Free The Kiss by Joan Lingard Page B

how alive the pieces seemed, as Cormac had told them that they would. He was pleased, of course he was, and their responses made him reflect how fortunate he was to be a teacher with the opportunity to inspire young minds. That was what he thought at that moment as he stood by one of the long windows looking out into the garden, as Rodin himself must often have done.
    It was The Kiss , predictably, the man and woman locked together in perpetuity, their marble-white bodies fluid and graceful, flowing the one into theother, dependent on each other, that held the students especially enthralled, but Clarinda in particular. She studied it for a long time.
    Even Alec was impressed. ‘He certainly had something, that guy.’
    They could have an hour, Cormac told the group, to wander round on their own. ‘Take your time, look, sketch, photograph, but don’t leave the grounds, and meet in the garden outside the front door afterwards. Understood?’
    He knew some of them would make for the café in the garden but he did not mind. They had all had a pretty good look already. As he moved on his own from room to room and along the garden paths enjoying the bright sunshine he observed some of them, still looking, still sketching. He saw Robbie intently sketching The Thinker but saw no sign of Clarinda.
    When they gathered after the hour was up she was missing.
    ‘Anyone seen Clarinda?’ asked Cormac, scanning the garden.
    Nobody had.
    ‘Maybe she’s run off with Rodin’s ghost,’ said Robbie, which raised a laugh. ‘Or Gwen’s? That might be even more interesting.’
    Cormac asked him to nip round the back and see ifClarinda might be taking a last look at The Muse. He returned saying, ‘Not a sign. She’s vanished! There’s a lot of that thin air hanging about.’
    Five minutes later Clarinda came rushing out of the building. ‘Sorry.’ She was slightly breathless. ‘I forgot the time.’
    ‘Where have you been?’ asked Cormac.
    ‘In the archives. I asked and they were terribly nice. I hope that was all right?’
    She didn’t have to tell him what she would have been doing there. What exactly was going on in this girl’s mind? How could he possibly guess? He did not know what went on in his daughter’s head much of the time and he had watched over her since birth.
     
    ‘What’s up, Dad?’ asks Sophie, laying her warm hand on top of his cold one. ‘Are you feeling all right?’
    ‘Yes, fine,’ he mutters, turning his back on Clarinda who is sitting at a corner table of the bistro talking animatedly to a young man. She has noticed him, he knows that; he saw the rapid flicker of her eyelids, although she did not look in his direction. And she was talking and gesticulating too wildly, which is unlike her. The display was for his benefit, he suspects.
    He regards his daughter, who goes to a different school than the one where he taught, which isfortunate. They had to tell her about Clarinda, of course; it would have been impossible not to. When they did she blushed and looked startled at the idea of her father being embroiled in such an affair but said nothing for a moment. Then she asked aggressively, without looking at him, ‘Are you innocent or guilty?’ Rachel was outraged, too much so, in his opinion, for it seemed a legitimate question to ask. Perhaps it was one that Rachel herself would have liked to ask outright instead of pussyfooting around it, as she had been doing. ‘How can you even doubt your father, Sophie!’ her mother demanded. ‘He needs all the support we can give him.’
    Sophie clicks her fingers at a waitress and calls out, ‘Two more glasses of red wine, please!’
    ‘Sophie!’ he protests weakly. He feels weak and at the same time angry that Clarinda Bain should have such an effect on him. He wants to put his hands round her smooth young neck and throttle her.
    ‘I can drink far more than that,’ says Sophie. ‘I won’t fall over in the gutter or anything like that.’
    He