“I’m awfully tired,” I said. “Would everyone be offended if I just took Charles away? It’s not far to my flat, and in the morning he can think what we ought to do next.”
Charles stood, too. I don’t suppose anyone but J.B. and I noticed that he had to lean on the table to get himself upright. “I’ll get my shaving things,” he said. “The rest can wait till tomorrow.”
“Why not show Sue your quarters, now that she’s here?” said J.B., also getting to his feet. It seemed only natural for him to put one arm round Charles’ shoulders as he walked with us to the door. The others were directed back to the Blue drawing-room for coffee while J.B. shepherded us to a lift which led out of the main hall and took us up to the first floor without our having to trouble with the stairs.
“This way,” said J.B., throwing open double doors to reveal an opulently furnished sitting-room. “Office through there, bathroom and kitchen this way, bedroom beyond. He’s got his own outside phone, of course, as well as an extension from the house phone. I had thought of turning all this side of the house into one self-contained unit; the rooms under this are rarely used at the moment even though they face west and have their own entrance on to the terrace at the side of the house.” He led us through into the bedroom; there was a four-poster bed in it, but my eyes went straight to the double door at the far end — through it I could see into J.B.’s own bedroom.
“It’s no good,” said Charles, in a tired whisper. “She won’t share. She couldn’t live in somebody else’s house, with someone else’s furniture, even if you did make this place self-contained.”
“Every woman wants her own kitchen,” I said lightly, trying to lighten Charles’ mood.
“Just as long as you realise you’re refusing it for him as well as for yourself,” said J.B. He went through into his bedroom and closed the door behind him.
Now he’d made me feel guilty. “Do you mind, Charles? Is this what you really want?”
“I don’t want anything I haven’t earned for myself,” he said. I believed him. I kissed him, and he kissed me back, but still his eyes were sombre. Suddenly he started to shiver.
“You’re still cold?” I said.
“Reaction — take no notice. I’ll be all right after a good night’s sleep. I keep thinking of you in that freezer; I ought never to have let you go back into that house. I knew Bianca would hurt you if she could. The worst of it is that I know exactly why I did let you go back; I was the clever one, the one who was going to pull the rabbit out of the hat, and I wanted you to be there to see me do it. I was showing off — and you nearly died because of my selfishness.”
“But I’m all right now,” I soothed him. “Feel me — I’m warm now — and it was only a few minutes...”
“It ought never to have happened. I love you and yet I allowed you to be hurt...”
He was shivering convulsively now. I pushed him down on to the bed and ran for the door to J.B.’s room. I think he’d been waiting for me to call him, for he was right by the door with a bottle of whisky in one hand and a glass in the other. We got some of it down Charles, and then J.B. said he’d call a doctor.
“No, I’m damned if I’ll have any more doctors poking me around,” said Charles weakly. He’d almost stopped shivering, but he still looked terrible.
“You need to get drunk, boy.”
Charles tried to laugh. “What I need is to get into bed with Sue, and...”
“Of course!” said J.B. making for the internal phone. “I’ll have Mrs. Green bring her things up straight away. Better than whisky or the doctor, I shouldn’t wonder.”
I didn’t argue. I couldn’t, with Charles looking at me like an orphan from the storm. My overnight bag appeared within five minutes, by which time I’d got Charles undressed and into bed. J.B. handed me the key of his door, so that I could lock him out, and said he’d make our apologies to the Ashtons.
Charles slept for twelve hours without moving, his left hand wound into my hair so that I couldn’t get away, even if I’d wanted to. The next day he got up, but was so far from his usual energetic self that J.B. had the doctor round to check him over. The doctor said he found nothing wrong that a good rest wouldn’t cure, and I was driven to work by the chauffeur in the Rolls. I worked the week out and then left. I never did go back to my flat; the yellow carpet fits nicely in my sitting-room downstairs at Whitestones.
