Too Close to the Sun (26 page)

‘Yes, of course,’ said Mr Fairman. ‘It can be no one else.’

‘Who is Icarus?’ Sophie said. ‘And why is he lying there asleep with the ladies watching him?’

Mr Fairman caught Grace’s eye across the child’s head and said, smiling, ‘And I suppose the schoolroom can be wherever you happen to be, can’t it?’

Grace smiled back fleetingly then lowered her glance to Sophie and bent beside her.

‘The story of Icarus is an ancient myth,’ she said, ‘and –’

‘What’s a myth?’

‘Well – let’s just say for now that it’s a very old story from ages past.’ Here she flicked a brief, self-conscious glance at Mr Fairman, as if seeking approval. Then back to the child: ‘And the myth about Icarus comes from Greece. Icarus was the young son of an architect – just like your papa. But his name was Daedalus.’

‘Daedalus? That’s a funny name.’

‘It is, isn’t it? Unfortunately Daedalus made the king of Crete, King Minos, very angry, and the king imprisoned him and his son Icarus in a tower.’ Grace broke off here and turned her glance again towards Mr Fairman. ‘Am I getting it right so far, sir?’ she said.

He nodded, giving a grave smile, his eyes not leaving her own. ‘Faultless, so far as I can tell.’

Grace felt herself blush a little under his gaze and quickly looked back at the picture.

‘So what happened to them, miss?’ Sophie said.

‘Well, Daedalus – Icarus’s father – decided they should escape, and so he made wings for them both of wax and feathers – and they escaped and flew away.’

‘Oh, good, that’s good,’ said Sophie.

‘Ah, but –’ Grace shook her head, ‘sadly it didn’t go well. Icarus flew too high, he flew too near the sun, and the heat of the sun melted the wax of his wings.’

‘Oh, dear.’ Sophie’s hands moved to her cheeks. ‘So what happened to him?’

‘Well – with his wings so damaged, poor Icarus couldn’t fly, and he fell into the sea – and was drowned.’

Sophie gave a little wail, and leaning closer to the picture said, ‘So Icarus isn’t asleep, he’s dead.’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘What a sad story. The poor man.’ Sophie gave a deep sigh, then looked at her father. ‘Can we keep the picture, Papa?’

‘Yes, I don’t see why not. But we’ll leave it here for now, shall we? It’ll be here waiting for you when we move in.’

‘When we move in?’ Sophie said.

Mr Fairman looked from her to Grace and back again. ‘Well?’ he said to the child. ‘What do you think? Shall we move in?’

‘You mean it, Papa?’

‘Of course. It’s ours now.’ Finishing his words he gave a
whoop
and caught her and lifted her high into the air, and she squealed out, her small shrill voice echoing out of the room and through the empty house.

When he put her down she turned around excitedly in the room, and then started towards the door. ‘Where are you going?’ her father said.

She turned in the doorway: ‘To look at the butterflies again,’ and with a little chuckle of pure pleasure went out of the room.

As Sophie’s footsteps receded along the landing, Grace gestured to the picture of the fall of Icarus and said, ‘I don’t like to tell her such sad stories.’

He nodded. ‘I know what you mean, but often they’re unavoidable. And there are times when they shouldn’t be
avoided. At some time in their lives children have to make a start facing reality.’ He smiled. ‘Even if it comes in the shape of a Greek myth.’

Grace picked up the picture and held it before her. ‘It really is quite beautiful,’ she said. ‘What will you do – hang it on Sophie’s wall?’

‘If that’s what she wants.’

Grace continued to look at the picture.

‘Are all your lessons so interesting?’ Mr Fairman said.

Grace gave a little laugh, born of embarrassment. She lowered the picture. ‘Sir, it’s unkind,’ she said. ‘You’re teasing me.’

‘Teasing?’ he said. ‘No, never more serious. I could wish you could be my daughter’s teacher for always. I would be well content.’

Grace did not know how to respond, and took refuge once more in the picture, saying, ‘Well, let’s put poor Icarus back …’ and moved to place the picture on the floor again. Mr Fairman forestalled her, however, and reached out, saying, ‘I’ll take it, shall I?’

As Grace moved to hold the picture up to him it somehow slipped in her grasp and almost fell, but even as it shifted so precariously Mr Fairman’s hands were swiftly reaching out and catching it, grasping it securely. And in the act of clutching the frame, his left hand closed tightly around Grace’s own right one, her small hand smothered by his large one. And they had to remain like that for two or three seconds while he quickly adjusted his other hand to take the weight and so relieve her of it. As he withdrew his hand from over her own she realized that she was holding her breath, and with the warmth of his hand gone she was aware of the cool air again upon it. She had been so conscious of his touch, the closeness of his touch, and could not force herself to raise her eyes to his. With her glance lowered, she heard him say:

‘Well – I’ll put this away safely to keep it out of the sunlight.’ For a moment his voice sounded slightly hoarse. ‘Otherwise,’ he added, ‘the colours will fade.’

