‘Well, I suppose it sounds cynical, but wouldn’t you agree that, on the whole, that’s often true?’ He was watching her interestedly.
She thought for a moment. ‘I do hope not,’ she said honestly after a moment. They walked a few slow steps in silence. Then, ‘Even the relationship that you think is going to survive – the friendship between Fielding and Aziz – doesn’t. And again it’s wrecked by misunderstanding.’ She tilted her head to glance up at him. ‘I suppose it’s just that the relationships seem all wrong somehow. The whole thing’s so perverse and – well, depressing, I suppose. No one seems to care.’
‘Aren’t you really saying that the book is almost too true to real life? People live like that. People are like that. Life is messy and contradictory and perverse. There are no easy answers, no neat and satisfactory endings. Life on the whole is a muddle. You can never know what another person is thinking, never truly see behind the words he or she speaks. It’s the human condition. We tend to expect our books to be different: to offer nice clear beginnings and tidy, explanatory endings.’ He grinned quickly, mocking his own sudden seriousness. ‘And if possible a well-organised middle. Passage doesn’t offer that. It offers questions rather than answers.’
They strolled in silence for a moment. The late spring sunshine filtered through the bright-leafed branches above them and touched the freshly cut grass with gold. Davie revved up his motor-car sounds and flew past them, grinning and tooting.
‘I suppose you’re right,’ Annie conceded at last. ‘And pessimistic questions at that. Find me one sentence in the entire book that says anything good about marriage, for instance. Wait…’ She stopped, flicking through the pages. ‘Ah – here – Fielding talking to Adela about marriage. I’ve read it a dozen times. It begins and continues for such very slight reasons. The social business props it up on one side and the theological business on the other, but neither of them are marriage, are they? I’ve friends who can’t remember why they married, no more can their wives. I suspect that it mostly happens haphazard, though afterwards various noble reasons are invented. About marriage I am cynical.’
As she read her words had become slower, her voice quieter. She stood for a moment, staring down at the page.
He waited, watching her, interest in his eyes.
She stood still, head bowed, looking down at the book. ‘What is it that Adela asks herself before she goes into the caves?’ she asked very quietly, speaking almost as if to herself. What about love? What about love,’ she repeated, even more quietly, and with a completely different inflection. ‘There’s a question!’ And was herself surprised at the faint but unmistakeably discernible bleakness in the words.
He said nothing.
Annie flushed again, aware that perhaps she had given away more than she would have cared to, and to a stranger.
Suddenly and briskly she snapped the book shut and looked up. ‘And then silly Fielding goes and gets married himself! To someone, or so it seems, that he doesn’t understand and can’t talk to.’ She lifted her voice a little. ‘Davie – do stop tearing around so! You’ll wear yourself out in this heat!’
They strolled on. Her companion was obviously enjoying the discussion. ‘What about love?’ he repeated. ‘A question we could probably discuss for a thousand years and not come up with an answer. But you take my point? In my opinion the whole book is a question. Why do people behave as they do? Why don’t we ever learn from our mistakes? Why should one people despise another simply because of their race? Simply because they don’t understand them?’
‘Will anybody ever understand anybody?’ Annie’s words were deliberately dry.
‘I’m with Forster, I’m afraid. I very much doubt it,’ he said, and then laughed aloud. ‘Enough, enough! It’s too warm for philosophising. Here’s the Pavilion. Lemonade and buns, that’s the ticket.’
All at once unaccountably light-hearted, Annie flicked a smile at him. ‘I don’t think even the disillusioned Mr Forster could disapprove of lemonade and buns, surely?’
* * *
‘So – do I understand that you’re an artist, Mr Ross?’ Annie asked politely a short time later, settled at a table in the Pavilion, pouring tea.
‘No,’ said Davie cheerfully, around a mouthful of sticky bun. ‘He’s a solicitor. He works in London mostly, but also in Paris. Don’t you, Mr Ross?’
‘That’s right.’ Richard Ross addressed his answer to Annie. ‘The law is my living. Art is my passion.’
‘A passion I expect you find easy to indulge in Paris?’
