‘So did I.’ Uncomfortably Clare stood up. She turned and glanced out of the window towards the gravel drive where Paul and Peter had appeared in the dusk, followed by Julia and Casta. She could see the cold, blustery wind lifting Julia’s hair on the collar of her anorak. For a moment she watched them in silence, then she pulled the heavy curtains across the windows, blotting out the darkness. ‘But he’s changed, Em. He’s changed completely. Sometimes –’ She hesitated. ‘Sometimes he frightens me.’
Paul left Bucksters at six, throwing his briefcase and suits into the back of the green Jaguar. Half an hour later the Cassidys too were on their way.
‘Ring whenever you want to, Clare.’ Emma kissed her on the cheek. ‘And take care, won’t you?’
Clare watched the gold Renault speed up the drive until she saw the rear lights brighten as Peter braked at the gates and turned into the road, then the driveway was dark and deserted. She could hear the wind in the trees. It seemed to roar like a train gathering speed, carrying a spattering of icy rain. Slowly she shut the front door. She could hear the radio playing quietly behind the closed door of the kitchen down the passage where Sarah had returned in time to clear up the tea things.
Slowly she walked back to the drawing room and looked round. The chairs, so recently occupied, still bore in their cushions the imprints of the people who had gone; the drawing Julia had done for her, bright and cheerful, lay on the coffee table, flamboyantly signed across the bottom ‘Julia Victoria Cassidy’. Clare picked it up and looked at it.
There are ways of helping you to conceive a child! Alice’s voice was so distinct she looked round startled. I know some spells; I’ll tell you, if you like.
A log crackled and subsided in the hearth, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. She was alone.
Sitting down abruptly on the sofa, Clare put her head in her hands.
There are many things you can do: bathe in mare’s milk: wish on a child-getting stone: carry bistort and an acorn and hang a necklace of pine cones around your neck.
Was the voice in her head or in the room? In panic Clare folded her arms over her head, pressing her elbows against her ears, trying to block it out.
Lady’s mantle and the juice of sage and roots of ginger rubbed to powder. They will all help you. Wear your necklace of cones, and give your husband a stone of beryl to reawaken his love … It works, it always works …
The voice faded to silence. For a long time Clare sat unmoving, then slowly she lifted her head and looked round the room.
A long time later she stood up, her movements slow and dazed, rubbing her hands against her cheeks as she went almost unwillingly to her writing desk. She pulled open one of the little drawers and took out a small box. Inside, wrapped in cotton wool was a ring. It had been her father’s. She stared at the huge flat-cut stone with its engraved crest, then slipped it on her finger, raising it to the lamplight, where the pinkish red shone dully on her hand. Someone had told her once that it was a beryl.
Slowly she rehearsed Alice’s list of remedies in her mind. Most of them would be easy to find. Pine cones – ginger – sage. Such simple things. Did she seriously think they would help? What of the other things? Mare’s milk? Bistort? What was bistort? And where would she find a child-getting stone?
Shutting the drawer she sat down again by the fire, staring at the ring. If only she could ask Alice herself. But another visit to the past would have to come later when Sarah was safely in bed, and the house, outside her own locked door, was in darkness. She did not intend to be caught at her meditation again.
Paul let himself into the house on Campden Hill with a sigh. He switched on the lights and drew the curtains in the drawing room before going straight to the drinks cupboard and pouring himself a hefty half tumbler of malt whisky. Putting his attaché case on the sofa beside him, he opened it. The contract note lay on the top.
He did not touch the papers. Lifting his glass to his mouth he drained it, then he topped it up again. The knock at the front door caught him halfway across the room with the bottle in his hand. Cursing softly he put it down.
‘Hi.’ Diane Warboys was standing on the doorstep. ‘I hope you don’t mind my knocking, Paul, but I saw your light on as I drove past, and I suddenly remembered that we hadn’t discussed the plans for my Brussels trip. I did want to talk to you about it.’
Paul stared at her, trying to focus his mind. Reluctantly he stood back and allowed her to precede him into the living room. ‘I’ve only just got back from Suffolk. You’ll have to forgive me. Would you like a drink?’
