Green Lightning

by Anne Mather

'Not much.'

  'I'll bet!'

  Heath was sceptical and Helen felt frustration rising inside her. 'You seem to think all I have to do is think about Angela Patterson,' she burst out angrily. 'Well, you're wrong. Just because you fawn on her every word, it doesn't mean I have to do the same. And while we're on the subject, you might as well know, she likes me just as much as I like her!'

  'Helen!' Heath spoke ominously, but she ignored the warning.

  'It's true,' she declared scornfully. 'And if you're planning on making her mistress of Matlock Edge, you're going to have to get rid of me first!'

  'That might not be a bad idea,' he snarled, glaring at her furiously. 'You've been nothing but trouble since you came here!'

  'Oh!' Helen caught her breath, the air expelled from her lungs in a painful gasp at his deliberate cruelty. 'How can you say that?'

  'It's true!' he retorted, anger overriding all other emotions. 'You're a spoilt brat, and it's time you grew up.'

  'Oh, is it?' Stung as she was, Helen could not allow him to get away with that. He had hurt her. He had hurt her badly, but she refused to go down without a fight. Maybe afterwards she would regret it, maybe afterwards she would despise herself for what she planned to do. But right now it was important to win the battle, if not the war, and casting all her inhibitions aside, she reached up and grasped his face between her two hands.

  She caught him unawares, else otherwise she doubted she would have succeeded so far. His face was still contorted with fury after the harsh words they had exchanged, but his anger turned swiftly to disbelief when her soft lips touched his. With her mouth exploring the startled contours of his lips, he was too shocked to do anything but stand there, and Helen's fingers curled into the hair at the nape of his neck as she pressed herself close to his taut body.

  'Helen,' he choked, his breath filling her mouth, but she would not let him go, and it was his hands that eventually forced her away from him, imprisoning her painfully at arm's length.

  'You little bitch!' he swore unsteadily. 'You selfish little bitch!' and before she could prevent it, he sank down on to the bed behind him and jerked her on to his knee.

  'You wouldn't, you wouldn't dare!' she gasped, as he groped for the hairbrush, but looking into his incensed dark face she knew he would. 'Heath, don't! Please!' she pleaded desperately, but she doubted he was even listening to her. His eyes had a curiously glazed appearance, as if his emotions were controlling his actions, and her heart palpitated wildly as he tore the cord of her pants loose and turned her on to her stomach.

  Vital and youthful as she was, she was no match for his strength, and the hairbrush came down half a dozen times on her bare buttocks. It stung like mad, and it was all she could do to keep from crying out. It was only the fear that Angela might hear her that kept her quiet.

  When he eventually let her go she was crying, silently, the tears running unheeded down her cheeks, dribbling into her mouth with salty persistence. She felt sick and more humiliated than she had ever felt before, and she stumbled to her feet clumsily, dragging the hated pants around her waist.

  With her back to Heath, she didn't know what he was doing, but she prayed he would go. He had done everything he could to degrade her, she thought bitterly. Surely he would have the decency not to stay and take pleasure in his victory.

  There were several minutes of complete silence, broken only by the uneven sound of Helen's breathing, and then Heath muttered: 'Oh, God!' and got abruptly to his feet. Helen froze, convinced he was going to continue his denigration of her character, but he didn't say another word. Instead, she heard him stride heavily across the floor, and seconds later her door slammed as he took his departure.

  Only then did she realise how tight a hold she had kept on her emotions, and nausea flooded into her throat. She only reached the bathroom in time to empty her stomach into her basin, and tears mingled with the perspiration that dampened her quivering skin.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Mrs Gittens came into Helen's bedroom at eleven o'clock on Sunday morning to find the girl still slumped beneath the sprigged poplin sheet. She clicked her tongue reprovingly when her sharp eyes observed that Helen was not wearing a nightgown, and she gave an exclamation when she saw the clothes the girl had worn the night before strewn carelessly across the floor.

  Ts this any way to treat a pretty outfit like this?' she demanded, catching sight of the covert glance Helen cast in her direction. 'I know you're not asleep, so you might as well answer me.'

  Helen sniffed. 'You can take it away, Mrs Gittens. I never want to see it again.'

