Context: In this subscriber-exclusive bonus chapter, Dana turns a date with Cyril into a field trip for the entire The Play’s the Thing cast in an attempt to keep temptation at bay. As usual, her efforts are a day late and a shilling short.
Two red-faced teens blasted crooked notes from long-stemmed trumpets, and we hustled toward the archery field for the afternoon demonstration. The Sherwood team clearly took their décor cues from the 1939 Robin Hood production, right down to the festooned royal viewing box, complete with a sneering Prince John and pretty Maid Marion.
As soon as we came into view, Tavvy stood up in the stands and yelled “Over here, Dev!” in the tone that easily reached the nosebleed seats in any standard-size theater. Cyril loped off in an easy gait to join the guys standing along the sidelines. Given the temptation I’d fallen into today, I had a pretty good idea why Cyril’s nickname must be “devil.”
I climbed the bleachers, formulating excuses and apologizing to the Lord for my transgression. The whole incident was ludicrously Biblical. I mean, there I was, standing beside an ancient, revered tree in the middle of a legendary forest. Practically the tree of good and evil, right down to the tempting voice of the enemy. To be fair, I didn’t exactly have to be talked into anything.
The girls slid over to let me join them, Helene looking at me with bright, curious eyes. Lulu bent her head to catch my eye and nudged Helene. “You and Dev have yourselves a lovely little walk, did ya?” she teased with deceptive innocence.
I assumed a cloak of dignity. “I was trying to be kind to y’all. He invited me to go see the big oak and I figured that’d be boring for everyone else so I just went. That tree is really something. Kind of like the giant redwoods in California, right, Helene?”
Helene, pitchforked into our conversation, looked up from a pamphlet she’d been studying and blinked. One of her perfectly arched brows lifted and she smiled.
There’s a beautiful telepathy that occurs between girls sometimes and this was one of those moments. I knew that she knew that I knew she’d cover for me. No note-passing or ladies’ room conference necessary, no negotiations required. Without being asked, without understanding the whole story, Helene, my fellow American, threw me a life preserver in less time that it took me to send her that desperate glance. I owed her for this.
Her cheerful response proved beyond the shadow of a doubt there was plenty of savvy behind that glorious blonde mane. “Redwoods? Oh, yeah, those are incredible. My family went camping in the Sequoia park once. Those trees look like they hold up Heaven. Some of them have tunnels carved through the trunks–you can drive your car under. Mind-boggling. Just incredible.”
Lulu giggled. “Funny, Dana, I didn’t take you for the botany type. Doesn’t seem like your—what do you Yanks call it? Your jelly.”
“Jam,” Helene laughed. “I guess we all have our hobbies. Dana, didn’t you tell us you were in your high school environmental club? Does your school make a big deal out of Earth Day like ours? California is really hot on that.” She tipped her head. “Does England have something like that?”
This was a masterstroke. If you want to distract a Brit, mention anything to do with Mother Earth, gardening or flowers. Birds work, too. They’re nutty about such things.
While Rose and Lulu rushed to assure Helene that England led the world in environmental responsibility, I reshuffled my mental cue cards and brought out a sure-fire conversation swerve. “Hey,” I said, trying to sound interested, not frantic, “don’t look all at once, but doesn’t that guy near the red flag look like Peter O’Toole?”
Every girl in the row instantly turned their heads and started arguing about which movie star that poor chump resembled, buying me more precious time. The guy, recognizing a groundswell of female appreciation, assumed a preening self-consciousness. So far, so good, but anyone with eyes in their head could see Cyril and I arrived together. How could I keep distracting my already-suspicious buddies from quizzing me about it?
My dilemma was postponed by some off-key trumpet flourishes. With vague hollered instructions, the exhibition commenced. Colorfully costumed contestants were eliminated until the black-hooded peddler (shockingly) won the day and revealed himself as Sherwood’s Robin Hood. The officials opened the contest to any spectators, and every male, from five to fifty, rushed down the stands to try their skill.
I was very surprised to see Cyril saunter over and select a longbow as if he went boar hunting (or Saxon skewering) on a daily basis. He moved to the far end of the line, almost obscured by the others. I leaned over to get a better view of him, trying not to be obvious about it. I must have failed because Helene got up and forced me to switch places with her.
Cyril bent and strung the bow with accustomed hands. Something about seeing him handle England’s fabled weapon with such savoir-faire set my cheeks on fire. He nocked the arrow, drew back the bowstring with no visible effort, his forearm’s sinews and muscles coming into sharp relief. He anchored his hand at his jawbone and rolled the string from his fingers. My breath released at the taut snap and whistle of the arrow. I almost felt it drive deep into the gold center.
The crowd cheered, my heart pounded, and, to my eternal shame, I jumped up and yelled, “Well done, Cyril!” He turned to me, then looked at the ground, the ends of his moustache turning up. Apparently, no matter how sophisticated the man, he still wants a maiden to admire his prowess. “Well, it was a good shot,” I said as my friends mercilessly giggled.
The “Sheriff” hoisted a quiver of arrows temptingly in his hand. “Any other takers? Who’ll step up and show us how it’s done? Come on, lads!”
Helene laughed and slapped me on the back when I moved past her. “Show ‘em what a Yank can do!”
“Atta girl!” Lulu crowed.
Rose smiled quietly, and Yvette murmured, “Oh, I don’t know, Dana…”
The inevitable gasp rose from the audience when I joined the men on the field. I heard a high-pitched “Huzzah” from the grandstand and waved back at Maid Marion. My heart was thudding happily. The shivers that humbled me at Major Oak had turned to electricity in my veins. What I knew and they didn’t was that they were looking at the Camp Merivale tenth grade archery grand champion. Oh, Lord, don’t let my right hand forget its cunning.
I tightened a leather guard on my forearm and picked out a finger tab. With a wink, the archery master smiled at me. The arrow nocked with the same satisfying ping I remembered. Drawing back the bow felt like coming home. I took aim, held my breath, and watched the shaft fly straight to the gold. The silence broke with a rousing cheer. I recognized the deep “Well done!” that boomed from the stands and joy clogged my throat.
The conductor on the train back to London didn’t look askance at the forest of souvenir longbows we tramped aboard with—he must have been used to medieval weaponry cluttering up his shift. Tavvy bought a half-dozen of the archery kits, saying he’d file it in his expense account under “stocking the armory” when Mrs. Plum laughed at him. “Like a kid on Boxing Day,” she said fondly.
I didn’t think twice about cashing a traveler’s cheque to buy a gorgeous replica of the simple recurve bow I’d used. I’d hang it in my dorm room when I returned to the States. Home, I mean. When I went back home.
The thought of leaving England–and everything that meant–pierced my heart’s armor and left a widening wound. A wound shaped like a kiss.