by Anne Hampson
She hung the dresses in the wardrobe and put the underwear in the drawers. Then she saw, close to the bottom of the case, and wrapped carefully in a brand new evening shawl, a gilt-framed double photo frame. . . . It was closed but Clare knew what she would find on opening it. Yes, Frank’s photograph and one of his father. Clare bit her lip, tears filling her eyes. To lose both husband and son. . . . Pity welled up as she reflected on what Mrs Weedall had said a short while ago. She, Clare was the only person in the world who thought anything about her. It was true, since her son scarcely ever went to see her, and in fact it had surprised Clare to learn that he had agreed to tend Frank’s grave while his mother was away. ‘I shall make this visit a happy and memorable time for her to remember,’ was Clare’s fervent vow as, reverently, she placed the frame on the bedside table and continued unpacking. Mrs Weedall reappeared from the bathroom and stood for a moment, looking at the empty suitcase which Clare was about to take from the bed.
‘Ah . . . you’ve put darling Frank’s photo there, by the bed. What do you think of that one, Clare? It was taken just before he knew you so I guess you haven’t seen it before?’
‘No . . . I haven’t seen that one before.’
‘It’s a good one of him don’t you think?’
Clare nodded and said yes, it was a very good one. She felt strangely numbed, as if part of her brain were paralysed and unable to function. She had several photographs of Frank, but at her mother’s request had left them at home. And now she felt she should have experienced some emotional reaction in finding the photograph and handling it, but there was none.
‘Is anything the matter, dear?’ inquired Mrs Weedall anxiously. ‘You seem troubled. Is it because of Frank’s photograph? But you must have some of your own, and I’m sure you have one by your bed, so that you can look at it every night before you go to sleep?’
Clare’s throat went dry. She looked at Frank’s mother through a mist of tears, wanting to tell her the truth, and yet not for anything in the world would she upset her. And so she lied, deciding that a lie was permissible under the present circumstances. ‘Yes,’ she answered, avoiding her eyes, ‘I do have Frank’s photograph by my bed.’
‘I knew it. And I’m so glad, Clare, that you’re remembering. As I’ve always said, if it had been you who had died then Frank would have cherished your dear memory for ever.’
Clare turned away. She had gone pale and the palms of her hands were damp. She saw herself as a traitor, a girl who even now was deceiving a woman who trusted her implicitly.
‘Shall we go for that tea, Clare?’ Mrs Weedall’s quiet voice cut her thoughts and she turned, nodding her head absently.
‘Yes—yes, of course. You must be more than ready for it.’
‘It’ll be nice to see Phil again. I expect he’s bronzed and healthy—just as Frank was after that holiday you both took in Spain, remember?’
‘Yes—of course.’ Clare led the way to the lift and pressed the bell. ‘It was six years ago.’
‘That other couple went with you—some friends of yours—didn’t they?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I expect they’re married now.’
‘Yes, they are.’ The light above her head flickered and then came on. ‘The lift’ll be here directly.’
‘Have they any children?’
‘Two.’
‘One of each?’
‘No, two boys.’
‘Like I did. If you and Frank had married I feel you’d have had at least four. I’d have liked that. I don’t think Simon and Sue are intending to have any at all. It’s a selfish attitude if you ask me.’
‘Some people aren’t cut out to be parents.’
‘But you and Frank were. I’ll never forget you with that little girl who came to visit me one time—’
‘The lift’s here,’ interrupted Clare, her nerve-ends ragged. They stepped into it and a few minutes later they were on the terrace, where a wrought-iron table and chairs were always reserved at this time for Phil and Clare.
‘Sit down,’ invited Clare, bringing out a chair. ‘I’ll go and see where Phil is.’
‘What a charming setting this hotel has! Don’t rush, Clare, dear, I’m very happy just to sit here for a few minutes and watch what’s going on. Just look at all those young people down there on the beach. How dear Frank would have loved to have a holiday in a place like this!’
Clare moved away, her face still white, and much to her dismay she ran into Luke the moment she was out of Mrs Weedall’s sight. ‘What are you doing here at this time?’ she wanted to know, so taken aback that she did not realise how abrupt her words would sound.
