I stared in disbelief. All that information was about me. And most of the names apart from my own were those of my family—my father, mother, brothers, sisters, my wife and children . . .
Mrs. Weldon’s voice, coming suddenly from behind me into the silence, made me start.
‘Now, Mr. Rigby,’ she said, ‘you really should not be in here, you know.’
Chapter Fifteen
As I turned she stepped through the courtyard door and closed it behind her.
‘Oh, I see you’ve found your—your dossier,’ she said with a light little chuckle that sounded rather forced. She stood with her back to the light and I couldn’t read her expression.
‘I don’t understand this,’ I said, lifting up the file. ‘—What does it mean?’
Her laugh came again. ‘Oh, it’s nothing important. Certainly nothing for you to look so—so grave about.’
‘But what does it mean—all this information on me?’
She stepped forward and I saw that her smile had its usual warmth—though now it seemed to be touched with a little sadness and anxiety. ‘Forgive us,’ she said, ‘—please. We didn’t mean to intrude on your privacy. We had no wish to do that.’
‘No?’ My tone was cold.
‘Not at all. Believe me.’ She indicated the wall that separated the room from that of Miss Stewart and added, lowering her voice:
‘It was done at Miss Stewart’s insistence, I’m afraid. She has a terror of having what she describes as the—the wrong people here. So everyone who sets foot in the place is vetted.’ She shook her head. ‘You’ve seen for yourself the measures she’s taken to keep people out—unwelcome visitors. That’s the way she is—and she won’t change now.’ She took a step closer to me, gently took the file from my hand and glanced at it. ‘You, of course,’ she said, ‘were not just any casual visitor to the house. You were here for a stay of anything up to two weeks.’ She tossed the file onto the desk. ‘—So, we had to find out whether you were the—the kind of person of whom Miss Stewart would approve. Silly, isn’t it? But there, she can be very insistent. The older some people get the more bees they seem to get in their bonnets.’ She shook her head. ‘All I can say—again—is that we had no wish to intrude on your privacy. Please try to understand.’
‘But—surely you couldn’t have needed so much information,’ I said, ‘—and anyway, how did you find it all?’
‘Oh, that was quite easy. You gave us a great deal of it yourself—when we met for coffee that day, and then later when you met Miss Stewart . . . Other items we—we checked up on—’ and here she lowered her voice still further, ‘—just to keep her happy. It didn’t take us long, either, though we were quite thorough about it—you know, the odd discreet enquiry here and there.’ She turned and gestured to the file. ‘You will surely have noticed that there are comments there on your—dare I say—sexual life . . . Awful to do such a thing, to—delve like that, but Miss Stewart was insistent. Having the young women here, you know . . . she didn’t want to take any risks. And of course there was no dissuading her from her course, no convincing her that it was unnecessary.’ She peered anxiously at me. ‘Do you understand? Please try to . . .’
‘Well,’ I said after a moment, ‘I suppose I could work at it.’
‘Oh, yes, please!—And try to forget it. Don’t let it spoil the memory of your stay here—or the pleasure you might have had. And it certainly was a pleasure for us. We’ve loved having you. As you can imagine, with Miss Stewart’s—foibles—we don’t often get the chance to have visitors—or to get to know them.’
She reached out, picked up the file, took the papers out and tore them across, across and across again. Then she dropped the pieces into a waste-bin. ‘Now—’ she turned back to face me, ‘—can we forget it? Can we? Please?’ Her smile and her voice were so warm and entreating.
In the end I nodded. ‘Yes.’
A minute later I had left her and was going through the house to the front door. Outside I got into the car, turned on the ignition and set off. The thought of the file hovered in my mind. Forget it, I told myself; it’s over. I was leaving Woolvercombe House forever. I found myself leaning forward slightly in the driving seat, eager for the front gates to come in view and impatient with the twisting, turning, badly-kept driveway that made any degree of speed impossible.
I had just driven around a sharply curving bend when suddenly, from out of the thick greenery up ahead, a figure darted into the open.
She came from the left, right into the path of the car. As I pulled to a screeching halt she dashed towards me, her black habit flapping about her. She looked like some huge injured bird.
As she came closer I wound down the window. She was very young—in her early twenties I reckoned. Her face was deathly pale, almost as white as the wimple that framed it. ‘Quick—!’ she gasped, out of breath, her chest heaving, ‘Help me! Please!’
‘What’s wrong?’
She didn’t answer me but ran around to the passenger’s side and tugged at the door-handle. I took one more look at the desperation in her eyes and leaned across and released the lock. Then, just as she yanked open the door the figure of Carl leapt from the nearby bushes, roughly grabbed her and started to pull her away.
As I switched off the engine I saw Dr. McIntosh emerge from among the trees and come hurrying up. He carried a small case. I got out of the car and saw that Carl had now dragged the screaming girl over to one side where he put a forearm across her throat and bent her right arm into a lock that left her helpless. In front of me the doctor stopped, put the case down on the car’s bonnet and opened it.
