Famished Lover (30 page)

“I'll just have to cling to you,” she said, and took my arm
even before I offered it. Walking together like this we slowed, picking our way past the wetter bits.

“The ground gets a little firmer up here a ways.”

“I was hoping it would,” Margaret said immediately. “It has felt quite sticky ever since I arrived.” Before I could comment she hurried on. “I'm afraid I've upset your wife. Is that why she didn't come on the walk?”

“No, no,” I said quickly. “She has things she needs to do. She wants to impress you all, of course. She'll be fine once she gets to know you better.”

The children started clattering about something in the distance, but they were around a bend and I couldn't see what was going on.

“I guess we all get better at it as we get older,” Margaret said.

“At what?”

“Lying, of course.”

That nearly stopped me short, but she continued pulling me along. As we rounded the bend I could see the whole group of them hunched around a low spread of plants, touch-me-nots, which they were trying to pop. Margaret rushed into the middle of them and let Abigail drag her from plant to plant.

“They're called jewelweed,” Henry said — he was on his knees, the most animated he'd been since his arrival — “because of the way the leaves hold in moisture. And look how they're crowding out all the other plants. They're very aggressive that way. But I fear it might be too shy in the season for them.”

Michael was able to find one or two early performers and laughed gleefully as the seed pods exploded. But most were
disappointing, and the mosquitoes punished us for lingering. The boys tore ahead again, the girls right after them. Rufus started to go on and on about our rough childhood days when we would race around the woods, nearly naked and three-fourths wild, as he recalled it. “Do you remember Mother's enormous dinner bell? As long as we were within range of that, everything was in bounds. We could have been a hundred feet up a red pine, shooting arrows at one another, but as long as we came home on the dinner bell, there'd be no questions asked.”

At the river the sun hit our faces, and the trail broadened out to show the dance of the water, the folds of the current over and around the myriad rocks and fallen logs, the slightly deeper pools that were still fine for wading. Michael had already led his cousins to one of them, and shoes were off, dresses hiked, trouser legs rolled to the knees. Henry was right in the middle of them, his bowler hat tilted back on his balding head. They were all bent over something of interest, which Michael was poking authoritatively. Rufus and Vanessa sat on the rocks close to the children, and Margaret and I stayed a little way off, our faces turned to the sun that was high over the trees.

“What have I been lying about?” I asked her.

“You are a good host and husband pretending I have not terribly upset your wife, but I'm afraid I have.”

I insisted again that Lillian was not upset, but Margaret turned her head away in a gesture of dismissal.

“And I suppose you are going to claim that I have not upset you,” she said. “When I have forgiven you.”

“For what?”

Rufus got up then and approached us. “It's rather extraordinary
the way you are monopolizing Margaret,” he said to me, only half joking. “Do you still fish in this river?” Without waiting for an answer he sat down between us. “Ramsay suddenly disappeared one summer,” he said to her. “We were living together in Montreal. We both had office jobs. And then Ramsay was gone almost every weekend, fishing! And I kept asking him — where are you going that the fishing is so good? And he would become very vague. But every weekend he would come back . . . without any fish!”

Margaret laughed so he kept on, regaling her with this old story.

“One weekend I was determined to get him in with the right crowd. Do you remember Elizabeth Dillingham, Ramsay? She was an artist, too, from an excellent family — very well off. I remember asking you to give up your fishing for one tiny weekend so you could come to the Dillinghams' dance party. I was even willing to lend you a proper coat and shoes. Elizabeth had bent my ear for ages to make sure you came. Do you remember her at all?”

I nodded my head slightly. “A bit of a horsey face.”

“She was so stuck on you. But you were riding the train every weekend to court this mysterious farm girl, all under the guise of fishing!”

Margaret smiled at my embarrassment, a fine bit of sunlight in her eyes.

“So the fisherman got caught!” she exclaimed. “Was it a wonderful romance?”

“Whirlwind.”

