Cupid's Arrow (14 page)

I find myself wanting to linger on those hours, to stretch them out again and again in my memory, to keep them safe, to keep us safe in that dream-bubble of sunlight and laughter and love, before the storm broke ...

But you can't wind back time. You can't freeze-frame it either. Life isn't like a DVD with a selectable menu. Pity. Some scenes I'd choose to stay in for ever and ever. I reckon that's what heaven is. You have the same perfect day over and over again, except that each time it happens, it's like a surprise, you don't know what's going to happen, and that's what makes it perfect. Again and again and again.

'That's like the goldfish theory of heaven,' said Remy laughing that day when I told him my theory (it's an idea I've had since I was a little kid). We were sitting having our picnic by the river, after having had our swim, and more than one kiss, I can tell you, and now we were ravenous, eating up all the sandwiches I'd brought, and the hard-boiled eggs and cold spicy sausage and potato salad he'd brought (a really nice one, with herbs and mustardy vinaigrette, not mayonnaise). We'd started on the fruit and biscuits I had and the remains of his mother's poppyseed cake, and we were feeling pleasantly full and completely happy just talking about this and that and everything. Like ideas of heaven.

'But wouldn't you like it to be true?'

'I'm not sure,' he said. 'Oh, not because I wouldn't like to have a perfect day again and again – but because I hope there would be more than one to relive ...' He was lying on his side in the grass with his chin cupped in his hands, looking at me, that golden gaze of his brushing over me like the bits of sun that reached us in our willow hide.

'Oh, so do I,' I said, flushing and stammering a little. 'Of course, but it would do to begin with, and maybe not everyone can have more than one perfect day and maybe nearly everyone in the world can have one – or at least perfect hours or even minutes or something – and that can be the thing, you see. That's what you get in heaven, if you're going to go there.'

'Well, then, let's hope we do. Go there. One day. A long time away, because I quite like it here on earth for the moment,' he said, with a little smile, and hoisted himself onto his feet. 'But right now, I feel like going for a walk, don't you?' He reached his hand down to me.

'Oh, Remy, you're so energetic! Do we have to? I feel like going to sleep.'

'What a waste of your perfect day,' he said, teasingly. 'Imagine if you get to heaven and most of your perfect day you spend having a nap, over and over again!'

'I know some people who'd like that,' I said, but I allowed him to haul me to my feet. Hand in hand, we set off down the path, but not towards the house, and not up into the woods this time either. Instead, we followed the river the other way, round a bend and on and on, following it as it wound its silvery way, with Patou nosing happily ahead of us on the path. This way along the riverbank we passed by meadows where cows grazed, and riverside gardens full of vegetables and narrow orchard strips. We saw an old guy with a cap jammed on his head working in one garden. He heard us coming and straightened up and stared at us with suspicious blue eyes as we came close. Remy smiled and called out
Bonjour, monsieur,
and the old guy gave a reluctant sort of smile back and grunted
Bonjour, m'sieu, m'amselle,
but stayed there leaning on his fork looking after us until we had passed completely by. Clearly he thought we were only waiting for an opportunity to come in and steal his precious vegies. We thought it was very funny and laughed like drains. The next section of land was a lovely bit of orchard that was quite deserted and Remy, with a twinkle in his eyes, said we should have a look and see if anything was ripe. But though there was plenty of fruit on the trees – plums, Remy said – they were all quite hard and small and none of them ready, so we were saved from becoming exactly what the old man had feared we might be, orchard-raiders, vegie-plot robbers.

Past the orchard the river curved again, then straightened and now you could see, in the distance, the spire of a church, and a vague huddle of roofs that announced the next village. We would walk there, Remy said, it wasn't very far, and it had a nice little café where we could rest and have a cold drink. I said I didn't have any money with me, but he laughed and said that was okay, he thought his wallet could stretch to a drink or two. But 'not very far' by Remy's standards was hardly what I'd call that close and it wasn't for nearly another forty-five minutes later that we finally walked into the village.