‘Quite so. My grandfather established the family firm in London some fifty years ago. My father expanded to Paris just after the war.’ He accepted the cup of tea she offered. ‘Thank you.’ He sat in sunshine; as he looked at her, the light gilded his long lashes and glinted green and gold in his eyes. ‘Davie tells me that his father was French?’ There was a gently questioning inflection in the words.
Annie flicked a slightly repressive look at her son. What other personal details had he divulged to this undoubtedly attractive but somehow increasingly unnerving stranger? ‘Yes. He was killed in the first weeks of the war, before Davie was born.’
‘A tragedy.’ His voice was soft.
‘One of many. Like so many other young people, the war wrecked our lives before they had fairly begun. We were far from being the only ones.’ She shrugged a little, stirred her tea, eyes downcast, her face pensive.
‘You lived in Paris?’
His question reclaimed her attention. ‘Yes. Actually, my own father was French. I was born in Paris. My mother is English. Father died just before the war, and after Davie was born Mother and I came to England.’
‘Davie tells me you haven’t been back to Paris since?’
‘No.’ The word was short. Davie munched happily on his bun, apparently oblivious to the rather more searching glance his mother had sent his way this time. ‘I have no desire to go. There are too many memories. My life – our life – is here.’
‘I can understand that.’
‘Anyway, I told you – Mother doesn’t like ships,’ Davie offered innocently.
‘Davie, I’m sure Mr Ross doesn’t want to be bored by my personal foibles,’ his mother said sharply.
Davie finished his bun, licked his fingers, eyed the one that Annie was toying with. ‘Are you going to eat all of your bun?’ He grinned at Richard Ross. ‘Mother thinks I’ve got worms.’
‘You’re a growing lad, that’s all. Here, have mine.’
‘Wow, thanks!’
‘Where do you live in Paris, Mr Ross?’ Annie asked, trying to bring some order back into the conversation.
‘Rue Jacob. On the Left Bank.’
‘I know it. We had an apartment on boulevard St Germain. Philippe was at the medical school.’
Richard Ross had leaned his chin on his hand and was watching her with sympathetic interest. ‘You must have been very young?’
She shrugged. ‘Yes. I suppose we were. We were in Paris. There was talk of war. It was all very… intense. Very chaotic.’
‘And very romantic,’ he said, unexpectedly.
She looked at him. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘And very romantic. Almost irresistibly so.’
‘I’ve got a picture of my father,’ Davie said. ‘He looked just like me.’
‘He was a Parisian?’
For a moment Annie found herself wondering how on earth this man was managing – in the most engaging of ways – to extract so much information in so short a time; information that she rarely shared with anyone? ‘Yes,’ she said, a little abruptly. ‘He lived with his father in a house in Billancourt.’ A house with an unusually beautiful garden… ‘Come along, Davie.’ She was suddenly brisk. ‘Finish your bun. We’re meeting Uncle Fergus at six, remember?’ She turned to look directly at Richard Ross. Why she felt compelled to say it she was not sure, but say it she did: ‘Fergus is my fiancé.’
He nodded, lips twitching. ‘I know. Davie told me.’<
br />
This time she was startled into sudden, exasperated laughter. ‘Davie! Honestly!’
‘Well, it isn’t a secret, is it?’ her son asked in a faintly injured tone.
‘Of course not, but—’ Annie shook her head and gave up. ‘Thank you for the tea, Mr Ross. We really must go…’ She stood up, reached a hand for Davie’s. ‘Say goodbye to Mr Ross, Davie.’
Richard Ross too came politely to his feet, opening his mouth to speak, but Davie forestalled him. ‘Goodbye, Mr Ross. I’ll see you on Thursday,’ he said.
Annie looked from one to the other.
‘I’m sorry,’ the man said quickly, ‘I was going to mention it. I should have said something earlier—’
‘I’m going to lend him my book about Marianne North. The one you got me for Christmas.’ Davie frowned a little uncertainly. ‘It is all right, isn’t it? He did say he’d look after it.’
‘I—yes, of course it’s all right.’ For a reason she could not, or perhaps did not want to explain, Annie had an obscure feeling that it wasn’t all right at all, but she could not bring herself to be so churlish as to say so. She was brisk. ‘We’ll meet you in the Gallery, then, Mr Ross. About five?’