  'What?' The housekeeper straightened. 'But it's a new suit, isn't it? Don't be silly, Helen. And why aren't you up? It's not like you to lie in bed till midday.'

  'I'm not getting up.' Helen shrugged. 'And I mean it about the suit. Give it to your granddaughter, if you want to. I don't like it.'

  Mrs Gittens ignored that. 'Come along,' she said briskly. 'You can't lie in bed all day.'

  'Why not?' Helen avoided her eyes. 'Perhaps I'm not feeling well.'

  'Aren't you? Do you want me to ask Mr Heathcliffe to call the doctor?'

  'No.' Helen spoke hastily. 'I don't need a doctor. I just don't feel like getting up, that's all. Tell them I've got a cold.'

  Mrs Gittens looked suspicious. 'And have you? Got a cold?'

  'Not exactly.' Helen turned her head away.

  'Then why are your eyes all puffy? Have you been crying?'

  'Oh, for heaven's sake, must I suffer the third degree just because I don't feel like getting up?' exclaimed Helen unsteadily. 'I'm all right, honestly. Just leave me alone. I—I'll probably come down later. Maybe this afternoon—'

  'Hmm.'

  Mrs Gittens went away unwillingly, leaving the pants suit draped neatly over the basket chair by the window. Unable to lie there and look at it without thinking of what had happened, Helen slid out of bed, and bundled it into the bottom of her wardrobe, climbing back into bed again just as there was another knock at the door.

  'Who is it?' she asked, muffling her voice under the sheet, and heard Marion's cheerful: 'Only me.' With an inward groan, she bade the other woman come in, and steeled her features carefully to meet another cross-examination.

  'So there you are!' Marion looked bright and breezy as ever in a pair of green cotton slacks and a green and white spotted blouse. 'I was beginning to think you must have a hangover. I must say you do look a bit peaky this morning.'

  Helen forced a smile. 'Just tired, that's all. I'm sorry if you think I'm being rude. Perhaps I've got a cold coming on.'

  'Well, you do look a bit blotchy around the eyes,' agreed Marion, with her usual candour. 'I wondered whether you and Heath had had a row, actually. He's been like a bear with a sore head since you went to bed last night.'

  Helen managed a shrug. 'Wh—where is he this morning?'

  'He and Greg have gone to play golf. They left about fifteen minutes ago. I don't really think Heath was in the mood for it, but you know what Greg's like. He can't wait to get out on the course.'

  'Oh, I see.' Helen swallowed convulsively. 'Did—did they say when they'd be back?'

  'I suppose around two-thirty,' remarked Marion carelessly. 'They're bound to finish at the nineteenth hole, and that's the time they close, isn't it?'

  She nodded. 'Yes.'

  Marion hesitated. 'You and Heath didn't have a row, did you? I mean—well, I feel responsible.'

  'Responsible?' Helen was confused.

  'Yes.' Marion sighed. 'Well, I persuaded you to buy all those clothes, didn't I? I should have kept my mouth shut and let Angela do her worst.'

  'No, you shouldn't.' Helen couldn't let Marion think that. 'And Heath—Heath said nothing about the clothes we bought, honestly.' That at least was true.

  'He didn't?' Marion looked suspicious.

  'No.' Helen spoke firmly. 'As a matter of fact, I haven't even told him.'

  'Oh, dear!' Marion looked dismayed. 'Then I've gone and put my
foot in it again!'

  Helen was tense. 'What do you mean?'

  'Well—' Marion mused, 'when you didn't ap­pear this morning, and Heath looked so bloody moody, I told him not to blame you for having spent all that money.'

  'Oh, Marion!' Helen was appalled.

  'I know—it was stupid.' Marion shook her head. 'But I thought you and he must have had words about it, and I wanted to explain why I'd done it. I told him what I thought of those dresses Angela Patterson had bought, and I explained that I didn't blame her exactly. That what she'd bought would probably suit her very well. But I tried to make him understand that what was suitable for a woman of Angela's age was not necessarily suitable for a teenager, and that Angela, not having had any children of her own, might not appreciate this.'

  Helen closed her eyes briefly, and then opened them again. 'What did—Heath say?'

  Marion lifted her shoulders. 'Not much. Oh, he was very polite, actually. He said he thought Angela had good dress sense, and that he would have expected her to make those kind of allowances. If she hadn't, then he would have a word with her, but for the present, he was prepared to reserve judgement.'

