Alone Beneath The Heaven

by Bradshaw, Rita

  ‘Are you free?’

  ‘Well yes, but—’

  ‘That’s settled then.’

  ‘No, really—’

  ‘Sarah.’ His voice was quiet now, soft and deep. ‘It would spoil my Christmas dinner to think of you eating a solitary meal all alone, so look on it as a favour to me. I don’t get to enjoy many meals without an interruption of some kind or other, so take pity on a poor starving man. All right?’

  There was a silence, and Rodney found he was holding his breath although he had no idea why, and then when her voice came quietly saying, ‘If you’re sure they won’t mind I’d love to come,’ he breathed out slowly, shutting his eyes for a brief moment.

  ‘Good, good.’ His voice was louder, jolly. ‘I’ve arranged for a locum over Christmas Day so I can definitely say I’ll pick you up at eleven. Is that all right?’

  ‘That would be lovely, thank you.’

  ‘Goodbye till then.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  Sarah found she was smiling as she put down the receiver, the other hand pressed against her chest where her heart was pounding. Christmas Day at his brother’s house? Christmas Day with Rodney? But then the smile dimmed. What was she going to wear? A chill of reality caused her to sit up straighter. Oh, why hadn’t she thought of that before? If it was going to be a party everyone would be in their best bib and tucker, and she had nothing remotely suitable. And the people who would be there, they were bound to be the bridge club and musical soirée type, the social élite of Windsor.

  Not that she wasn’t familiar with such as they - Mrs Roberts had chosen her circle of friends carefully from only the most influential of Sunderland’s upper class, and she knew the chatter that went on at dos like this one and how to conduct herself - but she had only seen it all from the other side, so to speak. She would have absolutely nothing in common with any of them.

  She was sitting on a very lovely reproduction Louis XV chair, and now, as she raised her gaze and glanced from one exquisite piece of furniture to another, her mind was racing. This was their world, not hers - she was a housekeeper, for goodness’ sake. She hadn’t been born with a bronze, let alone a silver, spoon in her mouth.

  But he had wanted her there. The thought crept in, driving away the chill of panic. He needn’t have phoned her, after all; he had thought about it and then asked her. But . . . she glanced down at the neat practical dress she had on, which was another of Rebecca’s efforts, him wanting her there didn’t solve the problem of what she was going to wear.

  Rodney, too, was sitting quite still in his big leather seat behind his desk at the surgery, ignoring the fact that his evening surgery still hadn’t finished, and that Mrs Price would be on the war path if he delayed much longer. When he ran late, it was his long-suffering housekeeper-cum-receptionist who was first in the line of fire from irate patients. But the conversation with Sarah had bothered him more than a bit, he admitted to himself.

  He had been amazed that a young girl like her wanted to take on what he knew was the hard job of voluntary work at a hospital. She should be out, having fun. That’s what girls of her age did, wasn’t it? But then, Sarah wasn’t any girl; she was far from being just any girl. He shook his head, his brow furrowing. Damn it all, he didn’t know where he was with all this, how he felt, anything. He hadn’t felt so perturbed for years. Mind you, all that last night hadn’t helped. His mind ran back over the scene with Vanessa and his brother.

  ‘Don’t be silly, old man, of course you must bring the girl to lunch.’ Richard had turned to Vanessa, who had been standing just within the open doorway of the sitting room, but without waiting for her confirmation had swung back to face him again as he’d said, ‘And you say she was a patient of yours many moons ago?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’ Rodney had been standing with his back to the gas fire, set in an ivory marble-tiled fireplace, as he had spoken. ‘Well, more than a manner of speaking I suppose, but she was just a child then.’ He had been very conscious of Vanessa’s stillness as she had watched him from across the room, but he hadn’t glanced her way. ‘Sarah moved down to London from Sunderland in October, and I bumped into her when I was visiting a patient.’

  ‘It’s a small world.’ Vanessa had spoken for the first time, her voice cool.

