The Runaway Summer (14 page)

He turned his back on Mary, and went on. At first the path was no different from the track before the bridge, mossy and damp and overgrown, but after a little it opened out and became firmer underfoot, as if other people had walked there. Then they turned a bend and saw the end of the lake: a broad, shining stretch of water, clear of weed, with a landing stage and several boats moored beside it. On the far bank, well-spaced out as if they didn’t care for each other’s company, several fishermen sat, with rugs over their knees. And beyond, through the trees, the afternoon sun glinted on metal. Cars in a car park.

‘It’s a private fishing club,’ Simon said in a distant voice. ‘A very expensive one. Rich people come down from London. There’s another entrance to the estate and a club where the old house used to be. I suppose the reason we never saw them, down our end of the lake, is the weed. I mean, you can’t fish there, except for the clear patch, round the island. And they wouldn’t bother to walk so far, anyway. Not rich men with cars. But they’ve been
here,
all the time …’

He hunched his shoulders and dug his hands deep into his pockets and scowled fiercely.

Mary watched him for a minute, standing and scowling at the fishermen on the opposite side of the lake.

She said, ‘Simon.’

He didn’t answer. The fishermen sat so still they might have been stuffed. Only their coloured floats moved, drifting gently with the movement of the water.

Mary said, ‘We can’t see them from the island. And they can’t see us. So it doesn’t make any difference. We can pretend they’re not there.’

‘Pretending’s no good,’ Simon said. ‘What we had before was
real
.’

And he pushed past Mary and began to run back towards the island, so fast that she couldn’t keep up with him.

*

She found him on the bluff above the grotto. He was standing, looking out over the lake. There were tear streaks, like snail tracks, on his face. He gave an affected start, as if he hadn’t expected to see her here.

‘What are you going to do about Noakes?’ he said, as if practical things like this were all they had to talk about.

‘I might take him home with me,’ Mary said. ‘Aunt Alice said I could if I liked.’

‘He’s wild now,’ Simon said. ‘He won’t stay.’

‘I’m
staying,’ Mary said, and felt very happy. So happy that she didn’t mind when Simon just said, in an uninterested voice, ‘Well, that’s different, you’re not a wild cat,’ and turned to stare out over the lake again.

She said, ‘Do cheer up, Simon.’

‘I’m all right,’ he said, not sounding it. Then he looked at her. ‘If you take Noakes home, he’ll only run away first chance he gets and try to get back to the island. But even if he finds his way here, he won’t be able to CFOSS the bridge because he can’t balance with three legs. And then’ he’ll
die.
He’ll die of grief …’

He sounded as if he knew what this would feel like.

Mary said, ‘Well, I suppose we’d better leave him, then,’ She knew it, really: Noakes would never settle in a house, never sit by a fire and grow old and lazy and fat. Not now he had
tasted freedom. She said, ‘We could always come now and again, to make sure he’s all right.’

Silence. A fish plopped in the lake. Then another.

Simon said, ‘It won’t be the same, of course.’

Mary felt impatient. ‘Well, it wasn’t the same when
we
came, was it? Krishna and me. I mean, you had the island to yourself before. But it was nice when we
did
come, too. Wasn’t it? I mean, things change all the time and it isn’t always
sad.
I’m going to look for Noakes now, and you can come if you like, and you can stay if you like, but I’m going.’

‘All right, keep your hair on,’ Simon said, and turned to her, grinning.

*

They didn’t find Noakes. They didn’t see him until they had given up looking and had lit a fire and heated up the last of the sardines in the billy can. Then, when the fire was burning low and the light beginning to fade on the lake, he appeared on the edge of the bluff and played with a leaf, rushing and pouncing with little snarls of mock anger. He wouldn’t let them touch him but stayed close while they packed up and stamped out the fire and then followed them to the bridge, keeping his distance and growling softly.

When they had crossed to the mainland, Mary looked back. Noakes was watching them, still growling and switching his tail, but she thought he looked, suddenly, not wild at all but rather lonely and lost; the last refugee on the island …

‘I hate leaving him,’ she said, speaking softly, to herself, but Simon heard her.

‘If you took him, he’d hate it
more!
And we’re not leaving him, really. We can come back.’

Mary looked at him. The sun, slanting low over the trees, shone in his eyes and made them shimmer, like water.

‘We can come back
tomorrow
,’
Simon said.

And on the island, Noakes gave one last twitch of his tail and leapt into the bushes, out of their sight.