by J F Straker
‘But there won’t be any harm,’ Elizabeth protested, forcing herself not to appear too eager, too willing to please. ‘I’m sorry about this evening; it was thoughtless of me to go out without letting you know, and I can see now why you were upset. But I wasn’t doing anything wrong. We just sat and talked over a drink or two, and it was the rain that made me late. I was waiting for it to stop. I didn’t know one of them had a car; he hadn’t mentioned it before.’
‘Who was he?’
‘Oh, just one of Michael’s friends,’ Elizabeth said hurriedly. That was not a topic to be pursued. With feigned pathos she added, ‘If only you were not so willing to think ill of me, Aunt Charlotte, we could be a lot happier together.’
Charlotte Lane said nothing. Sentiment was as necessary to her as oxygen, but she was still suspicious. The moment of forgiveness was precious and not to be missed, but it was not yet due.
‘Of course I like to go out,’ Elizabeth went on. ‘Every girl does. And Michael and his friends are the only young people I know. I haven’t any girl friends except Valerie, and she’s right out at Cosmeston. Besides, Anthony takes up most of her time.’
‘I don’t want to go out of an evening,’ her aunt said, her voice once more a purr. ‘I’m perfectly happy to stay at home with you.’
Elizabeth knew she was about to be forgiven. Relief was tempered with dismay, for forgiveness would bring with it a further and more unpleasant ordeal. But she had to go on.
You’re not a girl, she wanted to say. You’re not young. You may ape youth, but you no longer possess it. You’re not young, and you’re not normal. Instead she said, ‘I’m happy too, Aunt Charlotte. But every one needs a change. I know I do. It makes me appreciate —’ She hesitated. She had been about to say ‘you,’ but the word stuck in her throat. ‘— home more. And you need a change yourself. That’s why I think it would be such a pity to give up your visit to Mrs Donelly. You really must go.’
It was impossible to keep the anxiety, the hope, out of her voice. But Mrs Lane misinterpreted the emotion in her niece’s pleading to suit her own emotion.
‘It is encouraging to know you occasionally consider my interests,’ she said, angling for yet further proofs. ‘But I still wonder —’
‘Oh, Aunt, you’re impossible!’ And then, impetuously, ‘If it will make your mind easier I’ll give you my word of honour not to go out at all in the evenings while you are away.’ It was a school-girl trick to salve her honour, this use of the future tense; the ‘word’ would never actually be given. It was a measure of her desperation that she resorted to it now. ‘There! Will that persuade you?’
Charlotte Lane’s eyes were moist — with happiness this time.
‘Yes, dear. But I shall miss you. I’d never have even contemplated leaving you if I hadn’t needed some new clothes. You know I like to look smart for you — though goodness knows why I bother; I might as well go about in a sack for all the notice you take of what I’m wearing.’ She moved closer to tuck an arm inside the girl’s. Elizabeth shuddered inwardly at the contact. ‘Will you read to me for a little while, dear? It helps me to relax before bed, and I’ve had a trying evening.’
It was nearly an hour later when Elizabeth escaped to her room. She loathed those reading sessions; the two of them on a small settee, her aunt’s heavy body leaning against her own taut, upright one. And always the same trashy books. Occasionally Elizabeth had tried to introduce a choice of her own, but Aunt Charlotte would have none of it. ‘This one, dear,’ she would say, producing yet another volume of sickly sentiment. Where does she get them from? wondered the girl. The supply seemed inexhaustible.
But if the reading sessions were bad the moments immediately succeeding them were worse. That pause at the foot of the stairs for the final ‘goodnight’ — that was a ritual she could not escape, yet which seemed to the girl the most degrading of all. Sometimes, humiliated and disgusted, she would break away and run up the stairs to her own room, heedless of the pleas from below, to lean, nerve-racked and hysterical, against the door, swearing to herself that never again would she allow it to happen, that no promise could be considered binding against such provocation.
That was at night. Yet doubt, if not contrition, returned with the morning. Aunt Charlotte was her only relative, and a sick woman. Aunt Charlotte had given her a home, had educated and provided for her, was even contemplating making her, Elizabeth, her heir. Under those circumstances, hadn’t she a duty to stay? How else could she repay the debt?
