by Anne Mather
Vincent gave a grunt. ‘He’s been in rougher states than that, Helen. We were in Vietnam together, and believe me, getting soaked to the skin was the least of our worries.’ He sighed. ‘It’s not that.’
‘Then what is it?’ Helen was getting desperate. ‘Vince—’
‘Drink,’ he said flatly, heaving a breath. ‘Like alcoholic?’
‘Oh, God!’ Helen felt sick. ‘But how do you know—’
‘—it’s you?’ he finished for her, and she nodded her head, even though he couldn’t see her. ‘Well now, let’s see—would you believe, he told me?’
‘No.’
Helen was very definite about that and he sighed again. ‘Okay, so he didn’t tell me. But I know, Helen, believe me, I know!’
Helen bit painfully on her lower lip. ‘How can you be sure?’
‘Can’t you accept that I just am?’
‘Vincent—’
‘Aw hell!’ He sounded desperate. ‘He’ll never forgive me if I tell you!’
‘Need he know?’ she exclaimed.
‘Perhaps not.’ Vincent sounded uncertain now.
‘Vincent, please…’
Her voice was breaking, and as if he couldn’t stand any more, he said harshly: ‘Okay, okay. His father called me. He’d found my address and telephone number in Jarret’s wallet. I guess it was the first name he found. Anyway, he—well, he told me he was worried about Jarret, and did I know anyone by the name of Helen.’
‘My name,’ she breathed bewilderdly, and Vincent agreed.
‘He asked me if I’d go up and see him, and of course I went.’ He paused. ‘Jarret was there, and we talked, but—oh God! Helen, he looks bloody awful.’
‘Did—did he mention me?’
‘Only once.’ Vincent was reluctant to go on. ‘He—well, he asked if you were okay.’
‘And you told him.’
‘Yes.’
‘So—so far as Jarret is concerned, Charles and I are still engaged.’
‘Yes.’
Helen’s shoulders sagged. ‘What, then?’
‘Not a lot.’
‘But my name—’
‘When I was leaving,’ declared Vincent heavily. ‘The old man—you know, Jarret’s stepfather, he accompanied me out to the car. He—well, Jarret wasn’t dressed, and I guess he was glad of the opportunity to speak to me alone. That was when he told me.’
‘Told you what?’ Helen was getting desperate.
‘That Jarret has been saying your name, over and overagain. During the night—you know, keeping the old man awake.’
‘Oh, Vincent!’
‘I know. And if Jarret ever finds out I’ve told you—’
‘What—what’s his address?’ Helen’s fingers were too cold suddenly to hold the phone, but she fumbled for a pencil and took down directions in an unsteady hand.
‘Got it?’ asked Vincent at last, and she agreed.
‘Twenty-seven,’ she repeated, and then after a moment’s hesitation, she added: ‘Thanks, Vince. I—I don’t know what to say.’
‘Just don’t mess things up again,’ muttered Vincent gruffly, and rang off before she could say any more.
Her mother was not up when she left, but she left a message for her with Mrs Hetherington. ‘Just tell her I’ve gone to see Jarret. She’ll understand,’ she said carefully, and the housekeeper shook her head rather ruefully.
‘So long as you know what you’re doing,’ she murmured, and Helen paused a moment to hug her.
‘I love him,’ she said simply. ‘And if I can’t have him my way, I’ll have him his.’
* * *
It was a little after eleven when she crossed Vauxhall Bridge and began to follow the directions Vincent had given her. They were quite explicit, and in no time at all it seemed she was turning into Lambeth Terrace.
It was a row of Victorian houses, tall and narrow, each with its own narrow strip of garden and neatly painted front gate. Number twenty-seven was slightly less neat than the others, and she wondered why Jarret allowed his stepfather to live here when he obviously could afford so much better.
Parking the Alfasud, she looked up apprehensively at the curtained windows. There was no sign of life, and she wondered what she would do if no one answered the door. Somehow the journey had seemed less arduous with this goal in mind, but now she was here she was uncertain and not a little dismayed. What if Vincent was wrong? What if this was some cruel game he and Jarret were playing? That thought had never occ***urred to her, but now it did, and she knew the cowardly impulse to turn and drive away again.
