by A. B. King
“You truly think so?”
“I’m certain of it.”
“Then I’m glad I told you.”
“And I’m glad too.” He paused, and then added; “Will you allow me to help you in your search?”
She held his gaze for a few moments, the old wary expression returning once more to her features, “Martin,” she said, watching his eyes closely, “if you don’t mind me asking; why would you want to do that?”
“I’d just like to help, that’s all. Two heads are better than one, and after all, I have the resources that you don’t. I’ve money, transport, and contacts; I would be pleased to do it.”
He smiled at her, but there was no sign that he had allayed her latent suspicions.
“You must forgive me for being blunt,” she said quietly, yet with an air of deliberation. “I don’t think that that really answers my question. Why would you, a busy, successful man who has only been aware of my existence for a day or so, wish to get so heavily involved in something of this nature? Personally, I can only think of one answer to that; in my experience men only do things for women because they want something in return; usually sex.”
Her words were so unexpected that they pierced him in a way he wouldn’t have believed possible. He had been so wrapped up in concerns for her vulnerability, and the suffering she had endured, and the naturally desire to help that the whole story and the emotions they engendered had caused him to temporarily forget his own painful loss. It was as if she had suddenly slapped him in the face, and flung his words back at him with incredible venom. Even worse, as she had framed what was tantamount to an accusation, he suddenly realised that there was an element of truth in it! Like a second blow in the face he realised that he was attracted to her, yet up to that point he had been convinced that the interest he felt was purely a manifestation of sympathy for someone who had suffered, just as he had suffered. Would he have felt the same way about a man, or even a physically unattractive woman? He felt almost sick when he realised that the hitherto unrecognised physical attraction was undoubtedly part of the reason why he had made the offer. In a way, she must have sensed this underlying, and up to that point quite unrecognised, truth implicit in his words and actions.
“I think,” he said slowly, keeping his voice under control, with an effort, and refusing to allow his true feelings to show on his face, “that I should be getting back to the house. I don’t like to leave the girls alone too long. I’m sorry that I have inadvertently caused you offence; it was not my intention. Thank you for showing me the picture.”
He turned to leave, a feeling of intense depression building up as he realised that he had so easily deluded himself. She wasn’t Alicia; never could be Alicia. He loved his wife to distraction; but his wife was dead, and he was alone. He had wanted a distraction, and worrying about June had provided it, but how had he allowed himself to drift unknowingly in the direction she so obviously recognised was latent within him? Suddenly, he thoroughly despised himself. He had been using her, perhaps unconsciously, but using her all the same as a means of assuaging his own pain. He felt disgusted, gutted, depressed, even angry, but beyond all that there was a feeling of black despair.
“I’m sorry!” she exclaimed as he turned to go. “I’m so very sorry. I really am; I should not have said that. Please don’t go?”
He turned and looked at her again, and he could see the tears starting at the corner of her eyes. It would have been so easy to reach out to her, to have taken her in his arms and comforted her. But the thought was still there at the back of his mind; the possibility, the very real possibility, that he only wanted her to satisfy his own longings. The simple truth was that at that moment he thought so little of his confused motivation that he couldn’t trust himself at all.
“I think I should,” he said softly, “for both our sakes. Truthfully, there is nothing for you to be sorry about. I meant what I said; I really do want to help. I hope you will accept that the offer is genuinely made with no strings attached to it. Maybe you can tell me in the morning if you would like that help; I will not hold it against you if you should decline. Good night June.”
He didn’t wait for her to respond as he turned and left the room, crossed the small hallway and let himself out of the front door. She didn’t try to follow him, and for that he was glad.
Letting himself back into the house, he crossed the hallway and ascended the stairs. Moving very quietly, he opened the door of the girls’ bedroom and was relieved to see that both of them were soundly asleep. Satisfied, he returned downstairs. He was much too unsettled to think of retiring, and he went into the study, where he poured himself a large whiskey. He moved across the room and sat at the desk, with the glass placed in front of him as he thought matters through again and again.
He realised that the nub of the situation was her usage of the word ‘sex’. Up until that point he had not consciously thought about it, but once June had raised the issue it had rocked him back on his heels because he suddenly realised that the thought of going to bed with her was not in the least repugnant in the physical sense, yet in the moral sense it was paradoxically totally abhorrent. It was a contradiction he was at loss to understand. He had never thought of himself as a man with any particular hang-ups in that direction. As a young man at university he had sewn his share of wild oats, yet once he had met Alicia he had experienced true love, and the thought of ever betraying her had never once crossed his mind.
He loved Alicia in every sense of the word, including the physical. They had had a very healthy sexual relationship, yet much more than that she was a companion, a confidant, an advisor, a guide, even a surrogate mother at times. He missed all of it; he missed her so much it was an agony he felt he would never get over. Ever since she had died he had shied away from even thinking about sex, and the proximity of attractive women had until this time repelled him; they were an unconscious symbol of insult to his dearly loved wife.