So she stayed. But each day the duty became harder, the debt more oppressive — until lately she had begun to wonder whether, if nothing happened to rescue her (and by that she had meant her aunt’s demise, though even to herself she had hesitated to express the thought fully), she might not eventually become as warped and as twisted as Aunt Charlotte herself.
Perhaps it was the sharp contrast between Desmond’s and her aunt’s expressions of affection that made her decide that night that she had reached the breaking point. To-morrow it will be different, she promised herself, as she scrubbed vigorously at her cheeks in the nightly effort to feel clean. She will think it’s the same — but she’ll be wrong. There won’t just be her and me, there’ll be Desmond as well. I’ll keep my promise to Uncle Edward — but I shan’t feel so alone, so desperate, if I’m married to Desmond. And I will marry him; I must, if I’m to stay here and remain sane. Desmond’s love is healthy and right, it will give me back my self-respect, make me feel clean again. Tomorrow morning she’ll go off to the shops as usual, and I’ll ring him up and tell him it’s all right, that I’ll marry him just as soon as he can fix it. And then . . .
Oh, God, she prayed, as she climbed into bed, let us be happy together, Desmond and me!
The sheets were cold, and for some time she lay there shivering, keyed up and unable to sleep. Her thoughts drifted away from the future to the past. It had all been so different when Uncle Edward was alive. Aunt Charlotte had bullied or ignored her; but her uncle had given her more love, had shown her more kindness, than her own father, harassed by continuous financial failures and an inability to hold down any job for long, had ever done.
And then Uncle Edward had died. To Elizabeth it had seemed a disaster even more tragic than the accident which had made her an orphan. Bewildered and sad, drowned in a sense of loss from which she could envisage no recovery, she had given him her promise. It was the only thing he had ever asked of her, the only thing she had to give; and she gave it willingly, fervently, happy to be able in this small way (it had seemed small to her then) to express her love for him.
For the first year after his death Aunt Charlotte had been too engrossed in the new delight of spending money to pay much attention to her niece; it was not until she was seventeen, and had left school, that Elizabeth had noticed a difference in her aunt’s attitude towards her. At first she had welcomed the change, although she knew she could never reciprocate the affection. (She knew this with a sense of guilt, for it seemed ungrateful to dislike some one to whom she owed so much materially.) Her dislike grew with the ever-increasing demands made on her — grew to disgust, and loathing, and occasional revolt, so that there was seldom any peace between them, and Aunt Charlotte came to represent all that was obscene and degrading in human relationship.
Elizabeth shuddered. It was not pleasant to dwell on. Think about tomorrow, she told herself. Think about Desmond.
She thought about Desmond. But when she screwed up her eyes against the dark and tried to picture him the image would not come. The faces of Bruce and Alan and Michael slid in turn across the screen of her mind, but not Desmond’s. Is that because I don’t really love him? she wondered. But then I don’t love the others either.
How would Bruce react to her marriage when he came to hear of it? He had told her many times that he loved her, that he wanted to marry her. I wouldn’t like Bruce to feel that I’ve cheated, she thought uneasily. But why should he? I’ve never singled him out for attention, I�
�ve never given him any reason to suppose that one day I might marry him. He’d have no right to reproach me,
And yet Bruce was a man of unpredictable moods and temper. Sometimes he blazed, sometimes he smouldered. Nor did he forgive easily, as his unremitting hatred of her aunt proved. By marrying Desmond she too would be wounding Bruce’s pride. Would he forgive that?
The moon shone fitfully through racing clouds. Unable to sleep, Elizabeth turned, pulling the blankets over her head. If trouble with Bruce was inevitable, at least it would not be yet. Not until she and Desmond could announce their marriage to the world. And when would that be?
Not until Aunt Charlotte was dead, presumably.
Desmond.
Oh, God, she prayed again, let us be happy together!
