‘I’d love it,’ I said, longingly, for I was hot and dusty. ‘But I’ve no pants.’
‘Who’s to see you?’ she answered coolly. ‘I’ll not look and even if I did, aren’t I your cousin? Go in off the top deck. But mind you, it’ll be cold.’
A ladder staircase led to the top deck, which was flat, surrounded by an ornamental balustrade. Woods enclosed the cove on two sides and, beyond, the lake shimmered in the sun. In the distance the Ben was bluer than the sky. I threw off my clothes and, still dubious of my total nudity, hurriedly dived in.
The shock of the snow-fed water was breathtaking. I came up gasping, but as I struck out my circulation came back to me with an exhilarating rush. I had been swimming for some time when an unexpected splash made me swivel round. My unpredictable cousin had joined me in the lake. Impossible to discern whether or not she had on a bathing-suit. Only her head was visible as, with a fast breast stroke, she bore down upon me. But the thought that, myself, she might be in a state of nature stung me. I took off like a frightened trout, making instinctively for the shore. But she had anticipated this and cut me off. I turned. She followed, a maddeningly persistent mermaid. Only with an effort that left me gasping did I reach the opposite side of the houseboat and haul myself out to safety.
A towel had been placed beside my clothes. I rubbed myself down and got into them like lightning. Five minutes later she appeared, dripping, shaking water from her hair and, to my immense relief, adequately covered.
‘Why didn’t you stay and let me duck you? Really, Laurie, you’re so shy, it’s painful. Don’t be so serious, man. Let yourself go. You’re far too nice to be a stick. Do you know what? I took a wee peep at you in your birthday suit and, to put it mildly and not to swell your head, you’ve nothing to be ashamed of.’
‘But, Nora, I only thought …’
‘You think too much. That’s just your trouble. Anyhow, I’m too hungry to argue, we both need something to eat.’
‘If you’ve anything to cook …’ I muttered helpfully. ‘I could light the stove …’
‘When you know me better, and I hope you will, you’ll discover I hate cooking … about as much as I hate sandwiches. In any case, there’s nothing to eat on this tub but tins of sardines and mouldy abernethy biscuits.’
I started to tell her that these would do, but she had already started below, saying:
‘I’ll be ready in a tick. Then I’ll tell you what’s on the cards.’
She was not long in coming back. Then we got into the dinghy and under her directions I rowed about half a mile up the lake and into another bay where, on the shore road, there was an inn with the sign: Inchmurren Arms. John Rennie, Proprietor. We disembarked at a little wooden jetty. Here I hesitated. Truth must be spoken.
‘Nora … I’ve no money.’
‘What!’ She affected an exaggerated surprise. ‘Not even a round O for Paddy Murphy? Then we’re stuck.’
As I reddened she burst out laughing.
‘Don’t worry, dear Laurence, this is my treat.’
Nora was apparently a fairly regular customer, the pub-keeper knew her at once and shook hands with her.
‘Mr Donohue not with you today, miss?’ He then gave me a long stare followed by a dismissive turn of his head, and said: ‘There’s chicken, roast beef or boiled mutton with apple dumpling or curds and cream to follow. You’ll have the Snug to yourselves.’ As a kind of afterthought, he added: ‘The wife will be sorry to miss you. She’s down the village at the daughter’s.’
The Snug was not a particularly good room, the table covered with oilcloth, and spittoons on the sanded floor. A sad stuffed pike in a glass case swam over the mantelpiece. But the food, when it came, was the best country fare. We had the roast beef, thick slices pink in the middle and charred at the edges, with floury potatoes and greens. With this Nora ordered a glass of beer. I took lemonade. Then the home-made apple dumpling with lashings of thick fresh cream. I had a second helping. Finally, a round of sound yellow Dunlop cheese was put on the table. Sitting back and finishing her beer while she nibbled a sliver of cheese, my cousin viewed my activities on a much larger wedge with a faint smile.
‘We’ll do this again, won’t we, man?’
‘Oh, Nora, if only we could … This is all … so perfect.’
‘There’s just one thing we need to top it off. Remember the sup of port I gave you in the bar when we were both kids? We’ll each have another sup now.’
