‘No, I’m afraid not. Though I often wish I had. Rowan plays, though—’ he grinned as he gestured towards the piano, ‘—a little.’
She gave a solemn little nod. ‘Ah, yes. That’s—interesting.’ Her tone changed then, becoming a little brisker. ‘Would you like me to make you some tea? You generally have some about this time—and as Mrs Graham is out—’
‘No, I don’t think so, thank you.’ He felt awkward in her presence. He always did. And now, after what she had told him about her past musical career he felt even more at a disadvantage. ‘I think I’ll just get myself a glass of water—and take an aspirin,’ he said. ‘Then maybe take a bath.’
‘Have you got a headache?’
‘Yes. I’ve been feeling a bit sick too.’ He smiled. The awkwardness was still there. ‘Not to worry. It’ll pass.’
The water was soft and soothing and he lay back, trying to relax in the comfort. It wasn’t easy, though. His head was pounding and his brain besieged. His visit to the chalkpit had brought back so vividly his memories of Miss Larkin. He kept seeing her running down the slope to the brink of the pit; leaping up and out . . . the sight of her again as he had found her at the bottom. He pictured again the line of silver birches nearby—and the painting of them in the shop window. His view of the secluded house off Rookery Road . . . Primrose House . . . that came into his mind too.
And then Mrs Palfrey . . . He saw her sitting at the piano, her stiff fingers refusing to do as they were bidden. That picture was disturbing as well. Had she been a concert pianist? How, then, could she have come to this?—In her later years to be cooking and cleaning in the house of strangers . . . ?
He was suddenly aware of the ringing of the extension telephone in the bedroom next door. Mrs Palfrey would answer it downstairs. No matter, anyway; he wasn’t moving.
The ringing stopped and the house was silent again. Only for a minute, though. The next thing he heard was a sharp tap on the bathroom door and then Mrs Palfrey’s rather agitated voice.
‘—Mr Graham—?’
‘Yes, what is it?’ he called. He was aware of the irritableness in his tone.
Her answer came hurriedly, breathlessly:
‘Someone’s just phoned to say that—that Mrs Graham’s had a terrible accident!’
Water streaming from him, Hal was out of the bath and getting into his bathrobe. Heart thudding he opened the door and looked into Mrs Palfrey’s pale face. ‘For God’s sake, what’s happened?’ he cried out. ‘Is she all right?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know. It was some woman from the village. It happened in the High Street, she said. They’ve taken Mrs Graham to Mr Lockyer’s house.’
‘Oh, dear God.’ Hal shook his head distractedly, blind panic mounting with every passing moment. ‘All right,’ he said at last, ‘you go on downstairs and wait by the phone. I’ll be there in a second.’
Barely two minutes later he had dressed and, still damp under his clothes, was hurrying into the sitting room where Mrs Palfrey was pacing the carpet. Even as he moved towards the telephone it rang. He picked it up. ‘Yes?’
‘Mr Graham?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hello, my name is Lockyer. I don’t want to—’
‘—My wife,’ Hal interrupted, ‘—is she all right?’
‘Yes—that’s what I’m calling to tell you.’
‘You’re sure she’s all right.’
‘Yes, really. Don’t worry about her . . .’
‘Thank God . . .’ Hal breathed a deep sigh of relief. In his palm the receiver was damp with sweat. ‘Someone phoned just now and said enough to—well, to scare the life out of me . . .’ Then he said again, ‘You’re quite sure she’s okay.’
‘Yes, really. She came off her bicycle and had a nasty fall—so of course she’s very shaken. She’s hurt her wrist, too, I’m afraid. But apart from that she’s all right.’
‘What has she done to her wrist?’
‘I don’t know. She might have broken it—or it might just be a bad sprain. Anyway, I’ve phoned Dr Cassen and he said to bring her round to see him at once.’
‘Is she still with you now?’
‘Yes. She asked me to call you.’
Quickly, Hal took down Lockyer’s address. ‘I’ll be there right away,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave at once.’
