The Road to Forever

by Jeneth Murrey

  'Don't bother,' she flared. 'I can manage without your help. I'll make do with what I have, don't put yourself out for me!' The flare died away and she became calm. 'Now let me see, which would you prefer, jeans and a sweater? They're always acceptable, aren't they?—or I could use the remaining things from my case, like four pairs of tights, some bras, a load of panties and a clean nightie—oh, and I forgot, I found a couple of my old school dresses, I could wear one of those, if you don't mind it open down the front and a bit wrinkled over my rear. It's a bit mini as well, I should look devastating!'

  'You're being deliberately obstructive,' he accused.

  'The man has a mind like a needle,' she marvelled. 'I require transport to Aber, but I'm not accepting your offer unless you cut out the nasty bits like reminding me about doing forty miles an hour in a thirty-mile limit and then saying I'm not fit to drive. I'll ring Jonty and ask him, he'd do a favour for me, I daresay.'

  'I've told you, I'll take you. Be ready when you've given Dwynwen her dinner.'

  'And no nasty bits, everything to be sweetness and light for the trip?' and at his nod, 'A magnificent gesture, dear Owen. What payment do you expect?'

  Suddenly he grinned wickedly at her. 'You ask that? Come on, Lallie, you know the ropes—I'll expect very much the same as your old men received.'

  She looked down at her plate, thinking that all the fun had gone out of crossing swords with him again, but that was because, to her, it was a kind of game, whereas to him it was in deadly earnest.

  'That's the worst of young men,' she sighed when she had recovered herself. 'They're so physical, they wear a girl out. Come to me when you're in the sere and yellow, the withered leaf, and I'll give you a nice kiss and a cuddle.'

  'Strumpet!' But he was laughing as he said it.

  Dwynwen looked at Lallie over the tray containing her dinner, her eyes taking in tights, high-heeled shoes, the slim, pleated grey skirt and clean sweater. 'You going out?'

  'Mmm, shopping. Nerys is going to stay with you until I get back—she's full of gossip today, she said two whole sentences one after the other this morning, so you'll be able to have a nice chat.'

  'Where's your coat?' Dwynwen's eyes were sharp. 'Can't go out in this cold wind without one, it's only March.'

  'Didn't bring one,' Lallie said cheerfully, 'but not to worry. There's an old anorak of Jonty's in the hall, I'll borrow that.'

  'Your mam's coat's upstairs in the big bedroom.' The old lady dug her spoon into the small heap of mashed potatoes, nudged a little minced beef on to the spoonful and conveyed it carefully to her mouth. 'Nice,' she murmured when she had swallowed it. 'Should fit you, your mam was only little, like you.'

  'Mothballs,' Lallie shook her head, 'it's been up there for twelve years.'

  'No mothballs,' Dwynwen contradicted indignantly. 'Soap in the pockets.' She went on eating, slow spoonful by slow spoonful, until the plate was empty. 'And a nice cup of tea before you go,' she added sternly.

  Lallie went back to the kitchen where Owen and Stella were still eating and began to ladle trifle into glass dishes. 'Dwynny suggests I should borrow a coat of my mother's, she says there's one upstairs with the pockets full of soap.' She looked at Owen with a melting glance, full of humility. 'Is that all right with you?'

  'Of course, darling,' Owen reciprocated, laying it on with a trowel so that Lallie glared at him behind Stella's back. 'There are a few other things, if you want them,' he continued blandly. 'Some bits of jewellery and a string of pearls. I'll get them out of the safe for you this evening.'

  'And what do I have to do for that?' She mouthed the words at him silently and flushed as he looked at her, letting his eyes slide over her insolently. He made no attempt to disguise his meaning and she felt a peculiar sensation beginning in the pit of her stomach, and then, at his knowledgeable smile, she blinked and looked the other way, her thoughts in a turmoil. It was her own fault, she'd deliberately encouraged him to think the worst of her, so she had only herself to blame, but it wasn't fair. He was using all his considerable know-how and she couldn't cope with it.

  Several stinging phrases occurred to her, but she dismissed them. They'd only spark off another row, and that she could do without, so she decided to play his game. She'd never win, she knew, but surely Owen couldn't do anything or say anything much with Stella sitting opposite him at the table. She sidled up to him and put a hand on his hair.

