Clara drops her hands from her face. ‘No, we won’t. That’s a little dodgy.’
‘What’s “dodgy”?’
Clara smiles. ‘Highly inappropriate. With connotations of the sexual.’
‘Sounds like fun.’ Pieter laughs, his low, light laugh. ‘But okay then, you can be a fully grown-up lady who’s decided it’s time to get over her fears, to sit on the saddle and trust me to take care of her.’
He walks over to the bike, unlocks it from the other one and pats the leather seat. ‘So, what do you say?’
Clara shifts her weight from foot to foot.
Pieter smiles. ‘Are you going to keep your father waiting?’
‘Shut up! Okay, okay, I’ll do it.’
Clara stomps over to the bike and Pieter just smiles, saying nothing.
‘It’s okay, you’re okay,’ Pieter pants as he jogs alongside Clara, who grips the handlebars so tight her knuckles are white. She wobbles along, her eyes fixed on the road. Other bicycles whiz past, dinging their bells.
‘Don’t let go, don’t let go,’ Clara murmurs her mantra through gritted teeth.
‘I won’t, I promise, I won’t,’ Pieter gasps.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Fine.’
‘We should stop.’ Clara veers toward the river and gives a little shriek. ‘You’ll have a heart attack.’
‘I’m not going to have a heart attack,’ Pieter wheezes. ‘But, but … it might be better if I, I … wasn’t talking.’
‘Okay, sorry,’ Clara says, still wobbling but not stopping. ‘Just don’t let go – if you do that thing when you say you’re still holding on but you suddenly let go, I’ll kill you, okay?’
Pieter nods.
Another bike zips past, dinging its angry bell. Clara veers in the direction of the river again and squeals.
‘I want to stop, please,’ she pleads. ‘How do I stop?!’
‘Back-pedal,’ Pieter puffs. ‘Just pedal backwards.’
‘What? I don’t …’ But then she does and, as soon as both Clara’s feet are on the ground and the bike is stable, Pieter lets go and leans over, hands on his knees, head between his legs, panting.
‘Oh, God,’ Clara says. ‘Are you okay? Are you having a heart attack?’
He holds up his index finger, signalling her to wait. It takes a few minutes before he can stand straight again.
‘I’m fine,’ he says finally. ‘And this isn’t because I’m old. It’s because I’m unfit.’
Clara laughs.
‘I tell you what,’ Pieter says, ‘have you ever seen Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?’
Clara shakes her head.
‘Really? You haven’t? I thought all women had.’
Clara frowns. ‘Is it a western? It sounds like one.’
‘Well, yes, ostensibly, I suppose it is,’ Pieter admits. ‘But it’s extremely funny and very moving, and it stars Paul Newman and Robert Redford. Two of the most, or so I’ve always thought, handsome men in the world.’
Clara raises an eyebrow. ‘I didn’t know you were so finely tuned to the female psyche.’
Pieter shrugs. ‘There is much for you to learn. I’m deeply layered, like a fine ancient wine.’
Clara smiles, sliding off the bike. ‘Then I look forward to tasting you again soon.’
Pieter swallows a grin. ‘There is a beautiful scene in the film when Paul Newman takes his girlfriend – or perhaps it’s Robert Redford’s girlfriend, I don’t remember – anyway, he takes her on a bike ride, she sits on the handlebars while “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on my Head” plays on the soundtrack. It’s absolutely gorgeous.’
Clara gives him a look. ‘You’re not suggesting …?’
Pieter nods.
‘I think that would definitely give you a heart attack.’
‘It wouldn’t, I’ve got my breath back now. And, anyway, cycling is far easier than running.’
‘Okay then, it would give me a heart attack.’
Pieter laughs. ‘Let’s just give it a go. I promise, I’ll stop the second you say. You’ve got nothing to fear.’
Clara raises an eyebrow. ‘I highly doubt that.’
‘Pleaaaase …’
‘All right,’ Clara relents. ‘But if you tip me into the river, I’m suing you for everything you own.’
‘You can have it all.’
‘Deal.’
