The Glass Castle

by Violet Winspear

  ‘But why—?’ She bit her lip, quite painfully. ‘I’m being impolite, but I’m surprised you should invite me to dinner. Surely you have better things to do?’

  ‘The better things will be done by the evening time, when I shall be ready to be—entertained.’

  ‘Yes, you do find it entertaining to bait me, don’t you, Mr. Trequair?’

  ‘I might bait you, but you’re clever at evading me,’ he drawled. ‘Come, are your evenings so taken up with young men that you can’t spare an older man a few hours of your time?’

  ‘I sometimes have work to do in the evenings—’

  ‘Then you shouldn’t have, at your age,’ he retorted. ‘It will cause lines beside your eyes, and they’re rather attractive eyes.’

  ‘Are you—flirting with me?’ she asked, quite seriously.

  ‘I’m still not past it,’ he drawled. ‘Do older men alarm you?’

  ‘Not as a rule—’ Again he had forced a confession she would sooner have kept to herself, and in defence against it she had forced a laugh. ‘Have you made this invitation as a sort of test of my nerve?’ And she defied him with her grey eyes with a sheen to them, light-catching, like oyster shell.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he admitted. ‘You’re a young woman of unusual character and you intrigue me. I’d like to believe that I arouse the same intrigued feeling in you— two rather deep people who find nothing very thrilling about the trivial frills of modern life. I noticed at the party last night that you were regarding some of those noisy young men with an ironical eye.’

  ‘And did you take that to mean that I prefer—older men?’ She cast a quick, slightly indignant look at his profile, which was outlined in all its dark hawkishness against the grey light of the rainy day.

  ‘I took it to mean that you prefer brains to brawn,’ he replied. ‘A rare preference in a girl of twenty-two.’

  ‘How do you know my exact age?’ she demanded.

  ‘It was just a lucky guess,’ he said smoothly.

  ‘I don’t altogether believe you, Mr. Trequair. I had the feeling last night that you—you’d been making enquiries about me. You gave me the feeling that you—knew things about me.’

  ‘This is a fairly small town and one gets to hear little things. By the way, my first name is Edwin, if you would care to try it out. If we’re to dine together it would be more congenial to be on first name terms, don’t you agree?’

  ‘You seem to take it for granted, Mr. Trequair, that I shall dine with you. You’re very sure of yourself!’

  ‘Yes, of myself, but not always of other people. The way to overcome the hesitations and doubts of other people is always to take the initiative, so shall we agree to a further meeting next Thursday evening when I shall be in Town?’

  Heron wanted to give him a flat refusal, yet the simple little word wouldn’t allow itself to be said. It was as if some imp of curiosity had her in its grip and wouldn’t let go. It was annoying, for she was usually so in control of her reactions and she didn’t like the feeling that she was being controlled by a man ... being led into submission to his will like a—a puppet. Her lips moved, and she was stunned by the sound of her own words:

  ‘Very well. It will make a change to dress up for dinner in the middle of the week.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Yet he said it almost drily, as if he knew all about her inner reluctance to see him again. Nor did he broach the subject again until his car drew up in front of Memory. As she slipped out from her seat he came round to her side and for an instant her hand was locked in his and she was made aware of the strength of his grasp. It had a firmness, an assurance totally different from that of the young men who played tennis at Memory and were adept on the dance floor. It had almost a ruthless quality, as if he were a man who didn’t let go of something if he really wanted it.

  ‘I’ll bid you goodbye until next week,’ he said, and as he looked down at her the rain beat against his head and made his black hair gleam. ‘Don’t change your mind, will you?’

  ‘What will you do if I do change my mind?’ She defied his eyes and tensed the fingers which he held in his.

  ‘Be angry,’ he said, and let go of her hand, leaving not only the impression of his grip upon her skin, but leaving upon her mind the conviction that he had a deadly temper which it wasn’t wise to arouse. She turned from him and ran up the steps to the front door of the house. She heard the car door close decisively, and the wheels spat on the wet gravel of the half-moon drive. He drove off, was gone, but this time Heron was unable to dismiss him from her thoughts.

