by Alan Fenton
The more she saw of him, however, and the more confidences they shared, the cloudier that crystal ball became. She allowed her thoughts, if not her actions, to draw her into dangerous territory. Someone had once told her that you could always tell from a woman’s eyes whether she was in love or not. Could that be true, she wondered. Waiting for Arthur one evening, she stood with lowered eyes before the mirror in their sitting room, not daring to look up, for fear of what she might see, until finally she plucked up the courage, and there in the eyes that looked back at her was a glow and an excitement she had never seen before. It was the first time she allowed herself to consider the possibility that she might be falling in love, something she neither expected nor wanted. What was worse, she had not the slightest idea how to deal with it.
Was it, she asked herself, possible to love two men? Her head said no, her heart, yes. Being Guinevere, her head triumphed; she was able to assure herself that whatever she felt for Lancelot was a fantasy, a thing without substance. Arthur was the reality, the man with whom she shared her bed and her life, the husband to whom she had vowed to be faithful. She was not like those heroines of nineteenth-century romantic novels, the sort of woman willing to sacrifice the world for a kiss.
Sensible was what she had always been: sensible was what she always would be.
Seventeen
As the weeks and months passed, Lanky began to doubt whether “harmless fun” was quite the way to describe whatever it was that Guinevere and Lancelot were involved in. Now and then she sat with them in The Meeting Place, usually with a group of friends, and though she was certain no one else noticed anything, she did. There was something about the way Ginny tried so hard not to look at Lancelot, and about the attentive way he listened when she was speaking, that, for her at least, gave the game away. There were no obvious clues, no girlish bursts of laughter, no tossing of hair or accidental brushing of hand against hand. You would have to know Ginny as well as Lanky did to suspect that these two people were interested in each other.
The time came when suspecting was not enough, she had to know. Over a glass of wine in her apartment one evening she abandoned caution. ‘I know I have no right to ask you, and it’s none of my business.’
‘No it isn’t,’ said Guinevere, and regretted it immediately.
Lanky was jubilant, though she tried not to show it. That unconsidered retort amounted to an admission. ‘What isn’t?’
Guinevere was mortified at having given herself away. ‘You invited me for a drink and a chat, not an interrogation.’ Jumping up, she made for the door.
Lanky rushed after her. ‘Please don’t go,’ she implored. ‘I’m sorry, Ginny. I love you. I only want to help.’
Head down, Guinevere moved back into the room.
What was it about Ginny that so turned men on, Lanky asked herself. Was it because she was beautiful, with that perfect oval face of hers, those luminous brown eyes and jet black hair? Or was there more to it? Of course there was. Ginny was a thoroughbred. She had that indefinable quality people called style. Lanky sighed enviously. If only men would look at her like the way they looked at Ginny. True, she had a gangly body, curly hair and protruding teeth, but she really wasn’t all that bad, and what she lacked in beauty she more than compensated for in personality. And when she did find a man to love her – Gawain would do very nicely or perhaps Ian Duncan – she would love him like no man had ever been loved in the history of the world.
She decided to pretend that she knew. ‘Why Lancelot?’ Half expecting an angry denial, she was taken by surprise. There was no fight left in Ginny. She needed a friend, someone she could talk to.
‘I don’t know. It happened.’
Lanky’s eyes bulged. ‘You don’t mean you already . . . ?’
Guinevere was close to tears. ‘How can you think that of me?’
Lanky considered her friend anxiously. ‘Is there something wrong between you and Arthur?’
Guinevere shook her head. ‘Absolutely not. I love him.’
‘I don’t get it,’ said Lanky. ‘From where I’m sitting, you have everything – Arthur for a husband, first lady of Camelot, the world at your feet. What more could a girl want?’
Guinevere rocked back and forth on the sofa. ‘Don’t you think I’ve asked myself that question a hundred times?’
‘So what’s the problem?’ ‘Arthur puts me on a pedestal.’ ‘And Lancelot?’