He hesitated.
‘I said he could come and pick it up,’ said Davie.
Dark eyes and hazel held each other steadily for a moment. ‘I hope you don’t mind?’ the man asked gently.
‘Of course not. Why should I?’ She smiled, very brightly. ‘Don’t tell me – I expect you know where we live?’
He nodded gravely, his eyes laughing. ‘Davie told me,’ he said.
* * *
‘Is something wrong?’ Fergus asked. They were sitting at the open French doors of her sitting room watching Davie play on the swing. ‘You’re very quiet.’
Annie shook her head quickly. ‘No. Nothing. I’m just a little tired, that’s all. The warm weather, I suppose.’
He leaned forward and took her hand. ‘We have plans to make. Have you chosen a date?’
She shook her head. ‘No, I’m sorry, I haven’t.’
‘It should be in the summer, I think. June? July, perhaps? And the honeymoon? Where would you like to go?’
‘I—hadn’t thought—’
‘I need to know the date, my dear. I have to book time away from the office.’
‘Yes, I realise that. I’m sorry. I’ll get myself organised in the next few days, I promise.’
‘It can only be a week, I’m afraid. I can’t trust Smithers to run things for longer than that. He’s reliable enough, but lacks initiative—’
‘That’s all right. A week will be lovely.’ Annie put a hand to her head.
‘You’ll make the arrangements with your mother to take care of Davie?’
‘Yes, Fergus. Of course I will.’ Her voice had sharpened. ‘As soon as we set the date. She’ll come to the wedding and she’ll stay until we come back.’ She rubbed at her head again. In the garden Davie was swinging high, his feet grazing the leaves of the tree. ‘Fergus, I’m sorry, you’re right. I’m not quite myself tonight. I have a headache coming on. Would you mind very much…?’ She let the words trail to silence.
‘Of course not, my dear. Would you like me to get you something? A cup of tea? An aspirin?’
‘No, no.’ She was suddenly desperate for him to go. ‘As I said – it’s just the heat. I’ll get an early night. I’ll be quite all right.’
Fergus stood, bent to kiss her cheek. ‘Don’t get up. I’ll say goodbye to Davie and let myself out. I’ll pop in on Thursday.’
‘No. Not Thursday. We… won’t be here. I’m taking Davie to see an old friend in Richmond.’
‘Very well. Until the weekend, then.’
‘Yes. We’ll meet you at Liverpool Street. I thought we’d catch the five o’clock train if that’s all right?’
‘Of course. I’m looking forward to it.’ He kissed her again and went into the garden.
Annie watched as he walked over to the swing. Davie scraped to a halt. Fergus ruffled his hair and said something; Davie smiled half-heartedly. Fergus gave him a push, setting the swing in motion again, turned and lifted a hand to Annie. She waved back, watched him to the garden gate. Why had she lied? Why had she felt that if Fergus had said another word she would have screamed at him?
‘A boy needs a father,’ her mother had said, and ‘he’s a good man’.
Yes.
What about love?
‘Davie,’ she called. ‘Come along in. Time for bed.’
Chapter Four
Annie pushed open the dining-room door. ‘…the wheels are in that box, I think,’ Davie was saying. ‘D’you mind finding them? I don’t want to let go of this until I get the screw in properly—’
‘Right you are.’ Richard Ross, down on the floor with the boy and apparently equally engrossed in what they were doing, pulled the wooden box towards him and rummaged in it. Neither had noticed Annie standing at the door. The carpet was strewn with pieces of Meccano. The model seaplane that Davie had been painstakingly constructing for weeks had, his mother noticed, become something almost recognisable as an aeroplane in the two hours since he had invited their visitor to ‘come and look’ at it. She leaned against the door jamb, watching them.
Davie was sprawled on his stomach, fair hair falling across his forehead, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration as he fiddled with the tiny screw. His companion had tired of rooting around in the box and upended it, spilling its contents onto the floor, thus adding to the disorder around them. He had taken off his jacket and tie and thrown them across a chair, turned back the cuffs of his shirt to reveal broad, powerful-looking wrists. Now he raked amongst the bits and pieces with a long, sun-browned finger. ‘Ah. Here we are. Which size?’
