The Treacherous Heart

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  He sat well back in his seat, so that his arms were straight out in front of him, holding the wheel like a racing driver would, and his long legs were stretched forward too. It looked a very comfortable way to drive, and it made her feel safer. He seemed relaxed, and alert at the same time, his eyes on the road, flicking up to the rear-view mirror from time to time. his hands steady on the wheel, or reaching surely for the short, leather-topped gearstick beside him. He had nice hands, she thought, long-fingered, strong hands, as strong as Joe’s but more sensitive. Or perhaps sensitive wasn’t the right word. Joe’s hands were sensitive enough when they were feeling a pig’s udder or helping her farrow, but they didn’t look as if they might play a violin or paint a picture. Or drive a car.

  Michael Conrad really did look the part, from his slightly ruffled dark hair and firm relaxed profile to his elegantly casual clothes – slacks and hacking jacket and a beautiful cream linen open-necked shirt. And his shirt was designed to be open-necked, not like Joe’s off-duty wear. He really looked like the kind of person who would drive a – what did he call it? – TR5. It sounded well. I went for a drive in his TR5. She could make a song out of that.

  And then, as she thought of the car, the question that hadn’t occurred to her since they left the office came back full force: where had he got the car from? Was it the wildest coincidence that he happened to be the owner of the very kind and colour of car she had named? Unlikely. Very unlikely. And yet, what was the alternative? What was he that he could go out and at three hours’ notice produce a car to order like that? Where did he get it from? It evidently wasn’t a new car, but the inside of it was band-box clean, as if it had just come from a car showroom.

  A horrible thought crossed her mind, that perhaps he had stolen it, but she shook the thought away as even more improbable than that he had already owned it. People like him didn’t steal cars, and if they did they didn’t drive them as relaxedly as he drove this one. He must either have bought it or hired it, but the implications of that were as hard to swallow. Why had he done it? Simply to please or impress her? What kind of interest in her did that imply? She detached her gaze from the floor and looked again at his face, as if it would tell her something.

  From this side of his face, his nose looked straight, rather noble, in fact, and his lips in profile, lightly closed, were deep-cut enough to balance out his chin. His eyes were steady and grey under dark brows – an interesting contrast – and his eyelashes were short and dark and spiky, rather like Joe’s when he had been in the water. Anne liked his profile, it gave her confidence. She liked his clean-cut jawline, too, and the proud set of his head. He looked as though he would like his own way, and know how to get it. Well, she knew that anyway: he had handled her masterfully enough. Say yes to life, Miss Symons! She laughed at that, and he glanced quickly at her, and at once slowed the car from sixty to thirty and turned off onto the next sideroad on the left.

  ‘Are you happy?’ he asked, breaking their long silence.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To a place where we can stop at the top of a hill and get a view. It’s no good stopping anywhere else, the hedges are all too high to see over. And we have to have a view.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To give us a reason for being there, of course.’

  ‘Do we need a reason, Mr Conrad?’ Anne asked.

  ‘Now that’s an improvement, that remark. But I asked you to call me Michael.’

  ‘But I can’t call you Michael if you call me Miss Symons.’

  ‘You’ve never asked me to call you anything else. I thought the omission was deliberate.’

  ‘You didn’t,’ Anne said, and he smiled slightly.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said enigmatically.

  ‘Anyway, if you need a formal invitation, would you please call me Anne.’

  ‘Delighted.’ The car was idling along at thirty-five now, and Michael had leisure to glance at her now and then. ‘You had plenty of time to study me – what did you decide?’

  ‘Decide?’

  ‘Have you got me taped? Set me down, all parts neatly labelled, for filing later? Or were you just admiring my profile?’

  ‘Really, you do ask impossible questions!’ Anne laughed, not offended.

  ‘You don’t seem to find me beyond hope anyway – you haven’t screamed to be let out. Well, later I shall have my chance to study you at length, when we’ve found somewhere to park. That’s another reason for finding a view – so that I can study you while appearing to be gazing out of the window at the downs.’