He looked down at her, his face suddenly taut. ‘Your visitor has arrived,’ he stated, ignoring her question. ‘And you’re not very happy about it. Why?’
She blinked, fluttering a trembling hand through her hair to take it from her eyes. ‘What do you mean—why?’
‘Exactly what I say. Why aren’t you happy?’
‘You reach the oddest conclusions,’ she retorted pettishly.
‘Correct all the same. Where is she?’
‘On the terrace. I’m looking for Phil. We’re going to have tea.’
‘Mind if I join you?’
She shook her head in a sort of urgent gesture. ‘Not today, Luke—er—she wouldn’t want a stranger just now. She’s tired and—well—’ She broke off, floundering because of the way he was looking at her and because she had no real excuse to offer for not wanting him to take tea with them.
His mouth was tight, his eyes glinting with anger. ‘If she’s got you like this already,’ he rasped, ‘then what are you going to be like by the end of her stay—?’ He broke off then asked, ‘How long will she be here?’
‘I don’t know,’ Clare answered, dismayed by the knowledge that she was very close to tears. ‘She’s brought a lot of clothes.’
‘She has? And what about this grave she attends every week? She’ll not want to leave that for very long.’
‘Her other son’s looking after it. I didn’t tell you about Simon, did I?’ She scarcely knew what she was saying; she did know that all she wanted was to get away before she burst into tears.
‘No, you didn’t tell me about Simon and as I’m not in the least interested you needen’t feel guilty about the omission.’
‘There’s no need for sarcasm!’ she flashed. ‘Simon’s her other son. He’s married and either he or his wife will look after the grave.’
‘Most interesting. And why, might I ask, are you telling me all this?’ He towered over her, forbidding and imperious.
‘You asked me who was looking after the grave.’ She twisted her head, to see if they were attracting any attention. But what few guests were in the hotel were either taking tea or on the beach. ‘I’ll have to go,’ she pleaded urgently. ‘Will you find Phil for me and tell him where we are?’
For answer he took her arm and led her gently into the lounge. She went meekly, unable to fight him—unable, in fact, to explain what was wrong with her.
‘Sit down,’ he ordered, ‘and I’ll get you a drink.’
She obeyed, leaning back to find a resting place for her head. ‘Mrs Weedall will wonder where I am,’ she began when Luke, not bothering to call a waiter, brought her a drink from the bar.
‘She’ll not run away,’ he assured her, and she was certain he added under his breath, ‘More’s the pity.’
‘I can’t leave her many minutes, Luke,’ she began. ‘If Phil were with her it would be all right.’
‘What’s she been saying to you?’ he demanded, bypassing her words. ‘You looked shattered just now.’
‘It was nothing,’ quivered Clare, lifting her glass in obedience to a gesture he made. ‘She—she naturally wanted to talk about Frank and it—it upset me.’
‘You’re almost in tears,’ he observed wrathfully.
‘It’s just reaction.’
‘To what?’
‘Oh, pl
ease—don’t keep on questioning me!’ she cried. ‘I want to go back to her.’
‘When you’ve had your drink and you’re more settled.’ He paused, then said decisively, ‘I’m having a word with Phil.’
‘Oh, no, please don’t interfere, Luke! Promise!’
‘I’m promising nothing—except,’ he added, ‘that I shall join you for tea. I want to take a look at this visitor of yours.’
Chapter Eight
Clare was both troubled and angry as she made her way back to where she had left her visitor on the terrace. Luke’s attitude, imperious and determined, had created a resentment within her that almost matched that which she had harboured against him right at the beginning when, probably unknown to himself, his personality had affected her so strongly that it was often his image that intruded when all she desired was to see that of her dead fiancé. Luke had decided he had the right to interfere if he thought that she was being upset by Mrs Weedall. Clare knew very well on what basis he claimed this right: it was his feelings for her. But as he had not declared openly that he loved her—and would never do so until she gave him some concrete evidence of her own love—he had no command over her at all. It was understandable that he should be angry on seeing her upset, but to put it bluntly he ought to mind his own business; her welfare was not in any way his concern at the present time. It was all very illogical, Clare admitted, because one part of her mind wanted it to be his concern, wishing he did have the right to interfere.
