Surely it’s the easiest thing in the world to get in a car. There are two ways. You sit in, and swing your legs in after you. Or you duck your head and walk in. Not quite as elegant as the first way, but as effective. But she could neither sit in, nor walk in, nor even explain. Her feet had suddenly acquired ton weights, and her tongue was locked solid.
He tapped his foot in a gesture of impatience. ‘Well? What are you waiting for?’ His shrewd glance, not damning, but not sympathetic either, summed up the situation. ‘Oh, I see! After-crash symptoms,’ he diagnosed. ‘Well, it so happens I know the remedy for that.’
She felt her elbow taken hold of, and her feet left the ground. It was a dream with rose petal edges; only her relief was real, because he wasn’t going to make her get in that dreaded passenger seat. But the rose petals faded, to disintegrate into black ash; and the dream turned into a nightmarish reality as she realized exactly what he did intend.
‘I . . . ca-can’t. Even you couldn’t be cruel enough to make me drive.’ Her plea was as ineffective as a leaf tapping against the weathered bark of a tree.
His reply was sharp and woody. ‘Yes, I can be that cruel.’
Her brow felt clammy and her jaw was slack with self pity.
‘Oh, brace up, girl!’ he ordered, sounding so reasonably exasperated that her limbs automatically reacted and folded into the driving seat. Having installed himself in the passenger seat, he reached over and switched on the ignition.
‘Come on, foot on the clutch and into first gear.’ He sounded like a scornful driving instructor urging a not very bright pupil. She thought, I don’t think I’ve ever hated anyone quite so intensely ever before, and her jaw firmed as her hands tightened on the wheel. ‘Which way?’
At first it was like driving all the way to Hell, but after a while her back lost its rigidity and she found, if not complete enjoyment in a relaxation that had, in the past, given her many hours of pure pleasure, at least a measure of confidence.
‘There,’ he said, from his slouched down position, almost as if he had a periscopic view of her mind. ‘Not so very bad, is it?’
Her breath lumped in her throat and she said testily: ‘I hope you know I have just relived the second worst moment of my life.’
He wondered what the worst moment was, but said: ‘The accident? Well, I hoped you would have. You have to relive something in order to conquer it. If I’d said, “There, there, forget the nasty hurt,” you might never have found the courage to drive again. Which would have been a pity. You are a competent driver.’
She was stung to retort: ‘Please keep your compliments.’
With lazy deliberation he said: ‘In all truth a compliment wasn’t intended. I merely stated a truth. Now, take the first left and pull in at Sharpe’s. It’s a restaurant that serves rather good lunches. And I happen to be starving.’
But for all that he ordered spartanly for himself, though he gave her a free choice. She couldn’t help but wonder if it wasn’t his way of curtailing a first time after the event, ordeal.
She relished her pork chop with good appetite, and ordered, to follow, a sweet consisting of meringue, fresh cream and icecream, with just a sprinkling of chopped nuts. Then coffee. Although she had been firmly convinced she wouldn’t be able to swallow a thing.
He left her drinking her coffee and went to make a telephone call. A business call. Had he neglected his work to drive out to fetch her? And why? Surely, when contacted, all he had to say was, ‘I’m only a passing acquaintance.’ There had been no reason for him to get involved.
She glanced out of the window. A car was pulling into the forecourt. A yellow car. She mustn’t let the sight of a yellow car upset her. There must be hundreds of yellow cars on the roads, and she would be in a fine state if she jumped whenever she saw one.
But it was no good. Her mind had already jerked back and she was half way to Hell again. She was driving along the road and there seemed no way of avoiding collision with the yellow car; yet a tiny part of her mind rose above the agony, so that she could wonder what Ian would prescribe. A dozen yellow cars? Five hundred? A million?
She crammed her fists to her mouth and gradually the hysteria receded, so that she was calmed when the car’s owner entered the dining room.
