Lightning Encounter

by Anne Saunders

  ‘Of course I must go to Paris. Admit you could have done some conclusion jumping about the eavesdropping . . . and the phone call.’

  She opened her mouth to protest, then remembered she had jumped to a conclusion about the telephone call. ‘Please Ian, don’t go to Paris. Call it a hunch or what you like, but I know something is going to happen to drive us apart if you go to Paris tomorrow.’

  He frowned. ‘I must go. But if it will please you, I’ll telescope three days’ work into one and catch the first available flight back. I’ll even book a telephone call for tomorrow evening at nine-o’clock to make certain you’re all right.’ With that Karen had to be satisfied.

  Next morning Val seemed perfectly recovered, and Karen wondered uneasily if she could have imagined it. Then she thought crossly, of course I didn’t. All the time she watched Val, trying to gauge what was going on in her mind. Twice she caught her laughing surreptitiously and this increased the agony of waiting. Finally, when she thought she could bear the suspense no longer, Val said she was going out for the day.

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ said Karen.

  That met with a puckish smile. ‘Because of my memory lapse? We both know I invented that.’

  Mystified Karen asked: ‘Why? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Have patience,’ said Val. ‘It will.’

  ‘I don’t know what you are going to do, or why you are going to do it,’ said Karen wearily. ‘You can’t want Ian. You don’t love him.’

  Val walked over to the window and stared at the trees. ‘I hate this view,’ she said aggressively. ‘I wish the Forestry Commission would chop the trees down. No, I don’t love Ian. But I still want him. He makes me feel cherished and protected.’

  ‘That’s not enough, Val.’

  ‘It is for me. I’ve known love, remember. It swallows you whole, like the trees out there. Perhaps you like being swallowed whole?’

  ‘Perhaps I do at that. I like going for walks in the wood. I want Ian to love me. Please don’t spoil it for me.’

  In replying, Val touched on a tender spot. ‘How do you know there’s anything to spoil? Can you say he loves you on the strength of a kiss or two?’

  ‘No.’ In his own words, it’s possible to want to make love to a person without being in love with them. He’d said that just before taking her in his arms.

  ‘Ian hates Mitch,’ said Val. ‘He wasn’t very pleased with you for teaming up with him.’

  ‘He told you about that?’

  ‘Everything.’

  That’s a fabrication, thought Karen. He didn’t tell you. I can sense you know all about it, so somebody must have told you. But not Ian. But there’s no other interested party, save for perhaps, Mitch.

  ‘Doesn’t it scare you what would happen if you repeated the indiscretion?’ probed Val silkily.

  ‘Not really. Because I’ve no intention of getting involved with Mitch again.’

  ‘How definite you sound,’ mocked Val. ‘Let’s hope your determination doesn’t come unstuck.’ The undertone of a threat made Karen’s finger-tips curl, and she was glad when Val did go out. ‘Don’t expect me back much before breakfast time,’ she called out. Karen didn’t know if she meant it or not; moreover she was beyond caring.

  After that time dragged interminably. Karen kept looking at the clock, willing the hands to rush to nine, which was the time Ian had promised to phone her from Paris. Perhaps when she heard his voice she would feel comforted, more secure.

  It was still only ten minutes to six. To make the time pass more quickly she decided to take a short walk. Hurriedly she changed her dress, as she was closing the wardrobe door, she realized the Mandy costume was missing. She looked again to make certain, and then checked the contents of her drawers although she was reasonably certain she had hung it in the wardrobe. Was Val a thief as well as an eavesdropper, because of course she was the only person who could have taken it? And what would she want with it?

  It gave her something else to puzzle over as she plunged down her favourite woodland path. Above the towering pines, jagged chinks of blue indicated it was still day. Tiny feathered bodies flittered between the spiky green branches and entertained her with a song as sweet as a choir of angels, punctuated now and then by the screeching call of a jay. A red squirrel looked at her for a moment with bright, inquiring eyes, before streaking up a tree and out of sight, his bushy tail catching fire in the westering rays of the sun.

