by K. J. Rabane
“Why not? It’s not the ring is it? You don’t feel embarrassed by the fact that it’s so obvious? You shouldn’t let Mrs Bates upset you. We must ignore her mutterings. She’ll soon forget it all when some other event takes her interest.”
She laughed, “No it’s not Mrs Bates. I just don’t see eye to eye with Josie and I know she’s not going to be pleased. You go, make some excuse for me. I need to sort out a few things at home and now is as good a time as any. Pick me up on your way back. I’ll wait for you.” She started to walk up the lawn and I could see it was useless trying to change her mind. At the top of the steps leading to her back porch, she turned and blew me a kiss.
But the pleasure of the morning was lost to me as I dragged my feet reluctantly towards the Dangerfields’ house. Henry was sitting on the back terrace, his knees covered by a red plaid rug. He was reading the morning paper. “Hello there, it’s good to see you. We wondered where you had got to,” he said, as I approached.
“Hullo, Henry. Is Josie about? I’ve something to tell you both.”
“No, gone to the hairdresser’s in Kings Datchet. She left me out here to have an airing as she put it. Pull up a chair and tell me all your news.”
I’d hoped I could tell them together as I’d wanted to see what their joint reaction would be but I had no alternative.
“Leonora and I are getting married,” I blurted out.
Henry’s paper slid to the ground. He managed not to look too surprised but I could see the corner of his mouth twitching for a second or two. “Well, er, congratulations and good luck to you both. I’m so glad the two of you have found happiness again.” He held out his hand and I shook it eagerly.
“Thank you, Henry. You don’t think it’s too soon then?”
“Nonsense. Why wait? You are both of an age to know your own minds, I should imagine. This calls for a celebration. Pop into the study, I’ve a good malt whiskey in the bottom drawer of my desk.”
When I returned, we drank each other’s health and were starting to drink a second when I heard Josie’s car in the drive.
“Good Lord,” she exclaimed, walking towards us. “What are you two doing drinking whiskey at eleven o’clock in the morning?”
“We’re celebrating a marriage, my dear,” said Henry raising his glass.
Josie looked at me with a blank expression on her face.
“Leonora and me,” I explained.
I don’t know what I expected but I was certainly not prepared for what followed. “No. No, you can’t, you mustn’t, tell him Henry.” Josie bit her lip.
Henry’s glass was half way to his mouth, which had fallen open in surprise at his wife’s reaction.
“I don’t understand…” I began.
“Leonora Bennett is trouble. I know it and Henry knows it. I’m sorry to be so blunt but you need to hear the truth.”
“I don’t understand? Henry?” I looked at him imploringly.
“None of our business, old thing.” Henry patted Josie’s arm. She was still very agitated but was trying to control herself.
“No, of course not. I apologise,” she said hurriedly. “You must excuse me, I have things to do in the kitchen.”
I placed my glass on the table at Henry’s side.
“Don’t take too much notice of Josie. You know what women are like. She’s taken a fierce dislike to Leonora, something to do with Evelyn and their friendship no doubt.”
I thanked Henry for the whiskey and stood up saying, “I hope Josie will forget the past and try and make friends with Leo. You are such good friends. I wouldn’t like to lose touch with you both.”
Henry nodded and I could feel him watching me as I retraced my steps along the river path.
Soon afterwards, Leonora put the Bennett house up for sale. The property market was good and a young entrepreneur, who wanted to buy it as an investment, snapped it up almost immediately. Apparently, he wouldn’t be living there himself but his widowed mother would be moving in as soon as the sale was completed.
Throughout the months of May and June, Mrs Bates spent less and less time at River House. Her sister seemed to require her company more frequently than in the past I observed and wondered if it was merely an excuse to get away from us.
I remember returning home one hot sunny afternoon in June to find Leo sunbathing on the back lawn. She was wearing an acid yellow bikini that barely covered her. I stood and watched her for a moment until she became aware of me. Then she stood up, took my hand and led me through the French doors into the conservatory, across the hall and up the main staircase to our bedroom. Neither of us spoke. She undressed me sensuously and slowly. And all I had to do was undo three little knots.
Later, I watched her dressing in a cool white cotton shirt and shorts. “Leo, why don’t we get married abroad?”
“Where?” she said brushing her hair, her back to me.
“Venice,” I said. Her hand stopped for a second and then continued brushing vigorously.
“When?”
“As soon as possible. What do you think?”
“Fine,” she replied still without looking at me. “Just give me enough time to buy some sort of wedding dress.”
I spun her around to face me. “I can’t wait to make you my wife,” I said.
Her expression was guarded; the joy I’d hoped to see there was not in evidence. I held her at arms length. “You do want to get married?” I asked
“I was just thinking of poor Lucas,” she said, burying her head in my shoulder.
I had to be satisfied with her explanation but I can’t deny, it unnerved me.