She got up and went out of the room to fetch it. After a longish time, she came back with a glass in each hand.
‘Rennie tried to keep me talking about horses,’ she said. ‘Martin usually gives him a tip.’
At the mention of that name the sweetish port tasted slightly bitter. Even so, it was giving me courage.
‘Nora … Do you come here often with Martin?’
‘Well, occasionally. And with Miss D. too.’
‘I suppose …’—I was developing a way of going round this painful subject—‘it’s only natural that you’re fond of Martin.’
‘Sometimes I like him a lot. Other times I hate him. I’m out with him now.’
‘I hope you stay out with him.’
‘Why?’
‘Because, if it won’t offend you,’ the port was helping me, ‘ I’m terribly fond of you myself.’
‘Why should it offend me?’
‘Well,’ I muttered deprecatingly, ‘I’m not much, you know, Nora.’
‘For God’s sake, man!’ She sat up. ‘When will you stop running yourself down? You don’t think enough of yourself. If you want to know, I’m liking being with you in a way I never thought I would. Do you hear me? I’m enjoying this every bit as much as you are. You’ll see, I mean it. Let’s go back to the boat.’
As I got up a delicious euphoria pervaded me, induced by the lunch, the port, and this warm expression of her regard. Decently, under the pretext of discussing horses, Nora had already paid the bill. Outside, as we came through the inn garden, the velvet wallflowers, hot in the sun, distilled their faint delicious fragrance. It was a beautiful still afternoon. We reached the houseboat, tied up the dinghy, and went inside. Nora was looking at me with that faint suggestive smile I had noticed when she drew on her stockings. Yet somehow it had changed. She was no longer mocking me. Instead of mischief in her eyes there was warmth and a strange, sweet, vague allurement. She gave a little laugh.
‘After that gorge, I feel like a nap. Don’t you? We could stretch out there.’
Following her gaze I saw that the bed had been made up. She must have done this when she was changing after the swim.
‘But it’s such a lovely day, Nora. Wouldn’t it be nicer lying on the top deck?’
‘I’ve tried it.’ She gave me a slight endearing grimace. ‘It’s awfully hard.’
‘I could take these cushions off the settee.’
‘Well … if you like.’ She gave in. ‘ But it’s not half as cosy as the bed.’
I gathered all the cushions and carried them up. They were rather knocked about, exuding feathers, but seemed soft enough when I spread them on the deck and we lay down on them. It was blissfully warm. I shut my eyes. Even through my closed lids the sun made a radiance that matched my state of mind.
‘Are you comfortable, Nora?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I never thought of the cushions. That was clever, Laurie. But where are you?’
She stretched out an arm. Still with blind eyes I found her small hand and held it. She began to tickle my palm with the tip of one finger.
‘I’m so happy, Nora. Thank you so much for everything. And especially for being with me.’
‘You’re still too far away. Come nearer.’
As I turned on my side her arm encircled my neck. I opened my eyes. Her face was ravishingly close to mine. I could see the blue specks in her dark eyes, the mole on the angle of her cheekbone, so exactly placed it became a beauty spot. A tiny bead of perspiration glinted on her upper lip. Her
skin, usually creamy pale, had a slight suffused flush. A strange and scented warmth came from her nearness. It made my heart flutter and miss a beat.
‘Shall I tell you something, Laurie dear?’ Then she spoke slowly, with a pause between each word, as though to bring its meaning home to me. ‘I like you very, very much.’
‘And I like you, Nora dear,’ I breathed. ‘In fact I absolutely love you with all my heart.’
‘Then love me, dearest Laurie.’
She drew me tightly to her and put her open lips against mine. A great wave of sweetness passed through me. In all my life I could not wish for anything more than this. I felt carried away, out of myself, borne on a stream of the purest most powerful emotion, a feeling so utterly detached from my body that it was like a rapture of the soul.