  She skirted a path fairly near the edge of the wood, as the paths all looked notoriously alike and she had no wish to get lost and risk missing Ian’s phone call. She was filled with peace and tranquillity, her problems shrunk to perspective; when she spoke to Ian her voice wouldn’t have an edge to it. She hazarded she had walked far enough, time to turn back.

  She didn’t know quite how it happened, one moment she was swinging along with free, easy strides, and the next her foot hooked itself round the root of a tree and she lay winded on the ground. As she moved, a pain stabbed her ankle and she had a horrible vision of having to limp slowly back, and thought what a good job it was she had plenty of time.

  Then she saw it, something white and still tucked in the undergrowth. If she hadn’t fallen she wouldn’t have spotted it. With gentle hands she lifted it out. It was the prettiest mallard, glistening white with patches of velvety black.

  ‘What are you doing here, you beautiful boy?’ she whispered, searching her mind for explanation. Overhead, telegraph wires were partially hidden by the trees. It seemed likely that in the failing light he had flown into them. Luckily the undergrowth had broken his fall. Holding him she felt the flutter of his heart and knew he was only stunned, but the pose of utter helplessness filled her with quick compassion.

  ‘You poor thing,’ she murmured softly. Perhaps not so helpless at that because he cocked open one eye and gave her a saucy look as if to say: I’m all right now. You’ll look after me.

  ‘I will. I will,’ she said. Unmindful of her aching ankle, she began the long trek down to the river, carrying her warm bundle. Once or twice the duck jerked convulsively, as if he was in pain. He seemed to know he was in caring hands because he gave her a trusting look before firmly closing his eyes. She decided to make a detour by way of St Mary’s Church. The vicar was usually pottering about at this time of day, and with his knowledge of wildlife he would know if the duck was really hurt. Because she knew she couldn’t abandon him until she was certain he could fend for himself.

  But as she approached the strip of bank proceeding the church, the duck decided he’d been passive long enough. His head went back, his bill opened, and with a series of squawks he spread his wings and took off, keeling her over in surprise. Yet delighting her with the picture he made as he circled twice before sweeping off into the sunset. She watched until he was a speck against a skyline speared with gold, orange and red.

  Still she did not move. The clock in the church tower began to strike. She counted, one, two, three. It couldn’t be all that late. Four, five, six. And yet she had the feeling her worst fear was about to be confirmed. Seven, eight, she couldn’t have missed Ian’s telephone call, she couldn’t. But as the ninth chivvying stroke sounded, she knew that she had.

  She came very near to sinking down on the ground and weeping tears of frustration. To wait all day for this moment and then let it slip through her fingers. Her first big mistake had been in caring for the duck. But she hadn’t known it would come to no harm. In any case the damage was done and all the crying in the world wouldn’t put the clock back.

  She thought, as she plodded a few weary paces on an ankle that was beginning to puff up and had started to ache abominably, that she spent too large a proportion of her life moaning about the inflexibility of time.

  Her ankle was paining her so badly, she wondered if she would make it home and actually toyed with the idea of retracing her steps and slipping into the church to rest for a while. Perhaps the vicar would take pity on her and drive her home. A
h, the vicar! She’d met him on several occasions and found him to be a jovial type with a keen, one might say dedicated, interest in his fellow man. He would want to talk, which was bad enough as she didn’t feel in the mood for polite chit-chat. But worse, she knew her face wasn’t a study in tranquillity; she was nervy and on edge again, and being the kindly soul he was he’d want to know why. She couldn’t tell him why because she didn’t know the answer to that herself, and she couldn’t fob him off with vague untruths. Not the vicar, that would be too irreverent. She decided to brave it home as best she could, which was her second big mistake of the day. If she had turned back to the church the vicar would have been in a position to provide her with an alibi. But then, she didn’t know she might be called upon to account for her time.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Next morning she woke to the fact that she’d slept, although she had thought she wouldn’t with so many problems tearing at her mind, and that her ankle was in good fettle. The swelling had subsided and, gingerly she put it out of bed to test it, it seemed able to take her weight. Well, that was something anyway. Whatever fate Val was plotting she wanted to meet it standing squarely on her own two feet. Val was up to something but, although she lay awake into the small hours, she hadn’t been able to fathom what it could be.