She watched his entry with a detached eye. Ian was taking a long time over his phone call, and she was beginning to feel restless. Studying the new arrival was something to do. He was tall, though not as tall as Ian, and stiffer built. He would never order a spartan meal. Fair hair, nose slightly aquiline, blue eyes fringed with excessively long and really dark lashes. Why did Nature favour men in this unfair way? Very fair complexion, with a peppering of fine laughter lines, as if he found life good sport and worth any effort. He sauntered, rather than walked, with a nerveless elegance; always completely at ease, he would prefer feminine to masculine company. This summing up, oddly enough, made him no less male. A very fine specimen, concluded Karen as he drew abreast with her table.
Instead of passing by, he stopped and greeted: ‘So we meet again. This time in happier circumstances.’
Her hands gripped the edge of the tablecloth. ‘Are you . . .you . . . the . . . ?’
‘Idiot driving the other car?’ His brow lifted in gentle amusement. ‘Yes, you were semiconscious when I reached you. I’m also a maniac driver, not fit to be let loose on a decent road. Shall I go on?’
‘No.’
‘Pity. The rest has a decidedly salty flavour. But this time I’ll be gallant and spare your blushes. The name is Howard Mitchell. Call me Mitch. May I join you for a moment?’
‘Yes, of course. Karen Shaw. I’m sorry for not thinking, please do. My escort is making a telephone call.’
‘Yes, Karen. I spotted friend Ian in the telephone booth when I passed. I may call you Karen? After what we’ve been through I can hardly call you Miss Shaw!’
‘Not very well. In any case, I prefer Christian names. I hate formality. So, you and Ian are acquainted?’
‘Ah . . . yes: We’re not exactly on kissing terms. Tell me, how did a nice girl like you get in his clutches?’
She sighed. ‘It’s a long story. If ever you’ve an evening to spare, I’ll tell you.’
‘The day after tomorrow?’ he suggested. ‘That’s Wednesday. Eightish? Here?’
‘Oh, but I didn’t mean . . . I wasn’t angling.’
‘I know, I know. But I am. I want to see you again. Is it on?’
‘Well, I’m not sure of my plans.’
‘But you’ll try to make it?’ Blue eyes have a knack of pressing sincerity.
‘Yes, I’ll try.’ She felt breathless, out of her depth, grateful. This man had saved her from severe disability, or worse. He might even have saved her life, so that did partially obligate her. It also reminded her: ‘I think thanks are in order. I believe you risked scorching your nose to drag me clear.’
‘It was nothing,’ he said. His grin spread like warmed treacle, and was every bit as sweet. ‘I’d do the same for any winsome girl.’ Then he leaned forward and pretended to screw a finger into the dimple to the left of her mouth, the dimple his sauciness had conjured up.
She saw Ian threading his way back to their table, and spotted the reaction on his face when he saw she was chatting to Mitch. Mitch hadn’t lied when he said they weren’t on kissing terms; they weren’t on any terms as far as she could see, save, perhaps, bad ones. Ian’s mouth clamped rigid, and it drew from her an involuntary: ‘Oh dear! Here comes Big Brother!’ But as he came nearer she wondered if she’d imagined the antagonism, because his face now wore the look of basic politeness one adopts when approaching someone who merely skirts the outer circle of one’s acquaintance.
‘Blast!’ said Mitch. Then in undertones: ‘Look, about Wednesday. Do try.’
‘Yes, yes. I said I would. But don’t wait too long for me if I can’t make it.’
‘No, I won’t wait too long. Only for ever.’ His voice was so faint it was little more than
a breath curving down from her ear to her cheek, and her hand went up in a stupid way, as if words could be cupped, and kept.
Meanwhile, Mitch was raising his voice and saying with false heartiness:
‘Hello, Ian, old chap! How’s tricks? Haven’t seen you at the club for weeks.’
‘Golf,’ said Ian for Karen’s benefit, keeping his glance centred on Mitch. ‘We are both fond of a round of golf. I’ve often thought that for two such opposite types, we share a marked similarity of taste.’
Whatever the thrust, it went home. Mitch looked slaughtered, and his cheeks paled to sheet-white.
‘Ian and I were at school together,’ he gabbled hastily, as if it was imperative to explain. ‘In the same form.’