Diane nodded. She glanced round, noting a suitcase in the middle of the floor and the attaché case open on the sofa. With a smile she accepted the glass of neat malt whisky. ‘Clare’s upstairs, is she? I don’t want to intrude –’
‘Clare is still in Suffolk.’ He frowned. ‘Look, I don’t want to hurry you, but I have quite a bit of work to do this evening.’
‘Of course. Oh, Paul, I am sorry, it was thoughtless of me to drop in like this.’ She paused as an idea struck her. ‘Look, if you’re on your own, why don’t you let me go downstairs and rustle you up some supper. I saw where Clare keeps things when I was here the other evening. It’s the least I could do after disturbing you, and it would let you get on.’
She stepped a little closer to him. He could smell her perfume, mingled with the whisky. Distastefully he moved away.
‘No, Diane. Thanks, but I’ve been eating all weekend. I don’t want any food. As for the plans for your trip, my secretary will be handling all those arrangements. Perhaps you could have a word with her in the morning.’ He turned away.
Diane sat down. She glanced down into his open briefcase, and her eyes widened as she stared at the document lying there. From where she stood she could see that the contract note came from Magnet Charles Plimsoll.
Behind her Paul turned. He put down his glass with a thump on the table and walked over to her, pushing the lid of the case closed. ‘Diane, I hate to hurry you, but –’
‘Then don’t. Don’t hurry me.’ She stood up slowly. She was very close to him as he stood, his hand on the lid of his case. ‘Why don’t we work later?’ she whispered. The undiluted malt whisky had gone straight to her head. ‘Let’s have another drink and relax now, shall we?’ Her hand crept up the front of his pullover. He could feel her nails plucking at the strands of blue wool somewhere near his shoulder. Her face was very close to his. ‘You must be exhausted after your long drive,’ she went on, her voice husky. ‘Let me fix you another drink –’
Paul stepped sharply away from her. ‘I think you’d better go,’ he said curtly. ‘I have a great deal to do.’
‘I could help you –’
‘No!’ Irritation snapped through the superficial politeness of his tone. He picked up her coat and held it out to her. ‘I’ll see you at the office in the morning.’
Diane coloured. ‘Sure. I get the message. No dice. Fair enough.’ She snatched the coat from him. ‘It was worth a try, don’t you think?’
Paul could have lightened the moment with a smile; perhaps saved her face a little with a compliment. He did neither. Ushering her out he closed the door behind her with a sigh of relief, then he went back to his case. He pulled back the lid and stared inside. Dear God, the contract note was on the top! Had she seen it? She would know that BCWP were handling the Carstairs Boothroyd takeover. And she would realise he was dealing on inside information. Sweat broke out on the back of his neck as he stood staring down at the sheet of paper. Suddenly his hands were shaking.
Rex opened the front door himself. He was in his shirtsleeves.
‘Hello, Uncle Rex.’ Diane stepped inside. ‘Can I cadge a drink?’ She smiled at Mary who was sitting by the window, sewing in the light of the spotlight trained on a bowl of green plants just behind her shoulder. Diane sat down and then turned back to Rex. ‘Do you remember you were asking me about Paul Royland? The bastard just tried to make a pass at me.’ She was already
slightly drunk as she took a gulp from the glass Mary passed her.
Mary exclaimed in horror, but Rex looked quizzical as he stretched out once more in his chair. A copy of the Wall Street Journal lay crumpled at his feet. ‘I thought that would have pleased you, honey,’ he said calmly.
She shook her head, colouring slightly. ‘He’s an attractive man and I admit I did like him, but this was horrible.’ She almost believed it herself already. ‘I went to his house to give him some important papers. He was working there alone because Clare’s in Suffolk still, and he asked me in and –’ she took a deep dramatic breath. ‘Well, never mind. It’s over. You remember, you were asking if he were a good business man, Rex? Well he isn’t. He’s completely screwed himself.’ She gave a bitter laugh. ‘He’s about to go down about three quarters of a million on the Carstairs Boothroyd issue. He must have bought them after he heard that they were being taken over and I happen to know the deal fell through on Friday night.’ She paused and gave him an impish smile. ‘He hasn’t paid for them yet!’
