Second Tomorrow

by Anne Hampson

  She managed the ghost of a smile then looked away, the image of Frank’s mother superimposing itself invidiously upon every other picture in her mind, ruthlessly dragging her back to reality, to the promise she had made . . . and broken.

  Luke, perceptively aware of what was happening to her, took hold of her shoulders, his fingers iron-hard probes which, she knew, would leave ghastly bruises. She flinched and steeled herself for what was to come, but to her surprise and relief he changed his mind about the shaking he had intended giving her and instead he released her and said in a voice that was briskly devoid of all emotion, ‘Come along—we were intending to devote this evening to business!’ And with that he swung around on his heels and strode away, uncaring that Clare had to trot to match his pace.

  Chapter Seven

  It was at breakfast the following morning that Clare broke the news to her brother that Mrs Weedall was coming over to Flamingo Cay and would be arriving in two days’ time. ‘Can I have an hour or so off to meet her and see her settled in?’ she added swiftly on seeing Phil’s mouth compress. ‘And can I have the car, please?’

  They were on the sun-terrace and the miracle of dawn had only just unfolded, its golden lustre showering the sea and highlighting the sparkling crystal waters cascading over the reef into the lagoon. Already a couple of pleasure boats were out and as she watched, shading her eyes from the sun’s bright glare, Clare saw a man in mask and flippers dive into the water, and in imagination she was down in a spectacular marine wonderland, gliding languidly through a constantly-changing maze of incredibly beautiful coral formations where—among the waving gorgonians and sea-fans—thousands of multicoloured tropical fish moved about, often so used to the divers that they would swim right up to their masks.

  ‘She’s coming here?’ For once Phil’s customary calm deserted him and Clare saw to her dismay that he was angry. She had half-expected him to be, though, and there was nothing she could do about it. Even had there been time to ask Mrs Weedall to cancel the trip, Clare could never have done so. She had extended the invitation and it would have been cruel to have disappointed her. ‘In two days time! I invited her, when I first wrote after I arrived here,’ explained Clare. ‘I don’t remember mentioning it to you—’

  ‘You certainly did not mention it,’ he broke in, frowning darkly at her. ‘If you had, I’d have refused to have her.’

  Clare bit her lip, and toyed with a morsel of food on her plate. ‘I’m sorry, Phil, for not asking you first. It was impulsive of me, I suppose, but Mrs Weedall had been so tragically hurt by my coming here—leaving her to look after Frank’s grave all on her own—that I was filled with pity and asked her over for a visit. I’ve not heard from her until yesterday when I received the letter telling me she was coming on the tenth of this month.’ Her voice had a melancholy sound and her eyes were apologetic as they looked into his. ‘We must make her welcome, Phil,’ she went on perseveringly. ‘She’s lonely and sad and needs this break. Have pity on her,’ she begged finally, a plea that melted her brother on the instant, a smile restoring the familiar softness to his face.

  ‘There isn’t anything we could do at this late stage, anyway,’ he said, ‘and so we must, as you say, welcome her.’

  ‘Can she have one of the deluxe rooms facing the sea? We have several vacant,’ she added persuasively.

  ‘All right,’ he agreed. ‘As you say there are several vacant.’

  ‘And I can have time off to bring her?’

  ‘Of course.’ He fell silent, considering. ‘I think we can manage to let you have a week at least of the holidays that will be due to you later.’ Another pause before he said, looking up from the toast he was buttering, ‘Does Luke know of her visit?’

  Clare nodded her head, colouring at the memory of Luke’s reaction. ‘Yes; he wasn’t pleased.’

  ‘It’s understandable. He’s been working hard to help you forget the past and now Frank’s mother’s coming over to open up the wound again.’ Clare had nothing to say to that and after a space Phil asked how long Mrs Weedall would be staying.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she answered. ‘She hasn’t said.’

  ‘Let’s hope it isn’t too long.’