“So that's why I never heard from you,” she said lightly. “You were here, probably right at this spot, courting your Lillian and forgetting all about me.”

“You were married at the time, I believe,” I said to her.

“Yes, and every Guinevere wants a Lancelot to be pining for her, at least a little bit, somewhere far away.” She touched Rufus on the leg. “You're very bad to be listening to all this. It's none of it serious, you know.”

Rufus didn't seem to know what to make of it. He looked from Margaret to me and back again. Finally he said, “Ramsay fell in love with the land too. I was so glad when you were able to buy your property down here, Ramsay. I'm glad I made those calls.”

“What calls?”

“To Father's connections! He knew you weren't going to get that reparations money any other way.” Rufus glanced at Margaret as if this too was all a joke, then back at me. “Didn't I tell you? Father was on his deathbed and made me promise to make those calls. I don't think he would have allowed himself to go otherwise. He was so concerned about you.”

“What are you talking about?” Margaret asked.

“Ramsay applied for war reparations money, but the commission was so stingy he wasn't going to get anything unless someone made a special appeal.” He turned to me with only the faintest shade of embarrassment on his face. “Of course you know this is how it works, don't you?”

I ground my teeth in silence.

“The world owed you, Ramsay. You suffered, but then you got your land out of it. Everything balances out.”

There was a ruckus then, and we all turned to watch Henry holding a small turtle by the shell while the children splashed and jostled to get a better look. Abigail called out to her mother to come have a look.

“Yes dear, I can see!” Margaret called back. “He's beautiful!”

“But come here, Mummy!” Abigail said. So Margaret got up and walked to the edge of the water, and Henry brought the turtle over to show to her and Vanessa.

Rufus was staring at my face, watching me look at Margaret.

“Sometimes you are an absolute surprise,” he said.

After Henry had handed round the turtle for all the children to handle and let it go its merry way, Michael pointed out minnows in the shallows, and there were butterflies to watch and talk about and a course of stepping stones to build. Eventually I was enticed into the water to help shift some of the larger rocks, and Henry lectured us on beavers — he had a particular fascination and was hoping to see some. Michael was nearly ecstatic to show him and all the others three beaver-chewed birch stumps on the opposite shore, and he made certain that his cousins learned that the beaver must continue chewing wood or else his teeth will grow through the bottom of his mouth. Margaret, especially, listened with rapt fascination, not to her husband but to Michael.

The sun moved higher, and Margaret pulled her hair free from its coils beneath her hat and let it fall about her shoulders. Of all the times I'd seen her — the phantom of her in my mind — now it seemed both impossible and absolutely normal that she should be before me.

“Perhaps we should go back,” I said as the afternoon burned on.

“But is there something further up this trail?” Margaret asked immediately. “It doesn't end at the river, does it?” I explained that the trail indeed went on for some miles,
all the way up to a scenic spot that looked out over the town and several lakes. “But it's a good two hours' hike up there. Maybe tomorrow, if we have the energy.”

“Our train leaves tomorrow afternoon, doesn't it?” Margaret said.

“I thought you were staying the week!” I glared over at Rufus, who had written me with all the details.

“There are a few things to do in Montreal, before our cousins sail for home,” Rufus said in his feather-smoothing tone. “And we thought . . . well, I knew —”

“We didn't want to put a strain on your household,” Margaret said brightly. “Short visits are best, aren't they, dear?” At her glance Henry chipped in that even on a short visit she mustn't strain herself. His hat was on the ground beside him, but he had tied a white handkerchief on his head into which he was sweating profusely. “You tend to push too hard on very little food or rest, and then —”

“Oh, poof!” Margaret said to him. “I feel perfectly fine. We just had an enormous meal —”

“That was ages ago, darling,” Henry said. “And it is tea time now. I'm beginning to feel nearly faint myself.”

“Then you go back and have some tea! I'm perfectly fine!”

I told Margaret it was absurd to come all this way then rush off.

