by Anne Weale
But Charles didn't sound amused when he answered her. "But isn't it worth it, on the whole?" he asked quietly.
Joanna wished he would switch on one of the lamps, Sitting in the dark was beginning to make her feel edgy.
"How should I know?" I haven't tried marriage yet," she said flippantly. "And, anyway, I'm not the romantic type."
"I don't think you know what you are—and you're afraid of finding out."
He moved suddenly, and before she could check herself, Joanna had jumped to her feet and darted out of reach. There was a muffled clink as her skirt brushed against the trolley and the tinkle of breaking glass. As a lamp illumined the room, she saw that her sherry glass—a fragile piece of crystal—had been swept to the floor. Pieces were scattered on the carpet and wine was soaking into the pile.
Mute with embarrassment—for it was obvious that he had leaned forward only to turn on the light—she stood biting her lip while Charles mopped the stain with his handkerchief and picked up the fragments.
"Oh, dear—I'm sorry," she stammered. "Let me get a cloth. If—if it isn't sponged, the sherry will leave a mark."
He tipped a palmful of shards into an ashtray. "Don't worry. Mrs. Howard will deal with it while I'm running you home."
And before she could offer some halting excuse for her clumsiness, he had stepped past her and gone off to speak to his housekeeper. He was away about three minutes, and when he came back his face was completely unreadable.
"Shall we go?" he said formally.
As soon as the car was in motion, he switched on the radio. Still hot with chagrin, Joanna listened dully to the end of a news bulletin and the beginning of a record programme. But what the news had been, or what disc was topping the "pop" list, she had no idea. The sounds were as meaningless to her as signals from a sputnik.
Back at Mere House, she waited for him to shut off the music and said again, "I really am frightfully sorry about "
"Good lord, it was only a glass," he cut in briskly. Then, after getting out and coming round to her side, "Anyway, it isn't that you should be so upset about."
She slid off the seat and straightened. "What else?" she said warily.
Charles closed the door and moved towards the house. "All this flinching and fencing is beginning to make me feel like a satyr," he said lightly.
They were under the portico now, and his hand was at the latch.
"You don't understand…" she began.
"Don't I? His hands gripped her shoulders and he pulled her against him.
For one shattering moment she was powerless to move. But his kiss, when it came, was as swift as her own heartbeats, and lighter than a feather touch. His lips just glanced over her cheeks, and then she was free again.
"There!" he said mockingly. "Now at least you know the worst. It wasn't so terrible, was it?"
Seconds later, the car was speeding down the drive.
* * *
There had been two previous occasions when, overnight, Joanna's whole life had changed course. The first had been when her father had come to fetch her after the war. The second had been Michael's death.
Now, waking up on Monday morning in the bedroom at Mere House, she was instantly aware that, once again, something cataclysmic had happened. Yet for several moments she couldn't remember what it was.
Then it hit her. I'm in love with Charles Carlyon. With a stifled groan she buried her head in the pillow.
But disaster, she knew from experience, was never mended by giving way to despair. Sooner or later one had to brace up and deal with it — and there was certainly no question about the best way to deal with this one. She had to leave Merefield. At once.
She had washed and dressed, and had even got as far as taking her suitcase out of the corner cupboard, when she realized that the issue was not as clear-cut as she had thought. There was her grandmother to consider. She couldn't walk out of the house at a moment's notice and without explanation. It might bring on another of Mrs. Carlyon's attacks. Yet what explanation was there? And every moment's delay could only worsen the situation.
A tap at the door made her catch her breath and hastily shove the case under the bed. It was Cathy.
"Are you up?—Oh, yes. I say, Joanna, Gran has given me ten jpounds to buy some holiday clothes. Isn't she a lamb! If you're not doing anything this morning, I wondered if you'd come and help me choose? Imagine—ten pounds!"
Joanne hesitated. Then she said brightly, "What riches! Of course I'll come with you, Cathy."