We were married very quietly at the end of the week. My parents didn’t like the match, but they made the best of it. Perhaps they guessed that making a success of my job at Whitestones would mean that I’d grow away from them. They are proud of me, and uncomfortable in Charles’ presence. I don’t think he notices.
We didn’t have a proper honeymoon. Charles didn’t want to go away until he’d seen his father safely back at Green Gables, so we flew to Florence for a few days, and then got back to deal with the alterations at Whitestones and as much of J.B.’s business as Charles wanted to go on handling.
Once I’d accepted that I had to share Charles, I began to like J.B. He is tough, and you do have to stand up to him, but he’s a very genuine person, and he loves and needs Charles, as Charles loves and needs him. We did have some rows at first, though. For one thing, J.B. expected me to take over as chatelaine at Whitestones, and act social secretary for him in an unprecedented urge to socialise. I got into a state, Charles told me I didn’t have to lift a finger to help J.B. if I didn’t want to, and J.B. apologised for trying to browbeat me, and gave me a pearl necklace. So I went to Mary Ashton for advice, and between us we cleared some of the antiques out of the house, found a gardener who didn’t mind growing flowers for cutting, and a cook who didn’t mind preparing plain dishes as well as doing the fancy stuff on occasion. Gradually Whitestones lost its fusty smell and began to feel more like a house. When I finished the sweater for Charles, I started on another for J.B., but after that it was baby clothes all the way.
Oliver Ashton came home with the first of the spring flowers, a gentle, white-haired, walking skeleton. All his family were there to greet him, including David and Inge with their three little imps. Free of disguise, David was a dapper, brown-haired man with an incisive way of speaking, while I liked Inge at sight for her calm, comfortable manner. I don’t think Oliver Ashton ever quite grasped how much Charles had done to obtain his release. I saw them greet each other, and my heart ached for Charles, because Oliver looked at his youngest son as if slightly afraid of him. I even heard him chide Charles for leading Ronald and David into criminal ways, at which Charles bent his head and agreed he’d been much in the wrong.
I cried on the way home. Charles tried to comfort me, saying he’d always known himself the least loved of his father’s sons, and that he’d never expected thanks for what he’d done. J.B. was waiting for us in the hall at Whitestones; before I could stop myself, I flung my arms around him and started crying all over again. Then we had some champagne and got down to making plans for the future.
Jane’s baby was stillborn, and she has been told it would not be wise for her to have another. I grieve for her and Ronald. When she comes to visit me I put my knitting away and hope my son will not demand too much attention while she is with me. I think Ronald will work her round to the idea of adopting a child one day, but at the moment she won’t hear of it. They have stayed on at Green Gables, and the firm of Ashton and Ashton prospers.
Oliver Ashton slipped away from life with the first of the autumn frosts, and all three of his sons wept as they stood by his grave. Mary Ashton did not weep, but lost so much of her previous sharpness of manner that Charles swears she has inherited her husband’s meekness of character. I did wonder whether Mary might console herself by marrying J.B., but Charles says she wouldn’t be interested, particularly since J.B. is so deeply in love with me. I do wish he wouldn’t say such things!
Our firstborn came into the world yelling for attention while Charles and J.B. paced up and down the corridor outside, telling each other that there was abs
olutely nothing to be worried about. Oliver John is nicknamed “Noll”, but he is all Charles to look at, and in character, too. There never was such a greedy, loving little beast. I tell Charles that this next child we’re expecting is to be a girl, but I expect he’s right, and we’ll just go on having boys.
I still see Bessie now and then. She is married and living in the house she picked out for herself long ago, but I don’t suppose we shall see much of each other in future, since we are to move to Brussels in six weeks’ time. Charles has landed himself a job on some Commission or other there; J.B. is coming, too, and we are to share a big house and employ a “bonne” to look after the children. Charles works a twelve hour day, and in his free time has started learning to fly. J.B. proposes to construct a hangar in the paddock and lay out an airstrip beyond, so that we can commute back to Whitestones at weekends.
