Marie Clary had said. And she also seemed much more together than some of what Remy had said suggested. Perhaps that was just a superficial impression. But it certainly put me much more at my ease than I could ever have imagined, after that first sight of her ruined face.
The Lady's House
The mint tea was very hot and very sweet, and the cake, which was poppy seed, was drenched in a lovely lemon syrup, very yummy. I suddenly felt hungry and thirsty, and ate two slices of cake and drank two cups of tea. As we ate and drank, Valerie – she insisted I call her that – showed me the sketches she'd been working on: pictures of people in modern dress but with fantasy touches to them. For instance, one person had a tiny dragon in their cupped hands, another person had a crown on their head with eyes rather than jewels set into it. They were quite amazing, but sort of disturbing, too. 'They're for a new tarot deck I was making for Raymond,' she explained. 'It was his own idea – he wanted to show how ancient myths and symbols still have meaning in modern life.' She looked down at the sketchbook, and her hands twisted around each other. 'I decided I wanted to keep doing it, despite ... I want it to be a memorial for him, something really wonderful. Something he would have loved. I'm going to get it printed when I've finished, and call it the Bellerive Tarot.'
I swallowed. 'That's a great idea,' I faltered, not sure how I should react.
'Do you think so? It's different, isn't it? You must know a lot about tarot – do you think people will take to this?'
'I don't know much about it at all, it's Mum who's really into it,' I said, adding hastily, 'but I'm sure it would work fine. Those sorts of things are very popular, aren't they?'
I could have kicked myself for sounding so stupid. I only wished I genuinely knew more about all this sort of thing. But I only knew what I'd heard from Mum and most of that went in one ear and out the other. But, to my surprise, Valerie smiled – the smile making her poor face even more lopsided – and said, 'I understand. I don't use tarot myself, though I love the symbols and images, so rich for art, you see. But the meanings people try to pin down for them, well, it seems to me like trying to force order out of chaos – to try to get certainty about life, which is very uncertain. Frankly, I prefer playing cards to reading them.'
'Oh, so do I,' I said, relieved. 'I love poker and stuff, we play a lot of that at school.'
'Did you hear that, Remy?' She turned to her son, who had been sitting silently observing us, his face showing little expression. 'We've got ourselves a third player again! Go and get the cards, darling – let's have a game.'
'Are you sure, Mam? I –'
'Of course I'm sure. Didn't I just say so?'
'Okay,' he said, getting up and leaving the room. I had the feeling there was something wrong, something off-key, though I couldn't work out what. To cover my unease, I said, 'Are all the pictures in here yours?'
There were quite a few in the room – mostly fantasy-style paintings of girls with unicorns, fairy revels, dragon riders and a scene at a tournament – and most of them weren't exactly my kind of thing, though I could see they were really well done. But there were also a few framed portrait sketches, incredibly vivid things, swiftly drawn with just a few lines of charcoal. I didn't know most of the people, but could recognise one of Remy, and one that must be of Raymond, because it looked like the photo in his books.
'Yes,' said Valerie, 'they're all mine.' She saw my glance towards the sketches, and went on, 'Not all of those, though. See that one there, of Raymond? That's Remy's. And that one, too – and that one.'
'They're so good,' I said, amazed. He hadn't said anything about being good at art.
'Of course. He is very good. He just doesn't do it often enough. I've told him he's good enough to make a living at it, but he won't listen. He can be stubborn, my boy. Like his father.'
I held my breath, remembering what Remy had said. But she didn't seem upset. She didn't say any more about her husband, but there was nothing that felt uneasy about it. She'd simply said what she wanted to and that was that.