Why was June any different from the many attractive women he openly disliked and shunned? Why did she seem to be no sort of threat to the way he felt about Alicia? She wasn’t old, ugly, or coarse, nor did she exhibit any of the other attributes of women he was comfortable with. No, in contrast she had a nice figure, with a really attractive face when she allowed herself to smile, she moved in an intensely feminine way, and did it naturally. In other words, she was an attractive and desirable woman, so in theory he should have resented her as much as he resented every other attractive woman that had come into his life, just as much as she had appeared to resent him when he had first met her. There was no answer that he could find; he simply didn’t understand his own feelings at all, and the more he tried, the more thoroughly depressed he became. He had been blinding himself with the thought he was helping someone who had endured such suffering, yet deep down he now knew that he had merely wanted to use her. Never had he despised himself so much in all his life.
He looked at the whiskey; picking the glass up and swirling the contents round in an absent-minded fashion. Whiskey had been the only way he had managed to cope when Alicia had died. He hadn’t needed it as he had become more interested in the enigma posed by June Brent. Maybe he had been unconsciously building up some sort of dream castle about her? Perhaps he had; but it had come crashing down with a vengeance now that she had seen in him what he had failed to see in himself. When Alicia had died, he couldn’t face it, but the whiskey had helped. Was it a path he wished to travel again? He suddenly slammed the glass down on the desk in disgust. Drink wasn’t going to solve anything. June wasn’t interested in him as a man, just naturally wary of what she had read in his eyes. Maybe he wasn’t interested in her as a person, but just as an outlet for his sexual needs? But was that really true? In all honesty he hadn’t consciously thought of her in the sexual sense once. Yes, he had noted in a detached manner that she was physically attractive, but never once had he thought of ways and means of bedding her. He had been totally devoid of sexual feelings from the t
ime Alicia had died, and he had shied away from any attractive woman because subconsciously they were a threat. What the hell was happening to him?
Pushing the glass away in disgust, he left the study, went up to the bathroom, and eventually took a couple of the pills and turned in. Sleep was a long time in coming, and when it did, it was full of distressing dreams of Alicia.
Chapter Twelve. Wednesday Morning and Afternoon.
The day broke pleasant and sunny, and following a quick shower Martin felt more in command of himself. Following what little sleep he had finally managed, he belatedly accepted that he had emotionally over-reacted to June’s words. Given her background it was only natural that she would be highly suspicious of his motives. It was also equally obvious that she did not look upon him in the same light that he had obviously been seeing her, and the whole episode was best thrust firmly out of his mind and life. It had been a salutary lesson in his own emotional weakness, a lesson he needed to learn well and incorporate in his life. In view of this, he was determined to carry on as if nothing had transpired; with luck the whole episode would be quickly glossed over and swiftly forgotten. With his toilette finally complete, he descended the stairs and moved off towards the kitchen. He breezed in through the door, and saw at once that June was busy with something on the cooker.
“Good morning June,” he said in what he hoped as a convincingly cheerful voice. “Girls not up yet?”
He was half expecting a return to her old frosty ways. It was little more than he deserved, and he was aware of a feeling of tension in his voice even as he spoke.
“Good morning Martin,” she responded, glancing over her shoulder as if appraising his mood. “Not only are they up; they have breakfasted and already down at their tree-house project.”
Feeling vastly relieved that there were no uneasy or stilted overtones resulting from the unpleasantness that had appeared between them the previous evening, he sat at the table, picking up the paper to glance at the headlines. Moments later she moved away from where she had been working, and placed a cooked breakfast in front of him. He thanked her politely as he dropped the paper to one side. He still felt embarrassed about what had happened, and in a sense he had been hiding behind first the paper, and then the meal she had placed before him. He picked up his knife and fork, and was mildly surprised as she sat down in the chair opposite.
“I need to apologise for last night,” she said quietly, looking down at the table as she spoke. “I was unforgivably rude; I could have bitten my tongue off the moment I spoke. Even now I can scarcely believe what I said to you; it was most unforgivable. I honestly didn’t want to cause offence, it just came out, and I’m truly sorry.”
He placed his knife and fork down and looked across at her; it wasn’t at all what he had expected.
“June,” he said quietly, “there is absolutely nothing to apologise for. After what you have told me, I more than understand how you must feel about any man. If there is any fault, it is mine; given the circumstances I should not have invaded your privacy, nor should I have spoken to you without thought of how my words might seem to you.”
“But you didn’t ‘invade my privacy’; I invited you, remember?”
“That is beside the point; I put you in a very awkward position with my ill-timed words, so it is me that should be apologising to you!”
She suddenly flashed him a small, grateful smile, and it lit her face up like the sun emerging from behind a dark cloud.
“We are not going to get anywhere like this, are we?” she remarked contritely. “If it is acceptable to you I propose we stop all this constant suspicion of each other's motives and subsequent apologising to each other; what do you say?”
