Lamb in Love (39 page)

“I heard you!” Norris bangs his fist on the table.

Manford jumps, throws Norris a terrified look. Norris tries to regain his composure. Why am I so—so upset by this? he thinks. But he is. He
is
upset. He reaches forward, puts his hand on Manford's arm. “You made a sound. That means you
can.
You can if you
want
to,” he says. He looks at the clock on the wall, its arms fine as hairs, and turns back to look at Manford again. “Don't you see how pleased Vida would be?”

He realizes then that even more than he wants Manford to speak, he wants to return him to Vida with this miracle made manifest. He wants Manford to tell Vida everything he has felt over their lifetime together. He wants Vida to have that gift. And he wants Vida to believe that he, Norris Lamb, has made it possible.

He is instantly shamed by this realization. He puts his head in his hands. What have I become? he thinks. When he looks up again, Manford is gazing at him quietly.

“It's terrible, isn't it, to be a disappointment?” Norris says then
quietly. “But you mustn't think I mind. For either of us. We've done the very best we can.”

Manford stands then, restless again. Norris watches him wander the room, inspecting various objects—the clock on the wall, the split seam in the gray paper over the plaster, Norris's stiff washing strung over a clotheshorse in the larder, the cup and saucer on the drainboard. Manford pauses at the door to the sitting room, casts a look back over his shoulder at Norris.

“Go on. Help yourself.” Norris nods to him.

There is silence for a minute or two; Norris almost forgets Manford is there with him. And then he hears a key struck on the organ, just a single note.

He pushes away his chair and goes to the doorway. Manford is standing in the dark room, facing the instrument. The lace curtains are drawn, their fine work blurred and soft. Norris often plays the organ in the dark, the way his grandmother did when she lost her sight. She told him it had taken her hardly any time to learn to play that way. “My hands have become my eyes,” she said, resting a dry palm against his cheek. “You'd be amazed at what I see, Norrie. You would.”

He moves beside Manford now. “This was my grandmother's organ,” he says. “You know I play in church. She played far better than I do.”

Manford raises one hand exploratively over the keys but withdraws it after a moment. Norris leans over and plays a chord for him. Manford looks at Norris, surprised, smiling, his eyes delighted. He splays his fingers, holding them above the keys, tense and excited; he steps back and forth from one foot to the other.

Norris laughs. “There aren't many as like to dance to the organ!” He watches Manford jump around in front of the instrument.

“Look. Here. I'll play so's you can see.” Norris crosses the
room and pulls aside the curtains, letting a dull haze in through the glass. He returns to the organ and takes his seat before it, playing the opening measures of the
Lyra Innocentium.

And when he raises his eyes, he sees a movement against the wall beside him, the fluttering accompaniment of Manford's shadows flowing across the faded paper, a hawk or eagle flexing its wings against the old pattern of roses and yellowed trellis-work. The shape of the bird swells as if drawing in breath, lifts its wings, and shakes them.

Norris drops his hands from the keys, spins on his chair, and stares at Manford.

“Of course!” he says. “Your shadows! You could do them in church, at the talent show! That's your
talent,
Manford.”

He claps his hands on his thighs, leaps up, and grasps Manford by the arm. “Could you do that?” Norris raises his own hands, sees their shadows leap up to the wall, long and furred. He turns and looks at Manford again.

“Let's take you home,” he says. “Oh, let's go home. You look dreadful still, but it's all right.”

They let themselves out the back door, squinting against the late-afternoon sunlight. Little puddles shine in the road like tiny bits of mirror, reflective fragments; it must have rained, Norris realizes. Just a shower, while they were having tea. He hadn't noticed.

Norris takes Manford's hand, and this time he doesn't think about who might be watching.

“Hurry, Manford,” he says. “We've got to tell Vida. This is a plan.”