As he put down the phone he turned and saw Mrs Palfrey. He’d forgotten she was there. Her still pale face was sharply etched with lines of distress. ‘It’s all right,’ he said to her. ‘She’s okay.’
‘I heard you say something about her wrist . . . She’s hurt her wrist, you said . . .’
‘Yes, but we don’t know how badly. We’ll soon find out.’
He left her standing there, got the keys to the car and hurried outside.
12
The accident had been caused by two young boys whose ball had rolled into the roadway, right beneath the wheels of Rowan’s bicycle. Violently she had swerved to avoid it—at the same time too swiftly applying the brakes. The next moment she had lain sprawled on the tarmac.
Apart from the two boys—who stood staring and open-mouthed—David Lockyer had been the first on the scene and after establishing that Rowan didn’t seem to be seriously hurt had taken her into his house opposite The Swan. There she had sat in an armchair, shaking and pale-faced, her right wrist painfully swelling.
In her trembling left hand she had held the glass of brandy that Lockyer had poured, taken a sip and then burst into tears. He had taken the glass away from her then, handed her a Kleenex and stood quietly by while she’d dabbed at her eyes.
‘I’m okay,’ she’d murmured after a while. ‘It’s just the shock, mostly, that’s all. I’ll be fine in a minute.’
Her swollen wrist, though, was not fine, and after looking at it Lockyer had said they’d better get it examined. Shortly after that he had phoned Paul Cassen.
As he’d dialled Cassen’s number and spoken into the receiver Rowan had become aware that at no time had he asked her who she was. He hadn’t needed to; there he was on the phone speaking her name. He had known her identity just as she had known his. Part of the business of living in Moorstone. . . .
He’d gone out to the kitchen then, and she’d sat in silence in the quiet room and looked around her. The furniture was old and from different periods. The colours were softly muted. A few books lay on the sofa, more on the cluttered coffee table. On the lid of the grand piano sheets of music manuscript paper lay scattered or in untidy piles, whilst in the midst stood a bust of Beethoven, a violin case and a vase of wilting roses. The whole room had that slight look of carelessness that she associated with the idea of preoccupied, once married men now living alone.
As she turned her attention to the pictures on the walls—watercolour landscapes along with a few photographs of musicians—she realized that there was nothing at all in the room to remind anyone of the man’s past career—a career that, through numerous successful stage, television and film appearances, had made his face known throughout the country.
When he came back into the room he was carrying a tray. He set it down and began to pour tea. As he handed her a cup he said, ‘When you’re feeling a bit better we’ll get you over to see Paul Cassen; let him take a look at that wrist.’
She regarded him as he spoke. She was beginning to feel a little calmer. Watching him, remembering his face from the television screen it was as if, now, she were seeing him with new eyes. Although he had the same blunt features and slightly rusty-brown hair, the look of him was somehow different. Now he was real. He seemed taller, too, in the flesh, and better looking. Younger, as well; he couldn’t be much more than thirty. There was something else, too, she realized—and it had to do with the reality of the moment. This was not the famous David Lockyer playing a role; this was he; the concern in his face and voice were not assumed.
‘. . . something else we should do,’ he said as she sipped her tea. ‘We’d better phone your husband and let him know that you’r
e all right. Word travels fast in this place and you wouldn’t want him to get some garbled, inaccurate account from someone who doesn’t know the facts.’ He paused. ‘Shall I give him a call?’
‘Please . . .’ She gave him the number.
He moved to the phone. ‘Would you like to talk to him . . . ?’
‘No . . .’ She knew that if she spoke to Hal she’d start to cry. ‘Just tell him I’m all right. Ask him to come and get me.’
She listened then to his side of the conversation with Hal. When it was over Lockyer said: ‘Well, I was right; and I was too late. Some busybody had got to him first. He was obviously fearing the worst. Still, it’ll be all right now.’ He smiled at her. ‘He’ll be round soon.’
They talked as they waited for Hal, and Rowan asked Lockyer whether he ever missed his acting career.
‘Never,’ he told her. ‘I never even think about it now. It’s all part of the past. I’m much happier now, writing my music.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t make as much money, of course, but that’s not always the important thing. I’m doing now what I really want to do.’
