Eric McCormack - Cloud

“I didn’t tell you that when Harry was a young man in Duncairn, he loved a girl there who broke his heart,” he said to Marsha. “That was why he left and never went back. Isn’t that so, Harry?”

That was all the encouragement I needed. Influenced by the wine, I told Marsha all about my love for Miriam Galt, and how it had come to a devastating end. Thinking of it brought everything back, and telling it was so like reliving it that I was moved by my own words.

By the time I’d finished, Marsha was looking at me with new interest.

“How very sad,” she said. “But why don’t you go back and pay a visit before there’s no one at all left there? For all you know she’s one of those people still living in Duncairn. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to see her again? Wouldn’t it be very romantic? The Upland roads are all in good condition for driving. And I imagine the hotel’s still there — the Bracken Inn, I think it was called.”

Her eyes were warmer when she looked at me now, or perhaps the brandy made them seem that way to me.

“So she really broke your heart? How marvellous to have been so much in love,” she said. “Even once.”

It sounded to me as though Marsha believed in true love. It also sounded as though she’d never experienced it.

AROUND ELEVEN, it was time for us to head back to the institute. Dupont took Marsha’s claim check to the front desk to pick up her suitcase. Then we got into the van and set out along the now deserted roads. Visibility was excellent under a bright moon. For some reason the term “hunter’s moon” came into my mind, but Dupont assured me it was much too early in the year for that.

We were all in the big front seat of the van, with Marsha in the middle. She talked a little more about other places where she’d worked but I found it hard to concentrate, being so conscious of her presence beside me and the smell of her perfume. When the van would round a bend, she’d lean against me and once even put her hand on my thigh for support, leaving it there for a while after the road had straightened out again.

I didn’t know what to think.

We pulled into the institute at about midnight. When we got to Dupont’s hut, he insisted we sit at the table and have another glass of wine as a nightcap. His white cat, Prissy, usually so friendly, stood by the window and meowed noisily.

“She wants out,” said Dupont. He went to the window and opened it, murmuring fondly to the cat. Marsha, at the same time, kept looking at me in a meaningful way, slowly blinking her eyes.

“She’ll come back during the night, so I’ll leave the window ajar for her,” Dupont said, returning to the table. “She just likes to prowl around for a while, frightening the doves out of their sleep.”

After the glass of wine, I stood up and made my excuses, for it had been a long day. We arranged to meet for breakfast in the dining hut at seven the next morning. Then I’d have to start back on the long drive to Camberloo. Before I went to my room, Dupont shook my hand warmly, saying what a pleasure it was to see me again. I kissed Marsha on the cheek, avoiding her eyes.

In the guest bedroom, I undressed, set my watch alarm, switched off the light, and stretched out on the bed. The only sound was from the direction of the window — the occasional rustling of doves’ wings, scared out of their nests by Prissy, perhaps.

I couldn’t help thinking about how Marsha had acted. Even if I’d interpreted the signs correctly, how would she be able to get out of Dupont’s bed during the night and come to my room without disturbing him? Any movement made these old floorboards creak and even squeal in the night stillness of the northern woods.

I MUST HAVE FALLEN fast asleep, for I didn’t hear her come into the room. I just felt her slide under the covers and press her naked body against me.

“Ssshhh!” she whispered.

I didn’t need the warning, for Dupont’s room was only a few yards off. But that final glass of wine must have knocked him out and she’d managed to slip away.

The blinds were drawn so there was no hint of light in my room. But in the utter darkness, our exertions were a kind of Braille that required no training. We made virtually no noise but for involuntary gasps and sighs, the bedsprings groaning an accompaniment. In the end, we both lay back with an incomparable sense of contentment and completion.

Shortly afterwards she left, opening and closing the door soundlessly. Those suspect floorboards gave off no alarm as she made her way back to Dupont’s room. Even as I was straining to listen, I fell asleep again.

The alarm woke me around seven. I was quite hung over, so it took me a few moments even to remember what had happened during the night. When I did, I felt awful. What a shameful thing to have done to an old friend. I could only hope Dupont had slept too deeply to notice. As for Marsha, she would surely understand that our little fling was only the result of too much wine, certainly on my part.

After showering and dressing, I steeled myself and went out into the main area of the hut. Dupont’s door was still closed and I couldn’t hear any sounds coming from inside. Either they were still asleep or they’d already gone over to the dining hut for breakfast.

I stepped into the glare of the morning sun and walked towards the dining hut, breathing the fresh air deeply into my lungs. Then I noticed something going on in the grassy alleyway between two of the other huts. Three men were bent over, as though examining the ground. Two of them wore uniforms, the other the same suit and tie as the night before.

It was Dupont.

He signalled me to join them. He seemed quite agitated.

“Look,” he said.

There, in the short grass, was something horrific — a mess of white fur with blood and intestines scattered around.

“It’s poor old Prissy,” said Dupont. “They found her here this morning.”

“Most likely she was attacked by one of those big weasels they call ‘fishers’ around here,” said the soldier next to me. “They come in from the woods — fences can’t keep them out. They prey on small animals, and that includes cats.”

“It was my own fault for letting her out at nights,” said Dupont. “I was warned about the fishers, but she was always so insistent.”

THE SOLDIERS SHOVELLED the remains of Prissy into a garbage bag and, though we’d no appetite, Dupont and I went to the dining hut for coffee and bagels. I was relieved to see that Marsha wasn’t there. With any luck, I’d be on the road back to Camberloo by the time she got out of bed.

“What a way to start a day,” said Dupont as we ate half-heartedly. “I was already exhausted. I barely got a wink of sleep last night.”

At those words, I tensed up. If he hadn’t slept well, he must surely be aware that for part of the night Marsha wasn’t in bed with him but in the room next door with me.

But in fact, he wasn’t aware of it. When he told me the reason for his sleepless night, I felt even sicker.

AFTER DINNER the night before, when we’d been leaving Ye Olde Mill, Dupont had picked up Marsha’s suitcase at the front desk. Or so he thought. Actually it was the wrong suitcase, full of men’s clothing. It wasn’t till they were getting ready for bed at the institute that they noticed. Marsha was very upset for she’d left her passport and other confidential documents in her suitcase.

Dupont immediately phoned the Mill and discovered that one of their guests had taken the wrong suitcase and brought it back. So at least the mix-up was now resolved.

Marsha persuaded Dupont that they absolutely must go back to Waterville right away or she’d never sleep. Since she hadn’t had nearly as much wine as Dupont, she’d do the driving. They got to the Mill well after two in the morning and the suitcases were exchanged, to everyone’s relief. Marsha and Dupont were in no mood for the return drive to the institute and took a room at the Mill for the night. The concierge would arrange for the Mill’s limo to take her to the airport for her noon flight.