All through breakfast, her mind was working on the problem of how to leave Merefield without upsetting her grandmother. Finally, she decided to telephone Gustave again. She would get him to write to her, putting forward the date on which rehearsals for her London opening were to begin. In the meantime she would tell Mrs. Carlyon about the new contract and thus pave the way for a reluctant but unavoidable departure. Her grandmother would understand. She would probably be quite excited. The only hazard was getting through the next four or five days without seeing Charles. Still, he would be back at the factory this week, so it might be managed. And, once she was in London and working again…
But an hour later, as they caught a bus to the shopping centre and Cathy chattered excitedly about the best way to budget her unexpected windfall, Joanna was beginning to have second thoughts.
Just before they had left the house, she had been standing on the landing, checking the contents of her bag, when she had overheard the end of an argument which was taking place in the hallway below her.
"Well, I think you're being jolly disloyal," Vanessa's voice had said sharply. "You know Mother doesn't like her, but you deliberately fawn over her."
"Oh, don't be such an ass, Van. It's not fawning to ask someone to go shopping with you. You're always telling me I don't plan my clothes properly. If Joanna helps me, I shan't make any mistakes. Even you must admit that she's got marvellous taste."
"That isn't the point."
"Well, what is the point, then?" Cathy had asked reasonably. "Just because you and Ma don't like her—and we all know why that is—I can't see any reason why Neal and I should be horrid to her."
"What do you mean — 'we all know why that is'?" Vanessa demanded coldly.
"Anyone could see that you were green when Charles took her out last night. He's never taken you to a meal with the Drurys, has he? It's really rather odd, when one comes to think of it. I mean, they're two of his closest friends, and if he was seriously thinking of marrying
Cathy's words ended with an audible gasp, followed by the sound of a stinging slap.
"Why, you little beast! How dare————— " But Vanessa also stopped short, because the kitchen door had opened and Alice had evidently appeared.
It was only then that Joanna had realized she was eavesdropping, and had quickly gone back to her bedroom. And by the time she had gone downstairs, Vanessa had disappeared and there was not even a lingering redness mark on Cathy's cheek to betray what had taken place.
Not that the slap had been particularly unexpected. Joanna thought, as die bus stopped at some traffic lights. Disliking her as they did, it was obvious that both Mrs. Durrant and her elder daughter would censure Cathy's friendliness.
But somehow overhearing the quarrel had given her a fresh slant on the situation. Ever since her arrival, she realized suddenly, she had been mentally linking Charles and Vanessa together. Not because they showed signs of being in love, but because, in superficial terms, they had seemed so well matched. Now, viewing their characters more analytically, she began to have doubts. Why should Charles want to marry Vanessa? She was pretty and palpably available—but what else? She certainly wasn't bright, or even amusing. And far from being sensually exciting, she gave the impression that passionate emotions would embarrass her. If all Charles wanted was a presentable domesticated girl who could be relied on to fit into his life with the minimum of disturbance—why, yes, Vanessa would fill the bill very adequately. But since all his creatur
e comforts were already well supplied, it seemed rather an unnecessary alliance. Moreover, if Charles did want Vanessa, why was he delaying? He was the type who, having made a decision, acts on it.
I don't believe he cares a button for her, Joanna thought abruptly, and with an unbidden upsurge of relief. But even if he isn't interested in her, it doesn't mean…
"Joanna, you aren't listening," Cathy accused. "I don't believe you've heard a word I've said."
Joanna pulled herself together. "Sorry, Cathy, I was day-dreaming," she apologized.
But although she could easily have invented an excuse to go off on her own for half an hour and make the call to Gustave Hugo, she didn't do so. Knowing she was being a fool, yet suddenly reckless, she had decided to stay on in Merefield and take whatever came to her.
For three days, Charles didn't come to Mere House at all. On Friday afternoon, aching yet dreading to see him again, Joanna couldn't stand the suspense any longer. Although the hot spell had given place to sullen skies and intermittent rain, she put on a raincoat and headscarf and went out for a walk. When the rain began to fall more heavily and was beginning to soak through her coat, she ducked into a cinema and spent a couple of hours trying to concentrate on the more dramatic dilemma of a girl whose lover might be a murderer.
