The Treacherous Heart

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  ‘Goats, pigs, cows, even rabbits,’ she said briskly, not to let him have it all his own way. ‘You name it – I recognise it.’

  He smiled in appreciation of the sally. His grey eyes scrutinised her steadily and Anne caught herself think-again that, while not handsome in the conventional sense, he was certainly very attractive …

  ‘We seem to be fated to meet,’ he was saying. ‘I should have known when I chose a solicitors’ firm at random, I would be directed in my choice by some mysterious force.’

  ‘Do you always talk like this?’ she marvelled. He frowned at her.

  ‘I have you at a distinct disadvantage,’ he said seriously. ‘You see, I can say anything I like to you, but you have to be polite to me, because I’m a potential customer, and the customer’s always right.’

  ‘But as against that,’ Anne said equally seriously, ‘I’m a lady, and you have to be polite to me whatever position you’re in.’

  ‘In that case, Miss—’

  ‘Symons.’

  ‘In that case, Miss Symons, we shall have a delightfully polite relationship. I can see grave problems, however, whenever we reach a door. We shall both be standing back insisting the other goes first.’

  Anne laughed. ‘What makes you so sure we are going to have a relationship?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t see how we can avoid it,’ he said. His eyes found hers, and held them, and she felt her heart beating a little more quickly than it should at the words. Then he went on, ‘After all, any two people saying anything to each other are having a relationship of some sort, though it may be the merest formal exchange.’

  Anne cursed herself inwardly for having made too much of too little. She said with a formal smile.

  ‘Do I take it that you wish to make an appointment to see one of the partners?’

  ‘You do. It’s on a matter of conveyancing. I want to buy a building and plot of land in the high street, and I need someone to handle the sale for me.’

  Anne’s mind flooded with questions and speculations at that point. Was he acting as an agent or buying for himself? With what purpose? Was it a house or a business? She racked her brains to remember what buildings were up for sale in the high street, but couldn’t remember a single one. If he was buying for himself, it looked as though he was well-off, and perhaps it also meant that he would be staying, settling down in Market Winton. This in its turn threatened to set off an even more disturbing chain of questions in her mind, and she had been sitting staring at him for several seconds already. She must not slip from her professional perfection. She put her questions aside and said.

  ‘May I have your name, please? I’ll see if one of the partners can see you now.’

  ‘Oh it needn’t be right now if it isn’t convenient. I can come in at any time. I’m staying at the Black Bear, just round the corner. But of course you’d know where it is.’

  ‘Of course,’ Anne agreed. ‘And the name?’

  ‘My card,’ he said, slipping one out of his breast pocket with such a practiced air that it was evident he did it many times a day. He must be a business man, she decided, to carry cards round with him; but the card told her nothing. It was quite plain, simply with the name printed across the middle, and an address in the bottom right hand corner. ‘M. F. Conrad’ it said. ‘221 Regent Street, London W.1.’

  ‘I won’t keep you a moment, Mr Conrad,’ Anne said in her most professional manner, and slipped into Mr Whetlore’s room, but her thoughts were very unprofessional. ‘Wait till I tell Wendy that I know his name,’ she thought, and, ‘I wonder what the M. F. stands for?’

  She was back in a moment, still holding the card. ‘Mr Whetlore would be happy to see you at any time this afternoon,’ she told him.

  ‘What time do you make the tea?’ he asked abruptly. She was so surprised that she stumbled over her answer.

  ‘Oh – er – about three, usually.’

  ‘Then I’ll come at two-thirty,’ he said, and with a debonair smile bid her ‘Good morning!’ and was gone, leaving Anne to wonder if he meant to be there for tea, or to miss it.

  Anne stayed in the office over her lunch-hour in case Joe should call, but by two-thirty, when M. F. Conrad came back for his appointment, she had neither seen nor heard anything of Joe. She showed the client in to Mr Whetlore, and went back to her desk, and there sat for some time, staring at the visiting card and speculating idly. Maurice Fitzroy? Martin Frank? how about Montmorency Featherstonehaugh? A business man, obviously, but of what sort? He looked like an accountant, or perhaps a solicitor, except that he was just slightly too glamorous, just a little too showy. She found herself remembering the moment when their eyes met, and shook the thought away as a horse shakes off a fly. Whatever else he was, he was probably a smooth worker, and she shouldn’t allow herself to be taken in by his ready charm.