Rex stood up. His whole body was suddenly taut with excitement. ‘Are you sure?’ Irrelevantly it flashed through his mind that now he wouldn’t need to see Emma Cassidy again.
Diane nodded. ‘I saw the contract note in his case. He’s got to find that money by settlement day, and I think he is already badly down on the Hannington deal. A lot of people have lost over that and I’m pretty sure that Paul is one of them.’ She had seen the excitement in her godfather’s face. It boded ill for Paul and that pleased her. He was going to regret turning her down. He was going to regret it bitterly.
She finished her drink and stood up unsteadily. ‘I must go. I’m sorry to drop in like this. To be honest, I was a bit shaken and I knew you were close.’
Mary kissed her. ‘My dear, are you sure you’re all right?’ She eyed Diane’s pale face and bright, almost feverish eyes in concern. She had smelt the alcohol on the girl’s breath as soon as she had set foot in the room, and she knew the only reason for the visit had been revenge. She glanced at her husband whose face was alight with satisfaction and she shook her head sadly.
‘You take care now, Diane, and bring your nice boyfriend over to see us soon.’
Diane nodded. ‘I will. Thank you. Can I phone you?’
‘Before you go, Diane, honey.’ Rex tapped her arm. ‘Would you give me Paul Royland’s home telephone number? In fact, give me both his phone numbers, if you will.’ He was tense with excitement.
Diane smiled. ‘Of course, Uncle Rex. As it happens I know them both by heart.’
13
Neil stretched luxuriously and lay for a moment staring up at the ceiling. It was dull; no square of warm colour thrown and reflected by the rising sun; so no sunrise. As if to confirm his diagnosis he heard a splatter of raindrops hit the window. Beside him Kathleen groaned. She punched the pillow and turned away from him, clutching at sleep. She had been at the club till two.
Neil left the bed silently. He went into the kitchen and stared out of the window. Mist shrouded Calton Hill and the distant view was lost in the murk. He could feel the strength of the wind against the window near his cheek. It was cold: a bleak reminder that winter was on its way. Shivering he flicked on the electric fire, suspended from the wall above one of the cupboards. The smell of burning dust on the element always reminded him of winter.
‘Why in God’s name have you got up so early?’ Kathleen was standing in the doorway. Her hair was tangled, her face puffy with sleep. She hugged her dressing gown around her fruitlessly. ‘Have you seen my ciggies?’
‘Do you want some coffee?’ Neil ignored her question. His feet were cold on the linoleum as he filled the kettle and put it on the gas.
‘Please. Dear God, my head is splitting!’ She sat down at the table.
‘You drink too much.’
‘Who doesn’t? Don’t lecture me, Neil.’
She found her cigarettes in her bag, on the floor under the table where she had dropped it the night before. Lighting one, she blew a stream of smoke towards the ceiling. ‘So, what’s happening this week?’
‘I’m going up to Aberdeen.’
She leaned back in the chair and inhaled deeply, eyes narrowing. ‘Any particular reason?’
‘Preliminary meetings.’ Neil put a mug of black coffee in front of her. ‘Council of war.’ He smiled. ‘Jim Campbell and I are drawing up a schedule of protest meetings about onshore oil prospecting. We’re calling a press conference, demanding a public hearing, lobbying the planning committees, perhaps organising one or two publicity stunts – making sure we get as much press coverage as possible to get public opinion on our side.’
Kathleen was staring out of the window. ‘Is this onshore oil in general, or Duncairn in particular?’
‘Both.’ Neil sat down opposite her. ‘Have you any bookings this week?’
She nodded. ‘Four days here, then a week in London. I think I might go back to my own place, Neil, while I’m doing that. I’ll only annoy you by coming in every morning at dawn and if you’re going to be away some of the time anyway –’
‘Good idea.’ Neil was absently thumbing through a pile of papers. He pulled the milk bottle towards him and poured some into his own coffee. ‘I’m going to the office early. What are you going to do today?’
She could tell he wasn’t interested. ‘I’m going back to bed.’