“I’m completely with you on that,” he agreed heartily. “I guess we both have things in our lives that affect the way we react to others. From now on, I counter-propose that we must both be completely open with each other, we will agree to call a spade a spade without fear of consequence.”
“Agreed,” she said at once.
He picked up his knife and fork again and attacked his breakfast. “And this,” he said as he swallowed a mouthful, “is excellent; couldn’t have cooked it better myself!”
“I’m pleased you like it,” she replied. She looked as if she was about to say something further, and he waited expectantly.
“There’s something else, isn’t there?” he asked after a few moments, pausing in his eating to look at her.
“You’re right,” she sighed. “Only, after last night, well, I’m not sure how to put it?”
He looked at her reflectively, seeing the doubt on her features. “It is spelt s.p.a.d.e.,” he said at last.
“Oh,” she said as she instantly understood what he meant, and the worried look faded. “You are right. It’s about your offer of help; I’ve thought about it a lot. There is a great deal of truth in what you said; I realise now that I can never do this on my own. I’ve tried, and I really haven’t got very far at all so I was wondering if maybe we can talk more about it later?”
“Certainly,” he agreed, vastly relieved that it wasn’t yet another problem that could come between them. “Whenever you feel ready we will talk about it as much as you feel you want to.” He paused, and then added; “I’m really glad you accepted.”
She smiled again, and he winked at her broadly in response. “Any chance of more coffee?” he asked.
With breakfast complete, Martin went into the study feeling very much easier in his mind now that the air had been cleared between himself and the housekeeper. Maybe there was no future in the feelings he had for her that he now recognised existed solely within himself, and somehow that didn’t matter; just knowing that he was on friendly terms again filled him with considerable relief. He would certainly do whatever he could to help her locate her missing father, and whatever the outcome he knew that he would draw a sense of personal satisfaction if it provided her with some sort of closure. Closing the study door behind him, he crossed over to the desk where he spent some time in making phone calls. These were all connected with his business and from his point of view simply routine. He had an excellent team at the works, and having spoken with two of his fellow directors and with his works manager to clarify a few points he felt quite happy that everything was ticking over nicely in his absence. It was coming up for ten o’clock when he emerged, realising that he had said that he would take the girls into Wellworthy to obtain some bikes for them. June met him as he emerged into the hallway.
“I thought you might care to know that Mr Edwards has arrived,” she said. “He is coming up the driveway now.”
“Oh, yes; I’d forgotten about him,” Martin admitted. “I’d better go out and see the fellow I suppose. Is George Dawkins in yet?”
“Yes, he comes in early; I think you will find him working on the east shrubbery bed this morning if you want him?”
“Good, I’ll take this fellow Edwards over and leave him in his care.”
He walked out of the front door in time to see a seedy looking estate car pulling up, and presently a rather round little man climbed out and came hurrying towards him, his chubby hand extended. Martin recognised him as the man he had observed by the roadside chasing butterflies when he had driven by the previous day.
Seen close up, Hugh Edwards was almost a comical individual. Not much more than five foot four or five inches tall, partially bald, and with a round cherubic face that looked more like a naughty schoolboy’s than that of a man of science. He was dressed in baggy tweeds, along with a sports jacket that judging purely from appearances must have been in his family’s possession for generations. He looked altogether so incongruous that one could have been forgiven for dismissing him as a person of absolutely no consequence.
“Mr Isherwood?” he exclaimed as he almost ran up to greet him, “Hugh Edwards. It really is most kind of you to allow me to conduct this research in the grounds of your wonderful home. I assure you that I will not damage anything, and if you
desire that the location of Macroglossum Stellatarum should remain secret, I shall most certainly accord with your wishes. Indeed, it will be better from every point of view if it were to remain so until the truth of matters may be scientifically established and independently verified; we wouldn’t want other specialists or, much worse, amateur bunglers invading the site, would we? You have no idea how some of these people go on; I could tell you some stories you would find absolutely unbelievable, but I’m sure you are a busy man, and I mustn’t detain you with such things. I have all my equipment in the car, I will be completely discrete in my operations, and-”
“I’m pleased to meet you,” Martin said, stemming the seemingly non-stop verbal outpourings of his visitor. “I’m going to take you over and introduce you to my gardener, Mr Dawkins. You must arrange with him everything that you need in order to preserve the habitat you suspect is somewhere here.”
“That’s extremely good of you; I don’t want to put anyone to any trouble, I-”
“No trouble at all, Mr Edwards,” Martin cut in quickly. “If you would like to step this way?”
He walked purposefully towards one of the long shrubbery beds on the far side of the garden where he knew Dawkins the gardener would be working, and his visitor fell in beside him, still keeping up a continuous verbal discourse that seemed to wander swiftly from one aspect of the man’s work to another. Half the explanations were in entomological jargon that had no meaning for a layman, and the ceaseless discourse on the strange world of moths and butterflies came close to making Martin feel breathless. He greeted the gardener as he came up to him, made the necessary introductions, explaining the purpose of the verbose naturalist’s visit, and then deftly excused himself.