The front door opening, however, gave her pause. An old man was emerging, closing the door behind him, and coming down the steep steps with a cautious surety that indicated a rheumatic condition. He looked suspiciously at the car and at Helen, and then, as if coming to a decision, he approached her.
‘Can I help you?’
Surprisingly his voice was strong and pleasant, and Helen responded instinctively, pushing open the car door and getting out without a second thought.
‘You must be—Jarret’s stepfather,’ she said, realising suddenly that she didn’t even know his name. ‘Er—I’m Helen.’
She knew at once that Vincent had not been lying to her. The old man’s gnarled features took on an expression of such relief that she guessed he had not really expected her to come.
‘Helen!’ he exclaimed, putting out his hand, and automatically she took it, exchanging the greeting with real warmth, as relieved as he was that she had not been mistaken. ‘Young Connaught spoke to you, then? He said he would.’
‘Yes,’ Helen nodded. ‘I spoke to Vince this morning. I—where is Jarret? Can I see him?’
‘That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?’ the old man asked dryly. ‘But I’m afraid he’s not up yet. I—er—I was just going along to the shop to get something for lunch. Will you stay and eat with us?’
Helen hesitated, glancing up at the house once more. ‘I—I don’t know,’ she ventured. ‘After I’ve seen Jarret…’
‘You may not see him until after lunch,’ his stepfather essayed. ‘You see, he doesn’t like me to waken him, and—’ He broke off apologetically, and Helen felt a sudden stirring of something akin to indignation.
‘You mean he stays in bed all morning?’ she exclaimed deploringly, and the old man sighed.
‘I think he—doesn’t see anything to get up for,’ he offered. ‘But when I get back—’
‘Don’t bother, I’ll deal with this myself,’ declared Helen, with a tight smile. ‘Is the door unlocked. Can I get in?’
‘Well, yes, but—’
‘Thank you.’
With another reassuring smile, Helen marched across the pavement and up the path to the house. The door was not locked as the old man had indicated, and she let herself inside before her nerve gave out on her.
She found herself in a narrow, gloomy hall, with doors opening on the right and stairs mounting to the first floor on the left. She guessed Jarret would be upstairs. The doors she could see would give access to a front room and a dining room and a kitchen, and upstairs she would find the bedrooms and the bathroom, if there was one.
Her knees shook a little as she climbed the stairs. It was all very well telling herself that Jarret needed her, but nothing could alter the fact that he hadn’t asked her to come. What if he refused to speak to her? How far was she prepared to go to persuade him that she no longer cared about anything but being with him?
There were two bedrooms, she discovered. The first, overlooking the street, was unoccupied. The other, at the back of the house, was Jarret’s. Pushing open the door, her nostrils were at once assailed by the unpleasant odour of sour alcohol, and her appalled gaze took in the overturned bottles on the table beside the bed. Vincent had not been joking. No wonder he slept until lunchtime—he was probably unconscious.
The curtains were drawn, but it was a sunny morning, and the room was filled with a golden light that exposed the d
isordered bed and its occupant. Crossing the room to the windows to let in some fresh air, Helen could not prevent herself from halting beside the bed, and she looked down at the hunched figure with a helpless tightening of her stomach. It didn’t matter how debauched Jarret looked, he was still the man she loved, and the sight of his lean muscular body, only lightly covered by a cotton sheet, stirred her senses. He was slumped against the pillows, at least two days’ growth of beard on his chin, his hair a tangled silvery mess, but her heart went out to him, and almost irresistibly, her fingers touched the corded column of his throat.
He stirred. Perhaps he was slowly coming round from the drinking session he had indulged in the night before. Whatever the reason, his eyes flickered and an expression of paincrossed his face as the crippling results of the alcohol penetrated even his half-conscious brain.
‘I told you not to wake me, Paddy,’ he muttered, covering his eyes with one arm, and groaning as he rolled over on to his back. ‘What time is it? I can’t see the clock.’