  She was taken by surprise when the door of Mr Whetlore’s office opened long before she would have expected them to be finished. It was still only ten to three – he wouldn’t get his tea after all. Or perhaps, if he had intended to avoid tea-time, she should say he had just made it in time. She smiled formally as he stopped in front of her desk, and said.

  ‘Everything satisfactory, Mr Conrad?’

  ‘Perfectly thank you, Miss Symons.’ Then suddenly he leaned both hands on her desk, smiled winningly at her, and asked, ‘What are you doing tonight?’

  Anne was taken aback, not having expected so abrupt a proposition. ‘That’s a very bold question,’ she said.

  ‘What should I have said?’

  ‘What should I say now?’

  ‘Well, it seems to me you have two possibilities. Possibility (a) – you can tell me to mind my own business. Possibility (b) – you can tell me what you’re doing tonight.’

  Anne thought about it. ‘Possibility (b) subsection one – I can tell you what I’m really doing tonight. Possibility (b) subsection two – I can tell you a lie.’

  ‘But in that case,’ he said, ‘you would simply be telling me to mind my own business in a roundabout way, so that’s covered by possibility (a). Which is it to be?’

  ‘I’m lost after all those possibilities,’ Anne said, playing for time. He was not fooled.

  ‘Mind my own business, eh? Well, I should have expected you to be spoken for,’ he said. Anne would have liked to have asked why, but feared it might be construed as fishing. ‘Perhaps some other time, as they say on the films. You might tell me, however—’

  ‘Yes?’ Anne was prepared to be helpful, since she was off the hook.

  ‘What is there to do on Saturday night for a single man with no attachments; at least, not yet.’

  ‘There’s the discotheque in the Castle Hotel,’ Anne said, furrowing her brow as if in thought, ‘or there’s the Young Farmers’ Ball at Springbourne.’

  ‘I’m never sure just exactly how polite you’re being,’ he said suspiciously. ‘However, on this occasion I’ve no doubt as to which you’ll be attending.’

  ‘Why is that?’ Anne asked.

  ‘Because the van I saw you getting into last night was undoubtedly a Young Farmer’s vehicle.’

  ‘You saw me last night? You saw me at the fair?’

  ‘I saw you at the fair.’

  ‘Then you must know I am spoken for. You didn’t need to ask.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ he said, looking at her judiciously. ‘You were accompanied it’s true by a good-looking young man, but you’d evidently had words with him, so there was a good chance you might be available.’

  ‘You seem to have taken a great deal of notice of my private affairs.’ Anne frowned.

  ‘My dear Miss Symons,’ he said coolly, ‘Anything you do in public can hardly be classed as your private affairs.’ He straightened up, unruffled. ‘Anyway, enjoy the Young Farmers’ Ball. No doubt I shall be seeing you again.’

  Anne stuck her tongue out at his retreating back. Not very professional conduct, but it relieved her feelings a little. She was not used to b
eing bested in verbal combat. The door had hardly closed behind him, when a peevish call from Mr Whetlore reminded her that she had not made the tea, or even, as yet, put the kettle on.

  There was no call from Joe during the afternoon, nor by the time she was ready to go home; though she still had the evening to expect a visit from him, Anne had a feeling she was not going to be contacted. She didn’t know whether she had hurt his feelings, or whether he was staying away because he felt he bored her, but whichever was the real reason, it was not a happy thought. She was very fond of Joe – he was kind, and good, and she didn’t want him to be hurt. Apart from anything else, they had been going out together for a very long time, and sheer habit made it hard to imagine life, or even a weekend, without him.

