Russell had left the previous day. Ruby and Delilah sat in a small, sad huddle in the kitchen. I knew I ought to join them, but could not face it yet.
The studio was swept clean of art if not of dust. The paintings of Selena had all gone. I went to my room and pulled out the pictures stored beneath my bunk.
I leafed through the clouds and trees in my portfolio. The drowned girl, her eyes lost in the past: the farmer with his iron crown of hills. I would never know that man who had been so briefly courteous to me when, vulnerable and needy, I’d latched on to his kindness. It now seemed clear that despite Selena’s warped perception his only crime was age. He had imposed nothing on her except his baffled care. I laid the portrait to one side. One day, in due course, I’d finish it. I owed him that.
Finally, like a pike in a fish pond, the strident, bloody rasps of the abstract copy swam to the surface of the pile. I studied it carefully. Yes, it was good. They were all good. Maybe I had a future, if I could think of anything worth painting.
I picked up the postcard that lay on the bunk. It had arrived before daybreak, hand-delivered. On one side, Monet’s water lilies were diminished to the size of duckweed. On the other side, the message:
Drunken Duck, six pm Thurs. This time be there. Bring goods. N.
N for nobody. I looked down at the postcard, letting myself imagine for a moment that it was from Nick. It was not impossible: he still had my address. What would I feel? How would I reply?
The house phone rang downstairs. When Ruby called up, “It’s for you,” my heart began to leap around in my chest like a mad rabbit. It had to be: it was too much of a coincidence, when I’d just been thinking about him…
It wasn’t Nick. It never would be. It was Greta, grumpy for unknown reasons, possibly because I hadn’t drowned. I’d told my family only the barest bones of the story. Now I gave her the longer version: but if I was hoping to impress her, I had no chance.
“You said before that you’d just fallen in the lake,” she said reprovingly. “Are you sure someone was really trying to murder you? Or is this just another cover-up for one of your stunts?”
“It’s true! You ask the police.”
“Well, why didn’t you tell us? Dad’s been fussing. He wants you home, God knows why. He thinks you’re not safe there. I told him straight, you’re not safe anywhere.”
“I thought of you,” I said, “as I swam for shore.”
“Did you?”
“I imagined you telling me to swim. You remember the time when we were kids and you pushed me out of the boat on Derwentwater?”
“I never did!” she said indignantly. “You jumped.”
“You pushed me!”
“I wouldn’t do that! What do you think I am?”
I left it. Somebody’s memory was at fault: I could no longer be so sure it wasn’t mine.
Instead I told her I was staying on at Raven How for another week at least, to teach the art course. My eight students were arriving the next day.
“Though you can hardly call it teaching,” she said jealously, “when it’s just half a dozen adults who all want to learn. I mean, that’s a doddle.”
“Much easier than thirty-three nine-year-olds,” I agreed, so that we would part in harmony.
“Anyway, I suppose at least it’ll keep you out of trouble. Give you something useful to do. Stop you getting up to your old–”