by Simon Brett
When she had packed her suitcase, she laid out her travelling clothes. Once again she homed in on the black ensemble she had worn for her shopping expedition. And she was going to need gloves, no question about that. All right, if they had to be worn, she would jolly well make a feature of them. She took a pair of elbow-length black gloves out of a drawer. They struck her as wonderfully dramatic, a touch of chic, accessories for a femme fatale from a forties Hollywood movie.
When her wardrobe was complete, she went downstairs to put the final touches to the weekend’s food. Most of it had been prepared well in advance and deposited in the freezer – leek and potato soup, a lasagne, a chicken curry. She would buy fresh vegetables for interesting salads on the Friday. She had also made sweets, a galette, Dutch apple tart, hazelnut meringue. While wishing to demonstrate to Bernard how natural she was, she did not intend to miss another opportunity of showing off her domestic skills.
Finally, she chose some books to take with her for the weekend. Just one or two, casually picked out, things she just happened to be reading or rereading at the time. After half an hour of browsing, she settled on Wuthering Heights, the Everyman edition of Webster and Turner’s Selected Plays and The Poems of Emily Dickinson. The selection seemed appropriately random.
She decided to put the books in the brief-case that she took to work. She would take that along with her. It seemed right to stress the seriousness with which she approached her teaching, and the brief-case, with its jumble of notes, essays, books and other oddments, was an excellent expression of her essentially feminine intelligence.
Madeleine woke early on the Friday morning, fluttery with anticipation. She put clean sheets on the double-bed in the spare room in preparation for Laura and Terry. Then she checked through her packing again.
She had had minimal contact with Bernard during the last week. Now the tryst was established, they did not need to risk unnecessary communication. Madeleine was increasingly aware of the shadowy presence of Shirley Hopkins.
Bernard had told Madeleine his alibi. So far as his wife was concerned, he was at a weekend conference on language teaching at a London hotel. He did not seem worried about the subterfuge. But what, Madeleine had asked, if his wife should ring the hotel to contact him? There was no danger of that, he said. Shirley was going to her mother’s for the weekend. It would be all right.
As the assignation approached, Bernard’s confidence seemed to grow. His certainty, on the few occasions they spoke, comforted Madeleine, and allayed her own misgivings.
She had a class at the Garrettway on the Friday morning. Paul Grigson in for a revision session on romantic poetry, to see, as the date of the Oxford entrance examinations approached, whether he had taken in any of the stuff she had been teaching him over the last few weeks. The answer seemed to be that he had assimilated little. His concentration was bad, he was unable to recall the simplest details of what they had covered, and he was tongue-tied when she questioned him.
Madeleine also noticed that the boy looked a mess. There was a grubbiness about him. His shirt collar was wrinkled with dirt and he needed a shave. On another occasion Madeleine might have asked if anything was the matter, might have shown again her wonderful understanding of young people, and re-established the mother-and-child intimacy which she and the boy had previously achieved. But she was too preoccupied that morning to have sympathy to share.
At the end of the class she set two subjects for revision essays and, gathering her papers, hurried out of the room before him.
So she did not see the expression of pain, disappointment and fury with which the boy’s eyes followed her.
Madeleine picked up a couple of rolls from the wholefood shop and set off on the route she normally took when in an emotional state. Walks along the sea-front were always her recourse in times of stress.
It was surprisingly warm for November. The watery sunlight glowed on her cheeks and made her feel immediately better. The forecast had been good; it would be a fine weekend. That seemed propitious. As she walked along the front, her confidence returned.
She was special, a woman with a secret. The people who walked past her did not give her a second glance. They did not know that she was about to spend a weekend with her lover, they did not know the strength of passion within her. She was Madeleine Severn, whose beauty could drive men mad.
She felt a new reality about herself, as if she were suddenly part of everything she had ever read. She and Bernard would match the greatest lovers of fiction. They would be together for ever. She would bear his child.
The thought settled her. Her customary sense of wellbeing returned, and Madeleine Severn felt it glowing around her like an aura as she walked along the Brighton front.
‘I’m very glad’, Aggie whispered to her sister over a cup of tea in the kitchen, ‘that Laura’s spending the weekend with you.’
‘Nice for me too,’ said Madeleine with a diplomatic smile.
‘At least at weekends I know she can’t be with this man.’
‘The boyfriend?’
‘Yes. He’s not around at weekends, thank goodness.’
‘Why do you disapprove of him so strongly?’
‘Oh, I don’t disapprove of him that much. There’s nothing really wrong with him. It’s just that he’s too old, and Laura’s too young.’ Aggie avoided her sister’s eyes as she said this. Both of them knew they were thinking back to what had happened to her when she was seventeen.
‘Laura has to grow up sometime,’ Madeleine suggested gently. She was back on an even keel now; she had sympathy and wisdom once again to share with the world.
‘But not yet,’ insisted Aggie. Madeleine shrugged. ‘Yes, I know it has to happen. I know I’m being a clinging mother. I just. . .’ But she couldn’t define what she was trying to say. ‘Anyway, I’m glad she’s going to be with you. If you get a chance to talk a little sense into her. . .’