Alas, poor simpleton, I did not dare presume that my cousin was in pressing need of my assistance. My capacity to cooperate was not in question, heaven knew I had trouble enough steering my way through the devious paths of puberty. But Nora was to me mysterious, exceptional, almost angelic. Not only would I have died rather than offend her, my exalted mood restrained me from the earthy fumblings of an act which then seemed a sordid and indecent business. Was I an utter ass, a prig perhaps, or simply a soft, inexperienced, idealistic youth? Do I merit the contempt of the present generation of knowing adolescents who set out on such excursions with bored assurance and a pocketful of contraceptives? And would I, in fact, have sustained my seraphic attitude to the end? Whether or not, at least I am now spared the obligation of providing my history with that most banal of all performances, the loss of a youthful virginity, for as we lay together, blissfully, breathlessly, in each other’s arms, there came a loud arresting shout from the shore.
‘Miss Nora, I’ve brought you some flowers to take home.’
‘Oh, God,’ Nora groaned. ‘It’s Mrs Rennie from the inn, blast her.’
‘Some for you and some for Miss Donohue,’ came from the beach again, and turning on my elbow I saw a stout little woman waving masses of daffodils at us.
‘I’ll go for them,’ I said.
‘No, stay here. Don’t move an inch. I’ll get rid of her and be back in no time at all.’
She got up, though with reluctance, shook back her hair, and a moment later I heard the splash of the dinghy’s oars. Presently the sound of amicable greetings, of voices in conversation drifted over the lake. Mrs Rennie was a talker and less easy to get rid of than Nora had hoped. How wide the sky was, and how drowsy the slow lapping of the lake. I began to feel that I was floating dreamily through the clouds, floating more and more dreamily until, in the end, the long bicycle run, the stupendous lunch, the port, and the hot sun had their way with me. To my everlasting shame, I fell asleep.
When I awoke it was cooler, the sun was beginning to go down and Nora was not beside me. I sprang up to find that she was below, and had actually made tea. She greeted me not, as one might expect, with reproaches or disdain but tenderly, and with a certain new, and to me puzzling, clinical interest. She kissed me cherishingly on the cheek, uttering words of commendation which I thought strange.
‘You’re a doat of a lad, Laurie. Such a gorgeous day, and not a thing to reproach ourselves with.’
‘Did you have a sleep too?’
‘No, lad. I had another swim to cool off, then I put the kettle on, sat down and had a bit of a think to myself.’
‘About what, Nora?’
‘Ah,’ she smiled. ‘I’ll tell you some day.’
When we had drunk the tea, which I found most refreshing, we locked up the houseboat, rowed ashore and, having padlocked the dinghy, set off unhurriedly on the bikes for home. Nora rode very close to me, often putting a hand on my shoulder so that we could talk. Indeed we talked most of the way to Winton. I told her about the Ellison and she urged me to work hard for it. Other advice she gave me, warning me not to let Terence take advantage of me.
‘Terry’s a good sort, there’s not a bit of harm in him, but he’d wile the bird off the bush. As for Donohue, that fellow would skin his own grandmother.’
It was late when we reached Park Crescent. My lamp had gone out and we had walked our bicycles up the last part of the hill. I took Nora’s from her and said I would put both machines in the cellar. As I stood in the darkness she gave me a quick hug and kiss.
‘Good night, dear Laurie. And bless you for being yourself.’
Then she ran up the stairs and was gone.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
It was four o’clock on a hot Saturday afternoon in mid-July, and Mrs Tobin had brought a cup of tea to my room. Before going out she shook her head at me as I sat behind a pile of books at the wicker table I had rescued from Leo’s junk rooms.
‘Education’s a wonderful thing. But if I were you, I wouldn’t keep at it that hard.’
‘But I have to, Annie,’ I agonized. ‘Time’s getting terribly short.’
‘Well.’ She considered me. ‘Don’t give yourself brain fever, like Mrs Finnegan’s lad when he failed for the Post Office.’
