The Impossible Dream

by Hilary Wilde

  ‘Yours?’ She was really surprised. Somehow she had not imagined that Craig Lambert would choose such a simple house.

  ‘Yes.’ The car stopped. Megan prepared to get out, not quite sure why she was being taken to Craig Lambert’s home. It was kind of him to show her so much, but the next moment he was looking at her. ‘I won’t be a moment,’ he said. ‘I have to collect something.’

  She sat back as if slapped. So he hadn’t brought her here to show her his house. It was mere chance that she had seen it, for obviously the private life of Craig Lambert must never be mixed up with his public life. She looked round all the same. It was lovely—so quiet. The palm trees were just as she liked them, the flowers so lovely. How happy she could be here, she was thinking when Craig Lambert returned, spoke to the chauffeur and got in the car.

  Craig Lambert ruffled through some papers he was holding, totally ignoring Megan until they got on the main road again.

  ‘Well, what did you think of it?’ he asked, looking at her.

  ‘I thought it was lovely.’

  He smiled. ‘Aren’t you being rather tactful? Most people think I’m mad to live there. I like it because it’s so quiet. For once I can’t hear the cackling of female laughter and their noisy chatter, nor the roar of the sea.’

  ‘You live there?’

  ‘Yes, I drive home every night and have a few hours of bliss. By the way,’ he added, frowning a little, ‘it might be as well not to mention to any of the staff that I took you there. They’re already apt to see you as teacher’s pet, which is why I avoid you at school, for some of the staff are a funny lot— jealous, malicious, apt to alter the context of everything so that only the worst of it can be seen.’ He spoke crisply, narrowing his eyes as he looked at her. ‘I hear you’re still good friends with Parr.’

  ‘Of course I am. He’s the nicest on the staff.’

  ‘I thought he’d help you, that’s why I was so nasty about him,’ Craig Lambert said.

  Megan twisted round on the seat. ‘You . . . you said those things on purpose?’

  Craig Lambert nodded. ‘Of course. You’re a strange female, Miss Crane, and have to be handled tactfully. I knew you’d need a friend, but I also knew if I recommended anyone, you’d run a mile to evade him. You’re so convinced that I was ruthless, cruel, indifferent, and. your brother’s enemy. Right?’

  Megan didn’t know what to do or say, for she knew her cheeks were betraying her as she looked at him in dismay.

  Instead he smiled—his nice smile, this time. ‘Don’t look so upset, Miss Crane, I quite understand. Your brother is so dominated by Gaston Duval that he’ll believe anything he’s told. And I’m afraid you’re the same.’

  The car had reached the school and was slowing up. Megan got out slowly. What should she say? What was there to say? Craig Lambert knew everything.

  As they went into the hall, Miss Tucker was there talking to several of the staff. She looked a little surprised as she saw Megan come in with Craig Lambert by her side.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you, Mr Lambert,’ she said, a note of accusation in her voice.

  ‘I had to go into town, so I gave Miss Crane a lift as she wanted to see her brother,’ Craig Lambert explained.

  Miss Tucker looked horrified. ‘Her brother?’ she repeated.

  Megan looked at the tall ugly man by her side. ‘Thank you for the lift,’ she said politely, and escaped upstairs to the quietness of her room.

  She went out on to the balcony, gazing at the beautiful blue sea, and drew a long deep breath. It had been quite an afternoon! She took out the folding chair she had found behind the bathroom door, unfolded it and sat in the late sunshine. Everything had that golden colour the world assumes as the sun goes slowly down. She buried her face in her hands, feeling absolutely muddled.

  Now who was she to believe? Craig Lambert? Was he right when he said Gaston Duval was a rogue? Was it true that Gaston Duval was cheating and lying and had brainwashed Patrick into believing that Craig Lambert was his enemy?

  Or was Patrick right in his belief that Craig Lambert was determined to get rid of everyone he disapproved of who lived on the island? Could Gaston Duval with his charming manner, his ability to make you feel beautiful and admired, to feel even breath-less after he had held her hand for a short time . . . could he be what might be called a ‘baddie’? She found it hard to believe.

  Or was it because she still could feel the warmth of his hand, the admiration in his eyes, the knowledge that here was a man, a real man.

