Dead Man Riding by Gillian Linscott Page B

too sharp to be caused by any anxiety over a pupil. The whole landscape seemed to give a little skip, the way it does when you’re adjusting to something new, and I thought ‘Good heavens, he’s in love with her too.’ It was a jolt, but then why should it be? After all, men did fall in love with Imogen. She’d been sitting there through a whole course of his lectures and she wasn’t a woman you could ignore. So it all made perfect sense in its way and there was no reason for this sharp little pain in my chest that felt horribly like envy but couldn’t be. I was sorry for them, that was all. Sorry for all of them and perhaps a little angry over this business of love that confused things and made idiots of people and made it so hard to be honest and reasonable however much you’d agreed that men and women should be. Once I got that sorted out I knew I had to give him some kind of answer, if only to stop him hoping.
    â€˜It’s for her to say, not me. But you can take it that she certainly doesn’t dislike him and he hasn’t offended her.’
    I could see from his face that he’d taken my meaning, but he recovered quickly.
    â€˜May I tell him that?’
    â€˜I suppose so.’ Then, thinking of the stunned way Imogen had been behaving. ‘But could you give me some time to talk to her first over the weekend? You might tell him on Monday perhaps, when you’re in town together.’
    I hated having to plot like this, but sensed that Imogen was on the edge of a cliff. Whether the way off it was flying, plunging or simply walking back the way she’d come and waiting for another day, she should at least have time to think. He nodded and we went back to the others.
    *   *   *
    On Sunday the hot weather started and the sky was an almost metallic blue like the body of a dragonfly. We read Plato for a while after a picnic breakfast, then the men found a bathing place lower down the brook, in the big field where the mares were. They came back, wet-haired and pleased with themselves, for more tea and philosophy. Kit said the cold water had been good for his arm and Meredith rebandaged it for him. I lay on the grass, tried to memorise various tenses of the Greek verb luo , I loosen, and did my best not to watch Meredith standing in the sunshine, combing his dark hair. He seemed somehow more elegant, more finished than the other three men, even the handsome Alan. It was something to do with the way he moved, under control with no gesture wasted. Or perhaps … Concentrate woman. Leluka , I have loosened, lelukas, leluke. Should I warn Imogen that he was attracted to her? Probably not. It would only worry her and she had enough to think about, God knows. On the other hand … Damn. Why did people persist in landing me with their dilemmas as if I were some sort of oracle? Being two years older than Imogen shouldn’t mean I had nothing to do but sit on the grass and dole out wise counsel – as if I knew anything, particularly about this business of loving or not loving. Why should the curve of a cheek, the colour of a lock of hair, a few inches in height more or less govern who you spent your life with or even what you did with your life? In the middle of the afternoon, with the Scottish hills hazy in the heat, Imogen, Midge and I decided that we’d go bathing too. We walked slowly down our field and into the lane. I noticed Sid grazing quietly in the shade of the trees and told them about the Old Man’s picture and lines from Byron.
    â€˜It would be Byron, wouldn’t it,’ Imogen said. ‘He belongs in another age, the Old Man.’
    â€˜I see what you mean. As if Queen Victoria never happened.’
    Assuming him to be in his mid-seventies now, he’d have been a lad when she came to the throne more than sixty years ago, in an age when gentlemen at least didn’t have to care too much about being respectable.