Looking down she saw that he was placing the picture face inward in a shadowed part of the room and away from the window’s light.

‘There,’ he said, straightening, ‘shall we join Sophie amid the butterflies and get on our way?

Back in the carriage, Mr Fairman spread his arms wide, fingers outstretched. ‘It’s a wonderful day,’ he said. ‘Don’t you think so, Miss Harper?’

‘Oh, indeed I do. I just wish my brother could be here to share it with us. He would love an outing like this.’

‘Well, he’ll have one before too long.’

‘Where is he now, miss?’ Sophie asked.

‘He’s at his lessons.’

‘Perhaps where you should be, young lady,’ Mr Fairman said. ‘But no, maybe not today.’ He looked upwards. ‘Look at that April sky. I think we should go and have a little drink to celebrate, don’t you?’ He addressed his words to Sophie, and she said, ‘Yessss!’ and spread her arms in an echo of his own gesture. ‘What do you think, Miss Harper?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ Sophie said excitedly. ‘Oh, miss, say yes.’

‘Oh – well, thank you,’ Grace said. ‘Of course I’ll be very happy to celebrate with you.’

They drove off then, back onto the road. Not going on the road on which they had arrived but on a different route, the one leading to the village. And half a mile along they came to an inn, and Mr Fairman drove the carriage into the stable yard and there helped the pair down onto the cobbles. The mare he led to the water trough and stood stroking her shoulder as she drank deeply of the cool water.

‘Now,’ he said, when the horse was watered and secured, ‘let’s get a little refreshment.’

They took seats in the noon sun on benches at the side of the inn, and eventually a young maidservant brought a tray with three slices of venison pie, a glass of ale for Mr Fairman, sarsparilla for Grace and lemonade for Sophie.

‘Well, now,’ Mr Fairman said, when the maid had left them, ‘ – let us drink to our new home, shall we?’

He held up his glass as he spoke, and Grace and Sophie raised their glasses also. ‘To our new home,’ Mr Fairman said, and Grace said, ‘To your new home,’ feeling very happy for the pair, and Sophie cried, ‘Yes, yes, to our new home,’ and clinked her father’s glass with her own. She turned then to Grace. ‘Oh, clink my glass, miss,’ she said. ‘You have to clink my glass too.’

Grace did so, and Sophie laughed and said, ‘And now you have to clink Papa’s glass as well.’ She turned to her father. ‘It’s only fair, Papa.’

Mr Fairman chuckled, and briefly met Grace’s eyes as he said, ‘Then of course we must.’ And with Grace lowering her glance from his own, touched his glass to hers.

‘When shall we move in, Papa?’ Sophie asked as she ate her pie. ‘When can we go to live there?’

‘In a few weeks. We have to get the place tidied up a bit first. But don’t worry, the time will pass soon enough.’

‘And will I still be having my lessons, Papa? Shall I still be going to see Miss Harper?’

‘Well, I don’t know,’ he said, giving a little glance towards Grace. ‘That of course depends on Miss Harper – whether she’s still happy to teach you.’

‘You are, miss, aren’t you?’ Sophie said, a little note of anxiety in her voice. ‘Miss, tell me you are.’

‘Yes, Sophie,’ Grace said. ‘Yes, of course I am.’

From the inn they set off on the road to Berron Wick. There would be no time left for lessons today, Mr Fairman said, adding, however, that it didn’t do any harm to take the occasional day off in a good cause.

They drove along the road between meadows where cows grazed, and where lambs played in the spring grass, grass of the freshest green starred with the white and yellow of dandelions, buttercups, celandines and daisies. As they neared a crossroads they saw ahead of them a colourfully painted gypsy caravan parked on a narrow strip of land beside a hedgerow. The horse, freed from the shafts of the vehicle, stood some yards away, tethered to a tree, eating hay, while a gypsy woman sat on a stool, her back to the caravan, eating something out of a bowl. Two small children with dirty faces, a boy and a girl, sat eating beside her, and a man, his brow covered by a red kerchief, sat on the sloping shafts of the vehicle, smoking a clay pipe. All four persons eyed the three with dark, piercing watchful eyes as they approached.