‘It’s half past eleven,’ said Helen quietly, and instantly the concealing arm was withdrawn and Jarret’s pain-darkened pupils gazed disbelievingly up at her. Then, almost defensively, he rolled over on to his stomach, burying his face in the pillow and saying in a savage tone: ‘Who the hell let you in?’
Helen stood her ground. ‘I—I met your stepfather outside. He told me where you were.’
‘Then he had no right to do so,’ snapped Jarret angrily. ‘Get out of here, Helen. At least give me the chance to get some clothes on.’
Helen’s tongue appeared, to moisten her lips. ‘I’m not stopping you, am I?’ she ventured huskily, and with a stifled oath he rolled over to stare up at her once again.
Then, as if unwilling to believe what he could see, he clutched the sheet more closely around him. ‘Go home, little girl,’ he advised her harshly. ‘I don’t know what game it is you’re playing, but you’re crazy if you think you can come here and say things like that to me without provoking any retaliation.’
Helen shrugged, and adopting a casual manner she was far from feeling, she walked slowly across to the windows and drew back the curtains, leaning forward to thrust the windows wide. Jarret’s moan of protest drew her eyes back to the bed, however, and she realised the brilliance was even more painful to him, and with a grimace she drew the curtains once again, leaving them to billow in the breeze that surged into the stuffy room. Then she walked back to the bed, resting her fingers on the rail at the end, and watching him with provocative intentness.
‘Who told you where I was?’ he demanded, rolling on to his side and propping himself up on one elbow. ‘Lord, I need a drink!’
‘No, you don’t.’ Helen’s reaction was automatic, and moving swiftly round the bed, she removed the only bottle that had any liquor left in it out of his reach. But as sheswung away again, he caught a handful of her skirt between his fingers and yanked her back to the bed. She stood for a moment looking down at him, and then the bottle dropped heedlessly from her hand as he bent his head and raised the silky georgette to his lips.
‘Hell, why did you have to come and see me like this?’ he exclaimed roughly, and with a little cry she sank down on to the bed beside him.
‘I came because I wanted to. I—I love you,’ she breathed, staring at him with wide adoring eyes, and he came upright in a second, brows drawn together in a disbelieving scowl.
‘You don’t know what you’re saying,’ he muttered. ‘You’re going to marry Connaught. Vince told me—’
‘Vince doesn’t know anything about it,’ she whispered. ‘I broke my engagement to Charles three days ago!’
Jarret’s tongue moistened his dry lips. ‘The day after—after I left?’ he probed, and she nodded vigorously. ‘Then why in God’s name didn’t you let me know?’
Helen bent her head. ‘I didn’t know where you were. I didn’t know what your reaction would be!’
‘You didn’t know?’ he echoed incredulously, then, as if he couldn’t bear to go on talking to her in his present state, he raked back his hair with unsteady fingers. ‘I need a bath,’ he announced, glancing about him almost blankly. ‘Look, if you’ll get out of here, I’ll shave and get some clothes on. Then we can talk.’
Helen gazed at him anxiously. ‘Can’t we talk now?’ she persisted, half afraid she had come too late to convince him, and he looked at her almost angrily.
‘Not like this,’ he insisted, pushing her skirt away from him. ‘Paddy should have had more sense than to let you come up here!’
‘Paddy? That’s your stepfather?’
‘Patrick Horton, yes.’ Jarret nodded, and then winced as his head throbbed painfully.
‘He went to the shops,’ Helen offered, making no move to go. ‘He’s invited me for lunch.’
‘Has he?’ Jarret, who had been avoiding looking at her, was forced to an unwilling appraisal. ‘You’re honoured. He doesn’t usually approve of my girl-friends.’
Helen pressed her lips together. ‘Girl-friends?’ sheechoed pointedly. ‘Do you usually bring them here?’
Jarret sat cross-legged looking at her, one elbow propped on his knee, his knuckles supporting his head. ‘What do you think?’
Helen shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t know, would I?’ she ventured, and Jarret uttered a heavy sigh.
‘Will you let me get dressed?’ he demanded, indicating the sheet which was all that covered his lower limbs. ‘I promise we’ll talk when I feel less disreputable.’