‘I’ll do what I can,’ said Madeleine in a worldly-wise voice that implied she was not very optimistic of success. Fully aware of her duplicity as she spoke, and receiving a sense of power from it, she continued, ‘What are you and Keith doing over the weekend?’
‘Oh, not a lot. The other two are staying with friends. Be nice for us to have the house to ourselves for a change.’ Mindful of Laura’s analysis of Keith and Aggies’ marriage, Madeleine had a clear idea of how they might use this unaccustomed privacy, but she put the thought from her mind. Some things she preferred not to think about, and the idea that there was any comparison between Keith and Aggie’s activities and what was to take place between Bernard and herself that night at Winter Jasmine Cottage was distasteful to her.
At that point Laura came downstairs, changed from work and carrying a small overnight case. It did not occur to her mother that the girl was perhaps overdressed and overperfumed for a weekend with her aunt.
As goodbyes were being said, Madeleine took her niece’s hand and, again delighting in the deception, began to catalogue all the nice things that the two of them were going to do over the weekend. Laura found this detail excessive, but played along.
Keith was sitting in the front room, reading, as he had been for the past half-hour, a copy of the Sun. Madeleine restrained herself, as she always had to, from asking how anyone could spend more than five minutes on that newspaper, and said goodbye.
Keith nodded awkwardly and, without getting up from the sofa (as Madeleine knew Bernard would have done), mumbled, ‘Cheerio.’
As they walked through the darkness to Madeleine’s green Renault 5, she hissed to her niece, ‘See. No problem.’
‘No,’ said Laura, with less certainty.
‘Something wrong? Are you worried about deceiving them?’
Laura dismissed that idea with a toss of her head. ‘No, it’s Terry. I told you he goes back to Worcester at weekends.’
‘You mean he can’t come?’
‘No, he’s coming, but just for tonight. His Mum’s had a bit of a setback, so he�
��s got to drive up to Worcester in the morning.’
‘Oh. Well, at least you’ll have tonight.’
Laura nodded ruefully. ‘Yes.’ Then, remembering that she hoped the weekend’s exercise was going to set a precedent, she quickly added, ‘Please don’t think I’m ungrateful for what you’re doing. I was only thinking, I’m going to be just stuck in the house on my own most of the weekend. Unless you’re going to be back earlier. . .?’
Madeleine shook her head. ‘Sunday evening.’
‘Are you going to tell me now where you’re going?’ asked Laura, teasing.
‘We all have our secrets,’ replied Madeleine enigmatically.
They got into the car and set off. It was dark and there was quite a lot of traffic about, so they did not notice the parked Mini which came to life as they left and followed them down to the other end of town.
Madeleine was very solicitous to Laura when they reached the house. She showed her the spare bed with its clean sheets and then, downstairs, opened the freezer to reveal the food for Laura and Terrys’ weekend.
Laura was touchingly grateful for her aunt’s generosity, and Madeleine received a thrill from being thanked as Pandarus by someone unaware that her true role for the weekend was that of Cressida. Romantic intrigue, she decided, suited her.
Just before seven, she announced that she must go. Terry was expected round half-past, and Madeleine said she didn’t want to be around when he arrived. ‘I’m sure you’d rather just be the two of you.’
Laura, lying, denied this.
Madeleine picked up a small flight-bag, kissed her niece tenderly, and said goodbye.
Laura looked up mischievously, and tried once again. ‘So I still don’t get to find out where you’re going?’
‘I’, said Madeleine, ‘am going nowhere. I am staying here alone with you, Laura. Just as you are staying here alone with me.’ She opened her eyes wide to an expression of mock-innocence. ‘And if anyone asks either of us about this weekend, that’s what we tell them.’
Madeleine was still dressed in her normal clothes when she left the house. Her ‘disguise’ was in the flight-bag.
She got into the Renault 5 and drove up to park near the Garrettway School of Languages. As a trusted member of staff, she had a key to the building, and let herself in. She did not notice the Mini which was parking a little way up the street.
Once inside the school, Madeleine went to the ladies room, because it had a large mirror. There she took off her outer garments and tights, keeping on the new underwear which she had put on before going to collect Laura. She changed quickly into her black ensemble, then, checking in the mirror, pushed her hair back under the beret and put on the dark glasses. She kept on her ordinary driving-gloves over her raw hands; the moment for the forties-heroine look would come later. Folding up her everyday clothes, she put them in the flight-bag. One last look in the mirror, then she switched off the light and stepped out into the hall.
She had taken two steps when she heard the click of a key in the front-door lock.
She froze in the darkness. The door opened, spilling a slice of light from the streetlamps. It opened further to outline the figure of a man. His hand reached to the light-switch.
Madeleine blinked in the sudden brightness, as she heard a familiar voice demand, ‘Who the hell are you? What are you doing here?’
It was Julian Garrett. Behind him stood a blonde girl in her late teens.
There was nothing for it. Madeleine had to take the glasses and beret off. ‘It’s only me, Julian. I left some papers that I needed over the weekend.’
He looked at her ironically, taking in her unusual costume. But he didn’t challenge her, just said in a tone that implied complicity in their lies, ‘I was coming in to give this young lady a tutorial.’