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘You get on the phone tomorrow and tell her we’d be delighted to see her.’ Richard’s voice had carried the hearty note which was always present when his wife was around. ‘We wouldn’t hear of her dining alone on Christmas Day, would we, Vee?’

  ‘Heaven forbid.’ The voice was languid, but as Rodney looked at Vanessa for the first time her chin jerked slightly, and the small, virtually undetectable sign of annoyance told him she was angry. ‘Although the girl might feel a little uncomfortable not knowing anyone.’

  ‘She’ll have Rodney to look after her.’

  ‘Yes.’ Ice tinkled in the one short word. ‘Do we know her people?’

  ‘Her people?’ Rodney had answered Richard’s silent gesture at the drinks cabinet and the open bottle of whisky with a nod of his head, before adding, ‘I shouldn’t think so, Vanessa.’

  ‘No? What’s her surname?’

  ‘Brown.’

  ‘Brown . . . Well, there are the Chadford Browns, they’re from the north originally I understand. And the Major, doesn’t he have family in that area, Richard? We must ask him—’

  ‘I’ve told you, you wouldn’t know Sarah’s family.’ She was going to play up, but he’d expected that, hadn’t he. The doctor in him knew she was as taut as piano wire most of the time, and perhaps he had been naive to suggest bringing another woman onto her territory? Because that was how she would view it.

  But he had had no choice. The alternative of leaving Sarah to eat alone was unthinkable, and if he’d suggested that he take her out, or that she dine at his home, Richard would have insisted they come here. He knew his brother.

  ‘I’ll ask the Major anyway, he’s a positive fount of knowledge.’

  ‘Get this down you, Rod.’ He’d caught the glance, heavy with warning, that Richard had thrown at his wife, but Vanessa had just tossed her head, coming fully into the room and saying, ‘I’ll have a gin and tonic, Richard. So, how old is this little long-lost friend of yours?’

  There were times when he really did wonder if he’d end up throttling her, Rodney thought now, as he recalled how Vanessa had draped herself over his arm, her bosom pushed against his chest, as she’d asked the question. What was the name of that new Tennessee Williams play that was causing such a furore in New York, and being held up as so controversial? A Streetcar Named Desire. That was it. He’d heard two of the more straitlaced members of his club discussing it only the day before, tut-tutting over their brandies. Well, he could have told those two old codgers a thing or two about real life that would have made their hair curl.

  ‘Dr Mallard?’ Mrs Price was making no effort to hide her indignation as she knocked and then popped her head round the door. ‘Mr Parsons has been waiting fifteen minutes now.’

  ‘Give me a minute, and then show him in, Mrs Price.’

  Once the door shut, with something that almost verged on a bang, Rodney’s eyes narrowed as he thought again of Vanessa’s behaviour the night before.

  She’d pushed and pushed about that name business, like a hound scenting the smell of blood, and it had only been when Richard had said, his voice unusually sharp, ‘Don’t harp on, woman, for crying out loud. He’s come here for a meal, not an inquisition,’ that she’d left it alone. It might have been just another uncomfortable evening if Richard hadn’t been called to the telephone a few minutes later. He had left to take the call in his study, and Vanessa had risen from her seat on the other side of the room with Richard’s departure, strolling to the chair her husband had just vacated opposite Rodney, and after seating herself, staring silently into the glow of the gas fire.

  He had glanced at her once when she had sat down, a polite loo
k and nothing more, but when she didn’t return the gesture and her face remained straight, he’d let his eyes drop to the whisky glass, swirling the amber liquid round and round as the silence had lengthened. This was an old tack, and one which he knew well. Vanessa was quite capable of keeping it up all night, and had done so on more than one occasion when he had annoyed her.

  But then she had completely surprised him, causing his heart to thud with the unpleasantness of confrontation, when she’d said, ‘Why are you doing this to me, Rodney?’

  ‘What?’

