'Hmm.' Dwynwen gave it some thought while she scraped up minced beef. 'We'll see.'
'You might be able to show her the error of her ways,' Lallie chuckled. 'Think of it, Dwynny, a person led back into the paths of righteousness, and all by your efforts. You might even be able to talk her into marrying him, then there might be a baby and you could go visiting, you'd like that.'
'Stop your soft talking, you won't get round me.' Dwynwen finished off the last of her mashed potatoes and sighed with satisfaction before becoming stern again. 'I shall do as the Lord directs me.'
'Then ask Him to direct you to let Jonty and Vi come to tea again and to let you have them come in to see you,' Lallie suggested as she picked up the tray. 'Try, Dwynny. I think you're hurting Jonty by refusing to see him, and he's always thought a lot of you, he loves you.'
Lallie had to wait until well after tea before she had a chance to speak to Owen. Stella seemed to have glued herself to the typist's chair in the office, working long after her normal time for departure so that she once more had to be offered tea, and then Owen escorted her down the garden path and they stood talking by the gate where Stella's Mini was parked. Lallie watched them from the kitchen window. She didn't want to, but it was compulsive viewing.
Stella stood there in the biting wind, hardly seeming to notice the cold, her face turned up to his and her hand possessively on his sleeve. It made Lallie feel sick, and that was something that needed analysing. She wasn't blind to Owen's faults, he was an egotistical bastard, conceited, dictatorial, a womaniser—anything in skirts from seventeen to seventy, and he automatically turned on the charm, he couldn't help it, and for him, it was fun, he enjoyed every moment of it, damn him!
Lallie herself had her weakness for him, despite the way he'd treated her; she even loved him a bit. Here she caught herself up—not a bit, she loved him like mad, but wild horses wouldn't have dragged that admission from her except to herself. She daren't even let it be seen, because once he found out, he'd exploit it and her for all he was worth and then she'd stand no chance at all. She'd made a life for herself and was reasonably happy in it, but he'd never let her keep it. Quietly, she withdrew into her shell.
When Owen came back into the kitchen, rubbing his hands and holding them out to the blaze in the firebox, she had managed to become very calm and self-contained, it put a fine edge on her tongue.
'Stella has a sister in Trellwyd,' she remarked in a chilly voice. 'Has she told you about her?' And at the shake of his head, 'She, the sister, is a theatre fan with a scrapbook going back to the year dot, she's also a devotee of Miss Marla Lake. How's that for a coincidence?' At this point her feelings got the better of her and she slammed the last plate into the rack with force enough to split it in two.
Owen swooped on her like some monstrous bird of prey to tow her away from the sink and into the sitting-room. 'There's been a batch of poison brewing up in you since dinnertime.' He pushed her into a corner of the couch. 'You'd better get it up before it chokes you—and in simple sentences, please, without the usual innuendo.'
'You mean you prefer me to be blunt?'
'You couldn't be that if you tried,' he glared at her. 'You've too sharp an edge on your vicious little tongue. What's all this about a scrapbook and Marla Lake, and why has it upset you?'
'Men!' Lallie spat the word at him, 'They haven't the sense they were born with! Your Stella's seen that scrapbook, she could even remember that lovely bit where I was a 'pert little typist'. From now on, there'll be a path beaten to the sister's door while everybody refreshes their memories of little Lallie's fall from grace.' Her spurt of anger died, to be replaced by worry. 'I'm not so much concerned for myself, I've been through it once and I can go through it again, but your Stella says you're coming up for re-appointment and the present state of things here might go against you. It would be entirely your own fault, of course, and you'd have nobody but yourself to blame. I didn't ask to be dragged up here by the scruff of my neck, that was' all your doing.'
'So it was,' he agreed amiably, dropping to sit beside her on the couch. 'What's the worry, then?'
'Because I don't think you'll blame yourself.' She looked up at him, even sitting together, his head was so much higher than her own. 'You'll find some way to blame me for ruining your career, I know you will. I've thought about it all afternoon and there doesn't seem to be anything I can do, although I suppose I could beg a bed from Jonty and Vi, just come up here during the daytime.'