  'Oh, Marion!' Helen felt miserable. 'He'll probably blame me for asking you to speak to him.'

  'But you didn't.'

  'Heath won't believe that.'

  'Hey—' Marion looked at her closely, 'you and Heath have had a row, haven't you? Have you told me the truth?'

  'Oh, yes. Yes.' Helen pressed her head back into the soft pillows. 'It was nothing to do with you. It was nothing to do with anyone. I'd really rather not talk about it, if you don't mind.'

  'Of course.' Marion took her dismissal philoso­phically. 'Okay, love, I'll go. I've got to pack anyway. Greg and I are leaving about four. Will I see you before then?'

  'Of course.' Helen endeavoured to pull herself together. 'If—if Heath and Greg have gone out, I'll get up now. I just didn't feel like meeting Heath this morning.'

  'I understand.' Marion moved towards the door. 'But if I dare to offer a bit of advice, I'd say you shouldn't take what Heath says too seriously. He cares about you—he cares about you a lot. That's why he sometimes says the wrong thing. Because he's trying so damn hard to do his best for you.'

  Helen made a harsh disbelievingly sound. 'Are you sure?' she demanded bitterly. 'I increasingly get the feeling that I'm not wanted around here.'

  'Oh, don't be silly!' Marion was impatient. 'Why, Heath's been like a father to you, you know he has.'

  Helen bent her head. 'I don't need a father,' she muttered, and Marion's brows descended.

  'What's that supposed to mean?'

  'Oh—nothing.' Helen pushed her legs out of bed. 'I'll see you later.'

  'Yes.' Marion surveyed her thoughtfully for a moment, then nodded her head. 'Yes, see you later,' she added briefly, and closed the door behind her.

  A cool shower helped to bring Helen's sluggish limbs back to life, and by the time she had dried herself and cleaned her teeth, she was beginning to feel half decent. She refused to think about Heath, and what he might say when he got back. She refused even to contemplate the possible consequences of that scene in her bedroom. But she couldn't ignore the effects of the beating when she glimpsed the purplish bruising in the mirror, and felt the tenderness of her skin when she pulled on a pair of jeans.

  It was a humid day, the hangover of the previous day's rain, but it was warm and Helen put on a camisole top she had bought the previous day. The simple garment left her neck and arms bare, and winding her hair about her hand she secured it on top of her head in a loose knot.

  Downstairs, the first person she encountered was Mrs Gittens, and she raised her eyebrows sharply when she saw Helen. 'Feeling better?' she asked, without rancour, and the girl nodded. 'I guess Mrs Marsden told you Mr Heathcliffe has gone out,' she added drily. 'Miss Patterson is in the garden room reading the Sunday papers, if you want her.'

  Helen didn't particularly want to see Angela, but she felt obliged to acknowledge her existence, and she entered the glass-walled conservatory on reluctant feet. The other girl was seated comfortably on a chintz-covered sofa, her slim figure encased in flatteringly-fitted mauve pants and a crisp cotton blouse. As always, there was not a hair out of place, and Helen, in her black jeans and loose-fitting camisole, immediately felt as 'sloppy' as Angela had accused her of being.

  'Oh, there you are,' the older girl said now, folding the newspaper she had been reading and tossing it on to the sofa beside her. 'I wondered how long it would take for you to find out that your uncle had left.'

  Helen stiffened. 'I don't know what you mean.'

  'Yes, you do.' Angela was complacent. 'Heath gave you a piece of his mind last night, didn't he? Don't bother to deny it. I can see from your expression that he did. And not before time, in my opinion. Letting him think I'd devised that ghastly outfit!'

  Helen told herself she would not let Angela rile her, but it was difficult to remain indifferent when the other girl was trying so hard to annoy her. 'Heath approved of that—ghastly outfit, as you call it,' she declared evenly. 'He should. The shirt was his.'

  Angela's lips thinned. 'He was being polite, that's all. Heath is always polite, or hadn't you noticed?'

  Helen pushed her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. 'Since when do you call him Heath?' she demanded, and then wished she hadn't when Angela assumed a smug smile.