‘And admired the same form,’ came the swift reply. The nearest thing Karen could liken his tone to was crisp irony. She knew what it was like to be at the whipping end of Ian’s tongue, and her heart went out to Mitch, looking so strained and white and funny. And the silence was even worse, because even though Ian stopped mincing him up with his tongue, his eyes went right on sharpening themselves on Mitch’s by this time, averted profile.
She felt a desperate need to powder her nose, but she daren’t for the life of her leave them alone. Bad as it was, she felt that while ever she remained at least they wouldn’t come to blows.
‘Shall we push off?’ said Ian after what seemed like hours, but couldn’t have been more than a hand-count of seconds.
‘Yes.’ Was that tight little voice hers? Oh dear, she hadn’t meant to sound so condemning, even if she was. Mitch just didn’t seem to be defending himself and she attributed this to a sweet and touching consideration for her.
She held out her hand. ‘Goodbye, Mitch.’ She smiled somewhat frantically, trying to convey her allegiance without using words. She thought, as their fingers touched in brief handclasp, he looked comforted, reassured that she hadn’t gone over to the other side. Whether the exchange of glances was intercepted or not, her wrist was rudely clasped and she was speedily propelled from the dining room.
‘What did you talk about?’ demanded her abductor, his eyes dark and dictatorial.
‘N . . . nothing,’ she said, ashamed of the tremor in her voice. ‘I thanked him for his presence of mind in dragging me clear of the wreckage.’ She thought, what am I doing, apologising? I owe this man nothing! Well, perhaps a few clothes, and a hospital bill. Presumably he had paid. Certainly no one had presented her with a bill. All right, so she did owe him something, but it wasn’t in her to grovel. Even though her heart was beating fast and she had been feeling decidedly queer for the past few minutes, she couldn’t stop the arrogant lift of her chin as she inquired spiritedly: ‘I trust thanks were in order.’
‘Perfectly. You did the right thing. Now there is no need for you to talk to him again.’
‘But he might talk to me first. Then what do I do?’
‘I don’t know. You’re a woman. It’s a woman’s situation. Handle it. By the way, it’s through there.’
‘What is?’
‘The ladies’ room. If you want to powder your nose, I’ll wait for you in the car.’
‘Thank you.’
It was a relief to escape from him for a while. To stand up to the Ians of the world one needed a stouter pair of legs than she possessed. She swayed and urgently gripped the washbasin. Her dizzy spell lasted for only a moment. As soon as she was sufficiently recovered, she held her wrists under the cold water tap, and splashed her face. How good it felt, tingling cold and reviving.
Her hand went up to the ledge above the washbasin in a gesture that was purely automatic. But her searching fingers met nothing, because there was nothing on the ledge for them to meet.
It came home to her, for perhaps the first time, just how much she had lost, how much had gone up in flames. Her luggage, her handbag, filled with all those trivial possessions that are so much a part of a woman’s way of life. A phial of perfume, carefully saved for very special occasions. The tortoise-shell comb, stamped with her own personal initials. Her lipstick.
She began to cry then, the tears came splashing hurriedly down her cheeks, all because she didn’t own a lipstick. She was suffering, not from shock, but from an overdose of emotionalism. It had all happened too quickly, and had been a bit too much. And to cap it all, her best friend was her enemy.
I will not drive that dratted car. I will not, not, not. I will tell him to go to blazes before I will get in that car and drive.
But he was in the driving seat. He was in the driving seat! She was almost beside herself with elation and she ran across the forecourt, stumbling and almost tripping herself up in her eagerness to occupy the passenger seat. Before he did.
Ah! Heavenly not to have to handle awkward, unfamiliar gears, not to have to think, listen to directions, not to have to wait, watch and anticipate.
‘Oh, by the way,’ he said, overplaying the casual touch. ‘There’s something in the glove compartment that belongs to you.’
‘To me? To me?’ The glove compartment was operated by a small button. She pressed it. The flap fell forward, and Darling Ugly fell into her lap.
CHAPTER FIVE
The troll doll was back in her pocket again. Now she’d got it back, things must start coming right again. She’d loved it, and examined it, and run her fingers through its abundance of coarse, orange hair. And then put it away, where it belonged, yet still keeping her fingers pressed against the slight bulge in her dress pocket.
