by Lilian Peake
He was frowning into her eyes and seemed to be seeking for something which escaped him, the answer to a question he had not even asked.
‘Have you chosen a record?’ he said, at last, a little abruptly.
She held one out. ‘This. Beethoven. His fifth piano concerto.’
‘Better known as the “Emperor”.’ He slid the record gently from its cover and she watched as he put it on the turntable and switched on.
‘I’d better not ask the expert how I’m doing,’ he said, ‘I might get a rude answer.’
He sat on the couch and patted the cushion at his side. She sat next to him and gave all her attention to the music.
‘It’s good, isn’t it?’ he said, after a while.
‘Musically or mechanically?’ she asked, smiling impishly and deliberately misunderstanding him.
‘You know very well I meant mechanically. Musically its goodness goes without saying.’ He lifted his hand to ruffle her hair, but pulled it back when she shrank away from him.
They listened again, she with the same concentration, he a little more withdrawn than before.
At the end of the second movement Elise said, ‘I’m sure I could detect some distortion.’
‘M’m, I was wondering about that myself.’
‘I think I know the cure.’
‘You do?’ He waved his hand towards the record player. ‘Go ahead. It’s all yours.’
She turned the switch and stopped the turntable. He came to stand beside her, hands in pockets. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Adjust the playing weight of the pick-up arm.’ She looked up at him. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Not at all. I bow to a higher authority.’ His sarcasm passed over her as she carefully adjusted a small attachment at the side of the playing arm.
‘That should do it. I’ve increased the playing weight by about half a gram.’
‘Have you now?’ His eyes mocked her, but his smile was indulgent. ‘Let’s see if it’s made any difference.’
The heard the concerto through to the end. ‘Excellent,’ he commented. ‘Not a trace of distortion, was there? Now, how much do I owe the mechanic for her invaluable services?’
‘Er - let me see.’ She grinned at him. ‘My charges are higher outside working hours.’
‘Are they indeed? That’s a surprisingly provocative statement for such a timid little mouse.’ He moved towards her. ‘Shall we show her what that sort of provocation does to a man? In her innocence she could hardly know.’
He stood in front of her and began to slide his hands from his pockets. She backed away and jumped violently as someone hammered on the door.
‘It’s all right,’ he said, ‘it isn’t Fate demanding an entry. It’s Mrs. Carter with some refreshments which, judging by your nervous state, you appear to need.’
He opened the door for his landlady and she entered, a tray lifted triumphantly high before her, and lowered it carefully to the coffee table. It was laden with sandwiches and cakes, crockery and a large pot of coffee.
‘It’s very good of you,’ Elise said, overwhelmed by the quantity of food they were expected to eat.
‘Not at all, dear,’ Mrs. Carter said, her eyes skating round the room and sweeping up and down Elise with the efficiency of a large paintbrush. ‘I expect you’re hungry by now.’
She winked at Lester and withdrew with a calculating, anticipatory grin.
‘I did tell her not to bother,’ Lester said, ‘but she insisted. She really only did it to inspect the state of the battlefield. Hence her comments about “being hungry” after the strenuous activities she no doubt assumed we’ve been indulging in.’ He told her to sit down and help herself. ‘It’s the first time I’ve had a girl here, which accounts for her inspection of you, now and when you arrived. She was endeavouring to discover the state of your morals,’ he took a bite out of a sandwich, ‘the degree of permissiveness you would allow without first having a ring on your finger.’ He took another bite and finished the sandwich. ‘She obviously summed you up correctly.’ He held out the plate of cakes to Elise and she took one. ‘Which accounts for her knowing wink at me. She now regards me as a marked man. She’s married me off - to you.’
Elise spilt the coffee as she poured it out and had to search in her bag for a paper tissue to mop it up.
‘But there’s no need to worry,’ he went on. ‘I’ll disillusion her in the morning. I’ll simply tell her I’m not the marrying kind.’
I’ll simply tell her I’m not the marrying kind.’
‘That,’ she said, handing him his coffee and avoiding his eyes, ‘sounds even worse. A sort of “love ‘em and leave ‘em” attitude.’
