Jackdaws

They walked in silence for a while. Paul felt quite romantic. He wanted to kiss her, but she was wearing a wedding ring.

“When I was four years old, I met the King,” Flick said.

“The present king?”

“No, his father, George V. He came to Somersholme. I was kept out of his way, of course, but he wandered into the kitchen garden on Sunday morning and saw me. He said, ‘Good morning, little girl, are you ready for church?’ He was a small man, but he had a booming voice.”

“What did you say?”

“I said, ‘Who are you?’ He replied, ‘I’m the King.’ And then, according to family legend, I said, ‘You can’t be, you’re not big enough.’ Fortunately, he laughed.”

“Even as a child, you had no respect for authority.”

“So it seems.”

Paul heard a low moan. Frowning, he looked toward the sound and saw Ruby Romam with Jim Cardwell, the firearms instructor. Ruby had her back to a tree and Jim was embracing her. They were kissing passionately. Ruby moaned again.

They were not just embracing, Paul realized, and he felt both embarrassed and aroused. Jim’s hands were busy inside Ruby’s blouse. Her skirt was up around her waist. Paul could see all of one brown leg and a thick patch of dark hair at her groin. The other leg was raised and bent at the knee, and Ruby’s foot rested high on Jim’s hip. The movement they were making together was unmistakable.

Paul looked at Flick. She had seen the same thing. She stared for a moment, her expression showing shock and something else. Then she turned quickly away. Paul followed suit, and they went back the way they had come, walking as quietly as they could.

When they were out of earshot, he said, “I’m terribly sorry about that.”

“Not your fault,” she said.

“Still, I’m sorry I led you that way.”

“I really don’t mind. I’ve never seen anyone… doing that. It was rather sweet.”

“Sweet?” It was not the word he would have chosen. “You know, you’re kind of unpredictable.”

“Have you only just noticed?”

“Don’t be ironic, I was paying you a compliment,” he said, repeating her own words.

She laughed. “Then I’ll quit while I’m ahead.”

They emerged from the woods. Daylight was fading fast, and the blackout curtains were drawn in the house. Maude and Diana had gone from their seat under the copper beech. “Let’s sit here for a minute,” Paul said. He was in no hurry to go inside.

Flick complied without speaking.

He sat sideways, looking at her. She bore his scrutiny without comment, but she was thoughtful. He took her hand and stroked her fingers. She looked at him, her face unreadable, but she did not pull away her hand. He said, “I know I shouldn’t, but I really want to kiss you.” She made no reply but continued to look at him with that enigmatic expression, half amused and half sad. He took silence for assent, and kissed her.

Her mouth was soft and moist. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the sensation. To his surprise, her lips parted, and he felt the tip of her tongue. He opened his mouth.

He put his arms around her and pulled her to him, but she slipped out of his embrace and stood up. “Enough,” she said. She turned away and walked toward the house.

He watched her go in the fading light. Her small, neat body suddenly seemed the most desirable thing in the world.

When she had disappeared inside, he followed. In the drawing room, Diana sat alone, smoking a cigarette, looking thoughtful. On impulse, Paul sat close to her and said, “You’ve known Flick since you were kids.”

Diana smiled with surprising warmth. “She’s adorable, isn’t she?”

Paul did not want to give away too much of what was in his heart. “I like her a lot, and I wish I knew more about her.”

“She always yearned for adventure,” Diana said. “She loved those long trips we made to France every February. We would spend a night in Paris, then take the Blue Train all the way to Nice. One winter, my father decided to go to Morocco. I think it was the best time of Flick’s life. She learned a few words of Arabic and talked to the merchants in the souks. We used to read the memoirs of those doughty Victorian lady explorers who traveled the Middle East dressed as men.”

“She got on well with your father?”

“Better than I did.”

“What’s her husband like?”

“All Flick’s men are slightly exotic. At Oxford, her best friend was a Nepalese boy, Rajendra, which caused great consternation in the senior common room at St. Hilda’s, I can tell you, although I’m not sure she ever, you know, misbehaved with him. A boy called Charlie Standish was desperately in love with her, but he was just too boring for her. She fell for Michel because he’s charming and foreign and clever, which is what she likes.”

“Exotic,” Paul repeated.

Diana laughed. “Don’t worry, you’ll do. You’re American, you’ve only got one and a half ears, and you’re as smart as a whip. You’re in with a chance, at least.”

Paul stood up. The conversation was taking an uncomfortably intimate turn. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said with a smile. “Goodnight.”

On his way upstairs, he passed Flick’s room. There was a light under the door.