  'Since last night,' she replied smoothly. 'He said as everyone else called him Heath, why shouldn't I?' She paused, her eyes surveying Helen in a way she didn't like, and then continued: 'By the way, I wouldn't wear a top like that without a bra, if I were you. Those cords at the front are rather—revealing, and to be honest, your breasts are too big to do without any support.' She glanced down at her own slim figure with some satisfaction before adding? 'I don't need a bra. My breasts are small and high. Yours …' She shook her head. 'Just a suggestion, of course.'

  Helen's face blazed with colour now, and she knew an almost irresistible urge to scratch Angela's eyes out, but she controlled it. Turning away, she cast a surreptitious glance at the low neckline of the camisole, but she couldn't see anything to object to. Her breasts were full, it was true, but they were not pendulous as Angela had implied, and her wrist brushed against them reassuringly, as if to convince herself that they were still as firm as when she got dressed. Angela was just being bitchy, that's all, she told herself indignantly, but she couldn't help wishing she was as slim as her adversary.

  As Marion had predicted, Heath and Greg arrived back soon after half-past two. The three women had eaten their lunch earlier, but Mrs Gittens had left a cold buffet laid in the dining room for the men. Marion joined them while they ate, and Helen could hear the sound of their conversation, if not the actual words. Curled up in a chair in the library, she half hoped she could get away without being seen until dinner, but the Marsdens' departure necessitated her appearance.

  'Be good, love,' Marion told her affectionately, giving Helen a warm kiss. 'Don't forget, if you get fed up with life at Matlock, you can always come and stay with us in London.'

  'Thanks, Marion.' Aware of Heath's eyes upon them, Helen returned her embrace and then backed off a little nervously as Greg came to say farewell.

  'Just don't grow up too quickly,' he declared, respect­ing her reticence and confining himself to a kiss on her cheek. 'What would he do if you weren't around?' he demanded, flicking his thumb in Heath's direction.

  It was only a rhetorical question, but it was not one Helen wanted to consider just then. Avoiding Heath's eyes, she stepped out on to the gravel courtyard to wave goodbye, and as she did so, she wished rather foolishly that she was going with them, if only to get away from Heath until she had had time to think.

  To her relief, Heath seemed as eager as she was to avoid a confrontation after the Marsdens had departed. Leaving the two girls to their own devices, he disappeared into his study, and deciding she was not obliged to entertain Angela today, Helen escaped t
o her own room.

  Switching on the stereo unit Heath had had installed for her personal enjoyment, she flicked carelessly through her records, choosing one of the new wave of groups, whose music was more in keeping with her mood. She still felt raw and vulnerable, and it had hurt to realise Heath had no intention of apologising. No doubt, so far as he was concerned, it had been just another of their flare-ups, but for Helen it had been much more than that. Once and for all, he had exhibited his dislike of any emotional demonstra­tion on her behalf, and the nebulous dreams she had had concerning their relationship had been proved to be just so much hot air. He didn't see her as a woman, certainly not as a woman he could become attracted to, and she was wasting her time imagining that he would ever change.

  Locked into her mood of remorse, Helen prepared for dinner that evening with an air of indifference. Ignoring the pretty things she and Marion had bought on Saturday, she chose instead one of the dresses Angela had chosen, allowing its clinging lines to emphasise the rounded curves of her figure.

  Heath and Angela were in the library when she went downstairs, and she hesitated a moment before interrupting their conversation. But then, steeling herself to face whatever comment Heath might care to make, she stepped determinedly into the room, and had the satisfaction of witnessing his surprise.

  'Can I get you a drink?' he asked, after a moment, and she nodded.

  'A sherry, thank you,' she acknowledged, and ignoring Angela's speculative glance, she seated herself on the leather sofa below the windows.

  Observing the dress Angela was wearing, Helen couldn't help but compare her spare slenderness with her own appearance. As Marion had assured her, the dark blue sheath would have suited Angela so much better, and she hoped rather grimly that Heath liked what he had created.

  'Have you known the Marsdens long?' enquired Angela, during dinner. The bulk of the conversation had been left to her—Heath seemingly absorbed in his own thoughts and Helen broodingly morose—and her host took some time before making his response.

  'About twenty years, I guess,' he said at last, as if he had expected Helen to answer her. 'We used to go to the same school. When my father died, he came to work for me.'