‘I see you had to operate.’
‘A stitch here, a stitch there.’ He flashed her a brief deprecatory smile. ‘Nothing really. I’m only sorry he’s not in mint condition for your sake. Poor little chap got a bit trampled on. I almost didn’t see him.’
‘I’m so pleased you did.’
First examination had revealed a line of exquisite stitches encircling the doll’s right ear. She didn’t know which delighted her most, the doll’s safe return, or the thoughtfulness that had been sewn into every stitch.
Her head went back on the leather upholstery. It was nice to be out of the driving seat, in more than the literal sense. She hadn’t made a very good job of directing her own life and, for the moment at least, she was happy to sign away her independence and let someone else take charge. And, although he aggravated her, and at times she almost hated him—not almost, did!—she was glad that someone was Ian Nicholson.
The road zigzagged and turned, it had more twists in it than a corkscrew, it frequently disappeared, but always popped up again. Karen grew sleepy watching it. She thought, I’ve been having a reaction and this is the soporific afterwards.
In all, the ride lasted no more than twenty minutes. She tried to keep her ears alert for Ian’s occasional commentary, and her lids up for the scenic attractions. The road was hedged in by fields, with steep paths sloping off in all directions. A farmhouse was stencilled, artistically, against the skyline; her view of it was abruptly cut off by the meandering road and they were careering through a dark ravine of trees, a canyon of a million sounds, leaves chuckled and whispered, they were so thickly pressed together there wasn’t a chink or a parting to let in the light. The road danced into the dazzle of the sun before they did, curving and leaping in rapid descent.
A number twenty-nine bus passed them, making heavy weather of lumbering up the road they had glided so effortlessly down. Karen filed this piece of information without being conscious of doing so. If she wished to keep her tentative date with Mitch, the bus was the obvious means of transport.
A house slid into view, then another, and another. This was the new and fashionable part of town. Each house was architect designed and completely unrelated to its neighbour. Wide, open lawns swept down to the road. Beyond the shops the dwellings began to lose in artistry and gain in character. The little brown houses, some with mullioned windows and thatched roofs, nestled in dreamy tranquillity.
The road began to do erratic things again, namely vanish into a wood of t
all pines. Unlike the other times it did not reappear, and then Karen spotted the stone gates. Ian drove through them, along a short drive, and stopped before a house that was a big cousin to the little brown houses.
She was almost too tired to voice her delight. She tried, but only managed a croak, in any case she needed her energy for walking.
The door, under a triangular porch, was inches thick. It groaned open to reveal a family room, with comfortable deep brown chairs. A yellow jug, filled with flowers, made a bright splash of colour on the wide, cottage-style sill. Beyond an open archway, stairs curved away and upwards. At the top was a long passage with three doors. On each door, at eye level, was an oval plaque, for easy identification. Pipe and slippers on the first plaque, bath and shower on the second, overnight suitcase on the third.
The overnight guest room had white walls. It was simply furnished with a chest of drawers, a dressing table with a tall slim mirror, a single wardrobe, a divan bed, and a bedside table with a shelf containing an assortment of books. The wall to wall carpet was old gold, and this colour was picked up in the gold and white striped curtains and bedspread.
Ian pointed to the bed. ‘Into there with you. I’ll bring you up a cup of tea. And then you can have a nice long sleep.’
She took off her dress and hung it in the wardrobe. It looked ridiculous and slightly forlorn hanging there on its own. She didn’t remember Ian bringing up the tea, but when she awoke, a long time later, it was on the bedside table. Untouched and, she tasted, cold.
She lay for a minute trying to pull in her thoughts. Because her tidy mind was in an untidy stupor, she tried to number them, thinking that way they might make better sense. One: She had made a proper hash of things. Two: She trusted Ian Nicholson implicitly. Considering, number two was a nice thought. Three: She couldn’t accept his charity. Four: For the time being she had no alternative but to accept his charity. Five: He attracted her more than any man she had ever met. Not visually, although he was worthy of a second look, but in the physical sense.
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