by Anne Mather
Catherine looked beyond him to the street outside. But there was no Volvo parked at the kerb, and her breathing eased a little. 'But what are you doing here?' she protested. 'Aren't you supposed to be in school?' She hesitated. 'You haven't run away again, have you?'
'No!' Thomas was scornful. 'I wouldn't run away from here. I like this school. And I don't have to sleep there.'
'That means a lot to you?' Catherine raised her eyebrows.
'Yes.' Thomas pursed his lips. Then he sighed, looking around at the kaleidoscope of colour represented by the clothes that filled the long dress racks, and the small, circular displays. 'I like your shop, Miss Tempest. You sell some pretty clothes.'
Catherine chose her words with care. 'But what are you doing out of school?' she persisted gently. 'Is this your lunch hour? Are you supposed to leave the playground?'
'Oh…' Thomas expelled his breath noisily. 'No. We're not allowed to leave school until it's time to go home.'
'Then—'
'But school's over for today. For this week, actually.' He sighed. 'You know that awful storm we had last night? Well, it brought down the old elm tree near the school, and it crashed on to the roof.'
'Good lord!' Catherine was appalled, imagining the disaster that might have occurred had the children been in school at the time.
'Yes. Well, when Daddy brought me to school this morning —'
'Daddy brought you to school?'
'That's what I said,' Thomas nodded. 'Yes, when he brought me to school this morning, Mr Forrester didn't really know how bad the damage was. But I think it's pretty bad, because there's water pouring into one of the classrooms, and there are slates off the roofs of others.' 'I see,' Catherine nodded slowly. 'So…' 'So—we all have to go home.'
Catherine tried to contain her patience. 'But how are you getting home, Thomas?'
'I 'spect Daddy will come for me again.' Catherine pushed her hands into the pockets of her cords. 'But not here.'
'No, to the school, silly.' Thomas swung round on his heel, unaware of her disconcertment. 'But Mr Forrester had to make all the telephone calls, so I thought I might come and see you.'
'But does anyone know where you are?' Catherine asked in dismay.
'Well, yes, Miss Mayhew does. She said I might walk along to see you. I said you were my aunt, you see.' He sounded unconcerned. 'Don't look so worried. The school's just at the end of the High Street.'
'I know where it is.' Catherine chewed anxiously on her lower lip. 'I—well, it was very nice of you to come and see me, Thomas, but I think you ought to go back now and wait for your father. I mean, it wouldn't do for him to worry about you, would it?'
'He won't,' declared Thomas nonchalantly. 'He knows you. He likes you, I know he does. He'll come here for me.'
'No.' Catherine didn't think she could stand that. 'No,' she said again, trying to ignore Thomas's disappointed little face. 'I—er—I have to go out. Now. I—I was just leaving, as a matter of fact. Maybe—some other day…'
'But there might not be another day,' Thomas protested.
'Why can't you go out after I've gone? Surely it's not so important. Daddy won't mind, honestly. And he'll be here at any minute, anyway. I thought you'd be pleased to see me.'
Catherine drew an unsteady breath. 'Thomas, you don't understand. I—well, I am delighted to see you, of course, and you know you're welcome to come here at any time, but today I really do have to go out.'
Thomas's face drooped. 'Why? Where are you going? I know you don't have a car because I heard Daddy telling Mr Blake at the garage that your car had broken down.'
Catherine couldn't prevent the faint smile that curved her lips. 'Broken down?' she echoed. 'Well, I suppose you could say that.'
'What happened really? Did you have a crash?' Thomas was morbidly interested, but Catherine shook her head. 'No. My cousin parked it in a ditch, that's all. And now the exchaust's broken, and it needs a new brake pipe.'
Thomas nodded. 'I liked your car, it was nice. I'd like to be able to drive. Oh, not a Renault, of course. I'd like a Rolls-Royce, or a Jaguar. My grandfather Redvers has a Rolls-Royce. I rode in it once, but he was always saying for me to sit down, and not to fiddle with the controls, and to keep my feet off the seats. He's an awful snob!'
'Now, really, Thomas…' Catherine put out a protesting hand. 'You shouldn't talk like that about your grandfather.' She looked apprehensively towards the door as a car sped along the High Street, but it wasn't a green Volvo, and she relaxed a little. 'I expect anyone with a car like that would want to take care of it.'