  ‘You don’t need to pretend; you’re welcome to look at me all you want.’

  ‘Definitely an improvement,’ he nodded happily. ‘It seems to come over you as we drive away from Market Winton. Shall I tell you what I think, Miss – Anne, I should say? I think that you are playing a part in Market Winton, and playing it so well you are almost deceiving yourself.’

  ‘What part? How deceiving myself?’

  ‘You’re not naturally a strict, efficient, habit-bound creature at all. It’s all an act. You’re wild and free, an adventurer, a creature of impulse who loves excitement and change. And because you have to keep that dull old job in the solicitors’ office, you’ve locked that wild person away inside a cold efficient person who says “no” and “why” to everything. But you’re still there inside, like a fly in amber, only so far inside you’ve forgotten what you’re really like.’

  ‘Now how can you work all that out from the little you’ve seen of me?’ Anne asked, fascinated.

  ‘Oh,’ he said airily, ‘that’s nothing. I can do things you’ve never even imagined before.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ she said dryly. ‘In fact, I know nothing at all about you. Except your name.’

  ‘Not to worry, we’ve the whole afternoon in front of us – time enough to find out everything.’

  ‘Everything? In one afternoon?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. After all, we don’t want to drag it out, do we? We can find out the important things in that time.’

  ‘What do you consider the important things?’ Anne asked, thinking of what he was doing in Winton, where he came from, what he did for a living.

  ‘Oh, what sort of music you like best, and what are your favourite wines, and do you prefer French food to Italian – that sort of thing.’

  ‘I never know if you’re serious, or joking,’ Anne complained. He smiled at her, turning his head so that she could see the smile’s lopsidedness.

  ‘That’s part of my charm.’

  It is, said Anne, but only to herself.

  He stopped the car at last near the top of a hill, pulling it into a gateway so that it would be out of the way of any traffic passing. ‘We have to walk a little way from here,’ he said.

  ‘Do you know this part of the world, then?’ she asked in surprise. She had always imagined that he was a stranger to Dorset.

  ‘No, I’ve never been here before.’

  ‘Then …?’

  ‘My dear girl, we have to get to the top of that ridge in order to get the view we need, and it’s obvious that the road goes downhill from here. So we climb over the gate and walk up there through that field to where those trees break the skyline, and we should find somewhere pleasant enough to sit and continue our mutual inquisition.’

  ‘Not over that field,’ she said, happy to have found something on which to correct him. ‘Round it, perhaps. The farmer wouldn’t thank you for trampling down his young wheat.’

  ‘But naturally,’ he said, smiling with his greatest charm, ‘I meant round it.’

  Under the trees they found a dry knoll on which they could sit with their backs to the trunks and their feet stretched out into the sunshine. The view was magnificent, over a stretch of patchwork countryside that rolled down into a wide valley and up again to the ridge that separated the land from the sea. The cloudless sky took over there, pale blue at the horizon, deepening towards the zenith, rich with the af
ternoon sunshine.

  ‘Breathtaking,’ Michael said after a while spent in silence contemplation of the scene. ‘No matter where I go in the world, it’s always England I want to come back to. There’s no more beautiful country in the world.’

  ‘And there’s no more beautiful county than Dorset,’ Anne said loyally. He smiled at her but said nothing. ‘Have you been abroad much?’ she asked.

  ‘I should think,’ he said gravely, ‘that I’ve been practically everywhere. How about you?’

  ‘Only to Switzerland, on school journey, and on a day-trip to France,’ she admitted, adding brazenly, ‘on the Hovercraft from Weymouth, actually.’

  He didn’t laugh at her. He nodded and said, ‘Pity. You’ve missed a lot. But there’s always time to rectify that.’

  ‘It isn’t that I didn’t want to,’ she said quickly. ‘But my mother was ill for a long time, so we never really went away at all.’

  ‘You’d like to go abroad?’

  ‘I’d love to travel. It’s one of my dreams, but I’m afraid it will probably have to remain a dream.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, I couldn’t afford to travel widely in style, and I’d be too scared to tramp the world alone. I know some people do it, but I haven’t that kind of courage.’