‘And that,’ he answered, ‘is my maxim, my motto from now on.’
She said steadily, looking into his eyes now, ‘There’s no need to warn me off, Lester. I’d never dream of putting myself in the category of one of your girlfriends. And I assure you you’re the last man I’d ever think of in the role of my husband, IF I ever took one.’
He was silent, intent on drinking his coffee. After a while he said, I’m right, aren’t I, in thinking you can type? My grandfather’s clerical assistant is going away soon to look after her daughter who’s expecting a baby any day now. I was wondering if you would consider helping him out some afternoons, answering letters and so on.’ He looked at her, eyebrows raised.
‘I suppose I could,’ she answered, after thinking about it. ‘As long as I have enough time left to do the housework and so on.’
‘Good,’ he said, ‘and thanks. I’ll tell him.’ After a pause he said, ‘Did I tell you that the room my grandfather is having redecorated for me is ready and waiting? I’ll be moving in there soon.’
She looked round. ‘I suppose it will be more comfortable than this.’
He raised his arms and linked his hands behind his head. ‘It certainly will be, in more than one sense of the word. There’ll be less supervision.’ At her puzzled look he explained, ‘No prying eyes of a gossiping landlady to scrutinise my lady visitors. Or how long they stay.’
He saw her ill-concealed irritation and grinned provocatively. ‘After I’ve moved, I can entertain a different girlfriend every night, if I feel so inclined, can’t I?’
90
She frowned. ‘Your grandfather wouldn’t approve of that.’
‘Wouldn’t he? That’s where you’re wrong. He measures a man’s worth, his standing in life by the length of his list of women friends, by his “way with the ladies” as he would put it. He was no saint when he was young, so he would regard it as a case of “like grandfather, like grandson”!’
She could not hold back her anger. ‘I thought you said you’d finished with women?’
He smiled lazily. ‘I have - in the singular.’
He watched her jerk herself to her feet and walk across to the new turntable. ‘You look as though you covet my new toy.’
She touched it and sighed. ‘It’s just that I’ve been wanting something as good as this for a long time, but with Dad having to do so much college work at home and needing peace and quiet, it just isn’t possible.’
‘It would be odd,’ he said at her side, ‘if you were my girlfriend. I’d never know who you loved best - me or my record player.’
She did not look at him as he seemed to want her to. She held herself in until he moved away.
‘Did Nina like music?’
‘Couldn’t tell you. I never had a chance to find out.’
‘Too busy doing other things, I suppose?’ She forced her tone to be disinterested.
He grinned sardonically. ‘How did you guess?’
She told herself she had got the answer she deserved.
He searched in the record rack and pulled out a record. ‘This is the one I want.’ He put it on and poised the stylus over the record. ‘Sit down and listen to this.’
As the pure, liquid notes of the piano drifted into the room, her heart throbbed painfully, and she stared at h
im.
‘Recognise it?’ he asked softly. She nodded and listened until the music ended, dying away into silence, a questioning silence.
‘It was FUR ELISE.’
‘Yes. Written by Beethoven for a girl he loved.’ He got up. ‘His affair with her was sweet - but short.’ He replaced the record in its sleeve. ‘Like me, Beethoven was used to broken love affairs.’
‘How long have you had it?’
He shrugged, ‘Years.’
‘Why did you buy it, Lester?’ Her voice was a whisper.
‘Couldn’t tell you. Perhaps because it reminded me of a girl I used to know who bit me so badly I’ve still got the scar.’ He smiled and replaced it in the rack. ‘It’s getting worn out with being played so much.’
Hope lit in her eyes like a candle flame.
‘I’ll probably throw it out soon,’ he muttered. ‘It’s not worth replacing.’
The flame flickered and died away. ‘Thanks for playing it,’ she said, her voice toneless, her pleasure gone. ‘I’d better go, or you’ll be throwing me out.’
He looked at his watch. ‘So soon? You’ll be disappointing Mrs. Carter.’
‘She’s doomed to disappointment anyway, isn’t she?’
‘Don’t say it as though the idea upsets you.’