  Had she fallen in love with Gaston Duval? she asked herself. And if she had, then what would happen?

  * * *

  It seemed as if nothing was going to happen, for as the days passed, Megan’s life became almost routine and she didn’t meet Gaston. She began to relax and enjoy her new life. Craig Lambert avoided her; if they met he was coolly polite, but he didn’t suggest giving her another lift to see her brother. Several of the staff had given Megan lifts into the small town, to shop or have coffee, but she never asked them to take her to the Crane Dancing Studio, for she had no desire to see either Patrick or Georgina. She was still so angry with both of them when she thought of the money they had got from her father and herself—money they obviously didn’t need half as much as her father did.

  The days passed swiftly. The weather was perfect, for it was too early for the monsoon. Every day Megan found herself in one of the small coves that were below the school and where they all swam in the lagoon—a safe lagoon, as it had no opening to the Indian Ocean and the water came in with the high tides, tossing over the reef.

  Of all the pupils she taught, Megan made few friends. She was not sorry about this, yet she found herself watching the girl Anarita Marco worriedly.

  Anarita was always in trouble. It was true she asked for it, for she was defiantly rude and frequently refused to do what she was told.

  ‘But Frank, she’s seventeen,’ Megan said one evening to him as they sat on in the big room where he taught them bridge.

  ‘Seventeen or not, she isn’t entitled to be damned rude,’ he said crossly.

  ‘She’s unhappy here. She’s much more mature than the other girls.’

  ‘Then why does she stay here?’ Frank gathered the cards together. ‘There are other schools with less strict rules.’

  ‘She has no choice,’ Megan told him. ‘Her parents are dead, she has a guardian who’s about as out of date as the dodo. She can’t do anything she wants until she’s twenty-one and then she’ll inherit . . .’

  ‘A small fortune, which is why the guardian wants her to be protected,’ Frank told her. ‘He doesn’t want any smart Tom, Dick or Harry to marry her and lay his hands on her wealth. Protection, Meg, not frustration—that’s our motto.’

  That was something Megan had learned since she came to teach dancing at the Lambert School. Many of the pupils were from European countries whose parents or grandparents had once been kings and queens. Others came from the East, of wealthy families who insisted on protection and proper behaviour. The strict rules of the school were part of the curriculum, not to harass the unfortunate girls but to protect them.

  One day Megan had a chance to talk alone to Anarita.

  ‘They don’t mean to be unkind,’ she explained.

  ‘They just don’t care. Nobody cares!’ Anarita said angrily.

  ‘I care,’ said Megan.

  Anarita gave her a strange look, her long black hair swinging. ‘I believe you do,’ she said, her voice surprised. ‘Why?’

  ‘Perhaps because I’m only three years older than you. Perhaps because I’ve known that same kind of frustration, wanting to do something I’m unable to do. I wasn’t at school, I was looking after my father.’ Megan told her about her life in Hastings, and Anarita, after that, often talked to her.

  ‘If only we weren’t shut up in here like a lot of young nuns!’ Anarita said angrily. ‘One day we’ve got to meet men, how long do we have to wait?’ She sighed, twist
ing her long black hair round one hand slowly. ‘After all, lots of girls marry when they are fifteen or sixteen. I ought to have a chance to meet men. I know what it is. My guardian, he seeks the right husband for me. He does not care in case I hate the man. Oh no, that is not important. Look, you read the magazines, you read the papers. Everywhere people love one another, but me . . . oh no, no question of love for me.’

  ‘But he can’t make you marry if you refuse, if you don’t love the man,’ Megan pointed out.

  ‘I know, but then neither can I marry the man if he refuses permission—my guardian, I mean, of course. So . . . so I must wait until I am twenty-one. Four more years.’ Anarita sighed. ‘You are so lucky. In a year you will be twenty-one.’

  In England now you can marry at eighteen, even if your parents disapprove.’

  ‘Ah!’ Anarita smiled. ‘I wish my father had been English, then, for it would be only a year to wait.’

  ‘You want to marry?’

  ‘I want to marry, yes. I suppose I want to be loved,’ Anarita said.

