Cupid's Arrow (8 page)

I didn't follow him for very long, because he soon stopped and waited till I'd drawn level with him, and then said, smiling, 'Sorry, I was walking too fast. It's a bad habit of mine. Forgive me.'

'No problem,' I said, trying to sound jaunty, and trying to keep up with his long strides as he walked on. 'You speak English really well, you know. Where did you learn it?'

'Didn't they tell you? We come from Quebec originally – that's the French-speaking part of Canada – and my dad was French Canadian, well, part Huron too, you know.'

'I don't. I don't know anything about Quebec.'

'Okay. The Hurons were the indigenous people around what is now Montreal, the main city in Quebec. Dad's family on his mum's side is Huron but on his father's side they're from one of the old French Canadian families. But my mother's an English Canadian who went to university in Montreal, where she met my father. We speak English at home as well as French. Mam speaks it well, too, of course. Everyone's bilingual in Quebec. You have to be.'

'How long ago did you leave Quebec?' I asked.

'I was three. I hardly remember it. My father –' he glanced swiftly at me – 'I suppose village gossip has already told you, but let's get this out of the way now, eh? My dad and my uncle were killed in a fire. Mam was lucky to survive. And I wasn't hurt because I was staying at my aunt's place. I was playing with my cousins. And before you ask, they were policemen – my dad and uncle, I mean. They never found the person who set the fire, but from what Mam has said it was probably a criminal who wanted revenge on them for something. Someone they'd arrested or imprisoned. Nobody knows. But after the fire Mam decided she couldn't bear to stay in Canada. She'd been to Avallon once before, and thought it was a place of healing, so we should come and live here, far away from everything that had happened. That's all I really know. Mam doesn't talk about it. So don't ask her.'

'Of course I won't,' I whispered, chilled to the bone both by the story and the matter-of-fact way he'd told it. And yet, if it was me, I could not bear
not
to know more. It would torment me, in more ways than one. I didn't have any terrible secret like that in my past, only the mystery about my father – and I'd tried to find out more about him, and where he was now, from Mum and my grandparents, but in vain. That was an ordinary sort of mystery, but this was something else.

He must have understood what I was thinking, because he said, 'There's nothing I can find out, nothing I can do can bring my dad and my uncle back, or make the hurt of it less for my mother. I've learnt it's best to leave it alone. And living here means she can have some peace. She loves it here, you know. She walks and paints and reads. It really has been a place of healing for her, and I don't want to do or say anything that will change that. Do you understand, Fleur?'

I nodded. There was a lump in my throat. And it wasn't just because of what he'd said about his mum, but because he'd trusted me with it, as if I was a good friend, a friend he'd known for a long time. And I felt that too. But that's what was so strange, because I'd only just met him. Yet it felt so natural, being with him. 'I–I totally understand. I never knew my father. He left us before I was born. Mum told me once that he'd said he worked for the secret service. He used to go off for days at a time and not tell her where he'd been. Finally he told her he was an intelligence agent but he couldn't tell her more. She believed him but then later after he'd left, she decided it was probably a lie. I've thought that maybe he was a crook – a swindler, I mean – or maybe he was married and had another family somewhere. Maybe I have lots of brothers and sisters somewhere I don't know about. I don't know. He never contacted us again, anyway. I know his name, but that's about all. Haven't even seen a photo of him. Mum hardly ever talks about him. When I was younger, I used to try to get her to talk about him, but she got so upset I learnt not to. I'm still curious – I'd like to know something, because, you know, when you get older, you wonder even more where you've come from. I've thought of trying to do a proper investigation myself, somehow. But there's Mum to think of. And something else stops me.'

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.