She forced a smile. ‘You’re not the only one who’s not the marrying kind, remember.’
‘I begin to think,’ he said, going into his bedroom to get her coat, ‘that the coffee you drank must have contained some vinegar.’
He helped her with her coat. She said, ‘Thank you for inviting me here. I’ve enjoyed it.’
‘Now tell me the truth.’
She faced him earnestly. ‘Oh, but I have, I really have.’
‘Thanks,’ he replied, without expression.
He took her home. On the way she offered, ‘If you want any help with moving, let me know, won’t you?’
He asked, concentrating on avoiding with his eyes the oncoming lights of other cars, ‘What sort of help?’
‘Well, packing up your things, books and so on.’
He said, without taking his eyes off the road, ‘Thanks, I may take you up on that.’
He drew up outside her house. ‘Will you come in?’ she asked, expecting him to refuse.
‘All right.’
‘I don’t suppose Roland’s back yet.’ He got out of the car. ‘And Dad’s probably up in his room.’ He followed her to the front door and into the hall. They stood looking at each other and she did not know how to deal with him.
‘Come into the sitting room,’ she invited at last, hoping he would say he had to go. But he accepted. She sat in an armchair, expecting him to do the same, but he stood in front of her, took her hand and hauled her up to face him.
There was an odd anticipation in his eyes that worried her.
‘Shall we initiate her into the mysteries of the goodnight kiss?’ She drew away as far as his hold would allow. ‘No, thank you.’
‘Bearing in mind the fact that she’s going to get a boyfriend any day now - ‘
‘No, I’m not.’
‘I think,’ he went on relentlessly, ‘it’s time she had a little instruction.’ He pulled her towards him and she began to resist. It did not deter him, he merely pulled harder. One arm went round her waist and the other to the back of her head, pressing against her hair and propelling her mouth towards his. His lips closed on hers in a cool, gentle kiss.
The kiss went on, still gentle, still tender, and she realised she had stopped resisting and was yielding more and more until almost imperceptibly the pressure of his mouth increased and his hold on her body moved and tightened.
It came to her through the mists of ecstasy that the nature of his kiss was changing and he was demanding from her a response which, if she gave it, would reveal her cherished secret, her love for him. And that was something she had to keep from him at all costs. He must never guess her secret as long as he lived.
She took her hands from his back and put them against his chest, pushing with all her strength, at the same time twisting and turning and prising her mouth from his.
‘What are you trying to do,’ she choked, backing away, ‘testing my morals, like Mrs. Carter, seeing how far I’ll let you go without a ring on my finger?’
He moved to stand in front of her, his face pale, his breathing deep but controlled. ‘I may be a man without a woman,’ he said, ‘but by heaven, even I would not waste my time trying to get a response from a piece of marble. And that, my FRIEND, is about as much effect as you have on me. Look at my hand,’ he held it out, ‘not a tremor. Feel my pulse - as steady and regular and unhurried as the tick of a clock.’
She put her hands to her ears. ‘You’re not only insulting,’ she cried, ‘you’re cruel. You’re telling me, TELLING me - to my face - just how ineffective I am in arousing a man’s feelings, what a dead loss I am as a woman.’ Her voice broke. ‘As if I didn’t know, AS IF I DIDN’T KNOW!’ She turned away, moved her hands to her face and started to cry.
He did not move. He said, at last, ‘Let’s face it, Elise, we just don’t get on, do we? We’re like chalk and cheese, water and oil. We just don’t mix. You dislike me so much you can’t see me as I really am, like seeing my image reflected all the time in a distorting mirror. And my feelings for you - -‘ he shrugged as if they were too trivial to put into words.
‘They’re non-existent,’ she mumbled, ‘go on, say it. I can take it.’
‘Thanks,’ he said crisply, ‘for supplying the word I was looking for.’ There was a moment’s silence then, ‘Goodnight, Elise.’ He let himself out of the house.
Some time later, Roland came in. He found her huddled in the armchair, her eyes heavy and staring, her hand to her head. But he didn’t even notice. She lifted her lids and looked at him.