  ‘Sleeping under hedges and hitching across the desert and that kind of thing?’ Michael asked, amused.

  ‘That kind of thing,’ Anne agreed. ‘Where have you visited?’

  ‘As I said, almost everywhere.’

  ‘Name one place,’ Anne demanded.

  ‘The Mojave desert,’ he said, apparently at random.

  ‘I don’t even know where that is,’ she admitted.

  ‘I’m glad of that,’ he said, grinning. ‘What an ignorant girl you are!’

  ‘I’m not an ignorant girl – I know about goats. And conveyances.’ Their eyes met. ‘Which reminds me—’

  ‘I knew you’d get round to it,’ he said.

  ‘What do you want to buy that place in the High Street for? What kind of business are you setting up?’

  ‘That’s two, you’re allowed one more.’

  ‘One more what?’ Anne was puzzled.

  ‘Question. I thought it would come to this. You’re a terrible girl for asking questions.’

  ‘It’s part of my charm, to quote someone.’

  ‘One more,’ he insisted.

  ‘What do you do for a living?’

  ‘That’s practically the same as the other two. You don’t show much originality.’

  ‘You haven’t answered them yet,’ she reminded him. ‘You can expand as much as you like on the answers.’

  ‘It’s a dull subject to be talking about while we’re sitting here in this lovely sunshine with this lovely view to look at.’

  ‘Answer!’

  ‘All right. I’m opening a garage. I’m going to buy old cars and sell them again at a profit. I’m in the second-hand car business. Happy now?’

  Anne was thinking. ‘Of course, that accounts for—’

  ‘Everything,’ he finished for her.

  ‘The car,’ she corrected. ‘I’ve racked my brains to work out how you got hold of that car at such short notice.’

  He seemed amused. ‘And you think you have the answer now? You know exactly how I did it?’

  ‘I – well, not exactly how – but …’

  ‘I’ll tell you, and put you out of your misery. I telephoned through to a contact of mine in Weymouth who deals in Triumph cars. He had this one in his showroom, and he got a lad to drive it up straight away. I must admit the colour was a piece of pure luck, but otherwise, it was quite straightforward.’

  ‘It’s a lovely car,’ she said. ‘And now I know how, but I still don’t know why.’

  ‘Why I got it? Oh, I think you can work that one out for yourself,’ Michael said, smiling into her eyes. Anne felt her face grow warm, and he turned his head away to look at the view with a complacent smile.

  The silence extended itself in the drowsy afternoon and they both sat quietly, happy just to enjoy the peace of their surroundings. The sunlight lay rich and golden like butter across the fields, throwing longer shadows from the hedges and trees as the afternoon crept on. The swallows were busy in the insect-laden air, and their squeaking and the occasional burring buzz of a bee in the clover were the only sounds that reached them.

  Anne looked at her companion, and saw that he, like her, was quite relaxed and completely happy, gazing away into the blue distances with a serene smile on his lips. She was on the other side of him now, and was looking at his other profile, the crooked side of his face. It was astonishing that the two sides of the same face could look so different. His other profile had been that of a man of action and determination, a businessman, capable and firm. This profile was that of a dreamer, somehow gentler, vaguer. His crooked nose and lopsided, curly mouth were somehow less inaccessible, their imperfections more lovable than his other profile’s elegance. The firm, determined man of action might sweep her off her feet, but the gentle dreamer would be the one who would keep her.

  A second-hand car business, she mused. It was not a thing she could have guessed, but it explained the slightly too slick air there was about him when he was involved in his business dealing. She had the impression from somewhere that the used-car business was run almost exclusively by crooks, and it troubled her a little that he should be involved in it. Not that she believed for a moment that there was anything crooked about him – he was obviously honest – but she felt if she mentioned to anyone, like her father, that this was his line of business, they might think the worse of him.