  ‘We can’t push her off until she’s ready to go,’ protested Clare with a pained expression.

  ‘No, I agree.’ Phil smiled suddenly and said, ‘Don’t look so anxious, Clare. You know me well enough to be sure I shan’t do or say anything to upset her.’

  She nodded, responding to his smile, and nothing more was said on the matter until that evening when Luke came into the hotel after dinner and found both Clare and Phil drinking coffee on the patio.

  ‘Ah, Luke,’ smiled Phil, indicating a chair. ‘How are things? We half expected you for dinner.’

  ‘I was busy perusing estimates for the building project, so I just took a snack in my study.’ He sat down, stretching his legs out in front of him. Dressed in a light grey linen suit with a soft, draped line to the jacket, he lent a certain elegance to what was designated as casual informality by the tailors. His burnt-sienna skin seemed even darker than usual against the gleaming whiteness of his shirt, his hair shone, immaculately clean and healthy. The narrowed smile hovering on his lips revealed equally healthy teeth, pearl-white and even. Clare’s senses stirred as usual and she frowned inwardly and wished it were possible to secure complete control over one’s emotions. But owing to some unfathomable caprice of nature emotions danced to their own particular tune and there was no rein by which they could be held in check. She felt his eyes upon her and glanced up, but before either of them had time to speak Phil was asking Luke what he was having to drink.

  ‘I’ll have a brandy,’ he said, falling silent until Phil got up and went inside to find a waiter. ‘How long is this woman staying?’ he inquired, a strange impenetrable air about him that both puzzled and disturbed her. She recalled fleetingly the events of last night, the atmosphere of camaraderie that had come to them after they had entered his home. He had shown her the plans, appearing to have forgotten all that had gone before, especially his anger at her change of mood. He had slipped an arm about her waist as they stood examining the large drawing on the wall; he had discussed with her at some length what he required, had warned her of likely pitfalls and finally told her not to become disheartened when snags occurred. They were bound to, he warned her, and she herself would make mistakes, but she was not to worry because mistakes, tackled properly, could almost always be put right. Yes, it had been a pleasant and friendly interlude and when eventually Luke had walked her back to the Rusty Pelican, she was. feeling far happier than she would have believed possible a couple of hours earlier. Luke broke into her train of thought, inquiring again how long Mrs Weedall was staying on the island.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘Phil asked me the same thing this morning when I told him of Mrs Weedall’s visit.’

  ‘How did he take it?’ asked Luke interestedly.

  ‘He accepted it.’ She broke off as his eyebrows lifted, reminding her she was evading a direct answer. ‘He didn’t like the idea any more than you do,’ she admitted with a sigh, ‘but he did at least promise not to do or say anything that would upset her.’ She looked at him levelly, a challenge in her eyes.

  ‘You’re afraid that I might do or say something to upset her?’

  ‘I don’t know. . . . I’m not sure, Luke, because you’re so unpredictable.’

  ‘Unpredictable!’ he echoed. ‘I like that—coming from you!’

  She had the grace to blush, a circumstance which afforded him immense satisfaction.

  ‘I’ve a good reason for changing my mind from time to time,’ she just had to point out, but before she could expand on that he was interrupting her.

  ‘There’s no tenable explanation for your attitude, Clare, so don’t try to make excuses for yourself.’

  ‘You’ve no patience,’ she complained. ‘But let’s get back to Mrs Weedall. You did say that there was nothing yo
u could tell her about us, and in my opinion that’s tantamount to a promise not to upset her in any way at all.’

  ‘It might be a promise in your opinion, but it isn’t in mine, and if you suppose I’m intending to go out of my way to be pleasant to this woman then you’re mistaken. I detest her even before I’ve met her!’

  ‘You won’t when you do meet her,’ she assured him. ‘You’ll pity her, in fact.’

  ‘That,’ he said shortly, ‘is a matter of extreme doubt!’

