Authors: Frederic Lindsay
'There
weren't
so
very
many
offers,'
the
woman
said,
and
the
little
smile
appeared
and
went
again.
'Even
if
he
was
ready
to
give
everything
up
and
marry
you.’
When
the
woman
frowned,
Lucy
pointed
back
towards
the
painting
of
the
boy
on
the
ice.
'Did
someone
tell
you
about
it?
I
meant
what
I
said
about
it
seeming
real.
As
if
it
really
happened
and
he
told
you
about
it.’
'I
wouldn't
want
to
talk
about
that,'
the
woman
said.
'Is
he
dead?'
'Who?'
The
word
came
as
a
gasp,
with
something
of fright
in
it.
'When
you
said
that.
I
wondered
if
he
was
dead.’
And
Lucy
pointed
back
towards
the
painting.
The
woman
instead
of
answering
turned
a
page
of
the
book
which
lay
open
on
the
table
in
front
of
her.
'And
now
he's
dead.
You're
sad,
but
you
kept
something of
him
alive.
At
least
you
have
the
child.’
She
didn't
take
her
eyes
from
Lucy,
turning
a
page
without
looking
at
it.
Touching
wood,
Lucy
thought,
as
if
I
was
someone
who had
come
to
lay
a
curse
upon
her
'The
painting,
I
mean,
imagining
him
as
he
must
have
looked
as
a
child.’
'I'm
sorry,'
the
woman
said,
'you've
got
it
wrong.
That's
a
painting
of
my
son.’
When
in
the
summer
term
the
University
held
a
memorial
service
for
Maitland,
Lucy
was
almost
sure
Beth
Lauriston
hadn't
come.
By
that
time,
however,
she
could
not
remember
her
face
very
clearly,
so
it
was
possible
she
was
there.
Afterwards
some
of
the
staff
walked
with
her
to
her
car,
shook
hands,
said
the
last
meaningless
things.
On
impulse,
she
pulled
over
at
a
quiet
spot
on
the
campus
road
and
walked
down
to
the
edge
of
the
loch.
It
was
warm
and
the
water
was
blue
that
had
been
grey
and
ringed
with
ice
all
winter.
She
picked
up
a
stone,
a
flat
one
that
you
might
send
skipping
across
the
water,
and
then
held
it
forgotten
in
her
hand.
At
some
point
during
the
service,
she
had
been
trying
to
remember
the
last
time
Maitland
made
love
to
her.
She
had
been
trying
to
remember
as
much
as
she could,
but
the
minister's
voice
made
it
hard
to
concentrate.
It
had
seemed
just
then
desperately
important
not
to
lose
any
of
it,
since
that
was
the
last
time
anyone
would
make
love
to
her.
The
holiness
of
the
heart's
affections.
The
phrase
had
run
in
her
head.
The
words
not
meaning
anything.
A
quote
from
somewhere.
Holiness.
Heart.
Affections.
When
she
heard
the
noise
of
someone
coming
down
the
slope
to
her,
she
didn't
mind
that
it
was
Sam
Wilson.
It
was
unlikely
she
would
see
him
again.
'I
don't
want
to
interrupt,'
he
said.
'It
was
just
that
during
the
service,
I
wasn't
thinking
of
Maitland's
work
or
how
distinguished
he
was.
It
was
something
that
happened
just
after
I'd
come
here,
and
seeing
you
I
felt
I
needed
to
tell
you.
When
I
came
at
first
I
was
an
academic
warden.
In
one
of
the
halls
over
there.’
Across
the
loch
white
concrete
blocks
crouched
beneath
soggy
hills
drying
out
under
the
sun.
'Dreadful
narrow
little
rooms
like
passages.
So
depressing.
I
think
that
makes
people
cruel.
There
was
a
ringleader,
of
course.
And
the
one
they
picked
as
a
victim.
In
the
lavatories
graffiti
on
the
walls.
"Rodney
is
scum.”
Does
that
sound
silly?
I
thought
he
would
end
by
killing
himself.
I
told
Maitland.
He
was
…
very
fierce.
I
do
believe
he
saved
that
boy's
life.’
As
he
finished,
his
voice
broke
and
he
began
to
sob.
Unable
to
stop,
he
made
angry
little
chopping
gestures
with
his
hand.
'I'm
so
ridiculous,'
he
wept.
'You've
been
remarkable.
Wonderfully
brave.
I'm
so
sorry
.
'
'It
was
kind
of
you.’
She
wondered
if
she
should
lay
her
hand
on
his
arm,
but
wasn't
sure
he
would
want
that.
'You
must
miss
him
so
much.’
It
came
into
her
mind
that
now
Maitland
was
dead
there
was
no
one
to
remember
her
as
a
girl.
While
he
was
alive,
and
whether
or
not
he
wished
it
to
be
so,
that
young
girl
and
how
she
had
looked
being
in
love
was
held
in
memory.