But for the present her own sentiments were unimportant. What was important was that Mrs Weedall should not be hurt by anything Luke or anyone else should say. She had come here in all good faith, expecting to be treated as an invited guest should be treated, and Clare was determined to do all in her power to ensure that she enjoyed every minute of her stay.
‘Phil will be here in a few minutes’, she smiled as she sat down, hesitating a moment before adding, ‘Another man’s joining us for tea. I hope you don’t mind?’
‘No. . . . Well, I’m a shy sort of person, as you know, Clare, and I suppose it’s from being alone so much. However, I must get used to people if I’m to be staying here, mustn’t I?’
‘It’ll be good for you to mix, Mrs Weedall. We all need company at times.’
‘Yes—I’m sure you’re right, dear. Er—who is this man? Is he one of the hotel guests?’
‘No, he’s a friend of Phil’s and he lives here, on Flamingo Cay, in a beautiful house called Silver Springs. His name’s Luke Mortimer.’
‘He must be rich.’
‘He is. He’s just bought an island.’ The information escaped mechanically and Clare regretted having offered it the moment it was voiced.
‘An island?’ The older woman’s pale eyes widened to their fullest extent. ‘One like this?’
‘Not as large as this.’
‘Is he going to live there?’
‘No, he intends developing it—partly. He’s building three hotels on it. There’s nothing much on it at all at present.’
‘Won’t the building spoil it?’
‘No, Mrs Weedall, it will not be spoiled.’ She glanced around, looking for Phil and Luke but there was no sign of them. ‘Are you very thirsty, Mrs Weedall? Shall I have a pot of tea brought to us now and we can have it while we’re waiting?’
‘No, thank you, Clare. I must admit I’m thirsty but if you say Phil will be here soon then I can wait. You were talking about this gentleman who’s joining us,’ she went on, her pale eyes curious. ‘Is he a young man?’
‘About thirty-five, I think.’
‘Young to be so wealthy,’ mused Mrs Weedall. ‘Is he married?’
Clare shook her head, and for a fleeting moment there flashed before her eyes the beautiful face of Stella Wesley. Luke would have been married if she had not jilted him. . . . ‘No, he’s not married.’
‘It sounds as if he devotes himself entirely to business?’
‘Yes, mainly he does. He buys land and develops it. He’s bought several large plots of land here on Flamingo Cay.’
‘For building on?’
Clare nodded. ‘Yes, of course.’
Mrs Weedall fell silent for a moment, her attention having been arrested by a graceful white-sailed yacht that was coming into the marina. ‘If Frank could only have seen all this. . . .’ She spoke to herself, her voice a dull monotone. She appeared to have forgotten Clare’s presence altogether as she went on, ‘And if he could ever have afforded to buy an island he’d have kept it exactly as it was.’ She looked up, into Clare’s face. ‘He loved nature and natural things—but why am I telling you this when you already know? Do you remember the rambles you used to take on Sundays—across the moors—and come back exhausted, and I’d have a lovely meal ready and we’d all sit over it and you’d both tell us what you’d seen and done? Those were the happiest days of my life, Clare, when we were all together—Frank and his father and you and me. And I know I’m right when I say they were the happiest days of your life.’ She lapsed into silence, inviting a response but Clare said nothing. She was feeling stifled, and a nerve-twisting tension was building up inside her. ‘You have memories, though, dear Clare,’ continued Mrs Weedall in her thin, expressionless voice. ‘Have you ever stopped to think what your life would be if you didn’t have such beautiful memories?’
Clare looked at her, wondering what she would say if she were to tell her that the memories had been fading until she came, bringing them all back with poignant intensity. ‘They certainly are beautiful memories,’ she forced herself to say.
‘And they’ll last forever,’ she heard Mrs Weedall assert triumphantly. ‘You’re the loyal and faithful kind, Clare, and I know just what I missed when I didn’t get you for a daughter. My darling Frank would have been so blessed and so would I.’ Tears filled the pale colourless eyes and as Clare watched, fascinated without knowing why, two big tears rolled unchecked down her face. Pity welled up, flooding Clare’s whole being and on impulse she reached across the table to cover Mrs Weedall’s hand with her own. And it was at that moment that the two men appeared, to stand in silence for a space, staring down at the two hands touching.