  She had turned her head to face him then, letting her blue eyes travel all over his face before she spoke. ‘You know what I mean. Why are you bringing this girl home?’

  It had been for all the world as though she were the injured wife addressing a husband who was intent on flaunting his mistress, and his voice had reflected his rejection of such a notion when he’d said, ‘She is a friend of mine, Vanessa, and as such I thought she would be welcome in my brother’s house. Is that really so surprising?’

  ‘Yes, and you know it.’

  ‘I know nothing of the sort.’ It had been bound to come into the open one day, but he hadn’t expected it then, that minute. What had made yesterday evening any different to the hundreds that had gone before it?

  The answer was clear, spearing his conscience as a voice in his head cried, You know what made it different so don’t give me that. You’d never suggested bringing a woman along before, and you’d got a pretty good idea how she’d take it, now then. Was he using Sarah; using her because he had reached the end of the road with Vanessa but wasn’t man enough to say it as it was? No. The denial was immediate. Whatever else, it wasn’t that. He had told Vanessa often enough in the past, both verbally and in a hundred unspoken ways, that he would never bed her again. And he had liked the idea of being with Sarah on Christmas Day.

  But Vanessa hadn’t liked it. ‘I’m warning you, Rodney, I won’t stand for this. You’ll regret it.’ Her eyes had been blazing, her mouth a thin white line. ‘I suppose you’re sleeping with her, that’s it, isn’t it? And you think you can flaunt your little northern strumpet in front of me.’

  Something in his face had altered both her countenance and her voice with one of the mercurial changes she did so well, and when her head had lowered and her voice had trembled as she’d said, ‘Rodney, Rodney, please. I can’t bear it when we fight,’ he’d felt his stomach muscles tighten and contract. The raw silk of her hair had swung across her cheeks, hiding her face but exposing the pure line of her neck, and her shoulders had been bowed as though with an inexpressible weight. It was a classic pose of wounded femininity, and one which Vanessa did to perfection, but somehow, over the last few weeks, he had recognized it wasn’t real.

  He had drawn breath deeply and silently into his nose, breathing out heavily, before saying, ‘It won’t wash, Vanessa, so save the dramatics for someone who will appreciate them. Sarah is either coming here or I’ll take her elsewhere, so make your decision quickly. Richard will be back in a moment.’

  ‘Oh, Richard.’ The contempt had been scathing. ‘Do you think I care about that gargoyle?’ And then, as she raised her head, ‘Oh I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. Don’t look at me like that.’

  She would have flung herself at him but he’d risen quickly, warding her off with an outstretched palm as he’d said, his voice thick, ‘I could kill you, Vanessa. Do you know that?’

  He had gone to the bathroom, not trusting himself to stay in the room with her a moment longer, and how long he’d stayed in the pink and white surroundings he didn’t know. It had been long enough to convince Richard, when he eventually rejoined him and Vanessa, that he was unwell anyway, and he’d left immediately.

  Gargoyle. By all that was holy. Gargoyle. He couldn’t get the word out of his mind. No man deserved that, least of all Richard. When he thought about the countless skin grafts his brother had endured, the pain he still suffered . . .

  The knock on the door informed him Mr Parsons was outside, but it was a moment or two before he could compose himself enough to call out, ‘Come in.’

  Gargoyle . . . It had been bad enough her suggesting, and within days of Richard’s return home after that first time in the hospital, that he take on a locum for the ‘nervous’ patients. He hadn’t been able to believe it when Richard had told him, and although it had happened a year or so earlier, when he was still in the camp, he’d tackled her about it as soon as he’d known. She’d denied it, and stood her ground, but he’d known she was lying. But gargoyle . . .

  Sarah was still sitting in the drawing room in a state of quiet panic when the telephone rang some minutes later, and she took a deep breath before she picked it up and said, ‘Lady Harris’s residence, how may I help you?’