‘Can you wait?’ she asked in a tense voice, but she got up from the bed as she spoke, and he was forced to tilt his head to look up at her. ‘You’re very cool, I must say,’ she added, and then, rather recklessly: ‘I’m not so naïve, you know. I do have a pretty good idea what a man looks like!’ and with this parting shot she marched towards the door.
She didn’t make it. Jarret caught her before she had covered half a dozen feet, hauling her back against him and making her ecstatically aware that he was not cool at all.
‘Helen,’ he groaned against her neck, his hands sliding up over her ribcage to the swelling fullness of her breasts. ‘I’m going to do this properly, however you taunt me. I’m going to take a bath, and shave, and put on some clean clothes, and then I’m going to make love to you…’
‘Isn’t that the wrong way about?’ she breathed, resting her head back against the smooth column of his throat, and his arms tightened. ‘Don’t we take our clothes off to make love?’
‘Honey, if I didn’t know Paddy was due back any minute now, I’d take you in the bath with me,’ he told her huskily. ‘As it is…’
With a determined effort he put her away from him, and she turned half wonderingly as he rummaged about in the dressing table drawers for some clean clothes. He knew her eyes were on him, but he didn’t respond to the invitation in hers. Instead he gathered shirt and pants and brushed past her, and presently she heard the sound of water running.
Wrapping her arms about herself, Helen wandered half dazedly about the room. Catching sight of her reflection in the dressing table mirror, she hardly recognised the hollow-eyed girl who had put on her clothes so anxiously thatmorning. Her lips were parted in expectation, and her eyes were shining, and as she drew her arms away she felt the curious aching feeling that thinking of Jarret always gave her. It was like a gnawing feeling inside, a need to feel him close to her, and the innocent awareness that only he could fill the emptiness that the aching void created.
She started half guiltily when the door was suddenly pushed wide and Jarret’s stepfather stood in the aperture. She sensed he had seen her involuntary awakening, but his smile was gentle as he said:
‘He’s up, then?’
Helen nodded, her cheeks a little pink as she walked away from the mirror. ‘He’s having a bath.’
‘Praise be!’ remarked Patrick Horton wryly. ‘You must have had a good effect on him. Jarret and water have not been bosom allies for days. Why don’t you come downstairs and w
ait for him? I’m sure he won’t evaporate in the steam.’
Helen hesitated. Then she agreed. ‘All right.’ She paused. ‘You didn’t mind my coming here, did you? I mean, Vincent said you wouldn’t.’
Patrick Horton shook his head as they descended the stairs, and then led the way into a sunlit kitchen at the back of the house. ‘I was only too relieved when Vince said he knew you. Until then I’d been at my wits’ end. I didn’t know any Helen, you see.’
Helen nodded. ‘I’m glad Vince phoned me. I’ve been so worried.’
Patrick arched his brows. ‘You have? But I understood Vince to say that—well, that you’re going to marry his brother. Is that true?’
‘It was,’ said Helen, rather shakily. ‘Until I met Jarret. and then I wasn’t sure any more.’
Patrick nodded, and she perched on the edge of the table as he filled the kettle and put it on the gas stove. He seemed quite domesticated, moving about, setting out cups and saucers, turning butter into a dish, and she wondered whether he missed his stepson when he stayed at his own apartment.
‘Do you live here alone, Mr Horton?’ she asked, when he turned to look at her again, and he nodded.
‘Ever since Jarret’s mother died, yes.’
Helen hesitated. ‘Haven’t you ever thought of moving?’
‘Moving?’ He frowned. ‘Moving where?’
‘Oh, well—’ Helen was embarrassed. ‘I only meant hadn’t you ever thought of—of getting a flat—’
‘—in an old people’s home, you mean?’ he exclaimed, and she was alarmed at his hostility. ‘I don’t need any warden to look after me. I have the phone, and good neighbours. That’s all I need.’
‘Oh, of course, I only meant—’ Helen broke off, and he seemed to realise he had been overly aggressive.
‘I know, I know,’ he grumbled, taking out the caddy and spooning the tea into the pot. ‘You mean well. Jarret means well. He’s always telling me I should let him get me a smaller place, with a bigger garden, but I’m quite happy here. This is my home, and this is where I’ll stay.’