Treacherous Waters

by Treacherous Waters (retail) (epub)

  ‘Of course you’re going, you know you are. Don’t be silly.’ Jane calmly picked up a dress and put it back on its hanger.

  ‘It’s not exactly fair on Fergus, is it?’

  Her mother’s eyebrows climbed, but she said nothing.

  ‘I hardly know the man.’

  ‘Do you want to know him?’

  Annie walked to the window and stood looking down into the garden. ‘I…’ she hesitated, then, ‘yes, I suppose I do.’

  ‘Well, then—’ Her mother opened the wardrobe door, hung up the dress and went back to the bed.

  ‘It isn’t that simple, is it? I’ve promised I’ll marry Fergus. If he should find out—oh, damn it, why did I say I’d go? I didn’t mean to!’

  Her mother put down the jacket she was folding and crossed the room to her. ‘You said you’d go because you want to go. It’s not a crime. There’s nothing to be afraid of—’

  Annie swung round. ‘There is! Of course there is! That’s the whole point! What if I’m making a complete fool of myself? What does he want? I don’t know the man! How do I know if I can trust him? I must be mad—’

  ‘Annie, Annie! You’re going to dinner with him, not running away to Gretna Green! For goodness’ sake! Go and have your bath. And stop worrying.’ Her mother smiled suddenly and patted her arm. ‘Just make sure you’ve got enough money tucked in your bag to pay your taxi fare home if needs be. Under these circumstances I always think that’s the best friend a girl can have.’

  * * *

  If her nerves had not exactly calmed by the time she reached Waterloo Station, at least Annie was fairly confident that they did not show too obviously. She was late enough to ensure that Richard got there first – though not enough for bad manners – and was careful not to hurry as she made her way through the crowd across the elegant new concourse to where his tall figure waited, watching her with a smile. He was in evening dress, which suited him well. It was not lost upon Annie that others thought so too: the interest in the eyes of a smartly dressed young woman who waited a little way away from him – presumably for her own dinner companion – was quite undisguised. As was the pleasure on his face when she joined him. ‘Annie. You look wonderful!’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said serenely. And, suddenly, she felt wonderful. Wonderful and confident and very, very happy that she had come. She would not spoil this one evening with doubts; she would face the inevitable nagging guilt concerning Fergus tomorrow. She accepted his proffered arm and they strolled out into the busy street.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, smiling down at her, ‘do you like to dance?’

  Annie laughed. ‘It’s years since I danced. I used to love it.’

  ‘Good. So do I. And it just so happens that I’ve booked a table at the Savoy. Have you heard the Orpheans?’

  She shook her head.

  He grinned like a boy. ‘Well, you will tonight. And you’ll love ’em!’ He lifted a hand. ‘Taxi!’

  * * *

  He was – as she had guessed he would be – the most charming and attentive of companions. They ate lobster and asparagus, they drank Champagne and they danced. Chandeliers glittered, silver gleamed and candles glinted in crystal. It was, she found herself thinking more than once, a very far cry indeed from her usual prim Friday evening settled quietly by the fire or in her bed with a book. Spinning around the dance floor at dizzying speed, the whole thing seemed suddenly so unreal that she wondered if she might not wake up and find it all some kind of wild hallucination. She leaned back, laughing up into Richard’s face. ‘I don’t think I’d be at all surprised if I turned into a pumpkin or something at midnight.’

  He held her tighter, steering her deftly into another turn. ‘I hope not. The dancing goes on until two—’

  And all the time they talked, easily, animatedly and with laughter, as if they had known each other all their lives.

  Annie had never been more sorry to have an evening come to an end.

  He took her to her door in a taxi. ‘May I get in touch when I come back from Paris?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, with possibly Champagne-induced promptness. The interior of the car was dark; she could not see the expression on his shadowed face. ‘Thank you for a lovely evening.’

  She sensed his smile. Felt him move a little towards her. She held her breath. He reached for her hand, turned it palm upwards and undid the tiny press-studs that fitted the long lace glove to the wrist. Then, very gently, he kissed the skin he had exposed. ‘Good night, Annie. Sleep tight.’