'Working on the supposition that I don't make love during the daylight hours?'
'Something like that.' The humour of it struck her and she grinned. 'A sop to the public—they aren't to know you'd do it any time you wanted, midnight or high noon.' She felt him laugh rather than heard him. 'What's that for?' she demanded.
'I was just thinking what a blessing it is that you're not on the appointments committee. I'd not stand a chance—but not to worry, the board doesn't meet until June, we've got two clear months, and anything can happen in that time.'
'Like what?' Lallie refused to be mollified.
'Like we'll start making a good impression, get out where we're known and flaunt that ring around. Where is it, by the way?'
'Upstairs on the dressing table,' and at his look of disgust, 'I can't wear it when I'm cooking. I did the first day and it took me hours to get the pastry out of the setting, it's all fiddly bits.'
'I suppose you mean you don't like it,' Owen growled at her. 'Lord, you're an expensive wench! I'll take you to Aber and you can choose something more to your taste.'
'No, thank you,' she said primly. 'I'm quite happy with that one, I can't wear it for most of the time and that suits me fine.'
'But it doesn't suit me—and there's another thing which I don't like, that's your attitude when we're together. You don't give the right impression. You're either biting my head off or you're giving me black looks. You're supposed to look all Moon, Spoon and June, not as if you want to scratch my eyes out. If you could manage an expression halfway between starry-eyed wonderment and unfulfilled passion, we'd probably have the populace believing in us via Stella and Nerys.'
'The populace?' she squeaked. 'I thought this was for Dwynny's benefit. Besides, I wouldn't know how to do it.'
'You must have learned something from your golden oldies.' Owen moved in on her, crowding her back into a corner and fastening a firm hand in her hair. 'But if you didn't, here's your first lesson,' and his mouth came down on hers.
Behind her closed eyelids, moons and stars whirled magnificently, and then she felt her eyes fill with tears. This wasn't fair—he had all the know-how and he was crowding her, forcing a response she didn't want to give. Her hands went up to his hair, she fully intended to pull out handfuls of it, but her stupid fingers refused to obey her brain. Restlessly, she stirred against him.
He raised his head and looked down at her. 'Do that again.'
'What?' she whispered through smarting lips.
'Wriggle.' He pulled her closer to him. 'Your trouble, my girl, is that you've been kissing the wrong men.'
Some time later he raised his head from where his mouth had been caressing the hollow between her breasts. 'Do you want to go any further?' he murmured in a thick whisper, but before Lallie could either nod weakly or shake her head violently, the telephone rang from the hall.
Owen let it ring several times and then, when it seemed to threaten to go on ringing all evening if it wasn't answered, he slid to his feet with a stifled epithet which made her gasp at its vehemence. 'Stay where you are,' he paused briefly at the door. 'I'll be back.' But he wasn't.
Lallie heard his voice through the open door. 'Yes, love, I'll be there as soon as I can,' and he was gone, flinging out of the front door into the chill evening air.
She gave herself a few minutes to recover from the assault on her senses before she tried to get to her feet. Even then, her legs felt too weak to support her and she was filled with a sense of deprivation as she slumped down on
the rug by the fire. But she wasn't crying because she'd been deserted, not really, and her hands clenched into fists. She was weeping for her own stupid weakness, her own moronic idiocy, that she'd made herself so easy! But then she hadn't stood very much of a chance, not against Owen; he was a master at his own game.
Anger with him and with herself came spilling back, heating the little chill that had settled inside her when he went off to the phone and making her rage about his lazy 'I'll be back'. He was so sure of himself and of her. And then she started thinking about the phone call—Stella, she supposed, probably wanting to give him a fresh look at that damn scrapbook, and after he'd read it all over again, he'd go back to her cottage with her and soothe whatever little worry she had invented to get him down to Trellwyd. She shook her head and brushed the tears from her face with the back of her hand.