'Daddy says that cars can only take you from A to B. He likes a fast car, but he doesn't worry about muddy feet, or stop me from turning on the radio or switching on the wipers.'
'Well, I expect your father is more used to a boy of your age,' declared Catherine evenly, realising that this conversation was stretching out of all proportion.
'Thomas—'
'I like my grandfather Penwyth best. He's much more fun, when he's all there.'
'Thomas!'
'Well, it's true.' Thomas was defensive. 'Sometimes he just sits and mutters to himself, and doesn't notice me. I think it's when Mummy's been grumbling at him. He and Mummy don't really like one another.' He grimaced. 'As a matter of fact—'
'Thomas, this has nothing to do with me.' Catherine looked round helplessly. 'Thomas, I really ought to be going…'
'Can I see your office?' Ignoring what she had just said, he skipped across to the back of the shop, peering inquisitively into her small den. 'Ooh, isn't it tiny? Daddy's study is heaps bigger than this.'
'Yes, well, your father's study is something else,' agreed Catherine patiently. 'This is only a small shop.'
'Why do you call it Her—Hera—'
'Heraklion?' Catherine supplied, and he nodded. 'Well, because the first garments I designed were after I'd spent a holiday in Greece, and I guess I was influenced by the Greek style.'
'You made all these clothes?' Thomas sounded impressed, but Catherine quickly disillusioned him.
'Oh, no, I didn't actually make any of them. I designed a few. You know—drew a picture of what I wanted. But mostly I buy the clothes I sell from fashion warehouses. Not only in this country, but in France, and Italy, places like that.'
'You go to these places?'
'Sometimes,' she nodded. 'And sometimes my assistant in London goes.'
'You have another shop in London?'
'For the time being,' she agreed dryly, remembering Robert's forebodings about the lease. 'Look, Thomas—'
But even as she said these words, she heard someone else come into the shop, and her. throat went suddenly dry. Almost in slow motion, she turned, and then felt the warm colour flood into her face at the sight of Lucy Glyndower standing impatiently in the middle of the sales floor. Thomas had seen her, too, but instead of running to her as Catherine had expected, he hung back, half behind her, his lips pursing and unpursing as if he expected trouble.
'What's going on?' Lucy's succinct enquiry fell coldly on the air, 'What is Thomas doing here? Did you fetch him from the school? You had no right to do so, you know. It's not at all convenient for me to waste my time searching for him.'
Catherine was taken aback. Casting a doubtful look down at the boy, she wondered if her initial suspicions of the story he had told her when he first appeared in the shop had been justified. But even if they were, had she the heart to betray him, to explain to his mother that she had had no part in his disappearance from the school?
However, Thomas took the onus from her. 'I came to Miss Tempest's shop on my own,' he declared bravely. 'And—and Miss Mayhew knew where I was.'
'Miss Mayhew told me some cock-and-bull story about you visiting your aunt!' retorted his mother coldly. 'When I told her you didn't have an aunt in Pendower, she had to think again.'
Thomas's confidence faltered. 'I—I thought Daddy would come to collect me,' he murmured innocently, unknowingly saying the one thing which
would infuriate his mother most.
'Oh, did you?' Lucy snapped, crossing the floor and grasping his arm with biting fingers. 'I suppose you, like everyone else in the valley, know of your father's weakness for silly little shopgirls!' Her eyes raked Catherine with contemptuous malevolence. 'Or perhaps little is the wrong word to use!' Her lips curled. 'You're not the first, Miss Tempest, and I doubt you'll be the last!'
'Mrs Glyndower, please—'
'Please? Please what? Are you ashamed that I know of your relationship with my husband?'
'There is no relationship, Mrs Glyndower.' Catherine twisted her hands together, gesturing eloquently towards the boy. 'Please. Thomas—'
'Why shouldn't Thomas hear about it, too? He thinks his sainted father can do no wrong. Well, perhaps now he'll think differently.'
Thomas's face had crumpled. 'Let go of my arm!' he cried, trying impotently to pull himself away from her. 'I don't care what you say about Daddy. I love him. I love him, do you hear? Better than I love you!'
Lucy slapped him then. In all honesty, Catherine had to admit she was driven to it, but the blow was harder, more vicious, then it need have been, and Thomas rocked on his heels, his dazed expression mirroring the shock he had received.