  ‘Sarah?’ It was Lady Margaret’s voice. ‘I’m just ringing to make sure everything is all right. Lady Harris would have done so but she’s confined to bed with a slight chill.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Lady Margaret.’ Sarah paused. ‘Yes, everything is quite all right.’

  ‘Are you sure? You sound a little strange.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘You haven’t had any visitors?’ Sarah realized Lady Margaret was thinking of her husband, and to put her mind at rest she decided to tell her the truth. She had grown close enough to the older woman over the last few weeks to be able to do so without embarrassment.

  Lady Margaret listened in silence, and then, as Sarah finished speaking, she said, ‘Sarah, I know of few young women who could carry themselves in any type of company, but you are one of them. There are some things that are classless, my dear, and natural dignity and propriety is one of them. I’m quite sure Dr Mallard recognizes that, which is why he knows you will not be out of place in the company of his family and friends. As for your outfit, that is not a problem. I have several dresses which would lend themselves to the sort of function you’ve described. Of course you would need to make a few alterations here and there, but that shouldn’t take too long. Now, let me tell you where to find them . . .’

  Once Sarah had put down the telephone she flew upstairs and into Lady Margaret’s quarters, opening the large oak wardrobe with eager hands. There were four dresses Lady Margaret had suggested might be suitable, each one plain and simple but with an expert cut that spoke of unlimited wealth.

  Sarah laid them out one by one on Lady Margaret’s four-poster bed, but she knew the one she wanted even before she tried them on. The light dove grey suit, its lapels edged in a darker shade of thin satin, turned her skin to thick cream and darkened the blue of her eyes to midnight, and it came with a wonderful long thin silk scarf in muted shades ranging from gunmetal grey through to the palest ivory. It was gorgeous, gorgeous, and she twirled and pirouetted in front of the mirror for half an hour before she could bear to take it all off, trying various hairstyles to see which looked best. The jacket was a little tight over the bust, but she could soon let the seams out, she thought excitedly, and the softly pleated skirt that hung just below her calves would need taking up an inch or so, but again, nothing she couldn’t handle. Oh she did look different, she couldn’t believe it, and she’d wear her hair up in thick waves and curls on the top of her head, and Lady Margaret had said she might borrow her string of pearls which was in her dressing-table drawer.

  It was going to be a lovely Christmas, a lovely, lovely Christmas. She hugged herself tightly. It was nearly Christmas Eve, and then the next morning Rodney would call for her and see her all dressed up . . . Oh, she couldn’t wait!

  She danced out of the bedroom, the suit and scarf over her arm, and then became aware she was grinning broadly at nothing. Eileen would think she’d gone mad. She drew her bottom lip into her mouth and pressed down hard with her teeth. She couldn’t afford to let Eileen see her as anything other than the controlled Miss Brown she had come to know wouldn’t take any nonsense. She had to chivvy the girl along every moment as it was, and last night they hadn
’t eaten till gone nine because she had left the maid in charge of preparing their dinner. In fact, she’d better check on her this minute else it would be the same story again tonight.

  She took the suit up to her room, laying it on the bed with reverential care, then hurried downstairs to the kitchen, her heart still beating a tattoo of excitement. A bubble of laughter escaped her throat again before she gritted her teeth, composed her face, and opened the kitchen door to see Eileen peeling enough spuds for ten.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘Christmas Eve tomorrow, Florrie.’ Rebecca grinned at Florrie as she watched the older woman take their dinner - finny-haddie and baked potatoes, Maggie’s favourite - out of the big oven in the old-fashioned black range. The oven was a bone of contention with Florrie. She kept it spotless herself, but the family upstairs, with whom they shared the kitchen, were less particular, and invariably Florrie had to clean it before she felt happy to use it. Personally she didn’t care about a bit of grease or mess, Rebecca thought now, as Florrie smiled back at her with an, ‘Oh you, you’re worse than a bairn the night,’ and carried on dishing up the meal.