  Megan found it hard to forget Anarita’s pathetic words: I want to be loved.

  It was purely by chance that Megan found herself alone with Craig Lambert one day. She had had a very energetic class, and when it was over, she had several hours before the next one, so she had gone outside into the sunshine, strolling down towards the golf course. Only the roar of the distant sea and the chatter of the birds broke the stillness. In many ways this was a realisation of her dream, her impossible dream, Megan was thinking, if only . . .

  If only she had the answer to a few questions. Could she trust Craig Lambert—or should she believe Patrick and . . . and Gaston? Why had Mr Lambert dismissed Miss Pointer so suddenly? Had Mr Lambert deliberately, Megan wondered, brought her out here to use her as a weapon against her brother? If so, in what way could he use her?

  She was asking herself this question, leaning against the sturdy trunk of a tree, watching two honey birds hovering like minute helicopters over the vividly yellow flowers. She was quite startled when a deep voice said:

  ‘Dreaming—as usual?’

  Craig Lambert! She turned round quickly. ‘I didn’t hear you.’

  ‘You were miles away. What were you dreaming about?’ he asked.

  Megan hesitated. She couldn’t tell him the truth—suddenly she knew this was the opportunity she thought she would never get.

  ‘I was thinking about Anarita.’

  ‘I’ve heard you seem to be getting on with her quite well. A pleasant change from hearing about her insolence and tantrums.’

  ‘The girl is unhappy . . . she talks to me.’

  ‘You are more or less the same age group, of course,’ Craig Lambert said. ‘I suppose she feels she can. What were you thinking about?’

  She told him how Anarita felt, that she needed to be loved. ‘She seems to have never had anyone to love her,’ she said gravely.

  ‘And now you’ve turned up?’ Craig Lambert asked.

  Megan was surprised. ‘Well, I hadn’t thought of it like that, but if she feels someone cares for her and wants her to be happy . . .’

  ‘You think you can help her?’

  ‘I can but try.’

  ‘Okay. What do you want me to do?’

  Megan hesitated. ‘I don’t honestly know. I was wondering if I could take her into town sometimes. We could go on the bus and . . .’

  Craig Lambert’s face changed; it might have been made of stone. Megan recognised the sign at once, for she had seen it so often.

  ‘On one condition,’ he began sternly.

  Megan glared at him. ‘You don’t have to tell me, Mr Lambert. On one condition—that you don’t take her anywhere near your brother. That’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it?’

  Craig Lambert smiled, his face relaxing. ‘Actually, for once you’re quite wrong. I was going to say that you don’t take her to the wrong side of the town. You know where I mean. This has nothing to do with your brother, but lately a rough crowd has turned up there, whether for a holiday or to seek work, I don’t know, but they’re highly undesirable for our girls. Most of them are artists—but typical hippies. Our girls’ parents would be horrified if they thought we allowed their daughters to mix with these creatures.’

  ‘What’s wrong with hippies?’ Megan began, but Craig Lambert gave her no time.

  ‘Two things; dirt and drugs. I’ll run no risk of the girls being involved in such circumstances. I know what you’re getting at and I agree that all hippies are not bad—but many are, and those many are the ones I will not let my girls mingle with. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, you’re right, of course,’ Megan agreed. ‘If you tell me where the border is, I promise you I won’t let Anarita cross it.’

  He told her, giving the name of a row of shops. ‘Just stay in the main road and everything will be okay.’

  ‘Should I . . . I mean, you did tell me I took my orders from Miss Tucker.’

  Craig Lambert lifted his hand. ‘Leave it to me. All the same, let Miss Tucker know. I’ll see that it’s all right,’ he said, and strode off down the field.

  Megan watched him go. He had taken that very well. It would be nice to take Anarita in, to encourage her to talk, to let her feel part of life.

  So a new routine began. Whenever Megan was offered a lift into town, she asked if Anarita could go with her, too. No one refused to take her, so then Megan would go to Miss Tucker for her permission.

  ‘Personally I think you’re wasting your time, Miss Crane,’ Miss Tucker said the first time. ‘That girl needs a good spanking. However, Mr Lambert thinks it’s a good idea of his, so I must agree.’