  'You're so good to me, Owen,' she murmured throatily in a loving tone. 'My lovely, lovely ring, now more jewellery and some pearls—I'll have to think of something—some wonderful treat to repay you for all this kindness.'

  'Easy.' He dropped his fork and his arm slid round her waist, squeezing cruelly. 'You can finish off the Milk Marketing Board report tonight, when we get back. Stella's having the afternoon off.'

  It was cold in Aber, the wind was blowing strongly straight off the grey, stormy waters of Cardigan Bay and whistling down the main street of the little town. There was no escape from it, and Lallie was glad of her mother's coat, which was a lot more luxurious than she had supposed, a soft, silky musquash which fitted her perfectly and didn't look as though it had hung in a wardrobe for twelve years. She huddled into it gratefully.

  'I don't remember this coat,' she told him.

  'Why should you?' He was flattening. 'You were only about thirteen the last time you saw it and you were far more interested in getting the better of me, weren't you? I think you devoted every waking moment to defying me. You were a pest!'

  'Thanks,' she said briefly, and trotted at his side while she examined price labels in shop windows with a jaundiced eye.

  'Everything's twice as expensive here as it should be,' she scolded. 'I'd get things much cheaper in London or even in Newtown.'

  'Trying to impress me with your sense of economy?' Owen's fingers were hard about her elbow. 'Don't waste your time and mine, I know you too well. To the cost of whatever you bought in New-town, we'd have to add the cost of the petrol to get there, and the Bentley drinks like a fish! You can find what you want here, surely—there are some very good shops, this is quite a high-class resort, so try this one.' And he pushed her through the doors of a large store.

  Lallie wasn't trying to impress, she was doing rapid calculations in her head—and she wasn't too happy with the result. Oh well—she put her Greek holiday into a mental dustbin and decided she'd have to spend the money which she'd saved so carefully for the past six months. There wouldn't be any comforting pay cheque at the end of March to rely on and Owen hadn't mentioned money in his arbitrary arrangements.

  Beguiled by the warmth, she plunged into a very controlled orgy of spending. Her cheque book was in her bag and she knew to a penny how much she could afford, and if Owen offered her anything at the end of her stay here—her eyes brightened—he could take his magnanimity and choke on it!

  Her purchases completed, she drew out her cheque book, but he reached over her to take the bill and scowl at it, a sum which, to her, represented a sizeable slice out of a whole month's salary.

  'Is it enough?' His eyes ran down the list of purchases and the line of his mouth hardened.

  'Oh yes,' she said emphatically. 'I've kept it small—well, smallish because I want some shoes as well. I'm trying to be economical,' she exploded, 'and when you look like that, I can see I shan't get much help from you. Kindly remember, I'm a working girl, not a wealthy farmer, and,' her voice dropped to a low mutter, 'this coat doesn't help any. That salesgirl thinks I'm loaded!'

  'These are false economy,' Owen pointed out several items. 'Why buy manmade fibres when you can have good wool?'

  'They're easier to wash,' she hissed, while out of the corner of her eye she could see the assistant pulling out trays of cashmere twinsets, the ones at which she had already shaken her head and refused to contemplate. Owen examined them seriously, his long fingers feeling the softness.

  'These, I think,' he indicated a rose pink and a soft gold, then he made out his own cheq
ue for the total amount with a casual, 'We'll collect later,' before he hauled Lallie out into the street to head for a nearby teashop.

  'If I was bigger and stronger, I'd wring your neck,' Lallie muttered it to him as he pushed her into a seat. 'And don't think you're getting away with it! I was quite happy with what I'd chosen and the things were what I could afford. I can't afford cashmere twinsets, and they're not very practical anyway, they have to be cleaned. And I'm not going to earn them in the way you suggested—I'm referring to that dirty glance you gave me at the dinner table. I'll pay you for the other things, but I'm certainly not paying you for your little extras. You can give them to one of your women!'

  'Don't be vulgar,' she was told in a repressive voice. 'Consider them as a gift, with no strings attached—manmade fibres are going to be the ruin of sheep farmers. In any case,' his eyes slid over her mockingly, 'they wouldn't fit what you refer to as "my women". All of them have considerably more…' He looked pointedly at her slender figure and Lallie went quiet. She should have known better than to start anything with Owen in a public place. 'Stop being a contrary brat,' he advised. 'There's no need for you to pay me for anything, have the lot as a gift.'