Preparations for our wedding began immediately. I called in at the office, spoke with Alan Henderson about the Andromeda project, and my inability to make a start on it due to my wedding and what I hoped would be a prolonged honeymoon. However, I was anxious to see that my promise to Maxwell Hutton was fulfilled and so spent the following week with Chip Thornley outlining the programme, which he would be in charge of completing upon my instructions. I felt confident I could leave it in his capable hands, as I’d not been disappointed with his previous work and admired his ingenuity.
Later in the week, I visited the Head Office of Thomas Cook and arranged for the ceremony as well as booking the hotel for our stay in Venice. I was so busy I hardly saw Leonora during the days that followed and found delight in the longed for evenings when we could enjoy each other anew. Her shopping trips were a closely guarded secret but I sensed her excitement and saw the twinkle in her blue eyes when I questioned her about them at the end of the day.
It was around this time she re-christened me. We’d been to see a musical in the West End and were threading our way down Shaftesbury Avenue with the rest of the theatregoers, making for a little Italian restaurant I knew in Soho. I caught her hand in mine and pulled her down a side street, much to her delight, as she was unaware where it led. Then we turned a corner bringing us into the heart of Soho. In front of us was a nightclub, trendy, bright and lit by flashing neon lights. To one side of the doorway, where a bouncer, with fists like hammers, stood suspiciously eyeing the street, was an advertising board showing the interior and a couple of exotic dancers. Someone had plastered a sticker across the rear end of one of the dancers. It was some sort of religious text and read ABe AN DON HOPE ALL WHO ENTER HERE. Someone with a blue felt pen had added and e to the first word. To my surprise, Leonora fell into fits of laughter, “Abe and Don Hope. That’s it! From now on you will always be Abe to me.”
“Oh very funny,” I said, drawing her close to me as a crowd of revellers threatened to part us.
The date for our wedding day was set; it was to be the first day of July. At the end of June, we sat in the first class compartment of an Alitalia jet as Italy spread out beneath us like an animated map. It was early evening and the light was beginning to fade when we entered Venice. By the time we were sitting in a water taxi negotiating the traffic on the Grand Canal, darkness had fallen. The lights from the Hote
l Cipriani shimmered on the surface of the water and as we approached, a doorman resplendent in red greatcoat and top hat trimmed with gold braid helped us alight at the hotel’s jetty.
The first time I’d seen her was in Venice but Evelyn and I had been staying in a small, clean but shabby hotel in a side street. The view from our window then had been the lichen-covered walls of the building opposite and if we squeezed our heads to one side of the window frame, we were able to see the muddy brown waters of the canal, which was too narrow even for a gondola to pass through.
I looked around me at the splendid furnishings of our suite; the crystal chandelier carved out of the finest Venetian glass gleaming above our heads, the bowl of fruit and chilled champagne waiting for us on a table in front of the window, the best that money could buy. However, the time I’d spent in a run down hotel in a back street was a memory I wouldn’t forget. I must have sighed because Leo put her hands around my chest and looked up at me through eyes that put the waters of the Grand Canal to shame.
“You OK?” she asked.
“I’m fine, just amazed by this view. Where else on earth could you wake up to a view as splendid as this?”
I pointed to the Grand Canal, which was lit by the traffic passing along its length. Water taxis ferrying passengers home after a busy day at the office, sightseers relaxing in the back of gondolas, lovers, their arms entwined, oblivious of the view and families their faces aglow with the wonder of it all. We stood and watched for a moment then I filled our glasses with champagne as we toasted our forthcoming wedding with joy and thankfulness that we’d found each other.
The following day we spent sightseeing, enjoying the romance of the place, which should always be seen by lovers. Its serenity, a welcome change from the hustle and bustle of modern life, enthralled us.
“I keep forgetting,” I said, as we strolled behind the Doge’s Palace towards the old residential quarter with its charming bridges and park, “this is not new to you. You’ve seen it all before.”
“No, I’ve never visited Venice. This is my first time; you must be mixing me up with someone else, Evelyn perhaps?”
I was shocked. Why would she lie about such a thing? After all I’d seen her with my own eyes. It made no sense, why would it matter whether she’d been to Venice or not? She was waiting for a reply.
“Yes, I expect so,” I muttered taking her hand and leading her into the park.
When we were back in our hotel room dressing for dinner, I checked my new mobile phone for messages. It was a habit I’d been unable to break. Leo was in the shower. I could hear her singing a song in Italian, her sweet voice soaring above the sound of the water jets.
The voicemail message was unexpectedly from Josie and the sound of her voice concerned me that there might be something wrong with Henry.
I’m sorry to make this voicemail call. I thought it might be less embarrassing for you under the circumstances and it does mean you’ll have to listen to me without cutting me off in mid sentence. I know you’re not going to like what I’m about to say but I couldn’t rest until I cleared it from my mind. You know I care about you. Please listen when I say DON’T marry her. Remember, none of us knows much about Leonora Bennett. Lucas knew next to nothing and now he’s dead. I’m frightened for you. Please don’t think this is the raving of a disturbed woman because that’s what it sounds like to me. All I can say again is please, please, be careful!