Clara steps aside and lets Pieter take the bike. He mounts the saddle and waits. She doesn’t move.
‘Come on.’
‘This is a mistake,’ Clara says as she hoists herself up onto the handlebars, ‘a big, big mistake.’
‘Have a little faith,’ Pieter says, kissing the back of her head.
Clara smiles. Again the urge to declare love rises up inside her but she holds on to the words, secreting them in her cheek. And then he begins to cycle. At first he goes slow, with long, languorous pushes on the pedals, so they glide alongside the river, the breeze blowing through Clara’s hair. She closes her eyes to feel the warmth, the sun splashed on her face as they drift through an avenue of trees. Then she opens her eyes and starts to giggle with the sheer joy of it all.
‘All right, hold on,’ Pieter says, pushing harder, faster, until they’re speeding along and Clara’s giggles turn to shrieks of delight. And she can’t believe that she’s never felt this before. That she’s missed out, until now, on the sheer thrill of being alive.
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘Isn’t Greer here? I wanted to ask her some baby advice.’ Alba sits on the kitchen counter, kicking her legs lightly against the cabinets below. ‘And where’s Till?’
‘Tilly’s having a sleepover at Megan’s, and Greer …’
‘What?’ Alba frowns. ‘Am I sensing disquiet in the afterlife?’
Edward snorts. ‘Oh, she’s fine. She’s having the time of her – well, death.’
Alba giggles and even Edward allows himself a small smile.
‘It’s me who’s the total wreck.’ He sighs. ‘I don’t know how to deal with it.’
‘With what?’
‘With the fact that she’s not the same as she was … before.’
‘Well, you can’t expect her to be,’ Alba says, crossing her legs. ‘She’s not.’
Edward sighs again, deep and long. ‘Yeah, I know. But I just thought … When she came back, I was so, so bloody happy. I thought it’d all be the same again, just like it was before. I thought I’d been given my life back’ – he gives a sad little smile – ‘my wife back. I thought our family would be fixed again, that we’d been given another chance. But she’s changed, she doesn’t feel the same way about things any more, about me …’
Alba jumps down from the kitchen counter and steps over to her brother, putting her hand softly against his back. ‘You can’t hold on to her, Ed. Life has changed, it’s shifted and transformed and you’re trying to relive what’s gone, you’re trying to grasp something that’s already disappeared.’
Edward looks down at Alba. ‘When did you get so wise, little sister?’
She smiles. ‘I’m preparing for motherhood.’
‘Well, by the sound of it, you’re going to be good at it,’ Edward says. ‘Certainly better than I am at fatherhood.’
‘Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself,’ Alba says. ‘You’ve been through a lot, much more than most. You’re doing your best and you’re doing all right. Tilly seems pretty well settled to me.’
‘Yeah, I suppose so,’ Edward says. ‘Though she’s a lot happier now that Greer’s back. And she’s still a terrific mother, even if she doesn’t really want to be a wife any more.’
Alba rubs Edward’s back.
‘Well, maybe that’s why she came back, not for you but for Till. Or, maybe to help you let her go, or teach you something about love,’ Alba suggests. ‘Or perhaps she just came back for herself, maybe it has nothing to do with you at all.’
Edward frowns and then, suddenly, his face crumples into laughter.
>
‘I’m slightly horrified to admit that hadn’t occurred to me at all,’ he says, ‘that she could be back for a reason that had nothing to do with me. That she might have her own reasons, her own journey, her own … Why is love so often monumentally self-centred?’
‘Yeah, I think good love is a balance,’ Alba says. ‘Between two people who take care of themselves and each other, but who don’t expect another person to fulfil them, or blame them when they’re feeling unfulfilled.’
‘How do you know all this stuff?’ Edward asks. ‘I don’t and I’ve got at least a decade of experience on you.’
Alba smiles. ‘Zoë’s taught me a lot. Her parents actually have a happy marriage; can you believe it? So it’s been a bit of a steep learning curve for me, but then you know what a swot I am.’
Edward grins. ‘I’m deeply impressed.’