Outwardly I suppose I’ve changed; I wear good clothes now, own a big estate car and have an account at three shops in town, and also at Harrods. Occasionally I borrow J.B.’s Rolls and the chauffeur to go shopping, and I’ve got over being sick with fright before big social functions. Basically I’m still the same. Charles and J.B. knew what they were doing when they latched on to me, for no one else would put up with them. They are a couple of domestic tyrants, throwbacks to the Victorian era. I’m not allowed to wear false eyelashes, or low-cut dresses, or flirt with other men, or even go out for the day without telling them where I’m going. Charles says he doesn’t know what I’m grumbling about, as I don’t want to do any of those things anyway, but that isn’t the point. I agree I don’t want to do any of those things, but I ought to be free to do them if I did feel like it. Then he grins and gives me an expensive present, and I tell him he’s getting more like J.B. every day.
Nothing about me has really changed. I was born to be a doormat, and that’s what I shall be to the end of my days.
If you enjoyed reading Sue for Mercy you might be interested in Scream for Sarah by Veronica Heley, also published by Endeavour Press.
Extract from Scream for Sarah by Veronica Heley
CHAPTER ONE
Everything was all right until the tramp arrived. Or was it? Had things started to go wrong before that, with Toby’s arrival?
I am not quite sure how it was that Toby got himself invited to Elm Tree House in the first place. Apparently I’d asked him at the office party, although I couldn’t remember having done so. It wasn’t as if I knew him well, although I had been out with him a couple of times in a crowd for a drink after office hours, and I had danced a lot with him on the night of the party. I wouldn’t have thought he was serious about me, but he must have been to have travelled some eighty miles from London to visit me. I knew he’d had to take special leave to come, and it wasn’t even as if I were there on holiday, but to clear the place of my grandmother’s belongings.
I suppose I was flattered, for at the age of twenty six I, Sarah Long, felt I was in no position to turn a prospective husband from the door. That is, assuming that Toby was a prospective husband, and he had certainly been acting like one.
Elm Tree House was the grandiose name given to the pair of ancient cottages which my grandfather had knocked into one dwelling and modernised some twenty years ago. There was the stump of an elm tree at the far end of the garden, which was large enough to occupy my grandfather almost exclusively in the years of his retirement. It was the garden which had killed him in the end, since he had insisted on digging a trench for his sweet peas while recovering from a bout of bronchitis. My grandmother could never bear the scent of the flowers afterwards.
And now my grandmother had also died, and hens scratched wild in the cobbled yard and neglected garden.
There was a Family Council after her funeral, and it was decided that as I was the only unmarried member of the family, and as I had inherited my grandmother’s jewellery, I should clear Elm Tree House of her belongings, prior to its sale. I didn’t fancy the task, but I had been my grandparents’ favourite, and I owed them something, because I had spent nearly all my holidays with them when I was a child. My father and mother have never been able to have a discussion about anything without it developing into an argument, and in my youth I had deliberately chosen to spend my free time out of reach of their clacking tongues. This time my parents were actually at one on the subject; they would pay my air fare to go abroad on holiday, if I would first clear out Elm Tree House. It was high summer, and I was feeling jaded; I agreed, and wangled an extra week’s sympathy leave from the office. I didn’t think I’d done too badly out of the deal, until Toby came to join me.
I hadn’t really expected him to come. He’d said he would muck out the hen-house for me—a job which I detested—but I couldn’t imagine him doing it. ‘For you, I would!’ he’d said. I disliked Granny’s hens, and one of my tasks that week was to be to sell them to the neighbouring farmer who had been keeping an eye on them since her death.
I got away on Wednesday night, and spent all day working at the house on Thursday before Toby arrived, bearing a ready-cooked meal for supper. I blessed him for that, and we opened some of Granny’s home-made wine to go with it. Yet I was uneasy; I hadn’t any good clothes with me, and I didn’t feel I showed to advantage in a sweater and jeans. Then Toby took my car out and dented the wing; I still couldn’t understand why he hadn’t taken his own car when he went to get some cigarettes after supper; he said it had been giving him trouble, but it started all right when he drove it into the garage on Friday morning. We use a solidly-built converted stable as a garage, but there is only room for one car in it, and I didn’t see why his car should be housed there, instead of my Mini.