He was euphoric. He flung himself on the couch. ‘Hallo,’ he said, ‘had a good evening?’
She nodded. ‘You?’
‘Marvellous.’ He stared into the distance and drifted back in time. ‘Wonderful girl. I want to marry her, Elise.’ His sister sat up. ‘You WHAT?’ ‘I’m going to marry her.’ ‘Does she - does she know?’ ‘Not yet. I’ll tell her soon.’
She put her hands to her cheeks. Events were moving so fast she could not keep up with them. ‘How do you know she’ll accept?’
‘She will.’
This was her brother talking, it was not a dream. He really was sitting there, his head resting on the back of the couch, a reminiscent smile on his face, his eyes bright with love for a girl he had only met the day before.
Envy turned her sour and she chided herself even as she spoke, knowing that although her words had not a grain of truth in them, they would dim his happiness and corrode it with anxiety.
‘Don’t leave it too long, will you? Your friend Lester’s on the prowl, looking for a girlfriend.’ She dragged herself out of the chair. ‘So be warned. You know what they say about love and war.’
She saw him frown, saw the light in his eyes go out. ‘Lester wouldn’t do a thing like that.’ He looked at her appealingly. ‘Would he?’
She went out of the room, saying, ‘I wouldn’t trust him an inch.’
She climbed the stairs, hating herself, wishing she could take back every word. She heard him mutter to himself, ‘Tomorrow. I’ll ask her tomorrow.’
‘I heard you had a date last night,’ Clare remarked as Elise arrived next morning. ‘With the great Lester Kings.’
‘It wasn’t really a date. I listened to his new stereo equipment.’
‘Oh.’ The silence that followed was like a question mark.
Elise hung her coat in the cupboard and asked, ‘Did you enjoy your outing with my brother?’
‘It was - very enjoyable, thanks. We talked a lot. It was fun.’
Elise glanced at her, wondering at her guarded reply. Then it occurred to her that they were both playing the same game - trying to hide the truth, but judging by Clare’s express
ion, her secret was obviously a much happier one than her own.
‘I’m seeing him again tonight,’ Clare said, and she sounded almost guilty.
Elise went up to her. ‘Clare,’ she said shyly, ‘I’m glad, really glad.’ And they hugged each other. ‘It’s wonderful for me as well as Roland.’
They laughed and chatted for a few minutes. ‘But I wish,’ said Clare, ‘you didn’t look so miserable. Are you well?’
‘Perfectly, thanks. Don’t worry about me. Just go on being happy, then perhaps some of it will rub off on me!’
Elise was on her way home at lunchtime when she decided to brave Lester’s anger and visit Dawes Hall woods - she corrected herself ruefully - it was Dawes Hall estate these days. Now that the felling contractors had done their worst and vanished from the site, why should she stay away? Lester could not keep her out.
After lunch, she dressed in slacks, sweater and jacket, pulled on her boots and set off on the familiar walk. She flinched a little from the thought of the changes that would greet her. She tried resolutely to banish from her mind the image of the woods as they used to be.
She crossed the railway bridge, pressed on up the hill, along the road that was once bordered by towering elms. Most of them had gone and so had the ruined house. Where the entrance to the woods used to be stood a white board. Painted on it in large black letters were the word ‘Kings, Builders’ and below it was the familiar slogan, ‘LIVE LIKE KINGS IN A MONARCH HOUSE.’ Above the word ‘Monarch’ were two small crowns, the Kings’ trade mark. Beside the board was a Kings’ van, empty.
Where the path through the trees used to be was a road. Where the trees used to stand were concrete foundations of houses to be built. Instead of the shrubs and blackberry bushes there were piles of earth and bricks, timber stacked high, discarded sections of drainpipes and bags of cement powder carefully covered with tarpaulins to keep them dry.
A dump truck came chugging along the road and Elise had to step aside to allow it to pass. The driver, wearing a yellow safety helmet with two ‘Monarch’ crowns on the front, grinned at her and wolf-whistled. A giant-sized excavator threw aside the earth it had shoveled into its scoop. A cement-mixer tossed its contents about with noisy abandon.