Lovers and Liars Trilogy (177 page)

Colin whirled about, arms semaphoring. Rowland, who was standing two feet away, watching this performance with Tom and Katya, moved forward and caught hold of his arm firmly.

‘Tom, we may have a problem,’ he said.

‘That was a wonderful speech, Colin,’ Lindsay said, with warmth. ‘I can see it. I can imagine it. Was it a cold night?’

‘Cold? Bitterly cold. The witching hour! It was three o’clock in the morning. The night was pitch-black…’

‘It was June. You take his other arm, Tom,’ Rowland said.

‘A pilgrimage!’ Colin shrugged off these arms and took Lindsay’s instead. ‘I have to explain! Oh, God,
God
. Lynne, there’s another place I have to show you. It’s not far. It’s on the way back. It’s just round this corner and up the street…’

It was neither around the corner, nor up the street, but they eventually found it. In an ecstasy, Colin paused on a bridge.

‘Lisa,’ he said, clasping Lindsay’s hands, ‘you have wise eyes, d’you know that? You have these beautiful wise, sad, grey eyes. I could look at your eyes all night.’

‘Thank you, Colin.’ Lindsay hugged him. ‘I think they’re grey too—in certain lights.’

‘They’re
brown
,’ said Tom. ‘Give me strength.’

‘Or hazel,’ said Rowland, his manner meditative. ‘Tom, you know that sofa in your room? Well, I rather think…’

‘Down here, darling!’ Colin plunged towards some steps. He helped Lindsay down them with great gallantry. Lindsay found herself on what might have been a tow-path. It was very dark. She could smell river water, and then see the gleam of light on its surface.

‘This is the canal! Do you see those barges, Linda? Can you see the barges up ahead?’

Lindsay found she could see them.

‘People live on these barges, Lynne. It’s just along here. It’s this one. No, that one! That’s it! The one with poppies painted on it. Well, on this barge here, lived a most beautiful woman. She was a painter, I think. My Lady of Shalott. She had long golden hair. What was her name, Rowland?’

‘I forget.’

‘This was a long time ago, Lisa—you do understand that?’

‘I do. Years and years ago, Colin.’ Lindsay leaned over the water. Rowland pulled her back.

‘Exactly. Decades. And this beautiful girl—I was mad about her. Completely mad. Obsessed. This was when I was an undergraduate—before I met you, of course.’

‘Of course.’

‘I wrote sonnets! Songs! I dreamed about her every night! If I saw her for two seconds, I was happy for a week…’

‘A month.’ Lindsay gave a deep sigh. ‘Longer, sometimes…’

‘You understand! I knew you would.’ Colin embraced her tenderly. ‘I wrote her letters, Lindsay…’

‘But you never sent them…’

‘You’re right! It felt like spring!’

‘It did. April. Did it feel like April, Colin?’

‘Like April. Like the darling buds of May. I could do anything. I had all this energy…’

‘You wanted to dance? Sometimes you wanted to dance?’

‘I did. Then I’d weep. Just once or twice.’

‘Occasionally, Colin. You wept occasionally, when despair hit.’

‘That’s it! Despair! Oh God,
God
. I’d forgotten that. But I despaired all the time, because she didn’t love me; she loved someone else. It was
hell
. Unmitigated
hell
, now I look back.’

‘Oh, Colin.’ Lindsay put her arms around him. She looked at him very closely. The tow-path was beginning to ripple pleasantly. Colin put his arms around her waist. ‘Colin, that’s so sad. I know exactly how that feels. Tell me, did you get this sort of
ache
?’

‘In the heart? Yes, I did. But none of that matters now, Lindy, because…Oh God. You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen in my life. What shall we do? Shall we sit down? Walk? Talk? I want to talk to you all night. There’s something I have to tell you…’

‘Time to go, Colin.’ Rowland had been listening to this exchange with the closest attention. Now, as Lindsay and Colin began to sit down on the edge of the barge, he took Colin’s arm in a firm grip. He led him towards the steps.

‘Up you go, Colin. No, no arguments. Tom, if you pull him, and Katya, you push…That’s it. Well done. Your room’s not far, luckily. You go on ahead with him…Now, Lindsay, these steps are a bit slippery.’

‘They’re not.’

‘It’s deceptive. The light here’s not too good. If I just took your arm, perhaps? There. You see? Now, take hold of my hand…’

‘You have very nice hands, Rowland. They’re warm. I noticed your hands the first time I met you; they’re strong. Strong hands.’

‘It’s the climbing, I expect.’