  * * *

  As, shoes in hand and head spinning a little, Annie climbed the stairs she noticed the bright strip of light beneath the door of her mother’s room. She stopped, her heart sinking. Was something wrong? Had anything happened to Davie? Had retribution struck so soon?

  She tiptoed to the door, pushed it open a crack. Jane lifted her head, smiling, laid down the book she had been reading, folded her hands upon it and surveyed her daughter’s bright eyes and flushed cheeks. ‘No need to ask if you enjoyed yourself, I think?’

  Annie crossed the room to sit on the bed. Stuck out her stockinged feet and wriggled them, giggling a little. ‘My feet are killing me. Has everything been all right?’

  ‘Everything has been just fine. Davie thrashed me at ludo, and I thrashed him at Beat Your Neighbours Out Of Doors, so honours were even. Where did you go?’

  ‘You’ll never guess – the Savoy! We danced all night! We ate lobster, and we drank Champagne’ – she put a hand to her forehead and rubbed at it a little ruefully – ‘a bit too much, I suspect. We talked and we talked—’

  Her mother smiled affectionately. ‘So you’re glad you went after all?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, yes!’

  ‘And what did you discover in all this talking?’

  Annie leaned back on her hands, letting her head drop back, heavy hair swinging, addressing her words to the ceiling. ‘He lives somewhere in Hampstead. He loves Gershwin and dance music. He’s got a motor car, and one of those new-fangled gramophones that don’t need a horn. He says it’s absolutely marvellous.’ She paused for a moment, thinking. ‘His father is retired and lives in the south of France. He has a sister in South Africa, married to a farmer; she has two children of whom he is very fond. His favourite food is asparagus. His favourite artist is Toulouse-Lautrec – not the posters and things but the horse pictures—’

  ‘I didn’t know Toulouse-Lautrec painted horse pictures?’

  ‘No. Neither did I, but apparently he did. Anyway – where was I? He reads a lot, his favourite writer is Trollope, especially the Barchester novels. He doesn’t like the theatre. He smokes the occasional cigarette. He hates Brussels sprouts and rice pudding—’

  ‘Together? So would I.’

  Annie laughed. ‘Together or separately. He used to play rugby but gave up after he dislocated his neck—’

  ‘A man of sense.’

  ‘He doesn’t like shopping and he doesn’t like cats, but he’s rather fond of dogs and horses.’ She wrinkled up her nose. ‘I think that’s about all I can remember for now. Golly, we certainly did drink a lot of Champagne – my head’s spinning like a top! Oh – and he loves opera but doesn’t much like ballet, and his birthday is in January. There! I think that really is all.’

  ‘And did he find out as much about you as you did about him?’ Jane was amused.

  Annie glanced at her, just faintly alarmed. ‘Well, yes. I suppose he must have.’ She frowned thoughtfully. ‘I can’t really remember, to be honest.’

  Her mother leaned forward and patted her hand. ‘I’m glad you had such a good time. Off you go now. You can tell me more in the morning.’

  Annie jumped up, kissed her and danced to the door, humming, the pale green lace of her skirt swirling around her ankles. ‘Night,’ she said from the door.

  ‘Good night, dear. Sleep well.’

  Annie laughed. ‘I will. I’m sure I will.’

  But she did not. Tired as she was, sleep would not come
. Her feet ached. And once she lay down, her head ached more. The kaleidoscope of the evening glittered in her mind, restless patterns of light and colour. The same snatch of song rang distractingly in her ears, over and over. She tossed onto her back, lay for a moment staring into the slightly dizzying darkness. Then she raised her arm, turned it a little so that the gleam of the pale flesh caught and reflected the faint light of the moon.

  Very slowly she reached her other hand to her inner wrist, touching it gently with her fingertips, shivering a little as she remembered that last moment in the taxi; and, gently, she laid her lips where his had been.

  Then with a sudden, violent movement she turned over again, burying her head in the pillow. ‘Oh, God!’ she said aloud, her voice muffled. ‘What the hell am I going to do about Fergus now?’