“The tickets are bought, I'm afraid,” Henry said. There was more discussion but I didn't press further. At least Lillian would be happy, I thought. I glanced at the children, who were lolling like lizards on the smooth rocks.

“Now what about this walk?” Margaret said. “Ramsay, will you accompany me? Just a little further up the trail?”

“But, dear —” Henry said.

“I will be
fine
.”

“
I
could show you!” Michael announced, suddenly full of vigour again.

“But your mother will need help with the tea,” Margaret said, too quickly and with too much strained cheeriness. We all looked at her in awkward silence. Vanessa, especially, was glancing from Margaret to me to her husband, whose expression seemed to be keeping her quiet.

Then I said, “Michael, you make sure everyone knows the way home. We won't be long. We'll probably catch you up on the way back.”

Without waiting for another word Margaret started across the river, her shoes and hat in her hand. Henry protested again, but she simply waved at him as if he were talking nonsense. She was halfway across before I headed after her.

“We won't go far,” I said to Henry and the others.

At the crossing the river was less than fifty yards wide and shallow most of the way, but the stones were slippery and the passage slow. When she reached the other side Margaret did not wait for me to catch up to her but continued along the trail without even putting on her shoes. By now the afternoon was waning and the shadows in the woods were deep and cool. I gained the other side and shoved my wet feet into socks and shoes, then hurried along. In the low areas by the riverbank the soil was wet and black and smelled of rot and swampy gas.

“It's perhaps not the best trail right here,” I said when I
reached her. “But you'll want to put your shoes on soon. It's going to get rocky.”

“The mud feels so good between the toes,” she said. Then she stopped and faced me. “That was clumsy, I'm sorry. But I am only here a day. Why have you never written? Why did you not come see me at the end of the war?”

“
Of course I came to see you!”
I blurted. “
You did not see me!
” I could barely look at her, I was so flabbergasted.

“I beg your pardon?”

I explained it as clearly as I possibly could. Her face fell further into bewilderment.

“What are you talking about?” “

I was standing at your gate. You looked straight at me. You didn't recognize me. You could have planted me in the soil right there, I was so devastated.”

“Ramsay, stop this!” She raised her hand as if about to slap my face. “I did no such thing!”

I stepped to her, pulled her arm and moved her some paces up the trail. “Not in this bloody swamp.” I sat her by a mossy tree trunk, out of the mud, and wiped her feet clean with my handkerchief, then struggled them into her shoes. I pulled her up and held her hand and we walked faster and faster, a cloud of mosquitoes and blackflies now on us. We climbed rapidly until we reached a boulder jutting out into the sun. I hoisted her up and joined her, and lit a cigarette and blew smoke to clear the bugs.

“Do you want one?” I asked her.

She shook her head. “It's a filthy habit.”

I laughed rudely. “You used to smoke.”

“I never did.”

“You begged me for a cigarette once. When we were in clear view, walking on the street.”

“I swear you are hallucinating!”

“No, I'm not.” I blew more smoke and tried to contain my anger.

“I have smoked one or two cigarettes in my life, and that has been it. You know almost nothing about me.” She reached across then and took the cigarette from my fingers, stuck it in her mouth and inhaled deeply. Then she blew out in the direction of a few lingering bugs, and handed the cigarette back to me. “It's still a filthy habit.” She coughed slightly. “Now you must tell me. What in God's name are you talking about?”

I explained it again. “It must have been the day of Emily's funeral. I was standing on Stokebridge Street when you walked out to the cab. You looked straight at me, but I was a shadow. A starved man, Margaret. Skin and bone. I know it's not your fault.”

“Did I say
nothing
to you?”

“When I stepped onto the pier in Victoria my mother broke down and wept on her hands and knees. Father was so pale I thought he would collapse. And that was after some weeks of fattening up. Of course you didn't know who I was.”

“But how could I not remember?” she asked in bewilderment.