  Megan had hurried away, trying to hide her smile. Mr Lambert! Cunningly pretending it was his idea, for he knew very well how Miss Tucker resented accepting any of the staff’s suggestions.

  These trips into town were great fun, Megan found. So did Anarita, who loved going round the shops with Megan while they discussed and argued about what clothes they thought were ‘with it’. Or to stand in the market and watch the Creole women selling their goods, the tiny dark-coloured babies smiling away, showing their tiny white teeth, and the small children playing in the dust.

  ‘Thanks to you I feel part of the world,’ Anarita said one day.

  ‘But you’ve been into town before?’ Megan asked.

  ‘Oh yes, but with some dull old cow.’

  ‘Anarita!’ Megan had to laugh even while she scolded. ‘That’s not a nice word.’

  Anarita looked very innocent. ‘Isn’t it? But the Aussies use it.’

  ‘Yes, but not as a compliment. And we’re not Aussies.’

  They had their favourite café and would sit under the bright sunshades on the pavement outside, watching the people go by.

  ‘You’re not an old cow,’ Anarita said once. ‘Not even a young cow.’

  Megan had to laugh. ‘Thanks. What am I, then?’

  ‘Nice,’ was all Anarita said, but it was enough to make Megan’s cheeks glow with pleasure.

  Occasionally in the crowd Megan would lose sight of Anarita, but always saw her later, standing outside a shop waiting for her.

  ‘Where did you get to?’ Anarita would ask, her eyes amused as she saw Megan’s anxious face.

  ‘Looking for you,’ Megan said.

  Anarita laughed. ‘You don’t need to worry, Megan. I can look after myself.’

  ‘Mr Lambert doesn’t think so.’

  ‘Mr Lambert!’ Anarita said scornfully. ‘Pity he’s so square, for he’s terribly attractive.’

  ‘Attractive?’ Megan was surprised. ‘I think he’s very ugly.’ Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh dear, I shouldn’t have said that!’

  Anarita’s eyes twinkled. ‘You shouldn’t, because I shall tell my friends and the whole school will know Miss Crane thinks Mr Lambert is very ugly.’

  ‘Anarita, please,’ Megan begged. ‘Please!’

  ‘All right,’ Anarita promised reluctantly, ‘
but it’s a shame, because they’re all talking about you. We thought you and Mr Lambert were in love. I mean, it was odd you coming so soon after Miss Pointer left, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Pure chance,’ Megan said quickly. ‘I keep meaning to ask you, Anarita, why do you speak such perfect English when you are Italian?’

  ‘But I’m really English, it’s just that my father was Italian. He was never at home and I lived with my mother in Venice, but we always talked English at home. Then they both died and . . . they sent me here.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  Anarita sighed. ‘Too long. Far too long. Ever since I was ten.’

  ‘It is a long time,’ Megan agreed.

  Often, she found herself thinking about her brother Patrick. After all, even if they didn’t get on well, they were brother and sister. Yet obviously he had no desire to see her even though she was so near.

  Actually she had been thinking this one day as she swam in the warm sea with Frank. Or rather, Frank sat on the beach and watched her. He was, he had said, allergic to salt water. Although he had laughed, Megan wondered if it was the real reason.

  Now as she floated on her back happily, she thought how wonderful it would be if Patrick and Craig Lambert could become friends; if the strange mystery she had somehow become involved in as to why she was out here could be solved.

  This job was indeed her ‘impossible dream’ for the staff seemed to have accepted her, and the classes were proving most satisfactory and she was amazingly happy—but there was always this business of Patrick and Craig Lambert. Not to forget, her conscience reminded her, Gaston Duval. She could not forget him, somehow. She just could not.

  Walking up to the school, talking to Frank, Megan wished she could trust him and tell him everything. Was it all her imagination? Was it simply a question of Craig Lambert being naturally annoyed at losing part of the island he so obviously treasured?

  When she got back to the school, Frank walked on as she hovered round the board where the letters were stuck. She had not heard once from her father or Aunt Lily. Megan had written several times and although she knew her family were bad letter writers she couldn’t help feeling worried and a little hurt, but there was a letter for her this time. But it wasn’t from England. It was posted in Coeur Mêlé, the small town nearby.