  Then there was Dad to think about. He held Joe in high esteem, and his dearest wish was that Anne should get married and settled down. It would near break Dad’s heart if he knew she and Joe had quarrelled. It would be hard to keep it from him, too; not only was there Saturday night, when she and Joe usually went out, to be got over, but Monday was the Bank Holiday. That was why the fair was there, of course, though the significance had escaped her until now. But it would seem very odd if with both Sunday and Monday free she did not go out with Joe at all, and Joe did not even come over for tea.

  She ought to explain to Dad straight away when she got home, she thought, as she cycled through the town; explain that they hadn’t really quarrelled, just had a slight misunderstanding. That way Dad wouldn’t make too much of it. When she arrived home, however, Dad greeted her with an affectionate kiss, asked her how her day had been, told her she must be tired, and added.

  ‘I’ve got tea all ready for us both, so you can just sit yourself straight down. I expect you’re glad it’s the Bank Holiday on Monday. Have you and Joe got anything planned for Monday?’

  ‘No, we haven’t planned anything,’ Anne said with perfect truth. Now was the moment, but somehow she just couldn’t say it.

  ‘Oh well, that might be for the best anyway,’ Dad said. ‘You never know what the weather will be like, do you?’

  Saturday got used up, as it always did, with shopping and bits of neglected housework, and letter-writing, and various bits of hand-washing and mending that needed catching up on. Saturday was Dad’s busy day in the station, with extra trains laid on for holiday-makers, and extra tickets bought by soldiers going out for the day and home for weekend leave, so they didn’t see much of each other. Anne told herself she did not expect Joe to call, but whenever a car passed in the road outside she found herself stiffening to listen. In the afternoon she gave in to herself and took a bucket of water and cleaned the downstairs windows so that she could keep an eye on the road, but he did not come.

  If I stay in tonight, she told herself, Dad is sure to ask why. On the other hand, if I go and Joe comes round …? And if I go out and Dad sees me taking the bus …? Life seemed fraught with problems until suddenly, she decided to stop worrying about them.

  ‘Joe can’t expect me to wait round for him without a word of a message,’ she told herself severely. ‘Anyway, it would do us both good to go out with someone else once in a while. We’re getting stale and narrow-minded.’

  The problem of being seen leaving under her own steam was easily overcome simply by starting off when Dad was across at the station, leaving a note for him in the kitchen, propped up against the tea-caddy, the first place he would look.

  ‘Gone out – back late. Don’t wait up for me,’ it said. Just what she always said. He would wait up, of course; he always did.

  Anne took her bike and after very little internal debate cycled into town with the intention of going to the cinema. She really couldn’t go to the Young Farmers’ dance alone – it would be too obvious – and there didn’t seem to be much else to do. The fairground was doing good trade, but Joe had been right about it being a little rough. She could see, even as she rode past, several youths slouching on the fringes of the lighted booths with their hands in their pockets and their eyes cocked for opportunity.

  The film she chose was interesting enough, and while she was absorbed in the action she forgot that she was here alone, and quite enjoyed herself. When the lights went up, however, she felt awkward. She looked around and saw several other people sitting on their own. Of course, there must always be people sitting alone in cinemas, she had simply never noticed them before. How sad to be a person who always goes out alone. It was enough to make you eccentric.

  When the film ended she saw that it was still quite early. I can’t go home yet, she thought with dismay. How difficult it must be to live a double life, a life of deception and secrecy. Where could she go? At this time of night she couldn’t go to a pub alone, and the cafés that sold coffee without a meal were closed. She was on the brink of giving up and going home to tell Dad the truth, when the memory of her own words came to her:

  ‘There’s the discotheque at the Castle Hotel.’

  Of course, the very place. On Saturdays there was no charge to go in, and it was dark enough in there and noisy enough for her to pass unnoticed. She could buy herself a drink and sit over it for a while and then go home. Or, if she met up with Wendy, she could have a little company before ending her evening in a lone cycle ride.

  The discotheque was crowded, even more so than usual, because of its being a holiday weekend, she supposed, and she slipped in among the press of bodies without so much as a raised eyebrow, for which she was grateful. It was almost more like a night-club than a disco, with the muted lights and the little tables in alcoves and the spotlighted dancing area. It was quite a smart place, and they often had live acts on in the evenings instead of records: on those occasions there was a charge to come in, and waiter service only at the tables.