‘I worry about the climbing.’ Lindsay came to an abrupt halt on the bridge. ‘Where’s Colin?’

‘He’s gone on ahead. Don’t worry about Colin.’

‘All right, but I do worry about the climbing. I was worried last night, that’s why I called, I think…’ She frowned, shook her head, raised her face and inspected Rowland closely.

‘I could see you, Rowland. The rope broke. You were tumbling over into this
chasm
…’

‘Yes, well, that’s happened to me once or twice.’

‘Really?’

‘No, not really. Maybe if you lean on me a little, Lindsay.’

Lindsay leaned on him; it felt pleasant. She gave a small shiver of delight. Rowland put his arm around her waist and they began walking again. Dimly ahead of them, on some other planet, Lindsay could see her son and his girlfriend, and someone else. The someone else was singing; Lindsay liked the song the someone else had chosen; it was a sweet and melodious lament. Neither she nor Rowland spoke; they advanced along a heavenly road; its paving shone; the dark air was necklaced with lights. Rowland sighed. ‘Lindsay, Lindsay,’ he said gently. ‘Whatever’s wrong? You never do this.’

‘My life’s changing…’ Lindsay emitted a sobbing sound which startled her. ‘My life won’t lie down, Rowland. It won’t obey the rules any more. I can’t…I can’t…’

‘What can’t you?’

‘I used to know where north was. Now I don’t. It’s moved, Rowland. Sometimes it’s in the south, or the east…’

‘That happens.’

‘I hate it. I hate it happening. Rowland, it makes me afraid. Does it happen to you?’

‘Sometimes. Yes, it does.’

‘I might cry, Rowland. I can feel it coming on. Oh,
damn
.’

‘I don’t mind, Lindsay. Truly. Cry all you like.’

Lindsay did so. She wept piteously for several streets. Then she found they were standing outside a house which looked familiar; its front door was open. Lindsay leaned against Rowland, who put his arms around her. She watched this door; from it, eventually, emerged her son and someone who proved to be Katya. This confused Lindsay, who had been expecting someone else.

‘He’s out cold, on the sofa. Dead to the world,’ said her son.

‘Tom, I’m sorry about this—’

‘It’s cool. No worries, Rowland. Cressida-from-upstairs did it the other week.’

‘Now listen, Tom. He may feel he wants to fight you. If he does, say you’ll fight him in the morning—then he’ll go back to sleep. Coffee when he wakes; lots of it. Oh, and Katya, one thing…’

‘Yes, Rowland?’

‘He may propose, at a certain stage; he’s been known to do that…’

‘So I gather.’

‘It’s a good idea to accept him; that way you avoid the maudlin stage, which generally comes next. I’ll take Lindsay’s car and drive her back to London. Meanwhile, just to be on the safe side…Lindsay, lean on Tom for just a minute, would you? Oh, she’s asleep. Hang on…’

There was a pause while Tom propped his mother up and Rowland opened the bonnet of the Aston. He removed the rotor arm and handed this and the car keys to Tom.

‘That’s usually the best solution. He knows how to put it back, but he can’t manage it until he’s completely sober. I’m very grateful to both of you. I’ll call you in the morning…’

There was movement and Lindsay began to wake up. Someone soft, who smelled of rose petals, kissed her. This was comforting, although a small voice in Lindsay’s mind kept insisting that there was something wrong with that kiss. She was still trying to puzzle out what that might be while her son reproved her, and possibly lectured her, but appeared to forgive her. She had the sensation that this son of hers found something amusing; she was hugged, heard footsteps, then a door shut.

Immediately, as the door closed, two very strong arms encircled her and she found her damp face pressed against wool; the voice in her head now spoke with clarity; a clarion call. Of course, it was not the nature of that kiss which had been wrong, it was the
identity
of the person who bestowed it. She lifted her head and inspected Rowland’s features for some while. He did not appear to be angry; he might have been amused. He looked puzzled by something. He had the greenest eyes she had ever seen. She looked at the lamplight on his hair. She looked at green affection, green regret.

‘Lindsay, Lindsay,’ he said, and smoothed back her hair and looked at her face. ‘You really are terribly drunk, you know…’

‘I am,’ Lindsay agreed. ‘It feels wonderful, Rowland. Wondrous. Your eyes are very green. Astonishingly green…’

‘And yours are hazel; not brown, not grey. Around the iris, they’re darker. I’ve never noticed that.’ There was a pause. ‘What are you doing, Lindsay?’