I was too strung up to treat this as a joke. For more than two months I had been grinding steadily under Pin’s direction, and had worked myself into a state of nerves. From those early appetizers, Hume Brown’s General History of Scotland, and The Border Wars, I had progressed to more solid reading: Barron’s Scottish War of Independence, Skene’s Celtic Scotland, Gregory’s The Stuart Kings, and was now absorbed in The Thistle and the Rose. Apart from my real objective, in which I scarcely dared to hope, I had become interested in the subject for its own sake. At night, my best reading time, I would find myself so caught up in such excitements as the feud between Rothesay and Albany, leading up to Rothesay’s mysterious death at Falkland, that only the final guttering of my candle—an illumination surely in keeping with the fourteenth century—brought me to a halt. I now went to Pin four evenings a week, a truly heroic devotion, less on my part than on his. Often my thoughts went back to the days when I foolishly pretended to have a tutor. Now I had one: a patient, admirable teacher. His main concern centred on my lack of literary style, a defect which he constantly tried, by correction and advice but with slight success, to improve.
‘You write from the heart, Laurence.’ He would shrug regretfully. ‘Not from the head. We’ll have to leave it that way.’
I turned to Mrs Tobin’s kindly offering. As I drank the tea, which had begun to get cold, my gaze returned, not for the first time that afternoon, to the postcard. It had come yesterday and now lay, too conspicuously, on the table beside my notes on the regencies of Murray and Lennox. Frowning, I took it up and, as if to deduce some meaning that had hitherto escaped me, read it through once again.
Meet me under the clock at Central Station 5 o’clock Saturday without fail. It will be very definitely to your advantage.
Terence
Of course, I would not go. I had made up my mind not to go. Time was too precious now to waste on futile meetings. Above all, had not Nora, my dear Nora, distinctly advised me to be wary of the elegant Terry? Yet that final sentence had an alluring ring. Very definitely to your advantage—soundlessly my lips formed the words. If, indeed, this should be a real opportunity, and my thoughts went back to my conversation with Terence in the kitchens of the Criterion when he had spoken of his influence at Blackrock, then how badly I should feel if I missed it. While I finished my tea I debated the problem first one way then the other. In the end, I jumped up, seized my cap, and set out for the Central Station.
When I arrived it was ten to five. This was a favourite meeting-place, and others were waiting beneath the big clock. I joined them. At five minutes past the hour, striking a note of unusual punctuality, Terence appeared, carrying a small Gladstone bag. He was not alone. Donohue was with him.
‘Good, man, you’re there. And looking great.’ Terence greeted me warmly. ‘I hope we haven’t kept you.’
Donohue was smiling too, at least his contained, morose face was fixed into an exp
ression of unusual affability, all the more surprising, since until now he had practically ignored me.
‘We can’t talk here,’ Terence said. ‘Let’s go into the buffet.’
We went into the first-class buffet.
‘What’ll you have?’ Donohue asked, hospitably. ‘This is on me.’
Commendably turning the offer to my advantage I said I would have a ham sandwich and a glass of milk. They both had Guinness.
Terence waited until we had been served, then, having inquired of me solicitously if everything was all right, he took a pull at his stout and made the following announcement.
‘Now, man, you’ve often heard me say I wanted to clock you on the mile. Well, it’s today we’re going to do it.’
I ought not to have been surprised since the matter had indeed been brought up before more than once, in Terry’s half-serious, half-jocular manner. But the suddenness of the proposal did take me aback.
‘Why today?’ I asked warily.
‘We’ll come to that all in good time,’ he said, with an intimate, knowing look.
‘But I haven’t been doing much serious running lately. I’m rather out of form.’
‘Ah, a fit young fellow like you is never out of form. Is he, Mart?’
‘Shouldn’t be,’ Donohue replied noncommittally. ‘From what I see, there’s not an ounce of fat on him. Still, I’m not convinced he can stay.’
‘Don’t worry. He’ll stay all right.’
‘But has he the speed?’ Donohue looked at me doubtingly. ‘He’ll need that for a fast finish.’
‘I’ll guarantee it,’ Terry said emphatically. ‘Haven’t I told you how he sprinted me practically level when he was a kid?’
Donohue waved away the argument.
‘That was years ago.’
‘Maybe so. But there’s his two big wins with the Harriers this year and the year before. Laugh that off, D.’
‘Mm, yes,’ said Donohue, as if half convinced. ‘Well, I suppose we may as well give him his chance.’