  She felt that his touch had left upon her the forceful, secretive imprint of his personality. He came a dark stranger from islands far away, of cinnamon and tea, of temples and strange festivals. Heron felt that he had a power she had not encountered before, and she hurried into Memory as if to escape from the thought of his power, which had made her say she would see him again when she didn’t really wish to do so.

  Did his power radiate from the radar glint of his eyes between the heavy eyelids ... or did it have something to do with his dark, scarred face, with its held-in emotions?

  She gazed back for an instant at the now empty drive and there was a kind of terror like the blue-edge of flame at the end of her eyes. Foliage and ferns and tree-bark mingled their scents in the rain ... he would enjoy tormenting her, she thought wildly.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The next few days in London were busy ones for Heron, and it also rained a lot so that her scarlet umbrella was to be seen bobbing back and forth across the courtyard of the Law Courts. At the end of each day she took home a briefcase of notes to be typed out for her employer, and she was busily at work when the telephone rang around nine o’clock on the Wednesday evening.

  Heron glanced up with a frown as the pealing of the phone summoned her from the typewriter, where she was using an eraser on a long word which she had just misspelt. Dash it! The sound of the phone had made her jump and this was a sure sign that she was overtired and overworked, and pushing back her chair she went across to the sofa-table where the shrill little instrument was parked and picked up the receiver. A note of strain was in her voice as she gave the caller her number. She hoped to heaven it wasn’t Miss Carnaby with a few more instructions regarding that hit-and-run case she was handling tomorrow.

  ‘Heron, you sound tired.’ A deep male voice struck against her eardrum.

  ‘Who is that?’ She had been so certain of hearing the melodious tones of the woman barrister for whom she worked that the brown-toned male voice threw her into a momentary confusion.

  ‘Have you forgotten me so soon? Well, I’m deflated.’ A drawl came into the man’s voice, and right away Heron’s fingers clenched the flex of the telephone as she realized who the caller was.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Mr. Trequair! You took me by surprise.’

  ‘But you knew I’d be calling you,’ he said. ‘Or did you hope I’d forget about tomorrow evening?’

  ‘To tell the truth I’ve been up to my elbows in work and I’m afraid it slipped from my mind.’

  ‘You were deep in it when the phone rang, eh? You sounded a trifle distracted.’

  ‘Yes—how did you know how to find me?’

  ‘My hotel suite has a telephone directory in it, and you have an unusual name. I also have tickets for the ballet. Gudrun Lewis is dancing and I felt you would appreciate her artistry rather more than one of the hairy new plays. Of course the tickets can be changed, Heron, if you would rather go to the latest exposition of body and mind.’

  As he spoke her name again her fingers gripped the flex until her nails were biting into it. There was something about this man that made her want to rebel ... she wanted to tell him to go to Hades with his invitation, but with unerring insight (or had he been making enquiries about her likes and dislikes?) he had chosen to take her to the ballet, which she loved. As a child she had taken ballet lessons, but after her mother’s passing they had been suspended by her father and never resumed.
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  ‘I—I’m wondering if I can get away,’ she said, grabbing at her courage before it got away. ‘My employer is very busy at the present time and this keeps me busy—’

  ‘If you wish to say no to me, Heron, then say it,’ he broke in. ‘I dislike women who feel they have to coat their excuses in sugar, like a nasty pill to be swallowed. If you can’t or won’t spend tomorrow evening with me, then I assure you I shan’t wallow in self-pity. I’m offering you the ballet for your own consolation, not mine. I thought on Sunday that you looked like a girl who needed taking out. A girl who steeps herself in work not because she’s unattractive to men, but because she finds most of them—uninspiring.’

  ‘Do you consider yourself the exception?’ she flashed at him. ‘Your arrogance is super-size, Mr. Trequair. It really is!’