Guinevere blushed. ‘He treats me like a woman.’ ‘What is it you want?’
Guinevere’s shoulders slumped. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.
The observatory door panel stirred to life.
Name?
‘Guinevere.’
The door clicked open.
She ran to Arthur. Her kiss was more intense than usual. He drew her to the sofa, sat her down beside him and put his arms round her. Guinevere rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. It was like coming home. The love they had for each other was a warm and tender emotion, the sort of love that could only be shared with someone you admired, and above all understood.
‘How much do you love me?’ she asked like a child.
He spread his arms wide. ‘My love for you is as big as the universe.’
‘Be serious.’
‘Ah, serious,’ he said. ‘If it’s serious you want, Ginny, then, my darling, here it is.’ He took her hand and kissed it gently. ‘I love you so much that life without you would not make sense.’ Her spine tingled. He could not have put it better. It was exactly how she felt about him; life without Arthur would not make sense. That was why theirs was the ideal match. Whatever else love was, it had to make sense. But then, before she could stop herself, she was asking, ‘Would you give up everything for me?’
‘What is it, Ginny?’ he asked, ‘what’s the matter?’ It was never going to be easy, he had always known that. If life without Ginny would not make sense – and it wouldn’t – then he ought to be sharing more of it with her. ‘What’s wrong?’
Did he suspect? No, how could he? She shook her head. ‘Nothing’s wrong, I’m fine.’ With her fingers she traced the shallow wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, feeling closer to him than she had ever done before. Her love for Arthur was rock solid, founded on mutual respect and admiration, and, ironically enough, on trust. But then, that was the worst of it. It pained her not to be wholly honest with the man with whom she had shared everything . . . until now. Telling him the truth would be to risk losing him, and that would be unthinkable. Her marriage was central to her well-being, as necessary to her as the air she breathed. ‘Being your wife isn’t enough,’ she said. ‘Look at Lanky – she’s in charge of nursing staff and liaising with doctors and surgeons. She would die of boredom if she didn’t have something worthwhile to do. Most of the women here work. Why can’t I?’
He looked thoughtful. ‘I’ve been selfish, keeping you to myself. We shall have to find you a job.’
She tried to hide her disappointment. We shall have to find you a job sounded suspiciously like creating some feel-good, ego-boosting outlet for her frustrations.
Arthur was troubled, sensing her discomfort, and perhaps something more than discomfort – her pain? Was she mourning the fact that she could not have children? If so, her pain was his too. He would dearly have loved to have a son – a son like Lancelot. ‘You are happy, aren’t you, Ginny?’
Smiling reassuringly, she squeezed his hand. ‘I count my blessings.’ It was true. Counting them had become a daily ritual, a daily compulsion almost, as if she feared that if she did not, it would bring the avenging furies down on her.
She was happy, of course she was, or at least most of the time she was. There were good days and bad days. Wasn’t that true of everyone’s life? The good days came when the sun flared and the wind rose, parting sombre layers of cloud, when Camelot’s white spheres and rectangles, its towers and turrets, its pillars and pyramids glowed magically in the sunlight, when the waves danced, and foam horses raced each ot
her across the sea. The bad days were those monotonous, boring days, when heavy-bellied clouds hung low over the Atlantic, and her spirits were as overcast as the sky. On those days she felt trapped, missing the colour, the bustle, the sheer unexpectedness of the life she used to lead in London. It was then that she longed to have her life back; not that she wanted to be eating in celebrity restaurants, or sitting on charity committees, or shopping with chums. Not any more. She had changed. If she lived in London now, her life would be as different as she was. But whatever kind of life it would be, it would be her life. The life she was leading now was not hers; it was Arthur’s.
‘What kind of job?’ she asked, bringing him back to the subject.
‘The hospital badly needs an administrator,’ he said. ‘It would be a big responsibility. What do you think?’
For an instant she was afraid. ‘I’ve never worked in a hospital.’