‘I thought you were doing that before—going by what I read at different times . . .’
He smiled. ‘You mustn’t always believe what you read.’
‘No, I suppose not. How did you come to settle here in Moorstone?’
In answer he told her that after learning about the village from one of its inhabitants he had come to see it for himself—with the idea of staying for a few weeks while he studied the script of a new play in which he planned to appear. He was looking for peace and quiet, he said—which were not always available in his often too-hectic London life.
‘I found both here,’ he said with a smile, ‘and some real friends into the bargain. Not like in the theatre world. There—well, one’s so-called friends are all so—here today and gone tomorrow. There’s no stability at all. Not as there is in a place like this. Anyway, among the friends I made here were an old fellow and his sister. Leclerc, their name was. They’re both dead now. But they were marvellous to me. When I got ill they looked after me. The sister had been a nurse. They even took me into their house so that they could care for me properly. And—’ he spread his hands, ‘—that’s how it happened. When I recovered I decided to stay. I never did do that play. When eventually I went back to London it was just for the briefest of visits—just to settle up my affairs there.’
‘The same kind of thing happened to Paul Cassen,’ Rowan said. ‘Coming here, liking it and deciding to stay. And finding a new career—’
As she finished speaking there came a ring at the doorbell.
‘That must be Hal,’ she said.
With the effects of the shock still lurking just beneath the surface she had burst into tears when Hal had wrapped his arms around her in Lockyer’s untidy sitting room. Now, though, she was calm again and while she got into the car Hal took her bicycle from where it had been left in Lockyer’s small, neat garden and loaded it into the back. Then, after thanking Lockyer for all his help he got in beside her and they set off for the doctor’s house. It was Sandra who let them in. After directing Hal to a comfortable sofa she showed Rowan into Cassen’s consulting room. There, Rowan sat before the young doctor and told him what had happened. He examined her wrist and after a little painful probing and manipulating told her that she had sprained it. He bound it with a crepe bandage. ‘I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘you’re not going to be able to use this for a while.’
After he had dealt with the minor cuts and grazes on her legs and elbow he asked, ‘How are you feeling apart from all this?—generally, I mean . . . ?’
‘Oh, okay, I suppose . . .’
‘You just suppose?’ He laid the back of his hand to her forehead, frowned slightly then put a thermometer into her mouth. Sitting facing her he then took her left hand in his and felt for her pulse. He took the thermometer from her mouth, looked at it and said, ‘You have a temperature, you know. Have you been feeling all right?’
She told him then of her lassitude over the past few days, the nauseated feelings that sometimes affected her. ‘Though it’s not just me,’ she added, ‘—it’s Hal as well.’
‘You’ve both been feeling ill, yet neither one of you has done anything about it? Have you taken anything for it?’
‘We got some pills from the chemist—not that they did any good.’
He shook his head, ‘—patent medicines,’ then went to the door and called out to Hal who came in and sat next to Rowan. After questioning them both at length about their symptoms Cassen wrote out a prescription. ‘It sounds as though you’ve picked up some virus,’ he said. ‘Here—’ he handed the slip of paper to Hal, ‘—this is for both of you. For some medicine. Take it as prescribed. We’ll see if that does the trick.’
Hal thanked him and started to get up from the chair. Cassen motioned to him to sit down again. ‘When did you last have any kind of physical checkup?’ he asked him.
‘Oh . . .’ Hal shrugged and shook his head. ‘God knows. Years ago . . .’
‘And you?’ Cassen turned to Rowan.
‘—Not for a good while . . .’
‘Then I think it would be a good idea if you both had one.’ He turned back to his desk and opened his diary. ‘Let’s see now. How about next Monday? Could you both come along then?’
Rowan nodded but Hal said: ‘I’m going up to London on Monday.’
‘At what time?’
‘Oh—late morning, I would think . . .’