‘What’s the matter with her?’ I demanded. ‘What the hell’s going on?’
Ignoring me, the doctor took from the case a syringe, the needle of which he inserted into the cap of a bottle. At this point I stepped forward and stood between him and the girl.
‘Before you go any further,’ I said, ‘I want to know what’s happening, what this is all about.’
He shook his head distractedly. ‘Please, Mr. Rigby. Don’t make it more difficult than it is. You just don’t understand and this isn’t the time for—’
The rest of his words were lost as the girl gave a sudden twist of her hips, raised her foot and kicked savagely backwards against Carl’s shin. He cried out in pain and, spinning her around towards him, punched her hard in the face. The force of the blow slammed her backwards so that she went sprawling against the car. The next moment I had turned on Carl.
‘You bastard!’
Grabbing his shirt with my left hand I aimed my right fist at him with all my power behind it. The blow connected just below his cheekbone and he went sprawling into the brambles. Turning my back on him I looked at the girl where she lay on the ground next to the car. As I did so I saw the doctor pull back her sleeve and stick the hypodermic needle into her arm. She had a small tattoo on her wrist—a bird in flight. A trickle of blood came from the side of her mouth. She lay very still.
After bending over her inert form a moment or two longer the doctor looked past me and beckoned to Carl who had now got to his feet again. Giving me a sidelong, baleful glance, Carl moved past me and, at a gesture from the doctor, stooped and lifted the girl up into his arms. He laid her down again on the grass at the side of the driveway. I stood there shaking, shocked by the violence that had taken place—and in which I’d participated. At my side McIntosh briskly snapped shut the black case and secured it with a leather strap. Then he turned to me, peering over his bifocals in an expression of sympathy and concern.
‘I’m very sorry you had to be a part of all that.’
I didn’t answer, only rubbed my bruised knuckles. His glance fell to my hands and he added, ‘Carl is an idiot. He deserves more than that.’
‘Who cares what that bastard deserves!’ I said angrily. ‘What about that girl? What about her? She’s th
e one I’m thinking about.’ I looked at her as she lay on the grass verge with Carl crouching at her side. She didn’t move.
‘She, I’m afraid, has proved to be quite—unbalanced,’ McIntosh said with a little shake of the head. ‘It was absolutely necessary for me to sedate her—though it was not necessary for Carl to have ill-treated her in that way. Still, it’s done and it can’t be undone.’ He sighed, shook his head. ‘We’ll take her back to the house. She’ll be well looked after—’
‘Will she?’ I said, the scepticism strong in my voice.
‘Of course she will. Though I don’t know what will happen to her now. She’s had several bouts of—aberration since her arrival here. Quite clearly she’s not cut out for the kind of work that was planned for her . . .’ He picked up the black case and tucked it under his arm. ‘Anyway, Mr. Rigby, it’s not your problem, is it? It’s ours. And that poor girl’s. Still, somehow we’ll find the answer to it all—I hope.’ He gave a sad little smile. ‘And in the meantime you must be on your way. You’ve been held up quite long enough as it is.’ He stepped aside and I looked at him for a moment and got into the car. ‘Goodbye,’ he said. I merely nodded. Fixing my eyes on the driveway ahead I started up the engine, put the car into first gear and set off.
As I approached the next bend I looked into the driving mirror above my head and saw that McIntosh was still standing there. Then, in the very last split second before the trees cut off my view I saw a figure step out of the foliage and move to his side.
It was Hathaway.
But they’d told me that Hathaway had gone . . .
I drove on. It was all beyond my understanding.
When I reached the gates I got out and pressed the bell set into the left-hand pillar. After a few moments Mrs. Weldon’s voice came crackling through the small speaker. The buzzer sounded. I pushed the gates and I was through.
A minute later I was driving along on the outside of the high wall. I knew a sense of freedom that was almost heady. I was leaving the house further and further behind.
* * *
On my way back to London I found myself repeatedly going back over the various strange happenings that had taken place at Woolvercombe House. I thought of the people there too. For a start there were the five nuns—who were clearly not nuns; how could they be, speaking and behaving as they had? And what of the one who had been so desperate to escape from the place, and who had been so brutally handled by Carl and Dr. McIntosh . . . ? And Hathaway, too—he had also been close by during that final scene. He had been there even though everyone insisted that he had left the premises . . .
And Catherine . . . what of her? At the beginning she had seemed so shy and introverted—and then had become so passionate a lover. Then, later still, at the time of my departure that morning, she had been so cool and offhand. She too was an enigma.
The memory of my recent departure brought back to me once more the memory of my discovery of the file. That file on me—and my family. What did it mean? The only thing I was sure of was that Mrs. Weldon’s explanation for its presence there had no base whatever in reality.
When I looked back on it all I realized that I had no answers to any of it, and there was no way I could see of finding those answers. So the only thing to do was to try and forget it. And only time and other experiences would allow me to do that.