I looked at my mobile as if it were going to supply the answer and held it up to my ear once more. No, I hadn’t imagined the message. I frowned and pressed the delete button but throughout the eve of my wedding, I was uneasy and it was difficult not to show it. In the event, I drank too much wine and too many brandies and fell into bed to sleep the sleep of the inebriate. If Leonora thought it unusual, she made no comment but simply passed me a glass of cool spring water and two painkillers as soon as I opened my eyes and blinked at the morning sun, which was streaming through our window.
When my head ceased pounding, I walked out on to the veranda where she was sitting reading an Italian magazine. “Sorry about last night,” I said, kissing the top of her head. She just smiled and turned the pages of her magazine. I sat down beside her and slid the magazine from her hand. “You don’t have any doubts about marrying me?” I asked
To my surprise, she started to cry. I went to her and cradled her in my arms. “It’s not too late if you want to back out.” I was beginning to feel afraid of her answer.
“I will never want to back out of our marriage. Never.”
She wiped the tears away with the back of her hand. “I was worried you may have been having second thoughts and it was why you drank too much last night.”
I sighed, holding her tightly. “I think we are a pair of fools. I love you, Mrs Hope and by the end of today I’ll show you how much you being my wife means to me.”
Through the heat haze, which was hanging over the Grand Canal, I heard the faint engine noise of a water taxi and the lapping of water against its sides as it sped past our hotel. I watched it pass by, comparatively empty at this early hour, and saw a couple, their arms entwined, standing in the back of the boat. The girl was wearing a straw hat, a tendril of fair hair escaping and blowing in the breeze as it fell and settled against her cheek. For a moment I drew in my breath sharply, she reminded me of Leonora when I’d first seen her. Although now I wondered if my memory had failed me, was it Leonora I’d seen all those years ago and if so why had she lied to me?
Chapter 21
At eleven o’clock on the morning of the first of July we stood outside the Palazzo Cavalli. The day was warming up nicely and I could feel the sun on the back of my neck and penetrating my beige linen suit. A row of gondolas bobbed up and down on the surface of the water and the traffic on the Grand Canal had increased since I’d seen the girl and the youth in the water taxi, earlier that morning.
Leonora was dressed in a simple blue dress, which matched the colour of her eyes and had piled her hair up on top of her head, soft tendrils escaping around her face as we held hands and walked towards the building. “Wait,” she said, “we have to find someone to be our witnesses.
I laughed, saying, “There’ll be plenty of staff willing to act for us, inside.
“No, it’s more romantic to find someone in the street,” she insisted, whilst looking around her.
A middle-aged woman carrying a shopping bag passed by and smiled at us. Leonora approached her and speaking in fluent Italian persuaded her to act as our witness. Then she noticed a young man with a shock of fair hair falling over his forehead.
“Ask him,” Leonora urged. “He looks as if he might be English.”
He was in fact Italian but spoke excellent English and said he would be honoured to assist us.
So it was an unusual quartet that entered the Palazzo Cavalli for our civil marriage ceremony, whilst in the distance the bells from the campanile in St Mark’s Square rang in our ears.
Time passed with the speed of light as we said the necessary words in front of the registrar, exchanged our rings and signed the register. I shook hands with our witnesses, thanking them for their help and for a fraction of a second, as I shook the hand of the young man, a strange feeling of déjà vu swept over me. I looked into his face and felt I’d seen him somewhere before.
The feeling passed, as Leo insisted we have a photograph taken with our witnesses before we went our separate ways. The clerk, who took the photograph for us, smiled as he returned the camera to Leonora. I watched the young man, who was our witness, disappear in the direction of the Rialto Bridge, and kissed my new wife. “Now, Mrs Hope I’m going to show you how to have a good time in Venice.”
Picking her up, amid much laughter and smiles, I carried her into the waiting gondola, instructing the gondolier to take us back to the Hotel Villa Cipriani so that our honeymoon could really begin.
The days drifted lazily by, filled with love and pleasure at being together. We had eyes for no one but ea
ch other. Although it was the height of the holiday season and there was the inevitable throng of sightseers, when Leo and I sat in St Mark’s Square drinking coffee and listening to music played by a trio of musicians, there was no one else in the whole world but us.
We spent three weeks in Venice. Those were days during which we strolled through the narrow streets, drank wine in tiny bars frequented by the locals, dined in expensive restaurants and shopped in the chic boutiques and jewellery shops surrounding St Mark’s Square. Shops, where if you needed to ask the price of an item, you could forget it. We visited museums housing some of Italy’s finest art collections and marvelled at the differing architectural styles of the buildings as we lay back in a gondola drifting down the narrow waterways, sunshine stroking our skin. It was one of the happiest times of my life.
After Venice, I hired a car and we travelled to Naples, Sorrento and the Amalfi coast, staying in hotels where and when the fancy took us. I chartered a boat and we cruised around the coast, sunbathing naked on the deck and diving into the deep blue water to cool off.
Later, I drove northwards to Florence where we visited the Uffizi Art Gallery wandering around its multitudinous rooms filled with the finest of paintings and sculptures, pausing from time to time to admire the view from windows looking down on the busy walkway below, where people hurrying by looked like worker ants.