  In truth she hadn’t lain awake solely on Val’s account. She had hoped when Ian got no reply, he might book a later call, but it had been a forlorn wish and she hadn’t been too surprised when the phone remained silent. She heard Val come in around one-thirty, and sometime after that she must have dropped off because when she opened her eyes it was morning.

  Sometime between breakfast and lunch, the Mandy dress was returned to her wardrobe. Puzzling, she conceded, but surely not significant. The truth, the horrible, unbelievable truth did not catch up with her until late in the afternoon.

  Yet afterwards she wondered if she could have had a premonition, without knowing about it, to account for her strange mood. For example, she wanted to cling to the poignant beauty of the day, wanted to imprint on her heart every aspect of the view, as if tomorrow it might not be there. As if it could suddenly be transported.

  The sun glinted in and out of the trees and the fell had never looked as majestic in its gold and purple cloak. She wondered what it would look like in the depth of winter, crusted in white, the trees brushed with silvery splendour, glittering like the enchanted forest of a fairy tale. She ached to be able to see it in its winter dress and its spring dress. She wanted to see it for all the seasons to come, but she couldn’t see how that could possibly be. The house had suddenly become too small for both her and Val. Ian would have to choose, but she daren’t for the life of her dwell overlong on that thought, let alone pursue it.

  Her daydreaming had thrown out her daily schedule, so she was late setting out for the shops. Val delayed her further by showing a sudden eagerness to talk. She had been out for the better part of the morning and by tacit consent they’d eaten lunch in wary silence.

  Karen was torn in two. She wanted to stay and hear what Val had to say, but ostrich-like she wanted to defer any unpleasantness. In the end curiosity won and she stayed.

  ‘Did Ian say what time he’d be back?’ Val murmured interrogatively.

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Karen. ‘He mentioned something about booking an earlier flight. I meant to ask him if he’d had any luck when he phoned yesterday.’

  Val’s supercilious smile was swallowed by a look of surprise and mortification. ‘What time did he phone?’

  ‘Nine o’clock.’ Foolish honesty made Karen add: ‘But I didn’t speak to him. I wasn’t in to take the call.’

  Relief sprang to Val’s eye. ‘How thoughtful of you to tell me,’ she simpered, twisting a strand of hair round her finger and epitomising girlish sweetness. So that it came to Karen’s mind, no wonder Ian is fooled because when she looks like that I can wonder if I’m doing her an injustice. Is she capable of deep cunning? It was hard to discriminate between that and what could be a childish desire to draw attention to herself. As if for a moment Ian wasn’t aware of her plight.

  Karen called at the butcher’s first. Willie Smith was a dapper little man, always affable and polite. She thought he looked out of place in his blue and white smock, he would have made a splendid jockey or a dancer. But horseflesh would certainly be out of bounds in this shop, and his dancing activity was curtailed to a quick-step round the chopping block.

  ‘And what’s it to be today? The lamb chops look nice.’

  ‘Steak, please,’ said Karen. ‘Fillet if you’ve got it.’

  ‘I think I can accommodate you.’ He was swinging open the fridge door and disappearing inside. ‘Didn’t know you did the clubs,’ his voice floated out to her. It made her smile to think the news of her debut at the Seven of Clubs had travelled over the Pennines, all the way to Hamblewick.

  ‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘My first attempt proved to be a disastrous effort which I will never again repeat.’

  ‘Oh?’ He returned balancing the meat on a piece of greaseproof paper and slapped it on the scales. ‘So it wasn’t a publicity stunt like they’re all saying? You really did come over faint?’

  ‘I did. Do you think I’ll ever live it down?’

  His eyes twinkled. ‘No.’ The steak was wrapped and duly paid for.

  In the next shop she met the curious and disapproving—though why disapproving?—eyes of Pat Dawlish, as she came out of her post office cage to flit behind the grocery counter. ‘Fully recovered, I trust?’

  ‘Recovered?’

  ‘From your ordeal of yesterday evening.’