‘You know, we visited her parents for dinner a few weeks back, to tell them about the baby, and her dad said something pretty incredible.’
‘What?’
‘He said that he’d noticed something, over the thirty years of being married to Zoë’s mum – that how “in love” with her he felt on any given day had absolutely nothing to do with his wife and everything to do with him. If he was feeling great then she could do no wrong, his love overflowed. And if he was feeling out of sorts then he felt disconnected and picked on petty things. Either way, his wife hadn’t done anything differently. It wasn’t her fault – the good or the bad.’
Edward thinks of Greer, probably this minute with his next-door neighbour. ‘But, surely, the people we love can do things that make us miserable, right? I mean, saying it’s all up to us, doesn’t that let the other person entirely off the hook, so they can behave however they damn well please and we just have to swallow it?’
Alba drops her hand from her brother’s back and steps back towards the counter again. ‘No, not at all. That’s not what he meant. He was making the point that, most people in life are dissatisfied and, instead of looking inward, they look outward and blame their feelings on their nearest and dearest. Of course, this works in their favour, for a while, when they first fall in love – then they blame all those glorious feelings on the other person and infatuation sets in. But, once the endorphins have subsided, once the fresh shine has worn off and life settles back to normal again and their default sense of dissatisfaction returns, then eventually they’ll make the very person they once made responsible for the good feelings, responsible for the bad ones. Do you see?’
Edward gives his sister a sharp look. ‘Have you been writing me letters?’
Alba frowns. ‘No, why?’
Edward sighs. ‘Nothing, it doesn’t matter.’
‘Why do men think sex is the answer to everything?’
‘What?’ Ross stops walking.
They are ambling along King’s Parade, eating falafel wraps on Ava’s lunch break, having bumped into each other at the falafel van. The coincidence was fortunate since, following the slightly humiliating experience of their last encounter, Ava hadn’t planned on seeing him again anytime soon, certainly not outside the dance class. Indeed, she’d even considered looking for another dance class altogether. When she’d seen him in the queue, she’d tried to duck away, but he’d spotted her too quickly and good manners had dictated that she join him, instead of run away, as she’d much rather have done.
‘Well, it’s true,’ Ava says. ‘You can’t deny it. You think I should have a fling. You think sex is the answer to everything.’
Ross laughs. ‘Naw, I don’t think sex is the answer to everything, I just think – right now – it’s the answer to your thing. Or, the start, anyway.’
Ava scowls. ‘The start? What’s that supposed to mean? How messed up do you think I am?’
‘Naw, not messed up,’ Ross says, considering. ‘Just in need of a little opening up, a little joie de vivre, that’s all.’
‘I get that through dancing.’
‘Hey, don’t get me wrong, dancing is braw. But it’s just a part of life, it’s not a substitute for it.’
‘Yeah, well, so is sex – just part of life, I mean.’
‘Aye, true.’ Ross smiles, ripping into his falafel. ‘But is it a part of your life?’
Ava scowls again. ‘Are you this rude to all the people you “assist”?’
‘I’m not rude,’ Ross says, with his mouth full. ‘I’m just straightforward. I’ll tell you things other people won’t, that’s my job.’
‘Well, I’m not employing you.’
‘Aye, of course not,’ Ross says. ‘But then most people don’t reach out for any sort of assistance until their life has deteriorated into complete disaster. I like to step in before that happens. It’s less messy that way.’
Ava rolls her eyes. ‘So you’re some sort of self-appointed, but very misguided, angel?’
‘I wouldn’t say misguided,’ Ross huffs. ‘Aye, I’m very accurate, actually. I have a ninety-nine per cent satisfaction rate among my clients.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ Ava snaps back, finding she’s rather enjoying being slightly feisty. ‘So one per cent of them are entirely dissatisfied?’
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ Ross says. ‘But you can’t please everyone. Anyway, they don’t all follow my advice. I canna be blamed for that now, can I?’