Eighteen

V
IDA SHUTS THE
door behind Jeremy and stands there for a moment, her back against the wood. And then, as if she hasn't a moment to lose, she runs up the stairs and into the bathroom, where she runs the water in the bath, violently turning the taps all the way so that the blue-tiled room fills with steam and an explosive cataract of water, the sound of obliteration. She lies in the water for half an hour, throbbing with heat, just her face breaking the surface, her hair billowing out around her in the tub. She lies there until the palms of her hands are wrinkled and her face is bright pink.

And then she remembers about Manford.

She had told Mrs. Blatchford she would stop in and check on him, and then she'd been taken hostage, as she now thinks of it, by Jeremy, and somehow the time has slipped away. She climbs out of the bath and wraps a towel round her and goes to sit, dripping, on the bed to dial the phone and ring Niven's. It's nearly four o'clock, she sees, glancing at the clock.

“But he's not here,” Mrs. Blatchford says, picking up at last after ten rings, her tone surprised. “I should have thought they'd have been home long before now. They left hours ago.”

Vida feels a chill creep over her. “Who?” she asks. “Who's they?”

“Why, Mr. Lamb!” Mrs. Blatchford pauses as though this should be sufficient explanation, but Vida detects something in her voice, something that makes her alarmed.

“Mrs. Blatchford,” she says now, standing up and gripping the
telephone. “You must tell me: Has something happened? Why is Manford with Mr. Lamb?”

“Well, I should have thought—” Mrs. Blatchford begins, sounding offended. “Hang on.” Vida jumps as the phone is put down sharply on the counter. A moment later there is a deafening crash, the sound of a baking sheet hitting the tile floor. Vida stands by the side of the bed, frozen with fear. What could have happened to Manford? Surely Mr. Lamb would look after him? Surely he is seeing to him? Perhaps—perhaps he's had to take him to Dr. Faber!

She has to sit down now; various angry-sounding noises from the bakery reach her distantly through the telephone. She puts her hand to her forehead. She never should have sent him on to Niven's this morning after his fright over the spider's web. She should have taken him to Dr. Faber's right off, had him seen to; he might have suffered some sort of shock. Oh, she
is
a bad person, she thinks, an irresponsible person, she has no right—

And then suddenly, with an odd sort of relief—as if she had been standing in the middle of the road watching a car speed toward her and then woke to find it had all been a bad dream—it occurs to her that she is behaving very foolishly, has in fact been behaving foolishly all morning, maybe even for her whole life. Her silly worry over whether she might see Jeremy or not at the dairy—just like a schoolgirl! And then seeing him but acting as if she hadn't any mind of her own, allowing him to be the spoiled, angry boy. And then letting him frighten her like that, and jump on her! Her, a grown woman, for God's sake! She ought to be ashamed of herself. She stands up again, this time full of resolve.

Whoever he is, she thinks now suddenly and with a profound clarity, whoever he is, her secret lover—and suddenly the pleasure and pride of it comes over her as never before, like a mantle she
has earned—this is not how
he
sees her, a sniveling, foolish woman, dallying with boys the likes of Jeremy. This is not how she wants to appear! She will be better than this.

“Mrs. Blatchford,” she shouts into the telephone. “Mrs. Blatchford!”

“I'm right here. You needn't shout.” Mrs. Blatchford sounds breathless. “I had to take out the penny loaves.”

“Sorry.” Vida hitches her towel, trying to regain her composure. “But you must tell me, I—”

“Mr. Lamb came in and had a word with him, and if you must know, I'm all alone here today, Vida,” Mrs. Blatchford interrupts her, “and I was worried about him.” Her voice recedes for a moment, and Vida clutches the receiver as if to draw her back. Then her voice returns, close by again. “He was so quiet this morning. I thought it best just to have Mr. Lamb run him home. Perhaps he's taken him off for tea? I shouldn't worry if I were you. They left holding hands! I think Manford's quite fond of him.”

Vida hitches her towel up again. Mr. Lamb? Holding hands with Manford? But, “He wasn't ill?” is what she manages to say.