‘That one.’ In glancing up, Davie caught sight of his mother. ‘Oh, hello, Mother. Look at this – isn’t it smashing?’
‘It’s certainly come on since I last saw it. But then, since it sounds as if you’ve been using our guest as a dogsbody for the past two hours or so, that isn’t too surprising, is it?’ She smiled as she said it – and came to an uncharacteristically impulsive decision.
‘Mr Ross – may I offer you a drink in exchange for your hard labour?’ She glanced out of the window, to where long shadows had crept across the garden. ‘Davie’s kept you here so long I’d say the sun is well over the yardarm, wouldn’t you?’
Richard Ross sat back easily, smiling, his long legs crossed in front of him. ‘As a matter of fact, I’d love one. But please – it’s a little difficult to be formal sprawled on the floor being out-engineered by a bright lad of ten. Won’t you call me Richard?’
‘I—’ She hesitated, taken by surprise.
Davie’s head came up. ‘I’ve already said I will,’ he said encouragingly. ‘And of course you must call Mother Annie,’ he added to Richard. Then, the situation sorted out to his satisfaction, he rested his elbows on the carpet and put his chin in his hands, frowning. ‘Could you pass me the screwdriver, please, Richard? And the longest strip you can find—?’
The man threw an amused glance at Annie, smothering a grin.
‘What can I get you, Mr—Richard?’ Annie corrected herself.
‘Would you have whisky?’
Annie hadn’t. But Fergus had. ‘Yes. Of course.’ She laughed a little. ‘Will you have it on the floor, or would you rather catch the last of the sunshine in the garden?’
‘But Mother, we’re—’
She held up a warning finger. ‘You, young man, can have another half an hour and then it’s bed. You’ve school in the morning. Milk or lemonade?’
Davie scowled rebelliously for a moment; but even he knew the meaning of that particular tone of voice. ‘Lemonade, please,’ he said, and then, hopefully, ‘and some biscuits.’
‘Two biscuits,’ Annie said firmly. ‘And you can do a bit of tidying up first,’ she added for good measure. ‘I don’t quite see my dining room as a Meccano factory.’
/> ‘I’ll help,’ Richard said quickly. ‘I’ve made quite as much mess as Davie has, after all. Probably more.’ Again that open and attractive smile that was so hard not to return.
Davie beamed beatifically, his good temper quite restored.
In the sitting room, ignoring rather than wholly suppressing slight qualms of guilt, Annie opened Fergus’s whisky, poured a generous glass and went into the kitchen for Davie’s lemonade and biscuits. She could hear them talking and laughing in the dining room. She carried the tray back into the sitting room, put the glass of whisky on it and stood for a moment, undecided. Then, with a quick movement that had a touch of defiance about it, she reached for another glass and poured a small whisky for herself.
Out in the garden the shadows were lengthening across the lawn and the birds were singing. The scent of new-mown grass was on the air. In the far corner a glowing carpet of bluebells caught the last of the sunshine.
An old wooden garden table and chairs were set beneath a gnarled apple tree. It was an evening almost as much of summer as of spring, while the unseasonably warm weather continued. As Annie settled herself into a chair, a nest of baby birds in the branches above her head chirped hungrily and an anxious mother eyed her beadily, head cocked, from a nearby bush.
Richard and Davie came from the house, deep in conversation. Annie sipped her drink, watching them with intent and thoughtful eyes. The whisky burned and spread in her veins, sweet and peaty on the tongue. They stopped for a moment beside the little pond, Davie down on his knees beside it, pointing, Richard leaning forward with hands on knees, peering into the murky water.
Annie, unnoticed, studied him. Tall and lean, long of arm and leg, face narrow and handsomely boned. Not married. What was it he had said? ‘Not any more.’ A story there, then. She was not the naive innocent she once had been; she recognised too well the signs and signals of danger, of – perhaps – entrapment; certainly of pursuit. Perhaps indeed she was too sensitive to them? Perhaps it was she who was the cynic, rather than the attractive Mr Ross? Or maybe it was just that she knew better than to get carried away by charismatic strangers. Didn’t she?
Treacherous Waters Page 3