The vicar was not a charismatic man. I ordinarily love the homilies but he read them as though he had never seen them before, stilted and without meaning. Some of my favourite lines I said under my breath along with him to keep me interested, but truthfully it was quite the most boring service that I had ever sat through, and someone as mighty and good as God should never be boring. I knew that I could not return home after the service because the vicar would be there and I didn’t want to have to listen to him mangle any more beautiful words. I also didn’t want to see him looking at me with his judging eye.
So, I struggled through the service, then found my way out into the sunshine again. I thought about going to the Hawthorn Well, but that was far too sad without Emile, so instead I headed north and was a quarter of a mile from home before I realised that I was trying to find Emile’s house.
He had told me he lived at the northern end of the village. I regretted not asking for further details, but at the time I thought I could find him easily at the well every day. The vicar and my aunt had put paid to that; at least now they were together, keeping each other occupied, while I hunted for Emile.
Eventually, the village ran out to the north and the dirt road continued on through dense woodlands, so I turned and walked back, eyes open for any narrow siding or a gate that I’d missed. Sure enough, an overgrown laneway I’d walked past was actually the head of a narrow, rutted road. I made my way down it, past one tumbledown house and then another. Then I saw Emile’s cart out the front of a third house, which was small and plain but beautifully kept. Of course, he was a carpenter, so I need never have feared that one of the ramshackle places was his. I approached the carved wooden gateposts and stopped, not sure what to do next. Did I really think I would go up and knock on his door? A long, lean dog loped up to the gate and barked at me, and it shook me out of my reverie. I turned on my heel, face warm with embarrassment, only to hear the sound of approaching hoofbeats. Emile appeared, on horseback, and he had already seen me.
I waited, my hand on the gatepost, as he cantered up towards me then dismounted.
‘Moineau? Is everything well with you?’ he asked with a concerned expression.
‘I was out walking and I saw your cart and was admiring your … gateposts.’
He smiled, and it undid all my knots and I smiled in return. ‘Thank you. I am very proud of them.’ He reached over and unlatched the gate, and the dog shot out and began leaping all over him, bathing him with his tongue. ‘Now, now, Marin,’ Emile said to the dog. ‘Calm, please. Meet my friend, Moineau.’
‘Very pleased, sir,’ I said to Marin, rubbing his head.
Emile had led his horse into the yard and left the gate open behind him, so I followed him around to the back of the house to a tidy stable.
‘Did you build this?’ I asked.
‘Yes, of course.’ He removed the horse’s saddle and bridle and led it to the water trough. As the horse drank, Emile eyed me. ‘Are you not worried what the vicar or your aunt might think of you coming by?’
I didn’t tell him that they were otherwise occupied, because I wanted him to think me brave. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I am not worried.’
‘Then come in. Poor Marin has been alone overnight and will need feeding and lots of affection. Perhaps you can give that to him while I make us tea.’
And even though my good breeding told me that I should not, I thought about my sister and the potential arrival of Mr Shawe (and along with him the closing down of all my heart’s own choices) and I went inside with Emile.
While he fed Marin, lit the range and scooped tea from a battered tin, I looked around me. His house was very plain. This room was both kitchen and sitting room. The walls were not papered like Harriet’s, but lime-washed. The beams were visible in the low ceiling. His rugs were thin and plain, but his furniture was beautiful, clearly all made by him. Tables and chairs and a long settee with hand-sewn cushions in faded blues and greens.
‘I adore your carvings,’ I said, sitting on the settee and touching the carved wood.
‘I very much enjoy making patterns in the wood,’ he said.
‘And you sew as well? These cushions are very neatly done. Better than I could do, I expect.’
He didn’t answer, and the first prickle of suspicion touched my heart. I turned my head to the narrow window, its glass so thick and warped that the hedge on the other side was just a green blur. Marin had come over and put his head in my lap, and I patted him idly until Emile joined us, placing a wooden tea tray on the low table in front of us. A plain china pot and two cups were accompanied by a plate of sliced bread and cheese.
I met his eyes and saw sadness.