'Mrs Glyndower!' Catherine had to protest, but Lucy was already dragging her son after her, out of the shop, and there was nothing she could do to stop them. Just for one second Thomas turned to gaze at her before the Volvo pulled away, and then the throbbing rhythm of the disco music filled her head, matching the painful throbbing of her temples.
CHAPTER NINE
She rang Aunt Margaret that evening to let her know that she would not be over for the next couple of days, explaining about the repairs to the Renault, and asking her if she would ensure Juniper was fed. Her aunt was not unwilling, apologising for Owen's carelessness, and promising that she would look after the mare.
'He's pretty shamefaced, I can tell you,' she said, in answer to Catherine's assurance that she didn't blame him for what had happened. 'Will the repairs be very expensive?'
Catherine hadn't really given the matter a lot of thought, but now she conceded to herself that it might prove very expensive indeed. Particularly as the insurance company would deprive her of any bonuses after this.
'Don't worry about it, Aunt Margaret,' she said, realising they had enough on their minds at the moment without having to worry about garage bills, and her aunt thanked her again before ringing off.
During the next couple of days, she tried not to think about Penwyth or the Glyndowers. She refused to contemplate Rafe Glyndower's reactions to his wife's recriminations, or to consider Thomas's feelings towards her after hearing the accusation his mother had thrown. The whole affair was like some terrible nightmare, and one afternoon she found herself seriously considering Robert's suggestion of closing the Pendower branch, and using all her resources to finance a larger shop in London. She could do it, and it would certainly solve all her problems. But even now, the thought of actually leaving the district was like a knife turning in her stomach.
She was scrambling some eggs for her evening meal when the telephone rang. After her thoughts of the afternoon, she would not have been surprised to find Robert telepathically at the end of the line, but to her surprise it was Jeff Mappin.
'I'm spending the evening in Pendower, and I wondered if we could have dinner together,' he said, without too much preamble. 'That is, if you don't have a previous engagement, of course.'
Catherine hesitated. 'I don't have a previous engagement,' she admitted at last. 'But it is rather short notice.'
'My fault,' said Jeff ruefully. 'I've been with my boss for most of the afternoon, and I didn't know until the last minute whether I'd be expected to eat with him.'
'Oh, I see.' Catherine teased him. 'So I'm just a stopgap, am I?'
'Hell no!' Jeff sounded genuinely shocked. 'I wanted to call you yesterday, but I was afraid you'd think it was too soon. I mean, I'd hate you to think I was taking advantage of the situation. But when Mr Norman said he had to go back to Cardiff tonight, I couldn't resist calling you. On the offchance…'
'Well, I'm—flattered, of course—'
'Don't say that. It sounds as if you're going to refuse me. Couldn't you—well, couldn't you make it?'
Catherine ran doubtful fingers over her hair. 'I'd have to change…' she began reluctantly, not at all sure she ought to go out with him, yet drawn to him because of his association to Rafe, but that was all Jeff needed.
'You'll come?' he exclaimed. 'Oh, marvellous! Look, it's seven o'clock now. How about if I pick you up in, say—twenty minutes?'
'Make it half an hour,' said Catherine, giving in. 'Do you know how to get here?'
'Well, I know the address,' he answered eagerly. 'It's here in the phone book in front of me. But if there are some special instructions you want to give me…'
She was ready when he came to the door, not risking any awkward moments in the house. Her dress of apricot-silk chiffon swirled in full pleats about her knees, and with it she wore the dark pigskin coat she had treated herself to for the winter. Its mink collar framed her warm features, her hair smoothly coiled into a knot at the back of her head. Jeff was obviously impressed, and she wondered what he had expected after the jeans and hacking jacket she had worn to the pub.
They ate at the largest hotel in Pendower. The food was hot and plentiful, and what it lacked in variety it more than made up for in flavour.
'This is nice,' remarked Jeff, with some satisfaction, raising his wine glass to her. 'My luck must be changing. I wondered what the devil you'd say when I telephoned you.'
Catherine smiled. 'You're too modest. I'm sure you're never short of female company.'
'How about you?' He gave her an interrogative glance. 'Is there no man on your horizon? No hearty Welsh halfback, just waiting to transplant my teeth?'