‘Great.’ He grinned up at her suddenly. ‘Sorry I can’t join you.’
‘So am I, Neil.’ She forced herself to smile back, but inside she felt a shiver of fear. She had been away a week, but he hadn’t fallen on her when she came back. They had not made love for a month. And now another week or two would go by. Unconsciously she pulled her shoulders back a little, wishing she had combed her long hair; wishing she had put some make-up on before facing him. In bed it was one thing, but in the cold north light of the kitchen it was quite another. She blew a second stream of smoke towards the window resentfully and then wished she wasn’t smoking. Neil said her mouth tasted sometimes like an unriddled grate.
Abruptly she stood up. Pushing back her chair she went through into the bedroom and slammed the door. Her suitcase lay open on the floor. Pushing her hand into the elasticated pocket she drew out the cards, and climbing on to the bed, sat there cross-legged, setting out the spread on the rumpled blankets in front of her.
One by one she examined the cards. The two of cups, reversed, meant quarrels and misunderstandings and separation, and next to it the seven of swords which presaged a journey and a permanent move. She bit her lip. As always she was there. The other woman. This time she was the Queen of Swords. She swept the cards together in a heap and sat for a moment staring down at the pile of disordered pictures, then she reached into her dressing-gown pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was a page torn from an old magazine. Unfolding it she stared down. Her hands had begun to shake.
Among the guests at the funeral of the Hon. Margaret Gordon was Mrs Paul Royland, great niece of the deceased.
She had folded and unfolded the page so often now that the paper had cracked and discoloured, lying in her hands on the point of disintegration. The blurred photograph showed Clare, elegant in a black coat with a black fur hat on her head. The unhappiness in her face captured by the photographer could not hide the beauty of her features or the fineness of her bones.
Kathleen sat staring down at the picture for several minutes, then scrunching it up in her fist she hurled it across the room. ‘God rot the bloody bitch!’ she whispered under her breath. She scrambled to her feet and stubbing her cigarette out angrily in a saucer on the bedside table she stood for a moment staring towards the window, her face contorted with pain; then she turned back to the bed and hurled herself face down on to it, burying her face in the pillow.
Neil, coming in a few minutes later, stared at her hunched form. He frowned. This time he hadn’t felt any of the pleasure he usually experienced when Kathleen had come back from one of her t
rips. They had been together now on and off for more than a year, during which he had delighted in her salty humour, her robustness, her strong elegant beauty. She was different; sexy, passionate – the passion showing in her enormously popular husky singing voice – but she was also touchy, insecure, superstitious – he frowned in the direction of the scattered tarot cards – and jealous, almost deliberately driving him away from her again and again in an agony of bitterness and vituperative rage if he looked at another woman.
‘What’s wrong, Kath?’ He sat down on the bed, and put a hand on her shoulder.
‘Nothing, blast you!’ Her voice was muffled in the pillow.
‘OK.’ With a sigh he stood up. He showered, dragged on his clothes, then throwing some things into his canvas grip he picked up his car keys. ‘I’m going straight on from the office, Kath. I’ll see you when I get back.’
She didn’t reply.
With a shrug he left her alone. Banging the flat door behind him he ran down the long flights of stone steps and out into the Canongate as the first fitful rays of sunshine were beginning to feel their way through the murk.
Paul walked into the River Room at the Savoy at five past eight. He stood for a moment looking down at Rex, his face tense. ‘Why the breakfast meeting? I can’t believe anything we have to discuss is of sufficient urgency to merit this.’
Rex did not stand up. He waved Paul towards the chair opposite him. ‘I’m a busy man, that’s why. I don’t have much time, and I need your decision.’
Paul waited, deliberately, whilst the waiter poured his coffee, then he sat back, unfolding his napkin with exaggerated care. His pulse was racing. ‘We have reached a decision. My wife has agreed to sell.’ He could feel the sweat running down his back. ‘I will have the necessary documents by the end of the week.’
‘Make it Thursday at the latest.’ Rex suppressed the wave of excitement which shot through him. ‘I have to fly to the States on Friday. I want a legal entitlement to take with me.’
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