‘My wife,’ he said. ‘My wife sewed the cushions.’
‘You have a—’
‘There was an accident,’ he said quickly. ‘Seven years ago. I lost her.’
A dead wife, then. I wasn’t sure what the right facial expression was for the occasion, so I settled for a solemn nod. ‘I am sorry.’ Seven years was a long time. ‘Did you have any …’
‘Children? No. We hoped for children, but the accident came in the first year of our marriage. I was twenty-two, she just twenty. Her horse threw her and then brought its front hooves down on her …’ He touched his own skull, unable to say the word.
‘I see. That is very sad. To die so young with so much ahead of her.’
‘I came here from France to be with her. Her family live at Harper’s Hill, a little way from here. I have been visiting with them this weekend. This is what I do now for seven years. I go to see her mother and father. It makes them happy.’
What a good man he was to continue to see her family after all these years, when he probably had family of his own back in France.
He sat opposite me and reached over to pour the tea. I felt intimidated by the magnitude of what he had just told me. I didn’t know what to say and so I said nothing, keeping one hand firmly on Marin’s head. Finally, I managed, ‘What was her name?’
‘Eleanor. She was a good woman, but I have now been without her for three times as long as I was with her. It’s hard to remember what she was like …’ He shrugged. ‘But she was here for a time, and she sewed those cushions.’
‘Well,’ I said. ‘Her needlework is very fine.’ I sipped my tea.
There was a brief, awkward silence and then he said, ‘Marin likes you.’
‘I like him,’ I said. ‘Why do you not bring him with you to the church while you work?’
‘The vicar doesn’t like dogs.’
‘Really? I think that says a lot about him, don’t you?’
He nodded. ‘Agreed. But I daren’t upset him as the job I am doing is a long and well-paying one. Poor Marin will have to get used to his own company.’
I hesitated, wondering why I was about to say aloud the thought that came to my mind. ‘I can come by and keep him company.’
He smiled, but shook his head. ‘There is no need.’
‘But you wouldn’t object if I did come by and take him for a walk? I do love animals and my aunt’s cat isn’t anywhere near as affectionate as dear Marin.’ It was a simple way to feel connected to Emile, perhaps a silly idea and yet I clung to it.
Emile placed his cup back in his saucer. ‘I would not object,’ he said. ‘But do be careful that your aunt does not object.’
‘My aunt is preoccupied at the moment with my sister,’ I said. ‘Not to mention the Russian medium who is in her house most days, peddling prophetic dreams about my dead uncle. She will hardly notice I’m gone.’
‘Not noticing isn’t the same as not objecting,’ he said.
We both fell quiet. We had strayed into difficult territory. Were we, even now, declaring an attraction for each other in acknowledging those who would oppose it? It seemed our easy conversation by the well would not come to us here, in his house. Even though the well was secluded, it was still public. Now, we were truly in a private space, hidden from the eyes of the village. I felt a warm s
hiver at the thought. What happened here, nobody would ever know. His gaze met mine across the table.
‘I should go,’ I said, feeling like a sailor who has suddenly noticed how far off course he has strayed. I shot to my feet. ‘I should …’
He stood too and reached for my fingers. My vision turned bright, watching as he drew my hand towards him, gently pushed up the edge of my sleeve with his thumb, then pressed his mouth against the inside of my wrist with warm, insistent lips. I gasped as desire bloomed deep in my body.
Then he released me and I hesitated a moment, head swimming.
‘Goodbye, Moineau,’ he said, as though nothing had just passed between us.
‘I’m sorry,’ I muttered, although I wasn’t sure why, as I hurried away.
I didn’t breathe again until I was outside his gate, and then my breath turned into laughter. He’d kissed me. He’d kissed me!
We had passed a waypoint, Emile and I. From here, there was no clear path back.