‘You can learn.’ Head on one side, eyebrows arched ‘Deal?’ ‘I’ll do it,’ she said, and put her arms round him. ‘Thank you.’
‘For what?’
‘For understanding. I’m not the easiest, am I.’
‘Nor am I. That’s what makes it interesting. You and I were destined for each other.’
‘Prove it.’
Arthur tapped the computer’s keyboard, and the monitor was suddenly alive with myriads of stars and washes of light. ‘Galaxies,’ he said. ‘See there, and there, and there.’
She stood behind him, hands resting lovingly on his shoulders.
A few more taps, and the telescope moved in on the solar system, focusing on a single bright light.
‘That’s Venus,’ he said. ‘Now watch.’ Around Venus a finger of light drew a heart, above it the name Arthur, below it the name Guinevere. Finally an arrow of light bisected the heart, linking the two names.
‘There,’ said Arthur. ‘Our love is written in the stars.’
‘You and your stars,’ she said. ‘What is it you see in them?’ ‘Apart from our love?’
‘Apart from that,’ she said, kissing the top of his head, noticing for the first time a few grey hairs streaking the gold.
‘The starlight you and I are looking at now began its journey through space billions of years ago. In the little time we spend on earth the stars shed on us the light of all time and all knowledge. We can learn a great deal from them.’
Feeling a sudden surge of love, she slipped her arms round his neck. ‘Like what?’
‘They teach us inner harmony, they put us in touch with our intuition, our sense of destiny, our inner spiritual world. Discord and chaos are the enemies of all God’s creation. Our planet’s well-being, like that of the universe, depends on harmony. Camelot exists to restore that harmony to the world. That’s why we are here, Ginny.’
Guinevere told herself that her husband was the wisest, the bravest, the most caring of men, and she the luckiest of women. ‘Everything we are, or ever will be, is written in the stars,’ said Arthur. ‘When I look at them, I see the present and the past.’
‘And the future? Can you see that too?’ ‘Would you want me to?’
Guinevere shivered, her mood darkening. ‘No,’ she said, ‘no, I don’t think I would.’
Eighteen
As lancelot left The Meeting Place, there in Guinevere’s lap was a nugget of paper. Not daring to touch it, she lingered over her coffee, looking furtively about to satisfy herself that no one had seen him put it there. There were no questioning glances or knowing looks, the friends at her table too busy talking to have noticed anything, and the room continuing to hum with mid-morning chatter. Casually she retrieved the note and slipped it in her bag.
Arthur was in Command Control. She had the apartment to herself. Her heart pounding, she unfolded the note.
I know it’s wrong and I know I shouldn’t say it but I think I’ve fallen in love with you. God knows, I’ve tried hard enough not to. I desperately need to talk to you. That at least you owe me. After all, it’s you who have done this to me, you who have cast a spell on me. There’s a triangular rock on the beach below NIWIS. 6 p.m. tonight. Please be there. If you are not, I shall pursue this no further.
She read it several times before putting it back in her bag. I think I’ve fallen in love with you. I think? What did he mean by that? Didn’t he know? Either he was in love or he wasn’t. It made him sound more like an uncertain teenager than a mature man. Retrieving the crumpled note from her bag, she smoothed it down and studied it yet again, this time with the most meticulous attention to every word, as though it were written in a code that had to be cracked in order to decipher its true meaning.
She mouthed silently, God knows, I’ve tried hard enough not to. How presumptuous was that! Who asked him to fall in love with her? Not her, certainly. Was she not good enough for him? Was that it? Or did he think that falling in love was a sign of weakness in a man? Either way she was less than impressed. That at least you owe me. After all, it’s you who have done this to me. More than presumptuous, downright impertinent! Was he implying that she had deliberately set her cap at him? She had done no such thing. Obviously he was not man enough to admit that it was he who had first . . . well…shown interest. And as for You who have cast a spell on me. Words failed her. What was he suggesting? That she was some kind of witch? How dare he! She was angry, as she had every right to be, didn’t she? About to tear the note into small pieces, she thought better of it and stuffed it back in her bag.