  * * *

  The flowers came the next morning, just as Jane was leaving for the station: six white roses, long-stemmed and lovely, wrapped in cellophane and bound together with silken scarlet ribbon. Rosy-cheeked beneath the inquisitive eyes of her mother and her son, Annie took the card from its small envelope, read it and – even rosier-cheeked – tucked it quickly back.

  ‘Richard?’ her mother asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What does the card say?’ Davie asked, cheerfully and filially nosy.

  Annie shrugged. ‘Just “Thank you”,’ she lied. ‘Just “Thank you for a nice evening”, that’s all.’

  ‘They’re beautiful,’ Jane said.

  ‘Yes. They are.’

  A car horn tooted in the road outside. Jane kissed her daughter’s warm cheek. ‘I have to go. The taxi’s here. I’ll drop you a line later in the week and we can finalise the arrangements for Davie to come to stay. ‘Bye, darling.’ She kissed Davie. ‘Be good.’

  They stood at the door to wave her off, Annie still holding the flowers. As the taxi turned the corner Davie glanced at his mother and laughed.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Here comes the bride, here comes the bride…’ he sang in a high falsetto.

  With her free hand she pretended to cuff him round the ear. ‘I’d better put these in water.’

  * * *

  The second bouquet of flowers came in the afternoon; identical to the first, six perfect white blooms decked in cellophane and red ribbon.

  ‘Wow!’ said Davie thoughtfully. ‘You two did have a good time, didn’t you?’

  Annie opened the envelope. Davie watched her curiously as she read the card and slipped it back. When he opened his mouth, Annie lifted a quick, repressive finger. ‘It’s none of your business,’ she said.

  Later, with the inquisitive Davie safe in his bed she walked into the cool garden, sat down under the apple tree, took the two cards from her pocket and laid them neatly upon the table in front of her.

  ‘Lovely, lovely evening. Long and thoughtful night. I think that I, at least, may have found the answer to Adela’s question…’ said the first.

  The second was much shorter and to the point: a single sentence which ended with the tiniest of kisses: ‘How about you?’

  * * *

  It was all happening much too fast. Annie knew it, yet could do nothing to stop it. All at once she found she was thinking about Richard every waking moment: Richard laughing, Richard talking, Richard watching her with those bright, narrow eyes.

  Had he really meant what he’d said on the cards? Was it possible he was thinking of her, as she was of him? Surely not? How could she ever attract such a man?

  And what of Fergus?

  Restless and uncertain, totally unable to concentrate, she went to a meeting of the Red Cross committee of which she was usually an enthusiastic member and came away unable to remember a thing that had been discussed. She sat down to write a letter to a friend and found herself staring into space with not a word written. She could settle to nothing. Her usual temperate nature deserted her: she swung from happiness and certainty to misery and distrust in seconds whenever she tried to analyse what was going on, which was often. The situation was, of course, made worse by the fact that Richard was in Paris and incommunicado. She would not see him again for a week. Over and over she planned the meeting: what she would say to him, what he would say to her – then what? What did he want? He had not even kissed her. Not properly, anyway. And so it went on – the age-old mixture of happiness and utter misery that the first infatuation of a love affair always brings. And always… there was Fergus…

  Who turned up at the house one evening unannounced and unexpected.

  ‘Uncle Fergus is here,’ Davie said, from the window seat where he was curled up reading a book. ‘He’s coming up the path.’

  Annie froze. She had been fiddling with the wireless, trying to find some dance music. ‘Fergus?’ she repeated stupidly, her heart suddenly hammering in something that could only be described as panic. ‘Here?’

  The doorbell rang. ‘Here,’ Davie said laconically, and went back to his book. It had been a source of Annie that over the past few days Davie had apparently sensed nothing of her turmoil. The natural self-centredness of childhood, she supposed, rarely looked beyond its own concerns unless forced to.

  The vase containing Richard’s roses was standing on the little table in the middle of the room. In a real panic now, she ran over, snatched it up and then stood completely frozen, not knowing what to do with it.

  The doorbell rang again.

  ‘Shall I let him in?’ Davie asked, shutting his book.

  ‘Yes… No… Wait a minute. I’m—I’m just going to put these out in the kitchen for a moment. I think they need fresh water. I’ll answer the door.’