•
I did not see Emile for a week, though every night he was in my thoughts as I slipped off to sleep. In fact, throughout the day if my aunt and my sister were making small talk in the drawing room, I would often drift off in my imagination and replay that kiss on my wrist over and over until I grew flushed and warm. My sister became curious about Madame Azhkenazy, and even joined in on one of the séances, though she said it was only to keep Harriet company. They invited me too, but I used the quiet in the house as an occasion to sit at my windowsill and gaze out at the dark village, wondering what he was doing.
I saw his dog every day, which probably sounds more amusing than romantic. Every morning I walked to his house, and Marin would come to sniff me at the gate. I released him and we rambled together in the woods and fields. At first he was unsure, but he grew more sure of me as the days passed, and by Thursday he was waiting at the gate for me.
‘Come on, my friend,’ I said, opening the gate for him. He loped ahead of me, and the sun shone on us both, and I felt close to Emile and wondered if he knew that I had been by every day. If only Marin could talk. I would rub his ears and make him promise to tell Emile that I thought of him every waking moment.
•
It was upon my arrival home on the Saturday that I saw the liveried coachmen unloading trunks outside the New Inn, which was around the corner from Harriet’s house. The coach was gleaming, painted with a fancy crest, and the horses were tacked up in matching harness. It looked as though somebody important had come to the village, and so I hurried home to see if anyone there knew who it was. I banged the door shut behind me, pulling off my hat and gloves and slinging them onto the sideboard, and hurried down to the drawing room calling, ‘Hoy! Have you seen the fancy coach outside the—’
I stopped as I burst through the door. The room was empty, but I could see through the bare windows out into the garden, and it was apparent, now, which wealthy and important man had brought his coach to the village; Mr Ernest Shawe stood with my aunt and my sister in the garden. They were talking among themselves, and Mr Shawe’s golden head was bent over a lavender bush, examining the leaves as though he were passing on some great lesson about horticulture to the ladies. I could hear my heartbeat over every other sound in the room. Thud, thud, thud. For here it was, that destiny I had thus far evaded. I knew I should go outside and join them, but I couldn’t. Not after a day in the woods with Marin, dreaming about Emile. Instead, I ran upstairs to hide in my room.
•
And so exactly one week after I had last looked for Emile during church service, I saw him. But what different circumstances I found myself in. I was bracketed on one side by my aunt and sister, on the other by Mr Shawe, who was being overbearingly attentive to me. We sat in a row of chairs near the back because we arrived late and Emile’s hand-carved pews were already full. Rain fell heavily outside, and the hem of my dress was damp. I recognised Emile’s back in a pew near the front, his thick dark hair, the noble set of his shoulders. My eyes never left him throughout the whole service. My heart, just a few yards from his, felt a million miles distant. He did not turn around and so did not see—
The Present
The letter runs out here, unfinished. I look up and notice that the cafe has filled and I am hogging a table while other patrons wait. There’s a group of women with babies, the high chairs and strollers crowding out the front of the cafe. Mothers’ groups always give me such mixed feelings. On the one hand, I love to see babies and small children; I love their poreless skin and liquid eyes. On the other hand, these women seem so casual about the miracle they have sitting in front of them, a miracle I can’t conjure no matter how much I bend my brain and body to the task. Sometimes, I even hear them complain about their babies. He had me up all night. I just want to take a shower in peace.
I carefully fold away the letter and sling my bag over my shoulder as I leave, hoping Mum is back from the X-rays.
•
Mum is back in her bed, happy to see me, and proud to say that what they thought was a fractured rib is actually perfectly fine. Thinking about fractured ribs reminds me powerfully that Mum had a nasty fall in traffic and even though she didn’t break anything, she is bruised and sore and healing and so vulnerable. I sit with her and show her the letter and we talk about where the other parts of it might be, and finally I say to her, ‘Emile, Mum. When I first arrived, you said you had your accident because you thought you saw him.’
‘Saw who, dear?’
‘Emile. You walked into traffic because you thought you saw Emile.’
Her eyes cloud over, but her expression otherwise remains the same. ‘Nonsense. I’m not that far gone.’
I do not push the point, but I am more determined to find the rest of the letter for her. And for me. ‘Do they end up together happily?’ I ask her.