Another thing; he kept on saying how perfect the house was, but he didn’t seem interested in the building itself; he wanted to know how often tradesmen came down the long muddy lane from the road, and how far away we were from our nearest neighbours. It did cross my mind to wonder if he wanted to be sure no-one would hear me if I screamed when he made advances to me, but of course that was nonsense. In the first place, I’d have liked him to make advances to me, because I felt it was about time I lost my virginity, and in the second place I don’t consider myself the screaming type. The fighting type, yes; I’ve brought my knee up once or twice when men have got too fresh with me, but screams are definitely out. They are a waste of time and energy. Besides, I didn’t make a habit of getting into situations where I needed to scream for help.
Why, then, did I feel so uneasy?
Toby was Mr. Good Manners himself on Friday morning. He helped me wash up after breakfast, and promised to muck out and feed the hens for me, after he’d had just one more cup of coffee. That was nice of him. Of course by that time in the morning I’d already let the hens out and fed them, but he could clean the henhouse for me with pleasure!
He was charming. He was everything that I’d always wanted in a man. He called me pretty names, such as Butterfly and Quicksilver, and said he’d always liked his women to look fragile. He measured my height against his, and tucked me under his shoulder to give me a hug. I had daydreamed of his kissing me, but when he did, I pushed him away. I said it was too early in the day for canoodling, and that I had come down to the house to work, and not to play. I could have hit myself afterwards, for instead of looking hurt, he shrugged and asked for another cup of coffee.
Fool! I told myself, but I didn’t try to kiss and make up. There was plenty of time for that, I argued, as I went upstairs to make the beds. Elm Tree House boasted two bedrooms, one big double bedroom at the head of the stairs, in which Toby had slept the night before, and a smaller single room leading off that. It wasn’t an ideal arrangement, especially since the bathroom also led off the main bedroom, and there was no access to the bathroom from the smaller bedroom without going through the master bedroom. Last night I had slept in the small bedroom, as I had done as a child, and wondered if Toby would try the door. He hadn’t. I suppose I was disappointed about that, too.
A dealer i
n antiques had been to see me the previous afternoon, and had taken away an old desk and a set of dining-room chairs, together with the best of the china and a brass lamp. He said the rest was junk, but that he’d give me a price for it when I was ready to leave. In the meantime I had to clear cupboards, a chest of drawers, cabinets and shelves of knick-knacks, ancient bottles of medicine, and a mountain of old clothes. Also the kitchen. I started on the wardrobe, carrying piles of old clothes down to the yard to burn. They smelt fusty and after a couple of trips I felt dirty and tired. The morning sun promised a hot day.
‘And is my little kitten in a better temper now?’ Toby asked, beaming at me over a cup of coffee.
‘Worse!’ I said shortly.
‘Have a drink,’ he suggested. He was intrigued by the shelf of home-made wines in the kitchen. I declined on the grounds that it was too early in the day for me to drink anything but coffee.
‘You haven’t a cigarette?’ he asked.
‘You know I don’t smoke. Anyway, I thought you went for some last night.’
‘Yes, but … I couldn’t get my favourite brand. I went from one pub to the next, but no luck. I told you.’
‘The Swan down the road usually stocks the lot. You must have been drunk …’
‘You know I wasn’t. I was sober when I came back, wasn’t I?’
‘After one and a half hours! All that time to look for cigarettes … Come off it! And that edgy, with it!’
‘I don’t know what you mean!’
‘Bad-tempered. On edge. You might have been apologetic about it …’
‘About what? The dent in the car? Well, I am sorry about it, but I couldn’t help myself. I just didn’t notice that gate post at the end of the lane …’
Sue for Mercy Page 14