Welcome Distractions

"Unite… there is no other law, or aim, than love… and exist afterward if you can; that is no concern of mine."

—Maurice Maeterlinck

The Life of the Bee

'HAVE I mentioned, Miss Sim, how truly grateful I am that you agreed to tutor me?' she laughed, tossing her head back and giggling madly in a rare display of openness. While she was always polite and respectful to me, she also maintained a quiet air of gentle reserve; I smiled, now, glad to see her genuinely enjoying herself. (Although I did entertain suspicions that she had too much of the brandy that I had served her with tea, earlier on, instead of sherry.)

I was reluctant to make any move towards bursting this jovial bubble of hers, but she had been truly distracted the whole morning, forgetting where she had put her pens and her eyes constantly wandering to the curtained window in my sitting room. Strangely enough, after moments of dreamy sighs and dizzy grins would follow the inexplicable turning down of the corners of her mouth, and wistful stares into my fireplace… but after these she would bounce back, only to begin the manic-depressive cycle once more. And all the time, she was distracted. 

I knew her well enough to see that this mood, if it left any work undone, would cause a foul spell in her later; besides, my curiosity was getting the better of me. I wondered if her confused spirits had anything to do with…

'My dear girl, may I ask what has set off this exceptionally pleasant mood of yours?' (I said nothing of the depressed fits that followed.) Before she could put her defences up, I added hastily, 'I do not often see you laugh.'

She reached up and took off her spectacles, sighing. 'It is done, Miss Sim,' she said, with a barely concealed giddiness.

'What is?'

'I am scheduled to take the examinations in a month… and, at the risk of sounding arrogant, I even dare to add that I am very much ready for them—or at least will be within that time.'

I exclaimed my surprise and shared my joy; we had, after all, been working towards this end for some time, and I had no doubt that the bright young woman in front of me would pass the entrance examinations with ease. Still, I wondered if this were all there was to it. I did not mention it; she herself perceived my remaining curiosity. I noted a faint dropping of her shoulders as she responded. 

Glancing sideways at me, she said, 'I truly do look forward to college, Miss Sim. The prospect of living and breathing Oxford is exciting, and I am incredibly optimistic as to what I will be doing there.'

As she spoke, I detected a hint of denial, even defensiveness, in her manner. I replied that not everything was going to be easy, but this titbit of tentative wisdom was unnecessary; she nodded that she was aware of this, and that she had been repeatedly warned by her mentor about it.

My ears perked up. It was also rare that the name of Sherlock Holmes was mentioned in this house, mostly because, I think, the girl still mistrusted me—an intellectual; retired and a spinster but intellectual nonetheless—to some level, that she was aware that anything she said about that man could be used against him or her. It was very dangerous, being friends with a detective, and one so recognised as he was… but I said nothing to her of this. She knew the risks.

And now here she was, offering me a glimpse of the great detective, that side of which none of the general public could have ever seen.

Suddenly, understanding dawned. Holmes; of course. Here was the reason behind the wistful sighs that alternated with her giddy laughter. I suppose I should have… no, guessed was not a word either of them would appreciate. Deduced, perhaps. After all, he was the only one close enough to her to have had this kind of effect on her disposition.

'How,' I ventured, 'does Mr Holmes feel about it?' (I was very nearly tempted to say, 'your Mr Holmes', but I did not suspect that she would take kindly to it.)

As I had expected, her eyes darkened, and her fingers stopped tapping the linen-covered tabletop on which our work was spread out. She looked as though she wanted to change the subject, and was silent for a few moments; still, both of us knew that I had done nothing to merit any impoliteness, and so she answered, if reluctantly.

'I am not very sure,' she began. Her eyes wandered, again, to the window, and to my garden, with the flower bushes spread all around it and also planted just below the casement itself. Suddenly I saw a gleam in her eye, and she abruptly rose and opened the window, extending her hand outside.

Just as I was about to ask her what she was doing, the words died in my throat as a bee alighted on her finger, its black body dusted with pollen. I tensed, wondering whether it would sting her; but the bee did nothing. I looked at her face and saw there a subtle softening of her strong features.

'He has made me inordinately fond of these creatures,' she said, by way of explanation. There was no need to say who.

Shaking her head, she stretched her hand towards the garden again, setting free the little stranger who had interrupted our conversation. She did not sit back down again, however, but leaned against a wooden dresser, which in turn was against the expanse of wall beside the window. She did not meet my eyes.

'I am not afraid of leaving, Miss Sim,' she pronounced, and for a moment she was her old self, her eyes gleaming with her angry intelligence. 'I am certainly not apprehensive about constructing a new schedule, and living in a new home for the greater part of the year. It will even be a relief, do you know—I have told you about my aunt,' she half-turned her face to add, unnecessarily, and I nodded. She resumed staring out of the window. 'I have had to make many transitions over the years, and I have learned to adjust very well to most of these. Again, I am not afraid of leaving.'

Now she turned fully, her frame blocking the English countryside from view. When she spoke, her voice was quiet, tentative. 'What I am afraid of,' she said slowly and almost inaudibly, 'is coming home.'

My confusion must have shown on my face, because she hastily explained, as if knowing that she should not have said anything in the first place, but also acknowledging that she could not keep me out of a secret already so far revealed. She ran and tripped over her words, and I realised that it must have been a long time since this young girl had talked about her feelings; she was uncomfortable. I sat, and listened. She talked.