Clare glanced up, withdrawing her hand swiftly. Luke’s face was marble hard, set and stern but otherwise unreadable, while Phil, after greeting Mrs Weedall with his customary politeness, introduced Luke to her and then, offering her a charming smile, asked her about the flight, and about her health. But beneath the gracious exterior Clare sensed anger and resentment. Luke had done his work well, obviously having convinced Phil that, even at this early stage, Mrs Weedall had succeeded in making Clare unhappy.
The two men sat down; the waiter appeared with the sandwiches and cakes, and while Clare poured the tea Luke spoke to Mrs Weedall, his manner aloof but polite, and Clare was thankful for small mercies. Her glance during the meal spoke volumes as she silently begged Luke not to say anything to hurt her guest. Mrs Weedall seemed shy and diffident with him, answering his questions in monosyllables and invariably avoiding the direct glances he often sent in her direction.
‘I can’t say I care very much for Phil’s friend,’ she was confiding to Clare an hour later when they were walking slowly along the beach, the breeze from the sea delightfully cool on their faces. ‘He’s rather frightening, isn’t he?’
‘Frightening, Mrs Weedall?’ Even as she spoke Clare was recalling with a wry grimace her own experiences of just how frightening he could be when angered.
‘He’s stern and—formidable, and a snob, I think.’
‘He’s often rather arrogant,’ Clare agreed. ‘He’s that kind of man. But he has other traits that are very attractive.’
‘He has?’ Mrs Weedall almost stopped to look searchingly into her companion’s face. ‘Do you know him well?’ she asked.
‘Er—quite well, yes. He comes to the Rusty Pelican often for dinner or for a drink in the evening. Most of the residents do; they use the hotel as a sort of club. In England it would be their local
.’
‘I see. And so of course you’re very friendly with him?’
Clare’s nerves tingled, on the alert. Diplomacy was required, and would be required throughout Mrs Weedall’s stay on the island. And if diplomacy meant a white lie now and then, so be it. ‘Not very friendly, Mrs Weedall. He’s Phil’s friend; they’ve known one another for over a year, while I’ve known Luke for just over two months.’
‘It’s a wonder he doesn’t have a girl-friend. Handsome men like him usually do have one—even if they’ve no intention of marrying them.’
‘He’s had girl-friends I believe.’
‘But he doesn’t have one now?’
‘No,’ she answered, feeling that this was fairly close to the truth because she and Luke were not actually keeping company.
They walked on in silence for a time, and as Clare cast her companion a sideways glance she noticed with satisfaction that her face had taken on a complacent expression as if she were thoroughly enjoying the stroll along a beach of powder-soft sand. ‘Do you know, Clare,’ she began as they turned eventually to retrace their steps, ‘this is the first time I’ve ever seen coconut palms growing.’
‘I hadn’t seen them until I came here.’
‘There’s something fascinating about it, isn’t there?’
‘Yes—and about all the other exotic plants and trees you see here. The lovely vine that you saw on the terrace is bougainvillaea, and the bushes close by are hibiscus.’
‘I must take some snapshots to show Simon and Sue.’ A small pause and then, ‘If only Frank were here. Wouldn’t he just love all this? And he was such an excellent swimmer as you know. He’d have enjoyed the diving. . . . Those men over there are diving down into the coral gardens, aren’t they?’
‘Yes—well, they’ve just come up. We can take a trip on a glass-bottomed boat if you like, and see the coral gardens from a comfortable seat on board.’
‘That would be nice.’ Her smile was a weak attempt. ‘My Frank could swim from the age of three. His dad took him to the baths every weekend, and everyone became interested in Frank because he was so young to be swimming.’ She continued to reminisce, her voice quiet, monotonous, but her tone at times took on a whining quality which set Clare’s teeth on edge. ‘Are you going to your room to rest?’ she asked as soon as they arrived back at the hotel.