  ‘I am merely older than you and have seen more of life and people. I can judge without passing sentence, as you do, in your arrogant youth.’ This time he spoke in stern, clipped tones, and Heron felt a quiver shoot through her, a curious blend of rebellion, shame, and a touch of fear.

  ‘You—you make me sound intolerant,’ she gasped. ‘How dare you!’

  ‘I’ve dared more in my time than a slip of a girl with a chip on her shoulder.’

  ‘Really—I have no chip on my shoulder,’ she protested. ‘Why should I? I have a good job, a good wage, and a flat of my own. I manage my life perfectly well without your accusation that I’m a sour spinster without a man to keep my eyes shining—’

  ‘Stop it!’ he broke in. ‘In a moment or two you’ll be crying and blaming your tears on me. You’re overstrung and over-worked and that woman who employs you should be ashamed of herself for taking advantage of your will to work. All duty and no play will take the shine out of nice eyes quicker than anything else, so hear this, Heron Brooks. I shall be calling for you at six-thirty tomorrow evening. We shall dine at Guilbert’s in the Strand and go straight from there to the ballet. Do you hear me?’

  ‘How can I help but hear you when you shout?’ She blinked a sudden sting of moisture from her eyelids, and tiredness was like a weight on her heels so that she suddenly sank down on to the sofa and let the weak surrender to him sweep over her. ‘Very well, if you insist on coming for me, then come!’

  ‘You’re too gracious, Miss Brooks.’ There was a click as he rang off and Heron was left gaping at the receiver in her own hand. He had managed not only to have the last word but he had reprimanded her, made her feel weepy, and slightly ashamed. She slammed down the receiver and told herself that she hated him. She stared at the carpet under her feet and saw the patterns swimming together in a blur of colour. No one had really cared for a long while that she always seemed to be working, and it really was ages since she had found time to go to the theatre, which she very much enjoyed.

  She rose to her feet and went into the small kitchen to make herself a cup of coffee, for she still had some more typing to do and needed to keep awake for at least another hour.

  It was ten-thirty when she entered her bedroom, and kicking off her slippers she made her way to the wardrobe and took a look at its contents. She had to decide on a dress for tomorrow evening and she had half decided on the pale-blue chiffon when she felt a sudden desire to treat herself to a brand-new dress. Why not? It would boost her morale, and show Edwin Trequair that she wasn’t as out of the swing of things as he seemed to imagine. He seemed to think he was doing her a favour in taking her out, as if she were out of fashion with young men and could only appeal to his age group.

  How old was he? She brooded on the question as she prepared for bed. He had silver in his hair, but that wasn’t always a sign of advancing senility. He had deep lines in his face, but the hot sun of the East would have baked his skin until it looked as dark and creased as a well-worn saddle. He had no beauty apart from his eyes, and they revealed nothing of his thoughts, gave away no secrets, held no revelations for a girl to read.

  She tried to imagine him with an exotic Eastern sweetheart, out there in the land of temple dancers. Despite the monkshood blue of his eyes, Edwin Trequair was no monk ... and at this thought a quiver ran again through Heron and she quickly got into bed, turned out the lamp, and closed her eyes against the man. But his face was there, against the dark screen of her eyelids. And the smile at the edge of his lips was there, mocking her youth with his maturity, matching his knowledge of women against her innocence of men.

  She spent her lunch hour the following day at the shop where in the happy, cherished days her mother used to buy her lovely clothes. The shop was still famed for its chic dresses, and Heron found exactly the right combination for dinner at Guilbert’s and seats at the ballet. It was of silk jersey in a stunning shade of jade-green, with full silky sleeves, a softly draped neckline, and a long graceful skirt. Directly Heron tried on the dress she liked it; it was softly clinging, softly swinging, and the colour was the perfect foil for her red hair.

  ‘Yes,’ she said eagerly. ‘This is the one.’ She didn’t even flinch at the price, for she had not bought a really expensive dress for a long time and it was the kind of garment she could wear for a couple of seasons. The colour was right for her and the style was youthful without being too cute.

  ‘I’ll take it with me,’ she said. ‘I shall be wearing it tonight.’