* * *
‘That’s enough,’ gasped Elizabeth, freeing herself, albeit with some reluctance. ‘Be sensible, Desmond. There’s so much to discuss, and it may be ages before we have another opportunity.’
‘I don’t feel sensible,’ he told her, smiling. ‘I’m walking on air, and my head’s spinning round and round among the clouds. I’m in the sixth heaven.’
‘Oh? Why not the seventh?’
‘Why not, indeed?’ he said, and reached for her.
It was the next morning. They were down by the ford, whither Desmond had come hurrying on receipt of her telephone call. She had not expected such a prompt response, and at first doubted its wisdom; the desire to see him, to hear him say what he could not say over the telephone, was tempered with the fear that Aunt Charlotte might discover them. But Aunt Charlotte was out, and at that time of the year the river was deserted. The copse at the bottom of the garden shielded them from the house and the lane. Their meeting could not have been more private.
‘When do we get married, darling?’ she asked. She felt warm and content inside. She no longer doubted his love, was even beginning to wonder if she had not minimized her own.
‘What maidenly immodesty!’ Desmond said. And then, becoming serious, ‘Aunt Charlotte goes on Thursday, doesn’t she? Let’s make it the day after, then. The Friday. It’ll be easier with her out of the way.’
‘Nearly a whole week to go.’ Elizabeth sighed. Friday seemed aeons away, and having made a momentous decision she was impatient to implement it. ‘I doubt if I can wait that long.’
‘Say, what is this? You don’t have to get married, do you?’ He laughed at her angry protest. ‘Okay, okay; I believe you. But a week isn’t long, darling, and a wedding can’t be fixed up overnight. I’m not sure how long it takes to get a licence, but I imagine you can’t just walk into the office, plonk your money on the counter, and depart fully equipped for marriage. And you ought to have a ring. You won’t be able to wear it publicly, I suppose, but you’ll need one for the ceremony.’
‘Yes.’ She smiled up at him happily. ‘Don’t worry, darling — I’ll wait months if necessary. But I hope it won’t be. After last night —’
She paused. Last night was best forgotten.
‘I meant to ask you about that,’ he said. ‘What happened when you got in? More aunt trouble?’
‘Yes. On the same lines as usual, but more intense, more — more unpleasant. Or perhaps it was just an accumulation of straw.’ She put her arm through his, unwilling to discuss it. Desmond believed — they all believed — that it was Aunt Charlotte’s anger, not her affection, that was the trouble between them. She did not want to disillusion him now. ‘Where will we be married?’
‘Well, I had thought of Tanbury Cathedral, with Aunt Charlotte as the principal bridesmaid. No? It will have to be a registry office, then.’
‘In Tanbury?’
‘Yes.’
Arm in arm, they walked slowly along the river bank. Elizabeth was pondering on what she should wear for the wedding. At least she had a decent wardrobe; Aunt Charlotte had not been mean over clothes, although she always insisted on a say in their selection. Should it be the grey costume or the green? The grey suited her better, she thought; but Desmond had seen her in that, she had worn it only the previous evening. As for undies . . .
Elizabeth found herself blushing. She squeezed Desmond’s arm.
‘We shan’t be able to have a proper honeymoon,’ she said, ‘but at least we shan’t have to share it with Aunt Charlotte. Only the Greens.’
‘A cheering thought.’ Suddenly he stopped. ‘I say, how about that little plot we were hatching last night? Is it all right to go ahead with it? This doesn’t change anything?’
‘Why should it?’ She was so happy herself that it would have seemed mean to curb the fun of others. ‘Only don’t expect me to take much interest in it; I’ve other things to think about now. And for goodness’ sake don’t let it get out of hand, Desmond. You know what Michael is.’
‘I’ll keep an eye on him,’ he promised. ‘When I remember, that is. I too have other interests.’
‘Such as what?’
He showed her. Presently Elizabeth came up for air and looked at her watch. ‘I’d better get back,’ she said. ‘Aunt Charlotte will be home soon. Help me over the fence, darling, and I’ll go up through the garden. I don’t want Green to see us together; I think she’s paying him and his wife to spy on me.’
‘And when do we two meet again?’ he asked, kissing her.