'When I found out the schedule,' she was saying, her gaze out of the window again, 'of course he was the first person I told. Like I always do, I put on my boots and walked the miles to his cottage, and found him at work on his bees.

'I joined him and said, "Holmes, it is done—the date is set."

'He just looked at me, and I was afraid that I had said something wrong because his eyes were wide with surprise. And then he laughed. Yes, he does laugh, Miss Sim,' she said parenthetically when she saw my veiled twitch of puzzlement. 'And then he said, "I apologise, Russell. I myself am surprised to find that I had forgotten that you were going to Oxford."

'He put his hand on my shoulder and led me into the cottage, and added, "I had thought that you were going to be here forever."'

She looked at me as if I should know what this meant, and it occurred to me that she was asking a question: Do you understand? Because I'm not about to delve into the murky depths of this relationship—partnership, apprenticeship, whatever it is—in front of you or anyone else.

I tried to follow her. 'You are afraid,' I began, slowly and haltingly, 'that what he said meant that he was relieved that you are going to Oxford.'

The corners of her mouth twitched, despite the gravity in the expression of her eyes. 'Perhaps I wouldn't have characterised it in so direct a way,' she said, 'but yes… yes, I suppose that is what I mean.

'I feel decidedly uneasy about the idea that he welcomes my departure—that he is using it to cut himself off from this apprenticeship, and that… that I should know how to take the hint to, well, to sod off.' Dry humour lurked about her lips. 'That when I come home, I will find him changed, and cold, and unwilling to be my friend anymore.'

She finally met my eyes, and I saw in them, for the first time, genuine fear.

'Miss Sim… this will sound silly and utterly pathetic and emotional and all of those things that I make a show of despising, but… I am afraid to lose him.'

Her sigh, as she sat again in the chair across from me, was heavy, and suddenly I did understand. With a start I realised the true extent of her feelings—platonic, of course, as his must be for her—for Mr Holmes.

To anybody else, it would have meant simply losing a friend. To her, to this young woman whose friendship with Sherlock Holmes was so odd and yet so fitting, it meant losing her family—the only thing she had known for years. It meant losing afternoons beneath the copper beeches, and it meant ordinary Christmases. It meant losing honey wine, and it meant no more tracking across the countryside with their noses to the ground. It meant losing the warmth of a fireside and the company of true friends, and it meant the eternal absence of the sweet, familiar scent of pipe tobacco. It meant losing home.

She was still speaking, and it seemed as though she was unable to stop; she opened her mouth and the words, sincere and inexorable, were in the room.

'I don't know very much about how things like these are supposed to work, Miss Sim,' she said, and she was in earnest, her cheeks pink with both warmth and embarrassment. 'I have never met anybody like Holmes, and I have never known anybody who understands me as he does, and I also do not know if he feels the same. Sometimes he hints that he does—that he found his equal in a fifteen year-old. I do not know if I have served simply as a distraction. A welcome distraction, of course, but a distraction nevertheless.

'I do know, however, that if I go away, and then come home, and then he is not there to see me—' she faltered, and it seemed as though the weight of her words chose that moment to impress itself upon her. She fell silent, and I was suddenly sure that murdering me—to assure herself that the secret would never leave this room—had crossed her mind, if briefly. How jealously these people did guard their privacy.

At the same time, I knew not what to say to her. I did not presume to understand how the minds of these too, too eccentric persons worked, much less the workings of their complicated relationship—warm and yet not openly emotional, stable and yet intensely fragile. 

As I opened my mouth to say something—perhaps a reassurance?—she cut me off.

'Oh, no, please don't tell me that it's all my imagination, Miss Sim. I am fully aware that it is a silly thought, founded on no real evidence but my own insecurity. I would just—I'd prefer to think about it, and consider it as a possibility.' So that if he chooses to drop me, I'm ready.

I didn't try to say anything more on the subject, because nothing I said could have helped her, could only drive her deeper into her own embarrassment. Instead I chose to do as she usually did: to ignore the ills of the heart and to focus instead on the mind. For the moment, at least. Someone else, someone closer to her, would possibly help her to understand what she felt and didn't feel. That someone was not me, and I had no doubt as to whom it would be.

I reached out across the table, and patted her hand, which had been perched, clenched, on top of her notebook.

'I was not going to say anything of the sort, my dear,' I said. I felt my eyes crinkle in a smile. 'I was merely going to ask your thoughts on Hamlet as the archetypal hero.'

The astonishment on her face was almost comic, and I suppose it gave me a small rush of pleasure to have actually surprised her, this student who was already beginning to surpass her mentor. (Me, of course. I had no doubt that she and her other, her real mentor were equals when they started and whenever they would end.) She gave into a brief peal of giggles, and rested her left elbow on the table, letting her hand cover her forehead as she laughed. Her face was shadowed by her hand and by the darkness that was beginning to drape itself across the countryside, but what I could see of it was bright pink.

She stopped laughing, and looked up; her features were straight, utterly composed. She was every bit my student again, serious and eager, but for the small twinkle in her eyes—that spark that is shared by those who have a deep, potentially embarrassing and as potentially touching secret between them. I saw in her eyes an apology for her outburst (unnecessary) and an expression of gratitude (warmly received and, I hoped, reflected in my own eyes). She thanked me for my small distraction; I thanked her for her trust and her unexpected affection.

'I believe the idea has been explored before, Miss Sims, by…'

© Kay C. Rivera

26 June 2003