  ‘If you’ve a long string of pearls,’ said the assistant, as she carefully folded the dress into a box that still bore the spray-of-violets motif from Heron’s schooldays, ‘they’ll look so elegant with the dress.’

  ‘I do have some pearls,’ Heron murmured. ‘They belonged to my mother, but I’m rather superstitious about them.’

  ‘In this day and age?’ The other girl looked at her with amazed eyes surrounded by false lashes. ‘Oh, my motto is to take things as they come—I think pearls are lovely and it’s a shame to associate them with tears. Anyway, I thought they only brought bad luck at weddings?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Heron picked up her dress box and smiled goodbye. ‘I love the dress!’

  ‘Your boy-friend will love it, I’m sure.’

  Boy-friend! Heron gave a little laugh as she walked from the shop through the swing doors into the April sunlight that sparkled on the silverware, the Regency furniture, and the glossy furs in the shop windows along Bond Street. Her own face was lit for a few moments by her sense of amusement and a passing male lifted his bowler hat to her, a quick gleam of appreciation in his eyes. Heron fled in case he spoke to her and jumped on a bus heading for the Strand, but she had to admit to herself that it felt good to be saluted for her feminine youth and her smile.

  Her successful lunch hour made up for the busy afternoon which followed, and the slight irritation of Frances Carnaby when she learned that Heron was not free that evening to turn reams of scribbled notes into readable pages of neat typescript.

  ‘What do you mean, you’re going out?’ Miss Carnaby, who was devoted heart and soul to her chosen career, gave Heron an astonished look. ‘I hope you haven’t collected a follower, or have you joined a painting class? I hear they’re all the go.’

  Follower!

  Again Heron was irresistibly amused; the word was so deliciously Edwardian, as if she were a kitchenmaid and Edwin Trequair the milkman or the butcher who had taken a fancy to her.

  ‘A friend of Uncle Saul’s is in Town and I promised to dine with him and go to the theatre. He’s been abroad for years and is rather a stranger to London.’

  ‘Then he’s quite elderly?’ said Miss Carnaby, a note of relief in her voice, as if for a few anxious moments she had visualized her invaluable clerk in the arms of a prospective husband. ‘Is he only in Town for the day?’

  ‘I believe he’s going home tomorrow,’ said Heron, and in her mind’s eye she saw the lean, hard, upright figure of Trequair and wondered how he’d feel to hear himself described as elderly. In all probability he was no more than forty-one or two and in the same age bracket as Miss Carnaby herself, but Heron didn’t dare to mention this. It w
as wiser to let her employer believe that he was a contemporary of her uncle’s, for it stopped her from asking any more questions.

  Heron was lucky enough to get a bus as soon as she left Temple Court that evening and she arrived home at five-thirty and had an hour in which to dress for dinner. She soaked in Joie de Vivre bath water, dusted down with matching talcum and slipped into her lingerie. During the day she wore tights, which were practical and easy to wear, but an evening out called for filmy nylons with seams from ankle to thigh. They added a subtle elegance to the legs, she thought, even if one’s escort was unlikely to see them under the long skirt of an evening dress.

  It wasn’t until she was finally dressed that Heron felt a sudden nervousness sweep over her. Yet her reflection in the mirror assured her that the new dress suited her slim figure to perfection, the jade colour of the jersey silk a charming foil for her white skin and her nape-coiled hair. The jade-green had filtered into her grey eyes, and she was fondling her mother’s rope of pearls and wondering whether to wear them when the sound of the door chimes startled her and the pearls dropped from her nervous hands to the dressing-table. She left them lying there, pale and glinting, and went to open the door.

  Edwin Trequair wore a superb topcoat over his evening suit, and he seemed to tower darkly over Heron as he stepped into the small hall of her flat. She knew that her own swift scrutiny of him had been returned and she wondered if he shrewdly guessed that the dress had been bought that very day to impress him with her sophistication. She felt the silky swing of the skirt as she led him into the lounge, where the sofa lamps were softly glowing.