  She flew into the kitchen, put the flowers on the table, smoothed her skirt with the palms of her hands, tidied her hair and went into the hall, closing the kitchen door behind her.

  It had been pouring with rain all afternoon; Fergus stood patiently on the front doorstep under a large black umbrella. He was wearing a Homburg hat that did not suit him and was carrying a parcel. ‘Fergus!’ Annie said nervously. ‘What are you doing here? Come in. Come in…’

  Fergus stepped into the hall, closed and shook the umbrella, put it meticulously into the umbrella stand by the door. When he turned his face was puzzled and a little hurt. ‘What am I doing here?’ he half-laughed, ruefully. ‘I think perhaps I should ask you that.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’ Annie stopped, both hands going to her mouth. ‘Oh, Fergus! How awful of me! I forgot! Oh, Fergus, I’m truly sorry – I can’t think how it can have slipped my mind—’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Davie asked from the sitting-room doorway. ‘Hello, Uncle Fergus,’ he added politely.

  ‘Hello, Davie. What’s the matter is that your flibbertigibbet of a mother was supposed to be meeting me this evening. We were supposed to be going to the cinema.’ He turned a mildly exasperated eye upon Annie.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘I completely forgot. Oh, dear,’ she added faintly.

  Fergus was taking off his coat and hat, hanging them over the newel post at the foot of the stairs. ‘Never mind.’ He smiled. ‘I’ve had a better idea, anyway.’ He turned back to Davie. ‘I’ve got a little something for you, young man.’ He handed him the parcel.

  ‘Cor, thanks. What is it?’

  ‘Open it and see.’

  Mortified, Annie watched as the boy tore at the brown paper. How could she have forgotten? It was unforgivable of her. She was amazed that Fergus wasn’t furious with her.

  ‘More Meccano! Look, Mother—’ Davie waved the box at her. ‘A crane! Gosh, thanks, Uncle Fergus!’

  Fergus smiled. ‘Why not go and unpack it? I’d like a quiet word with your mother.’

  ‘All right.’ Davie ran into the dining room, already trying to open the box as he went.

  Annie eyed Fergus with some misgiving.

  He smiled. ‘Don’t look so worried. It’s just that I have a little something for you too. First – a drink. I’ll get some glasses.’ He
moved towards the kitchen door.

  ‘No!’ Annie slid forward and blocked his way. ‘No, no. I’ll get them. You go on into the sitting room.’ She pushed open the door; once in the kitchen she leaned against the closed door for a moment, trying to compose herself. Richard’s roses gleamed almost silver in the dull, rainwashed light. She shut her eyes for a second, breathing deeply, then found two glasses and went back to the sitting room.

  Fergus was standing at the window, looking out into the rain. He turned, smiling when she came into the room. As she splashed whisky into the two glasses she was alarmed to see that her hands were shaking. ‘There.’ She pushed the glass across the surface of the sideboard to him, frightened to pick it up.

  He downed it at a swallow and she stared at him, surprised. He grinned. ‘Dutch courage,’ he said.

  She stood quite still, watching him. ‘Why would you need Dutch courage?’ she asked carefully.

  He put his hand in his pocket, pulled out a small square box, snapped it open. There was a long silence.

  Annie put her hands to her suddenly burning cheeks and shook her head miserably. ‘Oh, no,’ she said, very quietly. ‘Oh, Fergus, no.’

  Chapter Seven

  The ring glittered against black velvet: sapphires and diamonds set in gold. An engagement ring. A ring of final commitment. Annie stared at it, unable to look Fergus in the eye.

  There was a long moment of silence before he asked, very quietly, ‘What do you mean, “No”?’

  Her eyes flickered to his face and away. She ducked her head, her hair falling across her face. ‘I… I just—’ She spread her hands helplessly in front of her, let them fall to her sides.

  ‘Annie? Tell me. What’s wrong?’

  Still she said nothing. Through its ungainly, rearing horn the wireless hissed and crackled. Glad to have something to do, Annie crossed the room and turned it off. The ensuing silence was absolute.