Remy came back then with a pack of cards, and we sat down together, with Patou snoozing at Valerie's feet, and played a few games of poker, punctuated by sips of mint tea and more cake. I reckon I'm pretty good at poker, but those two were a whole lot better than me. It wasn't until the third game that Valerie said, 'A couple of years ago, we used to play a lot with Raymond. He'd come here once a week to play, then he got tired of it and didn't play for ages.' I thought I knew then why Remy had been reluctant – perhaps he thought it would upset his mother, remind her of her dead friend, but if it did, it didn't seem to have a bad effect on her – quite the opposite. She chatted on and on about Raymond and how he was such an interesting man, and so knowledgeable about so many things, and how kind he was and how she owed him a great debt and all sorts of stuff like that. I'm afraid after a while it washed over me rather because I was concentrating not just on the game but watching Remy out of the corner of my eye – his long fingers around the cards; his long legs stretched out in front of him; the laughing flicker of his golden eyes; the bit of sunlight that touched the top of his head, gilding the brown so that it looked almost the same colour as his eyes. I thought how beautiful and how mysterious he was and how there was something about him that just set him apart from any other boy I'd ever seen and how I wanted to stay here and never go away.
Then I remembered the time. My God. What was the time? Mum had said I should be back by one o'clock. I looked at my watch. It was 1.45! I couldn't believe it. Surely I hadn't been here that long? I'd set out from the house at ten, and now here it was, nearly two! I certainly hadn't noticed the time passing, not at all. I said, 'I'm sorry, I'm going to have to go. I was supposed to be back for lunch. I'm so sorry.'
'That's okay, dear,' said Valerie. 'I quite understand. Nice to know you listen to your mother.' I saw an irritated expression flash across Remy's face for an instant, but all he said was, 'I'll take you back, Fleur. It's easy to get lost round here.'
'Oh, I'm sure I'll remember the way, I'm quite good at it, I've done orienteering at school, I'm quite good in the bush.' I didn't want him to think I was too eager, or that I expected anything, or anything like that. But of course I was hugely relieved when he shook his head and said, 'I'm sure you're very good but you don't know these woods and they're much more difficult than you think. Plus I know a short cut. You'll get back to the house much more quickly.'
I said goodbye to Valerie and even kissed her on her good cheek without flinching at all. To tell the truth, I had almost forgotten about the state of the left side of her face. I mean, not altogether forgotten but it didn't seem to matter anymor
e. The twist of pity I'd felt on first seeing her had quietened into a kind of admiration because she didn't let it stop her. At least, not in her own home. But there was that story about her Marie Clary had told, about her not leaving her home, not even to go to Avallon. Presumably it must be true – but how did that square with the confident, friendly woman I'd seen in there, apparently at ease with herself and the world? How did it square with the kind of bravery that continued making a commission for a dead friend – as a loving memorial for him? I had no idea. It was a mystery, like so much about this place, and these people.
'I really liked your mum,' I said, as Remy and I walked down the path and out of the gate, Patou nosing along beside us.
'Good,' he said. 'She really liked you too.'
'Good,' I repeated, feeling like a parrot. 'That's really good.'
'Mmm.'
I snuck a look at him – his face had a shut-in sort of expression that I couldn't read at all. I said, 'What's the matter?'
'Nothing.'
'Really?'
'Really,' he said, with a touch of anger in his voice, and was quiet then for a little while.
Oh dear, I thought, as we trudged off silently down the path. Don't tell me he's a moody sort, there's bound to be something wrong, you just don't meet someone this gorgeous without there being complications. Otherwise, he'd have a girlfriend already. But how do you know he doesn't, Fleur, you dork? Has he said anything to you about it, one way or the other? And what are you thinking of, anyway, as if he can be your boyfriend, like you've only just met him and all that stuff you thought about him, well, it's just in your own mind and not his at all.
I've been out with guys before, only two or three, but it's never lasted long, and it's never been serious, though in Year 9 I really really thought I was in love with Jeremy, the older brother of one of my friends. But just about everyone was in love with him. He was just so cool, really good-looking and funny and a great guitarist. Trouble was he never noticed me at all, and finally I came to my senses and realised it was never going to happen and went out instead with Tim Sanders in my year, who'd been asking me out for ages. That was fine but it didn't mean anything. This felt different – a bit like the crush I had on Jeremy in a way but much much stronger, deeper and weirder.
Cupid's Arrow Page 8