  ‘It’s a beautiful evening,’ she said, deliberately changing the subject. The majestic moon was rising over the water, and a cool sundown breeze wafted across the garden to fan her cheeks. ‘I do love it here.’

  ‘Well, that’s something. There was a time when I felt you would decide to leave.’ His smile taunted as he added, just as if he had to, ‘It soon became obvious, though, that you couldn’t bear the “sweet sorrow” of parting from me.’

  She gasped, and it was several seconds before she could articulate words. ‘What an inflated opinion you have of yourself!’ she exclaimed, sending him a scathing glance. ‘That wasn’t the reason at all!’

  ‘Liar,’ he accused, and suddenly his voice was soft. ‘You can neither fool yourself nor me, Clare, and you know it.’

  She coloured faintly and looked away, her eyes wandering in the direction of the Clipper Inn as the sound of calypso music drifted out over the sweetly perfumed air. His meaning could not possibly elude her and there was no doubt in her mind that if she were to steer the conversation in the right direction the finale would be a declaration of love on Luke’s part followed by a proposal of marriage.

  But what of Mrs Weedall? Clare could think of nothing more devastating than for her to come here believing Clare to be cherishing the memory of her son only to learn that she had pledged herself to someone else. There was, of course, the possibility of keeping her in blissful ignorance, but as Clare was totally inexperienced in the art of subterfuge she dismissed the idea immediately.

  Luke was regarding her intently, waiting for her comment, but a suitable one evaded her and it was with a deep inward sigh of relief that she saw her brother come back and sit down at the table.

  ‘Your drink’s on its way,’ he told Luke, who thanked him and leant back in his chair, and from then on they all chatted together, mainly about Luke’s new project until, at half-past ten, he rose and left them.

  Clare stood at the barrier, her feelings mixed as she waited for the arrival through Customs of Mrs Weedall, for although it was less than three months since she had seen her, it seemed more like three years. So much had happened; she had not only adapted to a totally new environment, but had almost thrown off her unhappiness . . . had come near to the threshold of a new and exciting life.

  ‘Clare!’ The exclamation brought her mind back to the present and she forced a smile to her lips as she held out her hands to the woman who seemed, on looking back now, to have dominated her life from the moment Clare had met her son. ‘Oh, but it’s good to see you, child! I’ve been so impatient to get here! What a long, boring flight it is from London to Miami!’

  ‘It does take a long time,’ agreed Clare, taking Mrs Weedall’s thin cold hands in hers and leaning forward to kiss her cheek. ‘But you’re here now, and it’s nice to see you.’ Stooping, she picked up the two suitcases from the trolley, surprised that they were far larger and heavier than she would have expected. How long, she wondered, was Mrs Weedall intending to stay? ‘I have Phil’s car just outside,’ she said smiling, and glanced round to find a porter.

  ‘Isn’t it beautiful here?’ commented Mrs Weedall as the porter dealt with her luggage. ‘I believe I’m going to like it very much. We’ve had such dreadful weather at home, and it’s been so cold that I’ve had an enormous expense with the heating. And Simon’s never been round to see to the jobs that want doing. I was glad when the idea came to me to pay you a visit, Clare, dear—and thank you, child, for wanting me. You’re the only person in the world who thinks anything about me, for I’m sure neither Simon nor his flighty young wife care whether I’m dead or alive.’ The last word ended on a small sob and her footsteps flagged, making it necessary for Clare to slow down. But the porter went on ahead.

  ‘This car?’ he thumbed towards it and Clare nodded. He put the cases on the back seat and after handing him his tip Clare saw her visitor into the car and, going round to the other side, slipped into the driver’s seat.

  ‘It isn’t far,’ she said soothingly as Mrs Weedall leant back against the upholstery as if she were exhausted. ‘I expect you’re wanting a nice cool drink and a freshen up?’

  ‘I am, dear. Phil didn’t mind providing me with a room?’