Taking it out again almost immediately, she put it back, took it out, read it once more and put it back again. On the whole she was inclined to accept that Lancelot’s message came from his heart, even if it was not as tactfully expressed as it might have been. It was typical of the man. She placed the bag at her side, laid her hand on it and caressed it gently. Her heart softened. Foolish though it might be, she could not help but pity him. Please be there. If you are not, I shall pursue this no further. At least he was not taking her for granted. Quite the contrary, in fact. He was not at all sure she would come.
On the other hand, she asked herself, why would a man so eager for her to keep a rendezvous, accept so readily that she might not? Why would he even consider the possibility? Should he not rather have ordered her to come? Or at the very least, begged and implored her? Whatever happened to the torments of love? To romance? To chivalry? Her hand strayed to her bosom. To passion? If she was not worthy of him, let him find someone who was. She would be a fool to allow her heart to rule her head. Wouldn’t she? Of course she would!
But then again, she mused, he did give the impression of being very much in love. Goodness knows what he would do if she did not come to . . . where was it? Opening her bag she consulted the letter yet again. A triangular rock on the beach below NIWIS. She knew it well. Of course it was unthinkable, absolutely unthinkable . . . 6 p.m. he said.
It was 5.30 p.m., the autumn evening crisply cold, the sea troubled, the crests of the waves whipped to white spray by the wind. Slowly, Lancelot walked along the beach towards the triangular rock, taking care to stay close to the cliffs so that he would not be picked up by one of the island’s surveillance cameras. Arriving there, he paced restlessly for several minutes, then sat on the rock, sifting sand through his fingers and trying to piece together the jigsaw of his fractured thoughts. Should he have written the letter? Would she come? And if she did, what then? What if she did not share his feelings? What if she did?
From time to time he glanced at his wristcom. With each passing minute he became more certain that she would not come, and began to regret having sent the note. It was foolish of him to have put something so fragile and so precious in writing. Even if, by some miracle, she had . . . some feeling for him, his note would most probably have scared her off. It needed a poet to express how he felt, and he was a plain soldier.
He was certain now; she was not coming. How could he ever have imagined that Arthur’s wife . . . His peace of mind had gone. He had made a fool of himself. No doubt at this very
moment she and Lanky were having a good laugh over his letter.
No, he refused to think so badly of her. Guinevere would never do that. She would more likely be furious with him for presuming to write the note at all. Either way, he regretted it. No, he didn’t. He had to send it, had to let her know how he felt about her, had to know how she felt about him. Well, now he knew, and it hurt. It hurt like hell.
Standing on the shoreline, the tide lapped around his feet. He could feel the sea drawing him into its embrace. Somewhere out there was his mother. When he was a baby, she had drowned herself, and all these years later, the pain was still there in his father’s eyes. She was not mad, he had assured him more than once, just mentally unstable – unstable enough, it seemed, to take her own life. It would be so easy to join her now. All he had to do was keep walking. She was calling him, ‘Lancelot! Lancelot!’ Closing his eyes, he took a step into the water.
Yet again he heard his name called. ‘Lancelot!’ This time it was closer, and the voice was coming not from the sea but from the shore. He looked round. Someone was walking along the beach towards him. Guinevere!
As she approached, he tried to read her expression, but her face was almost covered by a scarf. His heart hammered at his ribs. Pulling off her scarf, she shook loose her long black hair. Looking down at his wet shoes and trousers, she smiled. ‘It’s a bit chilly to go swimming, isn’t it?’
He stood there looking sheepish. ‘It’s rough today, the sea,’ he said, by way of explanation.
‘It is.’
A small whirlpool of sand erupted in the wind. He sheltered her with his body, and as the wind dropped, pulled away sharply, embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry.’