It was bigger than Bellerive, but still pretty small. It was centred around a little square where the church stood, and the
Monument aux Morts,
or monument to the war dead that Remy told me you see in every French village, and the
Mairie,
or council building, which also was the local post office. And the café. Remy was right. It was really nice. It was a small square building, with whitewashed walls and green-painted shutters, door and window frames. There were tubs of bright flowers on either side of its front door, and at its windows, and two or three tables set out on the footpath, under green umbrellas. One of these was free, so that's where we sat, trying to ignore the curiosity of the other customers, who were obviously locals. We had a couple of really cold
Orangina
s
,
a sparkling drink that's sort of like Fanta except not so bright orange, and it actually has real orange in it. Though we'd eaten so much at lunchtime, Remy also insisted on ordering a couple of
beignets
as well because he said they made them fresh here and they were just fantastic. Well, they were.
Beignets
are fried cakes, sort of like donuts, only lighter, dusted with sugar and often with fruity fillings in them, like apricot or apple or berries. These ones were filled with apricot and they were scrumptious.

Well, after an hour or so sitting in the shade of the umbrella eating and drinking and talking and pretending not to notice the other people, we decided we'd better start getting back, cos it was already nearly four o'clock and Remy had to get back to his place to help his mother with some chores. And it would be a long walk back. So off we went, back the way we had come, past the orchard and the old man's vegie garden (he wasn't there) and the meadows and along the way Remy told me a bit about the river, and all the creatures that lived near it, and in it, and how it was a little tributary of a bigger river called the Cure, which in Gaulish times was revered as a magical river, kind of like a gate to the immortal Otherworld (which was often seen as being down through deep water).
Les Fontaines Salées
spa was in the valley of the Cure, and it was probably the presence of healing springs like those that had given the river both its reputation and its name, which, just like in English, meant healing, or health-giving. He said there were lots of little wells and springs that people visited in the valley of the Cure, and even after the Gauls had become Christians, they kept up those traditions. Wells that had been sacred to some Gaulish god were often turned over to a Christian saint or to the Virgin Mary. He said there were quite a few of those, because Our Lady, as Catholics called her, had been very much loved by country people – and one day he'd show me his favourite, a well-shrine with the most beautiful little statue of Mary, not far from here, just the other side of the village where we'd just been. The well was supposed to be bottomless, and people still went there to make wishes and ask for help in times of trouble, just like their ancestors had done since way back when.

I'd heard Mum talk about this kind of thing often enough and it had usually gone in one ear and out the other. But it was different listening to Remy. Well it would be, you might say, because I was in love with him and in awe of him and Mum, well, I love her, too, of course, but she's Mum, you know, it's different. Anyway, it was lovely listening to him and half-taking in all the info but mostly just thinking how gorgeous he was and that I was so lucky and that this perfect day would only be the first of many and that we would spend so many together and that somehow it would all just go on and on and on. I didn't think about the future or what would happen when Mum and me had to go back to Australia because I was sure that somehow things would work out, and that anyway I didn't want to think about that right now. I had certainly completely forgotten about why we were in Bellerive in the first place, all the fears and unease I'd felt even just this morning when Wayne Morgan had spoken to me. Even my bad dreams evaporated. All that was brushed away under the spell of that one perfect day and so I went happily on that fateful path without even a shadow of unease.

We collected our bags from the willow hideout. There were some kids there splashing about in the river and Remy said hello to them. They were village kids – two of the girls were Marie Clary's nieces – and they were friendly but also obviously stickybeaking at me and Remy together, giggling and pointing a bit. We weren't going to let them see us kiss so we walked a little way into the woods to say goodbye. Then I gave him the dream book because I thought it would be safer hidden at his place than at Bellerive, no-one would know it was there. We made plans to meet the next day at eight o'clock at the village bus stop to catch the bus to St-Père and go to see the famous spa. It was exciting making plans but not really because I was dead keen to really follow up this Arthur trail, though it sort of interested me, but because I knew, I just
knew
it would be another perfect day with a perfect boy.