‘I can’t remember, dear,’ she says lightly, but I can tell she’s tired of talking about her memory and its failings. ‘How is Geoff getting on without you there?’ she says, somewhat too brightly.
I shrug. ‘He’s fine, I’m sure. I haven’t called him.’
‘No?’
‘I will soon. He’s … he’ll be busy.’
Her eyes grow silvery, the way they always have when she is looking inside my brain. ‘Is everything all right with you two?’
‘Not really,’ I say. It’s easier than lying.
She pats my hand. ‘My poor Victoria. Don’t worry too much. Every marriage has its ups and downs.’
I laugh and say, so gently, ‘Mum, you’ve never been married.’
She laughs now too, and we are still laughing when the wardsman comes around with some mail for her. By the stiff, blue envelope, I guess it’s a get-well card and Mum does too. It immediately irritates her: the shame of her incapacity has so far been private.
‘What’s this nonsense?’ she asks. She hands it to me. ‘Go on, you open it.’
I open the envelope. It is, indeed, a get-well card, a very pretty one: a photograph of the sun rising over a lavender field. I open it and read aloud the message inside: I am so sorry to hear you are unwell, Margaret. You have my best regards and support. Andrew Garr.
At the mention of this name, Mum immediately begins to wind up. ‘How dare he?’ she says, under her breath, shifting and flapping her sheets. ‘How dare he?’
‘Mum? What’s wrong? Who’s Andrew Garr?’
‘The Dean. The fellow who has been pressuring me and pressuring me to retire. The fellow who had my books junked into the middle of the room. He’s happy I’m in here. This is everything he wants. I wonder which traitor at the college told him. I’d happily wring their neck!’
Mum’s agitation has caught the attention of a passing nurse, who bustles in and admonishes in a loud voice as though Mum is a child. ‘Mrs Camber, settle yourself,’ she says, smoothing the bed covers down again. ‘This is no way to act when your daughter has come all the way from Australia to visit.’
‘Professor Camber,’ I mutter un
der my breath, and I reach across to stop the nurse’s hand. ‘We’ll be fine,’ I say to her. ‘Please. Leave us be.’
The nurse harrumphs at me, and Mum settles again, looking at the photograph of the lavender field. ‘I used to love lavender,’ she says. ‘He’s ruined it for me now.’
I try to think of a way to distract her, and so I say, ‘Would you like me to read to you?’
‘I am perfectly capable of reading myself,’ she says.
‘It’s nice being read to, though,’ I say. ‘You can just lie back and close your eyes. I saw there are some books in the recreation room. Shall I go and fetch you one?’
Mum looks at me, and her eyes tell me that her soul has wandered a little distance from me. ‘Perhaps. Yes. See if they’ve got some George Eliot.’
‘I’ll be right back,’ I say, and kiss her cheek.
The moment I leave the room, I am thumbing through my phone for the number of the Dean, this Andrew Garr. I’d like to say it’s because I want to leap in and defend my mother to him, but I suspect there is another truth lurking here, and I need to know it if I’m to decide what to do about Mum.
•
I have to wait three days for an appointment with the Dean of Mum’s department. His administrative assistant tells me he has just left for Amsterdam for a conference. I spend time with Mum every day, but in the clinic we are forced into awkward extended time together. I can’t talk to Mum for hours on end, especially when she has become vague and fearful. She always knows who I am, but sometimes she speaks to me about things I don’t know anything about, or repeats herself, or talks in circles. We are most relaxed when I read to her. I’ve brought some of her George Eliot books from home, but Mum and I will always disagree about George Eliot. I find reading her so dull and slow. Minutes creep by, both of us under the window with the view of the bricks next door. This isn’t a happy life, and we both know it.
So, I spend time at home, too; at Mum’s home, that is. My childhood bedroom was long ago turned into an office, and the smaller of the three rooms has been converted to a guest bedroom. This is where I sleep, waking every morning to the smell of my mother, even though she isn’t there. I begin to sort through her office too, but I haven’t found the rest of the letter and I’ve looked at everything in the piles.
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