‘Look, Papa,’ Sophie said in a loud whisper as they drew closer, ‘they have birds hanging from the walls.’ As she spoke she pointed towards three birdcages hanging from the side of the vehicle. Each cage had a bird inside it. ‘Can you see them, Papa, the birds?’

Even as Mr Fairman nodded and said, ‘Yes, I can,’ the woman put down the bowl, rose from her seat and in one sweeping movement picked up a wide wicker basket that had lain beside her feet – obviously in readiness for whatever travellers should come her way. Holding the basket against her side she came forward into their path.

‘G’arternoon t’ ye, sir – young ladies,’ the woman said. Her hair was coal black and grew low on her tanned brow, while her eyes beneath the black eyebrows flashed brilliantly in the sun. She wore golden hoops in her ear-lobes, and a colourful shawl over a white blouse. Her long
skirt was black with red ribbons threaded above the hem, revealing broad, naked feet. Holding her basket of pegs and paper flowers she made a dramatic sight.

‘Now, sir,’ she said, turning and walking beside the carriage, striding out with her strong legs, ‘some nice pegs for the missis – or some pretty flowers for her.’

Mr Fairman slowed the carriage, saying to his companions, ‘I’m in a good mood today,’ adding, ‘Would you like some flowers, Sophie? And you, Miss Harper? They do look very pretty.’

Grace replied with thanks but turned down the offer, feeling slightly uneasy in the gypsies’ presence. But Sophie said yes, she would love some flowers, and her father brought the carriage to a halt.

The gypsy woman was right there beside them, at once holding up the shallow basket with its contents for examination. Sophie chose some roses in pink and more in yellow, and added to these some pink carnations. While the coppers were passed over in payment, Grace’s eyes focused on the birds in the rough little wooden cages, just a few feet from where they sat.

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like some of the flowers?’ Mr Fairman said to Grace, and she replied, ‘No, really, thank you all the same.’

The gypsy woman spoke up at this. ‘No, it ain’t the flowers what’s caught the young lady’s fancy, sir – it be the birds.’ She spoke directly to Grace now, smiling up at her, showing large square teeth, very white against the dark tan of her skin: ‘Ain’t that right, miss? It be the beautiful little birds.’

‘Is that so?’ Mr Fairman said, looking into Grace’s eyes. ‘Do you fancy the birds?’

‘No. Oh, no.’ Grace spoke with a little passion. ‘It’s not that way at all.’

‘Are you quite sure?’

‘Yes, indeed! Please – oh, please – may we drive on?’

Mr Fairman looked at her closely for a moment, studying her expression, then turned and said to the gypsy woman, ‘Thank you, ma’am, there’ll be nothing more today.’ Then, without pause for further conversation, he flapped at the reins and said to the mare, ‘Come on, Aggie, let’s be off.’ And tipping his hat to the woman he drove the carriage on.

They drove on in silence until, some hundred or so yards further on, the road rounded a bend. Then, looking back and seeing that the caravan was now out of sight, he brought the vehicle to a halt. Turning in the seat, looking closely at Grace he said, frowning: ‘Miss Harper, what is it?’

‘Nothing, nothing,’ Grace said, turning her face away from his gaze.

‘Come now,’ he said, ‘you spoke with passion back there, and were so eager to quit the scene. Why? What was the reason?’ He paused briefly, then gave a nod of his head and said quietly, ‘Of course, it was the birds, wasn’t it?’

Grace said nothing, and only wished for the matter to drop.

‘It was the birds, wasn’t it?’ Mr Fairman said again.

‘Yes.’ Grace nodded. ‘Yes, it was.’

Now Sophie spoke up. ‘See, Papa, you were right, it was the birds.’ Then to Grace, ‘But Miss Harper, why? Didn’t you like them?’

‘What? Oh, of course I liked them,’ Grace said. ‘I just can’t bear to see them caged that way. That poor song thrush, and the oriole, and the other little bird. Why do people do it? Those birds will never sing, not caged like that. They should be free and singing over the hills and the woodland, not held in those awful little cages, without room even to spread their wings.’ As she spoke tears welled in her eyes, and she raised her hands and wiped them unceremoniously across her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘for carrying on so.’

While Sophie looked at her with sympathetic eyes, Mr Fairman was studying her, a frown on his brow.

‘You must not apologize for such sentiments,’ he said. ‘You are quite right to feel as you do.’

Another moment, and then he was handing the reins to Grace, saying, ‘Just hold on to the horse for a second. She won’t run away with you.’ And then he was climbing down onto the road and walking back in the direction in which they had come. Grace and Sophie, turning in the seat, watched as he walked out of sight.