  'I don't think I'd care for the pay-off,' she shot back at him. 'What had you in mind, a quiet weekend at a discreet hotel upcountry?'

  'Eight years away has broadened your mind!' He watched her lazily as she poured tea. 'Have a toasted teacake and give your mouth something else to do but spit out your nasty little thoughts about my private life.'

  'You didn't hesitate to tell me what you thought of mine,' she reminded him.

  'But I was acting in loco parentis,' he pointed out. 'Remember, Lallie, your mother left you in my care. It was my business to pry.'

  'Not the way you did,' she muttered defiantly. 'I never slated you for doing improper things—and heaven knows, you've done enough of them. Compared with you, I'm the original Snow White. In any case, you jumped to conclusions, which just shows how bad your mind is.'

  'No yesterdays,' he reminded her. 'That was what we agreed, wasn't it? So why d'you have to keep raking them up.' He stirred his tea reflectively and pushed the plate of teacakes across to her. 'We agreed we'd both stop vilifying each other but you can't leave well alone, can you? Every time you open your mouth, it's another spiteful jab. It's almost as though you're afraid of something, not me. I bet— Are you afraid of yourself, Lallie?'

  She swallowed hard on the little knot of fear which had crept into her throat, and when it was choked down, she gave a jeering little laugh. 'Afraid of you, Owen? Never on this green earth!'

  'Which wasn't the question,' he pointed out gravely. 'You've avoided that, so I'll tell you now, you should be afraid of me, my girl. Despite your protestations, I think I could have you any time I wanted, you're a long way from being the cool, remote little thing you pretend.' He looked up quickly and caught her gaze before she could lower her eyes, holding it so that she was fascinated by what she thought were yellow flames flickering behind the sherry brown. She was aware of dry lips, and with an enormous effort she picked up her cup and raised it to her mouth, gulping at it thirstily.

  'Bighead,' she jeered softly when she judged her voice would be normal and not a croak. 'Don't waste your time with me, I'm not in your league, and you wouldn't be satisfied with a pushover.'

  'Then come along.' He tossed some money down on the table. 'We'll buy Dwynwen a present while we're here, let her know she isn't forgotten. She'll never forgive us if we don't take her something.' The Welsh lilt was coming over strongly in his voice. 'Raisin toffee, cariad? She's very fond of that.'

  Lallie snorted. 'She's not up to toffee yet. Try some Turkish Delight, she always adored that at Christmas.'

  'Mmm,' Owen tucked her hand under his arm as they left the tea-shop, 'and a new handbag to put it in. Something she can show off when she's better and can get down to chapel. Meanwhile she can put it at the bottom of the bed or on the dressing table and crow about it when friends come visiting.'

  'That's a nice idea.' Lallie forgot her belligerence. 'A good, big one, something she can swank about.' And for nearly an hour, peace reigned between them as they turned over the contents of a leather shop to find something impressive enough to command respect from any sick visitor. Lallie let Owen pay for it, it was far too expensive for her to even contemplate—as she pointed out, she might have been able to buy the handle, but she had big, gilt initials put on the corner and added a bottle of lavender water and a box of Turkish Delight to go inside.

  'You can be a nice little thing when you like, Lallie.' Owen slanted a glance at her as they drove back to Bryn Celyn. 'Why can't you like a little more often?'

  'Because I'm what you called me, a contrary brat!' Then her sense of humour peeped out momentarily. 'It's the Anglo-Saxon in me,' she explained demurely. 'We Anglo-Saxons aren't like you Welsh. You tell us we must do something and immediately we're looking for ways and means not to do it.'

  'Tell me something I don't know,' Owen retorted scornfully. 'To be quite honest, I'd worked that out years ago, and the knowledge has come in pretty useful at one time and another.'

  'How?' Lallie wrinkled her brow and then gave up. 'Don't count on it any more, though,' she said darkly. 'Think how embarrassing it could be if it recoiled on you!'

  That evening, she occupied herself with the remainder of the M.M.B. report and then, when it was finished, she crept into Dwynwen's quarters with a cup of tea for the old lady.