“Only a bit quiet. Quieter than usual, I mean,” Mrs. Blatchford says. “Don't worry, Vida. He and Mr. Lamb left here together like the oldest of friends, I promise you. I'd no idea, frankly, they were such chums. I'm sure they're just having a ramble together. I'll ring you if I see them pass by.”

“Yes. Well, thank you,” Vida says. “Thank you, Mrs. Blatchford.”

She sets the phone down and realizes she'll have to find the directory for Mr. Lamb's telephone number. She doesn't want to go downstairs in her towel to look for it, so she takes the robe—the robe left by her secret admirer Saturday night—and puts it on. It feels like dressing in water. As she goes downstairs, she
catches sight of herself in the long, dark pier mirror, a mysterious and lovely figure, like someone who might have escaped from a painting.

She finds his telephone number and rings his house, feeling suddenly shy. But there isn't any answer, nor at the post office, either. And then, despite herself, she begins to feel alarmed again. She thinks she
will
just call round to Dr. Faber's, only to make sure that he doesn't have Manford there with him, but then she remembers that it's Tuesday, Dr. Faber's day to be at hospital. So instead she runs back upstairs and pulls on some clothes and then runs back downstairs and fetches her umbrella, though it isn't raining, and her first-aid kit, which she keeps in a green canvas satchel hanging over a hook by the door. And then she leaves the house, stepping out into a day that is nearly gone now, afternoon just beginning to cross over toward evening, the new moon low on the horizon across from the sun, and the sky littered with columns of dark birds massing for their evening roost. She thinks she is as prepared as she can be.

T
HEY ARE COMING
round the corner of the lane where the trees meet high overhead like a cathedral arch, Mr. Lamb and Manford, the latter cradling a sloppy bouquet of cowslips in his arms, Mr. Lamb talking excitedly, gesticulating with his hands. When Vida comes in sight of them, she sees Manford recognize her and then start up at a run, barreling toward her through the sweet-smelling air of the lane. When he reaches her, he thrusts the fragrant flowers, dripping their milky liquid, into her shirtfront and embraces her, laying his head against her shoulder. She holds her bouquet with both hands and takes in the scent of him. He doesn't smell like himself. He smells like—like vetiver, she realizes, startled. And he isn't wearing his own shirt. She draws Manford
from her shoulder to look at his face again and gasps. The flowers fall to her feet.

But Mr. Lamb, smiling broadly, stoops and retrieves them, and then—more surprises!—leans forward to take her hand and kiss it in a courtly, satisfied way, handing the bouquet back to her!

“Did you have a lovely day?” he asks sweetly.

“A lovely day?” She feels as if she has been spun around in circles. She has an odd memory, quick as a pinch, of holding on to the reins of a little pony at a carnival once, when she'd been only a child; it had run her in tight little circles before the Gypsy man had hurried out into the field to rescue her.

“Yes! Whilst we were off!
We've
had a most exciting time,” Mr. Lamb says, as though this were all very ordinary. “And you mustn't worry about his face. It'll be all right by morning. He had a run-in with some bees. The both of us did, I'm afraid.” He touches his mouth apologetically; she sees his lip is blistered and puffy. “We've put mud on it, though. That always does the trick. Really,” he says, patting her arm in the kindest way, “you mustn't worry. He's quite all right. And we have so much to tell you.”

Vida stares at him a moment longer and then returns her gaze to Manford; her face softens. She lifts her fingers to his cheek, and he winces a little, looking balefully at her. “Oh, it must have hurt dreadfully,” she says softly. “You've never had a bee sting before.”

“I thought so,” Mr. Lamb says authoritatively. “I thought he never had, or else he'd have never touched that hive.” He nods wisely. “I think that will be the last time for
that.

“And now—” he says, and as she looks away from Manford and back to Mr. Lamb, she sees that with the arrival of her gaze upon him he has grown suddenly shy again. He touches his hat.