The Bellwether Revivals Read Free Page B

night. The name’s Eden.’ His grip was solid and unforgiving. ‘Thanks for keeping her company.’
    ‘My pleasure,’ Oscar said. He couldn’t quite see Eden’s face—itwas partly drawn over by the shadows of the chapel spires—but he could tell that his skin had the texture of a seashell, smooth yet flawed. ‘Was that really you playing in there? I’ve never heard an organ sound so good.’
    Eden glanced up at the sky. ‘Oh. Well. Thank you. I try my best.’
    ‘You couldn’t save his soul, though,’ Iris said. ‘He’s a non-believer.’ She perched side-saddle on the crossbar of the bike, placing an arm around her brother and kissing him softly on the cheek. ‘Shall we go?’
    Eden received the kiss, barely reacting. ‘Yes, let’s,’ he said, ‘before the porters catch me on this thing. I’ve already been warned about riding through.’
    ‘I don’t know why you insist on cycling. Just take a cab.’
    ‘It’s become something of a battle of wills. First man to blink loses. Can’t let that happen.’ Eden lowered his voice to say something into her ear and she laughed, hitting his arm playfully. ‘Shut up,’ she said. ‘Don’t say that.’ Then, with a stiff movement of his legs, Eden started to pedal away. ‘Good to meet you, Oscar,’ Iris said.
    ‘Yeah. Same.’
    ‘See you Sunday.’
    ‘Yeah. Sunday.’
    They were quite a sight, the two of them: Eden pumping hard at the pedals just to keep the bike upright, and Iris with her long legs stretched out a few inches above the ground. As they approached the Gatehouse, where the lawn turned at a right angle, she called out into the hazy lamplight, but Oscar couldn’t quite tell what she was saying.
    Dr Paulsen was sleeping in the leather armchair by the window. His head was limp against his shoulder, heavy as a lettuce, and the sun was edging across his face. ‘How are we this morning?’ Oscar said. He gathered a pillow from the bed and waited for theold man to stir. It was after nine a.m. and he knew that Dr Paulsen would want to be woken; unlike the other residents, he was not a man who was happy to sleep the day away. He didn’t like to waste time on television the way the others did, or spend a whole week assembling a jigsaw that only revealed a picture of a sunny foreign vista he was too old to visit. (‘I’ve never understood the concept of the jigsaw,’ he once said. ‘I mean, the picture’s already on the box—where’s the mystery?’) His room was very different from the others: bright with natural light, dense with furniture and books, and the scent of urine was fainter here than anywhere else in the building. Oscar put this down to the extra care the nurses took in emptying Paulsen’s bottle—the old man was so cold to most of them that they were terrified of spilling a drop.
    Dr Paulsen lifted his head, a web of drool caught against his chin. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said, looking at Oscar, dew-eyed. ‘Is it that time already? I was having a wonderful dream about … well, about something. I think Rupert Brooke was in it. Somebody was swimming naked in the Cam, anyway. If I were thirty years younger, I would’ve found it all quite arousing.’
    Oscar placed the pillow behind the old man’s neck. ‘Are you coming down for breakfast today? Or are we still keeping ourselves to ourselves?’
    ‘I haven’t decided.’ Paulsen sat upright in the chair. ‘The more I look at these same four walls, the more I feel like Edmond Dantès. A heroic bearer of injustice.’ He narrowed his eyes at Oscar. ‘You’re very chirpy this morning. What’s got into you?’
    ‘Nothing.’
    ‘Rubbish. Did you get a pay rise?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Good. The rates here are already extortionate.’
    Oscar smiled. With a groan, he lifted Paulsen up by the elbows, and when the old man was steady on his feet, he said: ‘Actually, I sort of met somebody last night. A girl.’
    ‘Hand me my dressing gown, would you?’ Paulsen said. ‘I have