‘I don’t know. I’ll phone you, shall I? But I’m not taking any risks between now and Thursday. I shan’t feel safe until I’ve seen her into that taxi and I know she really has gone.’
As she emerged from the copse at the bottom of the garden she saw Green, bent over his spade on one of the beds bordering the path up to the house. He straightened when he saw her, and stood watching her approach.
‘Good morning.’ Elizabeth tried to sound casual and friendly. She disliked the man — he was often surly, and treated her with scant respect; perhaps he despised her for letting her aunt tyrannize over her — but since he and his wife were to be her gaolers she had no wish to fall out with him. ‘The undergrowth is terribly thick down there. I’ve laddered both my stockings.’
The man nodded.
‘I’ll get around to it,’ he said, unsmiling. ‘This here garden’s too big for one man to keep ship-shape. And what for would you be walking there, anyways? Ain’t nothing to see.’
‘I know. Stupid of me.’
It had not been a happy remark, she realised. She began to admire the chrysanthemums, hoping to please him. But he did not respond to her friendliness. He looked at her suspiciously, as though mistrusting her praise — as well he might, thought Elizabeth, for they did not deserve it.
A black Wolseley saloon came up the lane from the river. Green followed it with his eyes until it disappeared behind the house. ‘That’s young Mr Farrel’s car,’ he said, turning to look at her. ‘What would he be doing down by the ford at this time o’ year, I wonder?’
Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders, inwardly cursing Desmond for being so precipitate in his departure.
‘Goodness knows,’ she said lightly. ‘Fishing, perhaps.’
‘Fishing? Fishing for what, miss?’
‘Fish,’ she felt tempted to reply. But she mistrusted the tone of his voice and the look on his face. It was time to close the conversation, she decided.
But when she turned away he stopped her. ‘Me and the missus will be moving into the house next Thursday,’ he said. ‘While your aunt’s away. You know about that?’
‘Yes. I hope it won’t be too inconvenient for you both.’
‘We’ll manage.’ Once more he turned to stare in the direction in which the car had vanished. ‘But there’s things we’d fixed to do. I was wondering how it’d be if we was to take a few afternoons off. And evenings, maybe.’
Elizabeth stared at his back. Blackmail, she thought; he knows I was with Desmond. Did he see us, or did he just guess?
‘I think that could be arranged,’ she said slowly. It was hateful to let him get away with it, but at least it would suit her own plans. The less
she saw of the Greens the better.
‘Thank you, miss. I — er — well, it didn’t seem necessary to mention it to your aunt, seeing as she won’t be here.’
‘No, of course. I quite understand.’
A faint and fleeting smile appeared on the man’s face.
‘I thought you would, miss,’ he said.
Chapter Three
Goodbye, Aunt Charlotte!
The door-bell rang as Valerie was putting her four-year-old son to bed. She swiftly tucked in the bedclothes, looked in the mirror to ensure that her hair was tidy, applied lipstick and powder, and, with a promise to Anthony that Mummy would be back in a few minutes, ran down the stairs. She was not expecting a visitor. Her next-door neighbour, a childless widow, often called around that time to join in the happy ritual of putting Anthony to bed. But never on a Thursday. Thursday was reserved for visiting her married sister.
A look of pleased surprise appeared on Valerie’s face as she opened the front door.
‘Elizabeth!’ she exclaimed, drawing her visitor into the hall and embracing her warmly. ‘What a lovely surprise! I don’t know what happy chance brought you out here, my dear, but I’m delighted to see you.’
Elizabeth returned the embrace. She seemed confused.
‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Didn’t you send for me?’
‘Send for you?’ They were in the sitting-room now. ‘No. Why should I?’
‘I don’t know. But I had a phone call saying you wanted to see me, that it was desperately important. So I came.’
‘You would, bless you.’ Valerie busied herself with a gin bottle. ‘But what an extraordinary thing! I always want to see you, Elizabeth, you know that; but I certainly didn’t ask you to come this evening. Who was it phoned?’
‘I don’t know. She didn’t say.’
‘It was a woman, then?’