Put like that, Catherine had to laugh, albeit a little self-consciously. She wondered what he would say if she told him she was hopelessly in love with a married man. More than that, if she told him the man's identity…
'I'm a career woman,' she said, covering her glass with her hand when he would have refilled it. 'And I have to have a clear head for work tomorrow.'
'You don't look like a career woman,' declared Jeff, filling his own glass. 'You're far too attractive. You're much more the type to get married and have a brood of kids around you.'
'Do you think so?' Catherine tried to keep her tone light. 'Isn't that rather an old-fashioned concept?' Jeff shrugged. 'Maybe. People still seem to do it, though.'
'I read somewhere that the family unit is a very delicate framework, liable to crack with the least pressure.'
He shook his head. 'That sounds a very cynical analysis.'
'You don't agree with it?'
'Not particularly.'
'Then why aren't you married?'
He chuckled. 'Good question.'
'You haven't been?'
'No. I once contemplated it, seriously I mean. But it didn't work out?'
'Her fault or yours?'
'You don't pull your punches, do you?' He grinned. 'Mine, actually. I used to have a roving eye.'
'Used to have?'
He shook his head. 'Well, anyway, I've seen enough of the seamier side of marriage to know that some of what you say is true. Even so, there are thousands of couples living quite satisfactory lives, bound by that old-fashioned institution.'
'Yes,' Catherine nodded, her tongue making a circle of her lips. 'I know.'
'Tell me,' Jeff rested an elbow on the table and leaned towards her, 'how well do you know Rafe Glyndower?'
His question was unexpected, and it took all her self-composure to stifle the gasp that rose to her lips. 'I—Rafe?' she said, playing for time. 'Oh, not very well.'
'But you have known him a long time haven't you?' He paused. 'I wondered if you'd based your opinion of marriage on his.'
'No!' She stared at him across the candle
lit table, eyes wide and defensive. 'I—why do you say that?'
Jeff's eyes narrowed. Then he shrugged. 'I don't know. I just wondered, I guess.' He drank a little of his wine, and then added: 'I mean, he and Lucy are such opposites, aren't they?'
'I really don't know Mrs Glyndower,' replied Catherine stiffly, wishing she could change the subject. 'Mmm, this steak is delicious, isn't it?'
'Then why aren't you eating more of it?' inquired Jeff dryly, and now her face did flush with embarrassing colour. Immediately he was contrite, saying apologetically: 'Don't take any notice of me, Catherine. I've had a frustrating afternoon, and I guess my social graces have exhausted themselves—I'm sorry. I always seem to say the wrong thing.'
Catherine tasted her wine. 'Don't worry about it,' she murmured, putting the glass aside. 'Tell me about your work. What exactly does a geophysicist do?'
It was an innocuous topic, and successfully saw them through dessert and coffee, so that it was quite late in the evening before Rafe's name was mentioned again. Then it was Catherine herself who inadvertently brought the Glyndowers into the conversation, replying to Jeff's inquiry about her car by volunteering the fact that she had been unable to ride for the last couple of days.
'I should have thought the weather would deter you anyway,' he replied. 'It's been so damp and cold. Pneumonia weather! Did you know Rafe had succumbed?'
'To pneumonia!'
The horrified words were out before she could prevent them, and Jeff regarded her shocked face with a kind of resigned recognition before reassuring her. 'No, not pneumonia,' he said heavily. 'Just flu, I guess. Whatever, he looked pretty sick the last time I saw him.'
Catherine hesitated, trying to make her next words casual. 'Which was when?' she ventured. 'Er—when did you last see him?'
'Yesterday evening.' Jeff's voice was dry now. 'I had dinner at the Manor.'
'Oh.' Catherine swallowed the remainder of the brandy in her glass with a gulp. 'And—and how was he?'
'I told you—he looked lousy to me. Not that he would give in to it. Lucy said she'd asked him to go to bed, but he'd refused. Anyway, I should think the boy—Thomas, do you know him? Yes? Well, I should think he was pretty relieved his father was up, if you know what I mean. He's a nice kid, I like him. He's a lot like Rafe. But his mother—well, I think she should have had a career, not a family. She has no time for that boy, and not only that, she makes it painfully obvious. God, if I was Rafe, I'd feel like strangling her sometimes, the way she speaks to him.'