Once a fool, always a fool! Lallie rose to her feet and stuck her small chin out. Not Lallie, she vowed it by everything she held dear, then she scrambled to her feet, smoothed down her rumpled clothing and went off to the kitchen where there was plenty to do. Lay out the supper, make Dwynwen a drink, put things ready for the morning, and then she would go to bed so that when he came in, she would be fast asleep and there would be no repeat of her wild behaviour.
CHAPTER SIX
Dwynwen wasn't much help either. The old lady sat there in her bed, cuddling the warm mug and taking occasional sips while she looked very pleased with herself.
'You've been tottering to the bathroom,' Lallie accused. 'You know you're not supposed to, you wicked old lady! Wait till they bring you the walking aid next week, you're not safe with a stick.'
Dwynwen was unrepentant. 'Can't stand those bedpans, and I've been thinking about it. Better if you and Owen don't wait until I'm up and about. People'll be looking sideways at you, specially if you have the first baby pretty quick. There's no telling with the first, that's a fact. Could be a fortnight either way—they'll be counting up on their fingers. Can't have that, can we?'
Lallie felt a hot flush spread over her face, it felt as though it was travelling all over her, that there was no part of her which wasn't a fiery red. Dwynwen picked up the embarrassment as though she was a mind-reader.
'Been at it already, has he? Then you'd better not wait any longer.'
Lallie's flush deepened. She was always thrown by the way Dwynwen could change from an attitude of puritanical righteousness to one of down-to-earthiness without turning a hair or blinking an eyelid. She tried a jokey retort and hoped it wouldn't fall flat and that she wouldn't burst into tears.
'Dwynny!' she reproved with a tight smile. 'You've got improper thoughts on your mind, you've been dwelling on Jonty and Vi too much. You mustn't think we're all alike.'
Dwynwen drained the last drops from her mug and handed it over. 'Never met any that wasn't the same,' she snorted, 'and Owen's got a way with him, always had. Speak to him tomorrow, I will—better that way. One should avoid even the appearance of evil.'
'Don't you say a word!' Lallie was close to tears, she had been striving for control ever since Owen had been called away and she thought she was near breaking point. 'I've still got to think about it,' she made her voice as persuasive as possible. 'I don't know I'm all that keen on getting married straight away, it's a big step—I wouldn't like to make a mistake. I don't even know if we'd get on together. It's for life, isn't it, and I want to be sure.' She stood up from where she'd been sitting on the edge of the bed to make for the door, followed by Dwynwen's jeering cackle.
'There's lies for you!'
'Oh!' Lallie blushed once more. 'Go to sleep, you aggravating woman, and stop making things worse. 'If I want to marry Owen, and I'm not at all sure that I do, not at the present moment—he's not been exactly the lover boy recently—I wouldn't need your help!'
'Better a pinch of help when it's needed than a ton of pity when it's too late! Not made up your mind, ha! Think I'm a fool, Lallie?' And Dwynwen slid down in bed and closed her eyes firmly. 'Put out the light as you go.'
Lallie went back to the kitchen where she made herself a hot drink and drank it slowly. Everything was building up on her and she didn't know which way to turn. The trouble was, she was in a sticky situation, one she couldn't get out of.
Nothing, but nothing would have made her abandon Dwynwen to the tender mercies of Stella Prentice, so she had to stay until the old housekeeper was on her feet again. Equally, the situation between herself and Owen was getting out of hand—it had grown to a state where she couldn't stay, so what to do?
Had she been mad all these years? Not to have known what was the matter with her? It hadn't been Owen she had been fighting, it had been herself, purely a defence mechanism and purely in the interests of self-protection. She'd loved him all the time. At this point, her mind crystallised into a firm determination, she would go on protecting herself, otherwise Owen would step in and take over, and how he would crow!
She'd seen too many other girls turn themselves into doormats beneath his lordly feet; he took their adulation and he pitied them as he would pity her, only with her, it would be worse. She discounted his flirtations, the local ones anyway, they were only passing things, they didn't mean much, but his weekend 'conferences'—she shrugged; they didn't mean much either.