It was after seven o'clock when she caught a homeward bus. However, it was unlikely that anyone had missed her as they had all gone out to tea, and Mrs. Durrant had said that dinner would be an hour late.
Back at the house, she hung her coat on a peg, untied the scarf and combed her hair. There were voices coming from the drawing-room, so instead of going straight upstairs to change her shoes, she went to tell them she was back —just in case her grandmother might be getting anxious.
Even before she opened the door, she had a premonition that Charles was in the room—and she was right. He was standing by the window with his back to her, and the sight of his well-shaped dark head after three endless days of waiting sent a pang of delight through her.
The next thing she noticed was that Neal was at home— although he had said at breakfast that he would not be back until late. He and Cathy were sitting side by side on the couch, while Vanessa stood beside the big armchair, her hand on her mother's shoulder. They were all of them staring at Joanna with curious fixity.
"So you're back." Mrs. Durrrant sounded slightly hoarse, as if she were starting a cold. "Where have you been?"
"I went to the pictures. I hope you haven't——— " Joanna began. She stopped short at the baleful glitter in her aunt's eyes. The older woman was glaring at her with the same undisguised enmity that she had shown the other night on the landing. "I'm sorry, Aunt Monica," she started again. "It was raining so hard that I "
"Sorry!" Monica Durrant spat out the single exclamation as if it were an obscene word.
And it was then, with her aunt regarding her with cold loathing, and the others as motionless and mute as figures in a tableau, that Joanne was gripped by another and more agonizing presentiment. Where was her grandmother?
It was Cathy who answered her unspoken question. "Gran's dead," she whispered huskily. "She… she died this afternoon."
For a moment, Joanna couldn't take it in. It simply wasn't possible that in the space of a few hours… Her mind reeled from the shock.
"No!" she breathed helplessly. "Oh… no!"
Suddenly Mrs. Durrant sprang to her feet. "Yes, she's dead!" she cried raspingly. "And it's your fault… your fault, do you hear? You should never have come here."
"Monica!" Charles had swung round from the window.
But neither his warning tone nor Vanessa's straining hand could halt Mrs. Durrant now. The last remnants of control had slipped from her ,and she was shaking like someone in a fever, tears pouring down her face, her mouth twitching uncontrollably. But it was not grief and pain that tormented her. It was hatred—stark bitter hatred.
"Well, it's true, isn't it?" she demanded of them. "Of course it's true. If she hadn't come here, Mother might have lived for years. But all this fuss and upset was too much for her. She wanted to forget the past—not relive it."
"Mother, please——— !" Neal was on his feet now. But his agonized interjection only fanned Mrs. Durrant's wrath.
"Don't you dare take her part, you stupid boy!" She was almost screaming at him. "You're just like your wretched father. Some cheap little siren smiles at you and you're half besotted. D'you think I haven't seen the way you look at her… and you too, Charles. All men are the same! A pretty face, a provocative figue… and you've no more judgment than a fly. But I'm not deceived—oh, no! I see through her scheming ways. She doesn't charm me!"
"Mummy—don't." Now it was Cathy who attempted to stem the torrent—Cathy, looking ashen and terrified.
"She's just like her mother," Mrs. Durrant stormed. "She's Nina all over again. Just because she's pretty and artful and grasping, she doesn't care who she hurts. That's how Nina was, and that's how she is. I hated Nina, and I hate her too. I hate her, d'you hear? / hate her!"
It was over as suddenly as it had started. As abruptly as she had jumped to her feet, Mrs. Durrant collapsed into a chair. She didn't weep or have hysterics, she just lay there panting and exhausted.
For several moments nobody moved. Even Vanessa was too shocked to be capable of action.