  ‘Of course not. You’re going to have one of the very best in the hotel, one facing the sea with a balcony where you can sit out and relax. You can even have your meals sent up there if you like,’ she added, but was instantly told that Mrs. Weedall had no wish to be alone except at night.

  ‘I’ve been going out of my mind,’ she confessed, a great sigh that was almost a sob coming from deep in her throat. ‘The weeks going by and me never speaking to a soul, and my only diversion the weekly visit to my darling Frank’s grave. Can you imagine, Clare, just how empty my life has been?’

  ‘Yes, indeed I can.’ Clare swallowed the hard little lump in her throat and fell silent, concentrating on her driving. Not that driving in Flamingo Cay was in any way difficult; on the contrary, since what little traffic there was moved at a slow leisurely pace with everyone practising patience and, more important, courtesy. No one could remember when the last road accident had occurred on the island.

  ‘The scenery’s beautiful.’ Mrs Weedall was looking out all the time, absorbing everything as they rolled along the narrow, tree-shaded road. ‘Is this the town you spoke of in your letters, dear?’ she asked as they passed through the one main street of Cottonstown. ‘It’s very small to be the capital.’

  ‘Yes,’ laughed Clare, ‘it is. You see, the island’s small, as I told you in my letter. But it’s so attractive, and as for the towrn—well, it grows on you very quickly.’

  ‘You can’t get all you want here, surely?’

  Clare shook her head. ‘No. We get important commodities from Miami. It’s quite a simple matter to go over there—twenty minutes by air—and order what you want. It then comes over within a couple of weeks or so.’ She was thinking of the tremendous amount of supplies which she would be requiring in the near future when her work for Luke began.

  ‘Is someone looking after Frank’s grave while you’re away?’ asked Clare after a while. She felt sure that some provision would have been made for the grave to be attended to.

  ‘Yes, Simon did agree to do that. He or Susan will go every Saturday and change the flowers. I’ve left the money so they’ve no excuse for not carrying out my wishes.’

  Every Saturday. . . . Clare’s nerves tingled. She would have liked to ask how long her guest was staying but refrained, deciding it was not the thing to do.

  On arrival at the Rusty Pelican Clare had one of the porters take Mrs Weedall’s luggage up to her room on the first floor. Like the one occupied by Stella Wesley, it had recently been newly decorated and furnished, and Mrs Weedall was suitably impressed with it.

  ‘It’s a lovely bed-sitter,’ she said looking all around. ‘I haven’t stayed in an hotel for over twenty-five years. Do they always have couches and desks and nice easy chairs nowadays?’

  ‘Not always, but very often they do.’ Clare walked over to a door and opened it, bringing an exclamation to Mrs Weedall’s pale lips as she showed her the bathroom.

  ‘I like it all very much. It’s most comfortable.’

  She stood for a moment, as if wanting to take it all in; Clare watched her, noticing the thinness of the features, the sagging jaw, the hollows beneath the cheekbones, the drooping mouth, pale and parched at the sides. Her hair was almost white and so sparse that the scalp showed pinkly through it.
She had no need to look so much older than her age, decided Clare, wishing that Susan, her daughter-in-law, would take some interest in her, encouraging her to make herself more attractive.

  ‘Do you want to come down and have afternoon tea with Phil and me?’ she inquired at last. ‘You’ll want to freshen up first, though?’

  ‘Yes, dear, I do feel like having a wash and combing my hair. And I would certainly be happy to have tea with you and Phil. Perhaps you’ll wait for me?’ she added uncertainly. ‘I wouldn’t know where to go otherwise.’

  ‘Of course I’ll wait,’ replied Clare reassuringly. ‘Shall I begin your unpacking while you’re in the bathroom?’

  ‘That’s kind, dear. Yes, I’d like you to unpack my cases.’

  Clare began with the smaller of the two, heaving it onto the bed and opening it up, thinking what a lot of clothes Mrs Weedall had brought and hoping that she had heeded her advice about bringing only summer clothes and, perhaps a cardigan and an evening wrap.