She found herself feeling sorry for Stella, although she knew that as soon as she saw her again, her pity would be swamped in a wave of dislike. In fact, Lallie didn't need to see her again to start disliking. Stella had asked for all she got, she should have known better than to take Owen seriously, and, following from this, Lallie herself knew better than to take him seriously. He was the perennial bachelor gay and he'd probably stay that way until the day he died— he'd be quite likely to wink at a female mourner from his coffin if the female was young and nubile!
Weary with too much fruitless thought, she went back to the sitting room and chose a couple of books to take upstairs to bed. She had a hot bath, scrambled into bed, read a few pages, switched off the light and counted sheep. She did everything she knew to induce sleep, but it wouldn't come. She found herself listening for the sound of the Land Rover coming up the hill to the farmyard, listening for the slam of the door, and finally, at half past two, she gave up all thoughts of sleep. Her mouth was dry, her eyes were hot and smarting and she slid out of bed, struggled into a robe and went down to the kitchen where she made herself a cup. of tea.
At three o'clock, she heard him come in and stood up to tie her robe more firmly about herself before going to switch on the kettle and empty away the teapot. He came down the passage with a dragging step as though he was very tired, and when he entered the kitchen, Lallie was busying herself making fresh tea.
'I thought you'd be late,' she said without turning from the counter. 'Did you have a nice time?'
'No, I haven't had a nice time!' and the concentrated venom in his voice made her whirl to face him. He had flung himself into a chair and there was a greyness under the tan of his face.
'Wasn't she nice to you?' Lallie asked with a smirk.
'No, she wasn't. If you must know, she stood on my foot.'
'Ha!' she chuckled, 'and now it's you who has the "little sprain". Serve you right—but don't worry, you'll be able to get about on it tomorrow—that's what you told me, isn't it?' She brought a steaming cup of tea to the table and plonked it by his elbow. 'A bit of strapping, a couple of aspirin…'
He seized her wrist. 'Do you know how much she weighed?'
Lallie treated the question lightly.
'About eight and a half stone,' she giggled. 'That's only a rough estimate, though, but it can't be much more. Stella's fairly tall, but she's very slim. Serve you right, anyway.'
'Stella?' Owen's voice rose in indignation. 'What's Stella got to do with it? I'm talking about a cow! How would you like half a ton of pregnant moo-moo treading all over your toes—and to add insult to injury, she dropped her calf on me. Get me some aspirin and the whisky bottle.'
Lallie st
ifled relieved laughter, happiness swimming up in her until she thought she would explode with the relief. She'd been so convinced he'd gone to see Stella, she hadn't even considered it might have been a working call. 'I thought you'd been with a woman,' she explained between giggles of near hysteria.
'The only woman I've seen tonight,' his voice was dangerously calm, 'was a fifty-year-old Sister at the hospital. She had a face like a hatchet and a sadistic disposition, nearly as bad as yours. She also had the biggest syringeful of antibiotics I've ever seen in my life, and she took a great deal of pleasure in sticking it in my backside.'
'Poor Owen!' Lallie became solemn. 'Is it a bad sprain?'
'Two toes broken—and don't you dare say it serves me right! The damn beast tramped all over me and her hooves cut my wellies to pieces.' He bent over and removed with difficulty a shredded gum-boot, inspected his foot and held it out for her to see. 'Cut my foot as well, that's why the antibiotics. Where's the whisky?'
'I don't think you should,' she demurred. 'It might quarrel with the injection. Have another cup of tea and some aspirin.' She sat down on her knees to inspect the damage, gingerly taking off his sock to disclose some stained bandaging. 'If it's a break, shouldn't it be in plaster?'
'Toes don't get plastered, not the small ones— they'll heal themselves.' He winced as she gently probed among the wrappings. 'Lord! I could do with a drink.'
'You're not getting one.' Lallie scrambled to her feet, hitching her robe about her and pushing her plait of hair back over her shoulder. 'It'll inflame your blood or something.'
'Bloody women,' he growled. 'They think they know everything. If I can't have a drink, I'm going to bed, and you can phone the County Office in the morning, tell 'em I won't be available—then you'd better phone old Meredith in Trellwyd and tell him to take any calls for me.'
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