  And why, she asked herself suddenly, should it matter to you what other people think of him? And yet, here she was, sitting in a field with him miles from anywhere just as if she had known him all her life. Strange how close she felt to him, though she had known him only a few days; closer than she had felt to Joe after four years.

  ‘What were you thinking about?’ she heard his voice breaking into her thoughts, and coming to, she realised that he had been studying her for some time as she stared into space.

  ‘Oh, all kinds of things,’ she said. ‘Cars and my father and …’ she hesitated to say it.

  ‘And?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘That’s good. I was thinking about you. Wondering what you’ve done with your life all these years, tucked away here in this quiet grey town in the middle of the green bit of England. Wondering what you did for excitement, how you managed to hold down that wild part of yourself without going mad in the process.’

  ‘It hasn’t seemed too hard, really,’ she admitted.

  ‘I’d go completely potty if I were to stay in the same place for longer than – the merest fraction of a hesitation – ‘a year.’

  ‘I suppose it’s self-discipline,’ she said. ‘I don’t allow myself to get bored. Whatever I’m doing, I concentrate on it, make it interesting. And I don’t sit around in my spare time: I’m always doing. So I get by.’

  ‘I admire you for it,’ Michael said seriously. ‘I really admire you.’ She turned to meet his eyes. He seemed to mean more than he said.

  ‘Do you?’ she asked. His curly mouth was very close to hers, his candid grey eyes held her in their gaze. She found it hard to remember the swallows wheeling in the sunlight and the whisper of the wind in the leaves; hard to remember the world at all. All the passion of her nature which had been suppressed, which had never before had an object worthy of it, was pouring upwards in her, threatening to carry her away in a flood of sweetness – madness. His long-fingered hand lifted hers from the grass and curled around it, warm and strong.

  ‘Yes, I do. I admired you from the first moment I saw you. I felt you were like a caged tiger.’

  Remember, she told herself desperately, this is the man who just a moment ago told you he could not bear to stay in the same place for long. He’s just passing through. He caressed her hand, and the world was receeding fa
rther and farther away. Not passing through, her mind whispered. He’s staying, for a while. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it, and then gave it back to her, and, released, she felt she must fall from the dizziness of this new emotion.

  ‘It must be getting late,’ she heard herself saying. ‘Look how long the shadows are.’

  ‘Yes,’ Michael said briskly, ‘and you’re getting cold sitting in the shade here. Look how goosey your arms are. Come on, let’s go and have some tea somewhere.’

  He jumped to his feet and held out his hand to help her up, and when she grasped it, the world began to shift back into focus, and it was simply a strong, capable hand heaving her to her feet. Two profiles, two hands, two men. Or was it her nature that had two sides, after all?

  ‘You haven’t told me yet anything of great importance – like what books you read, and what music you like, and what your favourite colour is,’ he said as they walked briskly down the hill towards the gate.

  ‘I should think you know the answer to that last,’ she said, light-spirited again.

  ‘Oh yes, of course, British Racing Green!’ He laughed. ‘Well, that’s a start. We can find out one or two other things on the way to the tea shop.’

  ‘Where are we going? Have you decided?’

  ‘The Copper Kettle. Have you been there?’

  ‘No, never.’ It was rather nice, after all these years with Joe, to be with someone who decided the whole thing from beginning to end, and without reference to the price.

  ‘Are you hungry? I should think you must be, not having had any lunch. You looked quite pale back there on the hill – I thought you were going to pass out.’

  Anne glanced at him quickly, to see if he really thought it was hunger and not passion that had made her dizzy a moment ago, and she found that he was smiling at her with his most enigmatic expression. She could tell nothing from his face, and he knew it.

  ‘Yes, I’m hungry,’ she said at last, non-committally.

  ‘Thought you were,’ he said. ‘Never mind, fix your mind on hot buttered toast and scones and jam and other good things. We won’t be long now.’ He climbed the gate with lithe agility and jumped down on the other side. Joe would have undone the gate, patiently, held it for her, and done it up again afterwards. She climbed over, and when she got to the top, Michael turned back and held up his arms to her, to help her down.