‘I’m kissing your sweater,’ said Lindsay, who was. ‘I think I might kiss you. Yes. You’re so tall. If you could just bend down a little bit, Rowland…’

Rowland did. Lindsay gently kissed his cheek, then his nose, then, as her aim improved, his mouth. Rowland did not appear to resist. They kissed chastely, in the lamplight, and when they drew apart, Lindsay saw that Rowland’s expression was now sad. She made no comment on this.

Her handbag was found, and her keys, and her little car. One minute Rowland was lifting her into it, the next second he was lifting her into what she recognized as her bed. He removed her shoes and neatly aligned them next to the bed. He turned her on her side and covered her with a duvet. He switched off the bedside lamp and then stood in the stripe of light from the hall, looking down at her, his hair ruffled, his hands in his pockets. Lindsay, opening her eyes, then closing them again, thought he still had that puzzled, thoughtful expression on his face. During the night, at some point in the night, negotiating a dream, then a nightmare, Lindsay woke. She did not know where, when, who or what she was: she gave a little cry, swung her legs out of bed and felt her way into the shadows of her sitting-room. At first she thought that it was empty, then she saw it was not. Arms folded, Rowland was seated on the sofa, frowning into space. Lindsay came to a halt in the doorway.

‘Would you talk to me, Rowland?’ she said.

‘Of course.’ He held out an arm. Lindsay curled up on the sofa next to him and rested her head against his shoulder. Rowland put his arm around her; minutes ticked.

‘So, what shall I talk about?’ Rowland said after some while.

‘Anything. Ordinary things. I just like to hear your voice.’

‘Well, let’s see.’ She thought he smiled. ‘I’ve been useful. I’ve washed up one cup, one saucer and one plate—I’m used to washing up ones of things. I checked your answerphone for you, because the light was driving me mad—flash, flash, flash.’

‘Oh, I hope someone interesting called.’

‘Markov did, from Greece. He said he and Jippy were sitting outside a temple; I forget to which god. Max called. Someone called Lulu-something called, I’ve written it down…’

‘Lulu Sabatier? I won’t be calling her back.’

‘Then I’d called—this morning. So I listened to myself, which is always disconcerting; I sounded like someone else.’ He might have frowned; he sighed.

‘Then, let’s see, I read for a while, but I couldn’t seem to concentrate. I thought about Scotland: Skye, where I’ve been climbing…’

‘Tell me about where you were climbing. I had a horrible dream. It will make my dream go away. Make me see your mountains, Rowland.’

‘Well, you’ve seen those photographs at my house. I remember you looking at those, the first time you ever came there.’

‘I remember too.’ Lindsay closed her eyes. She could remember the occasion only too well, since it was then she had first realized she was in love with Rowland McGuire. It was then this entire debacle had begun; this, of course, could not be said. ‘There was one particular mountain,’ she went on. ‘A mountain with an impossible name…’

‘Sgurr Na Ghillean. I climbed it again on this visit. Provided the weather holds—and in the Cuillin the weather can change within minutes, which is why they can be dangerous, of course—there’s a place you can reach; it’s technically quite a difficult climb, a nasty overhang, but once you’re around that—if the weather is clear, and it was last week—you’re rewarded with an astounding view. You can look out across the Minch, and each one of the Outer Hebrides islands, you can see them, or their outlines; a black necklace of islands on the horizon. They look…’ He hesitated. ‘They look too beautiful to be real, like the Hesperides, perhaps. Then, sometimes, the rain comes in, or a mist appears from nowhere, and you lose sight of them. They disappear, and you think you imagined them…’ He hesitated again. ‘Whenever I’m there, I feel…’

‘Tell me, Rowland.’

‘I feel as if, finally, I’ve arrived in the right place, as if questions were unimportant, as if I were beyond questions, maybe. I can’t explain, I just like being there, looking at those islands. After those islands, there’s nothing, just open sea, thousands upon thousands of miles of sea—sea all the way to America, or to Newfoundland, perhaps…’

He stopped speaking and silence fell. The silence, to Lindsay, felt huge and deep, like a benign ocean. She could see herself and Rowland very clearly, sailing across this Atlantic in some small yacht or skiff; the wind caught its sails; for the first time in her friendship with Rowland she felt she could ask questions—questions could be risked.

‘Are you happy, Rowland?’ she asked quietly, tensing a little, for he might resent this.

‘Now?’ He showed no sign of resentment. ‘I feel happy now, oddly enough.’

‘No, I didn’t mean that. I meant, generally. Day by day. Night by night.’

‘Not really, no. Not in that sense. But I’m happy—enough.’