‘Okay, well come along before you leave. How about nine-thirty? Would that give you enough time?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘Fine. Then I’ll see you both on Monday morning at nine-thirty.’ Cassen stood up. ‘And now, Hal, you take Rowan home and see that she gets some rest. That’s very important. And both of you take that medicine I’ve prescribed. Do that and the pair of you will soon be all right again.’
Rowan was lying in bed when the door opened. She saw Hal’s head appear and then heard him call her name in a whisper.
‘It’s okay,’ she said, ‘I’m awake.’ Reaching out with her good hand she switched on the bedside lamp. He came towards her and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘You should be asleep,’ he said.
‘I know. I couldn’t, though.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Oh, yes. Just a little—melancholy, that’s all. But that’s only the reaction, I’m sure . . .’
‘Poor baby.’ He reached out to where her bound wrist lay on the covers. Softly he touched her arm above the bandage. ‘How is it?’
‘It’s a little painful—but okay.’
‘And how do you feel generally?’
‘About the same.’
‘Did you take any of Cassen’s medicine?’ He indicated the bottle that stood on the bedside table.
‘Yes. Did you?’
‘Yes. It’s foul stuff.’
‘It must be good, then.’ She paused. ‘You said you’re going up to London on Monday. When did you arrange that?’
‘This afternoon, just after you left. Tim Farson called. We’re going to have lunch on Tuesday. But I want to do a few things in the way of research while I’m there. I thought I’d come back on Wednesday. I’ll stay at the club.’
‘Is that your real reason for going—to see your agent and do research?’
‘Yes—why?’
She hesitated before answering. ‘You’re not really happy here, are you, Hal?’
‘Well—yes. What makes you say that?’
She shrugged. ‘I’ve watched you sometimes—over the past few days. Sometimes you look like a fish out of water.’
He smiled, rather tentatively. ‘Oh, well, I’m just—finding my feet still, that’s all. It takes longer for some people to settle, I suppose.’
In the soft glow of the lamp she studied the lines of his face, searching for something that was not in his words. This place was so good for her; she knew it. She’d felt so muc
h better since they’d got here. She desperately wanted Hal to feel equally happy. . . .
‘Why don’t you come with me to London,’ he said. ‘We could go to the theatre or the opera or something. It would make a break for you.’
She smiled. ‘I don’t need a break. No, you go. Do what you have to do.’
‘You won’t mind being here on your own?’
‘Not in the least.’ She turned and glanced briefly at the clock. Just after ten-thirty. ‘Are you coming to bed soon?’ she asked.
‘In a while. There’s a programme on television I want to watch first.’ He got off the bed and stood looking down at her. ‘Oh, boy,’ he said with a little shake of his head, ‘I got a hell of a shock this afternoon . . .’ He spoke again of the telephone call that had come while he was in the bath. Rowan gave a wry nod. ‘That’s what David Lockyer was afraid might happen,’ she said. Then she added, ‘He was so kind to me.’
‘Yes—and I’m very grateful.’ Hal smiled. ‘It was so interesting for me to meet him, too—after having seen him on the box . . .’ He paused. ‘How on earth did he come to give it all up and come to live here?’
‘I asked him that.’ She related Lockyer’s story. Afterwards Hal said:
‘Well, if music’s his thing now he should have a lot in common with Mrs Palfrey.’
‘What do you mean?’
He told her of how he had returned to the house to find Mrs Palfrey playing the piano. ‘Apparently,’ he said, ‘she was once a concert pianist.’ As Rowan shook her head in wonderment he added, ‘Yes, the people here are full of surprises, aren’t they? Not least Mrs Palfrey.’
‘And she certainly surprised me today,’ Rowan said, ‘waiting here, long after she should have gone home—just to see how I was. My God, she seemed so upset. You’d have thought I’d been crippled for life or something. And all the questions—how exactly had I hurt myself?—was I in pain?—what did the doctor say? She was like some little old mother hen.’ She smiled. ‘It was so sweet of her to be so concerned. It was really quite touching.’
‘Yes.’
Hal left then to go back downstairs, returning some time later and climbing into bed beside her. In the comfort of his nearness and his warmth she slept.
The Moorstone Sickness Page 10