  'It's not good for you,' she tried to be severe. 'A milky drink would be much better, it would help you to sleep.'

  'Don't want to sleep.' Dwynwen was unrepentant as she sipped at her tea. 'Lots to think about, and all of it good.' She slid a glance to her new bag in pride of place on the dressing table. 'Owen's a good lad, you mind that, wench. She's got her eye on him, and that ring you're wearing won't stop her. Never mind, there's not much longer for her here, soon be April and she'll be off to her hotel—opening for Easter, she said. Pity her poor guests—bread and scrape, that's her—can't save on food and have it tasting right.'

  'Wicked old lady,' Lallie reproved, then soothed as she took the empty cup, 'Off to sleep with you, you're looking a lot better,' and she dimmed the light as she went out and softly upstairs to bed.

  But Dwynny was quite right about Stella's perseverance in the face of what, to any other woman, would have seemed insuperable odds. Stella wasn't dismayed about the engagement, she seemed to find it amusing, and the looks she had given Lallie during the morning had been tinged with pity. They had made Lallie suspicious so that she had half a mind to tackle Owen about it, but she dismissed the problem as she scrambled into her high, old-fashioned bed, drifting off to sleep almost immediately.

  At half past two on the afternoon of Jonty's visit, Lallie came carefully downstairs. Carefully because she was wearing her new pair of very high-heeled black patent court shoes and the thin leather soles had the shine of newness still on them, but she was pleased with them. If there was one part of her anatomy about which she had no worries, it was her legs. For her height, they were long, slender and well shaped, and just at this moment, she thought they were looking their best. Flat heels would have spoiled the effect.

  Her black coronet of hair had been brushed until it was smooth and glossy, her face was nicely made up with special attention to her eyes and a new, black pleated skirt swung gently about her legs. She had debated about the cashmere and then, with a shrug, had opened the cellophane packet containing the pink. Owen had said they wouldn't fit any of his bits of fluff and it would be a pity to waste them.

  At the bottom of the stairs, she halted while she peered at herself in the wall mirror, a finger going up to smooth her arched brows. The pink colour did things for her, it flattered her slightly sallow complexion and it tended to hide what she had always thought of as a meagre bosom. The soft stuff hinted that there was something there without clinging and emphasising the lack of quantity. In fact there was only one
fly in her particular pot of ointment, and she cocked her head to listen to it—the slow, unrhythmic tap of the typewriter from the office, which meant that Stella would have to be invited to the party.

  It was sheer curiosity on Stella's part, Lallie knew that, and she also knew that the curiosity had nothing to do with her personally. Stella was anxious to meet Jonty's shepherdess, as was every other woman in the area. He'd been keeping the girl under wraps, hardly anybody had seen her except from a distance. A twinge shot through her ankle, but she dismissed it without giving it any more thought than that it was perfectly healed, the swelling was gone and provided she didn't dash about like a mad thing in these new shoes, she should last out the rest of the day. Owen had been warning her of the dangers of re-straining it which could lead to a permanent weakness.

  He came out of the office silently and caught her in her self-congratulatory mood.

  'What a ladylike, well-behaved little thing you look, my sweet. Butter wouldn't melt in your mouth, would it?' His eyes slid over her slowly from the crown of her head downwards, then stopped abruptly at her feet. 'What are you wearing those damn fool shoes for? I told you to buy something sensible.'

  Lallie raised a supercilious eyebrow, checked the seams of her one and only pair of pure silk stockings and brushed a minute speck from the vamp of her right shoe while she considered her reply. Jonty and his shepherdess would be here very shortly—she didn't want them barging into the middle of a stand-up fight, so a soft answer was the thing—soft enough to turn away wrath.

  'I'm walking in them,' she said demurely and then, 'Oh, Owen, I want to look right, and flat shoes would spoil the effect. As you said at the time, it was only a very little sprain, it doesn't hurt at all now.'

  'All this for Jonty?' He looked enigmatic. 'Anybody would think he was something special, instead of a fellow you've known most of your life.'

  'It's for the shepherdess.' She summoned up a soulful smile. 'It's my own private defence mechanism, the high heels and the hair. They make me look taller, which helps my inferiority complex. Basically, I'm very insecure.'