  After a fairly long wait, Anne managed to secure herself a drink, and she took it and backed out of the crush round the bar and looked for a seat somewhere out of the way where she could listen and watch in peace. She had seen no one yet whom she recognised, so she supposed that there were a lot of holidaymakers here, or perhaps a crowd from one of the nearby towns.

  She was pondering on this when a voice at her elbow said.

  ‘Well met by moonlight! Or perhaps I should say, spotlight.’ It was Mr Conrad standing beside her, alone, with a glass in his hand. ‘So you didn’t go to the Farmers’ Ball after all?’

  ‘As you see,’ Anne said. ‘And neither did you.’

  ‘Well I just had a feeling you’d be here tonight, and so you are. But do my beady old eyes deceive me, or are you all alone and palely loitering, as the poet says?’

  ‘Which poet?’ Anne asked, intrigued. He smiled with a charming frankness.

  ‘Well, do you know, I really don’t know. I suppose it’s the height of bad manners, to quote without knowing who you’re quoting.’

  ‘Whom,’ Anne corrected him.

  ‘Whom,’ he agreed. ‘Goats and grammar – what a lot you know!’ He put his head a little on one side, surveying her acutely. ‘But I was right after all about the having words part. I hope he didn’t storm off and leave you here?’

  ‘No, no, I came alone,’ Anne said hastily. ‘But what about you, are you alone?’

  ‘More or less,’ he said, glancing over his shoulder. ‘Nothing to speak of. Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘No thanks. I ought to be going, actually,’ Anne said automatically. He clapped his hand to his forehead.

  ‘Snubbed again! You really do make the going hard, don’t you?’

  ‘I—’ Anne began, confused, then, ‘you more or less indicated you had someone with you.’

  He smiled at her, and it seemed, for all she told herself otherwise, a very special smile, a friendly smile, for her alone.

  ‘No, you misunderstood me. I was chatting to a girl over at the bar when I saw you come in, but neither of us had any great expectations of the other. Look, have you really got to go, or were you just trying to get rid of me?’

  His frankness appealed
to her, for it seemed the sort of thing one might say to a friend. It would be nice to have someone to talk to like that. She shook her head.

  ‘No, I really do have to go, you see—’

  ‘Then let me give you a lift home,’ he said eagerly, interrupting her.

  ‘I have a bicycle,’ she said, which was what she had been about to explain.

  ‘Well you could leave that here. You have a padlock, I’m sure.’

  ‘But then I’d have to come in on the bus to collect it. It would be very inconvenint. No, I really have to go, and on the bike.’

  He looked distressed. ‘I don’t like to let you go like that, when I’ve a perfectly good car waiting outside. But, as you say …’ He thought for a moment and then shrugged. ‘Let this be a lesson to me to get a roof-rack for my car. Then I could have taken the bike too.’

  ‘Or,’ added Anne, her sense of humour uppermost again, ‘to buy a bike, then you could have escorted me home.’

  He laughed. ‘I think I’ll stick to four wheels. I don’t think I’d stand much chance on two.’

  Chance of what? Anne wondered as she cycled quickly home through the dark lanes.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘Did you and Joe have a quarrel?’ Dad asked Anne the next morning at breakfast.

  ‘No, why?’ Anne asked, her heart sinking. She already knew the answer.

  ‘Well, he came round last night to see you. I thought you’d gone out with him. I was quite worried, until I thought you must have quarrelled, and you’d gone out without him in a huff.’

  ‘We didn’t quarrel,’ Anne said. ‘It was just – well, I don’t know how to say it – a momentary coldness between us, I suppose. What did he say?’

  ‘Oh, nothing much. You know Joe. I said you’d gone out and he said, oh, and then he said he’d come round today to see you.’

  ‘Did he say when?’ Anne asked, trying to sound unconcerned.

  ‘No, but I expect it’d be after dinner. Where did you go, then?’

  ‘Last night? Oh, to the pictures, and then I dropped in at the Castle for a while.’