Ava can’t help but laugh. He’s so utterly different from her – brash, cocky, oozing with self-confidence – that being with him brings out traits in Ava she never thought she had. It’s as if he has showered sunlight on dark soil and coaxed long-dormant seedlings into sprouting leaves. And, although she’s spent her life being a wallflower, scathing of all the swaggering students, Ava has to admit that there’s something glorious in it. She’d tasted a snatch of it with Finn – speaking without first filtering her words, being able to blurt without fear – and now Ava realises that she’s always hated such self-assured people because really she hated herself for not allowing herself to be like them.
‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ Ava says with a smile. ‘I think I’ve spent my whole life trying to please everyone.’ And, with those words, she realises something else – why Ross doesn’t get romantically involved with his protégées. If she was sleeping with him she’d want to please him so hugely, she’d never be able to truly be herself.
‘Aye, and did you succeed?’
Ava laughs. ‘No, not really. It’s pretty difficult, since everyone’s so different. Mum wanted me to be prim and proper, get married and have a dozen babies. Dad wanted me to go to Trinity College, like he did, graduate with honours in law, like he did, then eschew all attachments, like he wishes he had, and dedicate myself to becoming a high court judge, or some such thing.’
Ross stops devouring his falafel and looks at her. ‘So, what did ye do?’
‘I tried to please them both – I became a librarian in the University Law Library and got married very young, failed to make any babies, then got divorced – and, of course, pleased neither. Then I gave up every connection to law entirely and “downgraded” to the public library. So now I’m a great disappointment to them both.’
Ross rests his hand lightly on Ava’s arm and she stops walking.
‘You may think that,’ he says. ‘They may even think that. But it ain’t true. Deep down, even so deep they’re unaware of it, that isn’t the way they feel.’
‘Thank you,’ Ava says softly. ‘That’s very kind of you to say.’
‘Aye,’ Ross says, ‘but that ain’t why I’m saying it. Being kind is not my modus operandi. I’m saying it cos it’s true.’
‘How would you know? You’ve never met them.’
‘Oh,’ Ross says, dragging out the syllable. ‘I’ve got not a wee amount of experience in the area of people’s parents, and mountains in the difference between thinking and feeling – most people live their whole lives thinking they feel this and that about this and that. Really, they ain’t got a clue. And, if only they’d stop thinking long enough, they’d
find that out.’
Ava nods; even though she doesn’t entirely understand what he means she trusts somehow that what Ross says is true. She leans towards him and gives him a playful shove. ‘I think you’re kinder than you think.’
Ross smiles, but says nothing.
Ava takes a bite of her falafel and chews, rather relieved by the silence. It doesn’t last.
‘Right then, tell me,’ Ross says. ‘In all this trying to please everyone else, how much did you end up pleasing yerself?’
Ava swallows and smiles. ‘I’m guessing that’s a rhetorical question, right?’
‘Aye, it would be.’ Ross laughs. ‘Which brings me back to the fling …’
‘Play something for me.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Anything. Something serene.’
Finn nods. This is all they’ve done for days now. He has played and she has listened. Sometimes they talk. They still haven’t touched. Each is perfectly content.
Finn begins with Bach and Schubert. He floats from The Well-Tempered Clavier to ‘The Trout Quintet’ to ‘Ave Maria.’
‘This one always made me cry,’ Greer says, ‘when I was alive.’
Finn begins again. ‘Would it still, if you could?’
Greer shrugs. ‘Now I just feel … sublime.’
Finn smiles.
‘Again, please,’ Greer says. And, when he does, she starts to sing. ‘Ave Maria … Gratia plena … Maria, gratia plena … Maria, gratia plena …’
And then Finn is crying, tears sliding down his cheeks as he plays. He laughs.
‘I can’t remember the last time that happened,’ he says softly, still crying, still playing. The notes encircle them, the music drifting on silk ribbons through the air, settling on their shoulders, tugging at their hearts, pulling them towards each other, though neither moves.
Finally, Finn falls silent, his fingers resting on the strings, his hand holding the violin to his chest. He sinks to the floor, legs outstretched, then leans back against the sofa, his head flopping onto the cushions.
The Lost Art of Letter Writing Page 17