‘Ah. Well, I’ve got my stuff, so I’d better be off’ said Madeleine.
Julian stood aside and, with a sardonic smile on his lips, watched her out of the building.
Madeleine felt only a little flustered as she got into her car. Meeting Julian had been unfortunate, but not disastrous. He might suspect that she was up to something, but he would never guess what.
She switched on the interior light and readjusted the beret in the rear-view mirror. She discarded the glasses when she found she could hardly see anything in the dark. Even without them, she felt confident of her disguise.
It didn’t occur to her that the disguise was pretty useless as long as she was driving her own car.
And it certainly didn’t occur to her that lights of the car which followed her Renault all the way to Pulborough belonged to a Mini driven by one of her pupils.
Chapter 18
Paul had bought a half-bottle of whisky and kept swigging at it to calm the trembling in his body. After a time the alcohol made him feel detached, as though he were floating a few feet in the air above the Mini. He no longer worried about his driving; he was in control – in fact, he was driving better than he usually did. The drink had dissolved his inhibitions.
He kept about five car-lengths behind the green Renault. Every now and then another car passed him and intervened between them, but Madeleine was not driving fast, so she too was quickly overtaken and their proximity restored. Paul was not worried that she might notice she was being tailed. He felt reckless now. If she realised what was happening, then she realised. It didn’t matter. The fact that he was driving illegally didn’t matter either. The only thing that mattered was that he would be with Madeleine that night.
After the confusion and wild, alarming images of the previous days, Paul’s fantasies had now crystallised into an unchanging picture. Its details were still obscure, but the outline was clear. Bernard and Madeleine had arranged to spend the weekend together at Winter Jasmine Cottage, but Bernard was not going to make it. Paul would take his place. Madeleine did not love Bernard. She loved Paul, and she must be made to realise that. And she only would realise it when Bernard was out of the way. Then she would recognise her true feelings. They would fall into each other’s arms. They would go to bed together. She would be very gentle, and the great burden would be lifted from him. Thereafter they would never part.
Paul felt the car pulling towards the verge and took another swig from the whisky-bottle to steady himself. He blinked, but the tail-lights of the green Renault were still ahead of him.
It was all easy, and it would continue to be easy. Even if he lost sight of Madeleine’s car, it would not matter. He knew where she was going. If he had to, he would find Winter Jasmine Cottage without her guidance. Nothing could change what was going to happen. He gripped the steering-wheel fiercely, forcing himself to concentrate on his driving.
And he felt the comforting hardness of the bone-handled sheath-knife on his belt pressing against the back of the car-seat.
Chapter 19
Bernard had had a class with his Italians until six, and after that he did not travel directly from Brighton to Winter Jasmine Cottage. It was a little out of his way, but he had decided to go there via his home in Henfield. He had left some champagne in the fridge and there were a few other bits and pieces he wanted to collect.
He knew the house would be empty when he got there, and he was whistling as he parked the Austin Maxi and let himself in. He felt confident now; his guilts and anxieties had dissipated as the weekend drew nearer. He was doing the right thing. Madeleine was the right person and he was behaving in the only way possible for him.
First he went out to the garden shed where some red roses were standing in a bucket of water. He shook the moisture off their stems and carefully replaced the cellophane packaging in which he had bought them earlier in the day. He wondered whether there would be a vase at the cottage and, deciding it would be better to be safe than sorry, looked out the old cut-glass one his mother had always used as a centre-piece for the dinner-table.
His suitcase was already packed and he took it out from under the bed. Still whistling, he went into the bathroom to pre
pare his toilet kit. He felt his chin and decided that he would do better to shave again. When he had finished, he massaged some after-shave onto the smooth skin and packed his shaving tackle. He looked at his face in the mirror. The brown eyes that returned his stare were mature, confident, and loved.
In the bedroom he opened the top drawer of the dressing-table. He moved back a pile of underwear to reveal a couple of old packets of Durex which had been there for some time. He hesitated briefly, before making his decision and putting the packets into his toilet kit. He unzipped the top of his case and put in the toilet kit. Then he took the case downstairs.
In the kitchen he took out some old newspapers from the cupboard where they were kept and wrapped them round the two bottles of champagne he had taken out of the fridge. There were another four bottles in the car, but those would have plenty of time to chill at Winter Jasmine Cottage. He had checked with Mrs Waterstone that there was a fridge. It was only for dinner that evening that he needed the cold ones. He secured the newspapers round the bottles with thick rubber bands.
He stood still for a minute and went through a mental check-list of all the things that he had needed to do before leaving. Yes, all the details seemed to have been covered.
All except one. He had one more thing to do and then he could set off, the third fantasy converging on the reality of Winter Jasmine Cottage.
Chapter 20
Madeleine did not notice the police car drawn up at the roadside just outside Pulborough. She was a prudent driver who always kept within speed limits, so the police held no fears for her, anyway. As the Renault approached the town’s thirty-mile-an-hour limit, she slowed down, a fact that the two constables in the Rover noted with approval. But they took little notice of her; law-abiding drivers held no interest for them.