I walked back to the house in a happy sort of daze, and went straight in through the back door, which was wide open. I could hear voices in the kitchen, so I knew the adults must be back from their excursion to that stone coffin place. I decided I would try to sneak past without being noticed, cos I didn't really feel like talking to anyone else just now, I just wanted to live in the moment for as long as possible. But the kitchen door was open and Mum caught sight of me as I went past in the corridor and she asked me to come in.

There was quite a gathering in there sitting around the table chatting, drinking wine and eating nuts – Oscar and Christine, Wayne Morgan, Mum, and a man I had never seen before – a short, thin, bright-eyed middle-aged man dressed in unremarkable clothes. Mum said, 'Laurie, this is my daughter Fleur,' to the man, and he said, 'Well, well, I'm very pleased to meet you, Miss,' in a strong American accent.

'Oh, hi,' I said, uncertainly. Laurie? Did we know a Laurie?

'Laurie is a film producer, darling,' said Mum, brightly. 'He optioned one of Raymond's books a few months back. He just arrived this afternoon. He's come to see whether Bellerive could be used as one of the locations.'

'It's very exciting,' said Oscar. And he really did look excited, his face was flushed, his eyes bright. 'I know Uncle had almost lost hope of any of his books making it to production. He was really pleased that you were getting on so well with finding the finance.'

'Oh well, it's early days, early days yet,' said Laurie. 'But we'll get there.'

'The film industry is quite a difficult one, of course,' said Wayne Morgan pompously, and that started him off on some great long story about how once he'd thought he might get into film production but this and that – and blah blah. The others listened with various degrees of attention while I took the opportunity to sidle out, pleading tiredness and the need to take a shower, without Mum getting the chance to ask even one probing question. But I'm sure she knew what I was feeling. Her glance at me as I left told me that. She can be very acute sometimes, when she comes out of her dream world of myths and legends. Quite sharp, in fact. But all she said was, 'Dinner'll be about another half-hour, okay?'

'Sure, I'll be down then.' I could smell something roasting in the oven and to my surprise found that I felt hungry all over again. Honestly, I'd eaten like a horse today, I thought as I stumped up the stairs and went up to my room. I didn't go and take a shower, though, I just lay on my bed and thought about Remy and imagined all sorts of things and without even knowing it I started to slide into a little drowsy dream, in which what had happened today and our walk and everything merged into Remy and me walking along a green road, yes, the green road I'd dreamed about before, and there at the top of the hill was the wall, and the door. We walked up there, and we stood together before the door, then he turned and looked at me and there was the oddest expression in his gold-hazel eyes, something weird, and suddenly I was uneasy and I said, No, wait, but he had already turned the handle of the door, and opened it, and I saw that beyond was – nothing. A blank. Not black, but white. Quite white, like thick, thick fog. I yelled, No, but he was already stepping into it and then the door moved and with a great clang and a crash ...

A great clang and a crash. I woke up, with a yell. Someone was banging and crashing and shouting downstairs. I didn't stop to think, but jumped up and ran downstairs, expecting – well, I don't know, I was still fuddled from the dream. But it was the door. The front door, and someone hammering on it, shouting my name.

I reached the door a couple of minutes before the others did. I learnt later that's because they'd gone out into the garden. I opened it. And there on the doorstep was Remy's mother, Valerie. I couldn't believe it. The gentle, smiling woman I'd met the other day had transformed into a raging fury, all her face taken over by the sinister snarl of its burnt side. She shouted, in English, 'You! You! How dare you!'

I took a step back, my panicked gaze taking in her wild, crimson face, the bicycle she must have come on in such a hurry flung onto the gravel driveway behind her, the twitching of her hands. I faltered, 'I don't know what you mean.'

She advanced on me. 'What have you done to my son? What have you done to him?'

I felt my blood run cold. I hadn't known you could really feel that, but it's true. You can. I said, 'I'm sorry, I don't know what you –'

'He always understood, before. Why he should keep away from this wicked world. Why he should not interfere. Not now. Well, I won't have it, do you hear! I won't have it! I want you to leave him alone. Leave him alone, do you hear!'