Joanna, too, was stunned. The tirade had swept over her like some immense tidal wave. She had seen it coming, held her breath and, miraculously, survived. The actual words… the bitter denunications, were all jumbled together in her head. But, one thing was clear: that first cruel indictment—'It's your fault… your fault.'
No! she thought numbly. No—please…
Vanessa was the first to recover. Hurrying forward, she knelt by her mother's chair and began anxiously to chafe the lax hands and murmur soothing words.
Joanna watched her for a moment. Then, slowly, she looked at Neal and Cathy. They couldn't believe it was her fault—surely they couldn't?
But after meeting her eyes for a second, they both looked quickly away. They didn't move physically, but she had a horrible conviction that, inwardly, they were shrinking away from her.
Finally, hardly daring to turn her head, she looked at Charles. He was standing behind the couch, his hands gripping the backrest so violently that every vein and sinew stood out from the taut flesh. And although he did not turn away as she looked her mute appeal, his face was set in a mask of implacable anger. His eyes were like chips of flint.
With a stifled groan, Joanna turned and fled. Snatching up her coat, half blinded by stinging tears, she tore open the front door and almost fell down the steps. Then she ran and ran until her heart seemed threatening to burst.
CHAPTER SIX
IT was after ten o'clock when Joanna realized that she could not trudge aimlessly about the streets for much longer. Her feet were aching, her clothes sodden, her whole body chilled and spent. But she couldn't go back to Mere House—not tonight, or ever again.
She had never felt so solitary and wretched in her life, not even after Michael had died. In Paris, even when it rained, there were always the lighted windows of the cafes and bistros, and the savory aromas from back-street epiceries in cheer one's loneliness.
But, in Merefield, the stores closed sharp at half-past five, and everyone hurried home to their television sets. Even the fish and chip shops had 'No Frying Tonight' signs on the doors, and the one espresso bar which she had passed was empty and unwelcoming.
Fortunately, her purse contained enough money to cover a night in an hotel. But having lost her bearings, she took some time to find her way back to the town centre. There was a hotel overlooking the market, and after making some attempt to tidy her bedraggled hair, she pushed through the revolving doors and approached the reception desk.
After the cold glistening streets, the atmosphere in the entrance lounge seemed overpoweringly close. Scent and cigar-smoke lingered in the air and mingled with odors from the grill-room.
/> "I'd like a single room, please," Joanna said briskly, to the clerk.
His experienced eyes took in her bedraggled appearance and the absence of luggage, then flickered to his watch.
"For how long, madam?" he enquired, without expression.
"I'm not sure yet. Probably only one night."
The clerk consulted a chart. "I'm very sorry, madam. We haven't a single vacancy at present. Perhaps if you care to try one of the smaller commercial establishments…"
Joanna forced herself not to show her dismay. She felt sure the man was lying—he probably took her for a dubious character—but she wasn't going to argue.
"I see. Thank you," she said briefly, and turned away.
She was standing just outside the entrance, wondering if any of the smaller places were likely to view her with greater tolerance, when some men came out. They glanced at her without interest and continued their conversation. But the last one to emerge looked twice.
"Hello, Joanna. What are you doing here?" he exclaimed, in a friendly tone.
"Oh… hello, Dick. I—I'm just waiting for someone," she stammered.
Dick Drury glanced at his companions who were already halfway across the road, seemed about to excuse himself, then changed his mind.
"I say, are you all right?" he asked uncertainly. "You look a bit shaky."
"Do I? I don't feel it. I'm just a bit wet, that's all," she answered hurriedly.
He peered at her more closely. "Wet! You're half drowned!" he exclaimed. "Who are you waiting for?"
"Well, I… that is…" Joanna fumbled for an adequate explanation but failed to find one.
"Look here, I'm not a fool. There's something wrong." Dick said bluntly. "No—don't start arguing. I'll get a taxi and we'll nip home to Margaret. You can explain what it's all about when you're out of that drenching raincoat and have a hot drink inside you."
And, as if he were afraid to leave her for fear she might run away, he bundled her back into the lounge and told the clerk to ring a cab rank.