  ‘Oh you mean with the duck.’ She blushed to think someone had spotted her limping gamely down to the river’s edge. What an idiot she must have looked, especially when the bird suddenly took off. A picture of herself clutching the duck floated before her eyes, melting her embarrassment as she saw the funny side of it.

  ‘Not with, at,’ said Pat Dawlish, grim mouthed. ‘And not the Duck, but the Cat’s Whisker.’

  Karen sobered instantly, to stare and digest the words, and tie them up with Willie the butcher’s words and make them into a horrible sense. Obviously he hadn’t been referring to her appearance at the Seven of Clubs three days ago, but to a happening as recent as yesterday, not across the Pennines but much nearer home.

  ‘The Cat’s Whisker?’ she said on a cautionary note, wanting to be certain it was the truth she had latched on to. ‘Mitch and I appeared at the Cat’s Whisker last night? At Todbridge?’ Please not there, practically on the doorstep. But, yes that one as Pat confirmed with a crisp nod before asking: ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, it’s just that there seems to have been a mistake,’ she said miserably as she bolted out of the shop.

  ‘Your picture’s in the Hamblewick and District News,’ Pat Dawlish called after her. ‘It’s not a very good likeness. But then, you can only see a bit of your back.’

  That figures, thought Karen wretchedly. Val would see she didn’t face the camera, because of course it was Val. The time she had suspected her of phoning Ian, she had been phoning Mitch and hatching up her plot. It all fitted, her smugness, her reason for borrowing the Mandy dress, even her stricken look when she believed Ian had spoken with her on the telephone at nine o’clock. Which time presumably coincided with her appearance on stage. A fleeting appearance according to the evidence of Willie.

  Damn! Damn! Damn! Well, anyway, her frustration wouldn’t be aggravated for long. Ian was bound to find out as soon as he put a foot in Hamblewick. Pat Dawlish would inform him for certain. If he arrived back today, which was more than a possibility, he would see for himself because it was his custom to stop off at the newsagent’s to collect the local evening paper. Then she would have the unenviable task of explaining she hadn’t gone back on her promise to have nothing more to do with Mitch, and all the time it was Val.

  He would give her a cynical look and say: ‘Oh?’ in that disbelieving way of
his. Or worse he’d put on his long-suffering face and say: ‘The trouble is, you have never liked Val.’ Even so he must see that it was feasible, because who could impersonate her better than the original Mandy: Val. So then he would trot her round to see Mitch for confirmation of her story. Mitch might well have been a party to Val’s deception, it would delight his perverse sense of humour, but he wouldn’t lie when it came to a show-down. That was the puzzling part. Why had Val done it, when she couldn’t hope to get away with it?

  Karen stopped dead in her tracks, knowing why. That way would be too degrading. She wasn’t a sack of potatoes to be hauled here and there, nor an untrustworthy child whose word is to be doubted. She had to say, “It wasn’t me.” And if he loved her, he had to believe her because that is what love is all about, trusting a person, believing them implicitly when the facts state otherwise.

  ‘That isn’t me,’ she said stabbing the photograph in the Hamblewick & District News.’

  ‘I know,’ said Ian.

  ‘Just this once the indisputable facts are . . . what did you say?’

  ‘I said I know it isn’t you.’

  Her anxiety switched off and she stared at him, numb with relief. ‘You know!’ For one heady, glorious moment she gloated in silent wonder, before an intrepid desire for confirmation goaded her into saying: ‘You trust me . . . implicitly?’

  ‘Trust doesn’t come into it,’ he said, wriggling uncomfortably.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Her joy was momentarily blighted.

  ‘Just what I said.’ He avoided her shrewd eyes, rubbed his chin, and challenged: ‘Have you looked at the picture?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied shortly.

  ‘I don’t think you have.’ He was still looking anywhere but at her. Puzzled, she reached for the paper to examine it critically. It was a marvellous shot of Mitch, his face looked splendidly handsome in semi profile. Not so good of the girl. Val showed the camera her back. People’s backs tend to look much alike and she couldn’t see . . . ‘Oh!’