* * *
At the house in Lansbury Crescent I opened the front door, scooped the mail up from the mat and stepped through into the unaccustomed quiet of the hall. The quiet was the only thing that was different. Everything else was just the same. My coat was still hanging on the peg just as I’d left it; there were Mike’s forgotten tennis shoes still under the hall table; there on the wall the picture still hanging crooked—which I’d intended to straighten. I walked through into the sitting room and stood there looking around me, drinking in the warm familiarity, the welcoming, long-taken-for-granted comfort. It wouldn’t be complete until the children and Em were back again, but it was enough to be going on with.
Later, after I’d sorted out my belongings and done a little unpacking I relaxed in the sitting room while I drank some tea and went through the assortment of mail. Amongst it was a letter with an Italian stamp. The writing on the envelope was Ilona’s. I opened it, spread out the two pages and read:
Milano, 31st July
My dear Tom,
I’m writing this at the table of a small café close to the Piazza del Duomo. As I sit here in the sun (very warm) I can see the cathedral. Its beauty is breathtaking. I’m exploring it over several short visits (whenever I can snatch a little time out of this chaos!) as it’s far too much to take in at one go. You’d be enthralled by it.
We finish here sometime next week and then move on to Corsica for a month or so. After that it’s Hungary, Poland and, I believe, Spain. It’s nearly all location work and we’re running behind schedule so that at the moment the exact date of our departure for Corsica is somewhat uncertain. (So what is new?!) Apart from all that, though, I believe things are going on okay. The crew are a nice bunch and I get on well with the other make-up girls; one of them I worked with before on an Alan Bates picture at Pinewood.
This, however, is by the way . . .
My real reason for writing is to tell you that I miss you and have thought a lot about you since I left. I don’t know what it is with me, Tom, but I seem to have been so confused, just running around in circles for so long . . . You were right, of course, when you said that I can’t go through life being afraid to commit myself to anything. I always have been, though; I know it. Perhaps that’s why I do this stupid, meaningless job—a week in this place, a month in that . . . it’s all part of my not wanting to feel tied, I suppose. But you were right—I can’t go on like it forever.
I don’t really know what I’m trying to say here except that, being away from everything I’m getting perhaps a better chance to see it all in perspective. I’ve had endless second thoughts since I left England and I’m often nagged by the fear (?) that I might have made a terrible mistake; that perhaps I’ve made a commitment of another kind—to non-commitment.
If you haven’t stopped reading this by now (I’m thinking of the way I acted) could I ask you something—? To forget what I said—? (And even as I write this I’m still afraid of that commitment!) All I can ask, really, is that you don’t write me off—not just yet. Please. I’m wondering if, when I eventually return, we might be able to get back to how we were—and to make it better than it was; the way I feel now I’d like to try, anyway. But still—and I have to add this for my sanity’s sake—without any promises on either side.
I can’t stop for more now. I do hate having to write everything. I wish I could see you and talk to you, but it’s impossible with this hair-raising schedule—and it’s going to go on for months yet! Help! Help! But anyway, if you do feel like writing a line I’d be glad to hear from you. I don’t know which hotels I shall be staying in, but you can write to me care of the company and they’ll forward your letter to me wherever I happen to be.
This epic is due to be wrapped up on the 18th of December. I hope it will be as that means I’ll have almost two weeks before I start work on the next job. What are your plans for Christmas???
Please write.
Ilona
Underneath her signature was the name of a film company, followed by an address on the Via Pasquirolo, Milan.
* * *
I wrote back to Ilona later that week.
I let some time go by before answering her letter as I really wasn’t sure what I wanted to say to her. I wasn’t even sure how I felt anymore. All I had ever asked of her, I said to myself, was that she give our relationship a chance. But in her fear of commitment she had refused to do this. Now, of her own accord, she was offering to—and I was no longer sure it was what I wanted.
But were my feelings of doubt genuine? Or wa
s I merely reacting to the mental discomfort of our last times together? I didn’t know, and I wouldn’t know, either—at least not until she was back on the scene. Only then, when I was used to her presence again, would I be able to determine how I felt.
In the meantime I played it safe. I wrote in answer to her letter that of course I wouldn’t ‘write her off’—and if we could get back together and see how things worked out I would be very happy. And no, I impressed on her, there would be no commitments at all—on either side.
* * *
I was relieved and happy to find that my renewed contact with Ilona turned out to have a positive effect. I enjoyed corresponding with her and our communication—along with the passing time and the demands created by the family and the shop—helped push the Woolvercombe House business a bit further into the background. More and more I succeeded in putting the disturbing memories behind me until after several weeks I was able to look through my self-made veil and see the whole strange episode as a time when I’d merely encountered one or two rather eccentric people.
It didn’t last, though. That surface calm I’d created was shattered one Thursday morning in September.
I was sitting in the office during my eleven o’clock break, drinking a cup of coffee while I glanced through the morning paper which, as usual, I’d brought with me from the house.
The item was a small one on one of the inner pages and at first I read it casually, with only a passing interest. Then I went back and read it again. It said:
The Reaping Page 12