by Hilary Wilde
‘Anarita,’ she said firmly, ‘you must not leave my side. I’m responsible for you.’
‘Oh, Miss Meg, do grow up,’ Anarita said with her sweetest smile. ‘Look I’m seventeen, going on for eighteen and this is the 1970s, not the Victorian age. What harm could be done to me?’
Megan hesitated. She didn’t want to suggest that what Mr Lambert had said was right; any of these wealthy girls could be good for kidnapping. ‘Please, Anarita, it is my responsibility.’
The girl smiled. ‘I’ll try, but you’re so slow . . . you’re too gentle in a crowd. You should just push your way through them, using your elbows,’ she said. Then she clapped her hands. ‘I’m dying for a cold drink. Let’s sit at the café by the church. It looks rather nice.’
Megan hesitated for a moment. The church was very close to what Mr Lambert had described as the banned area—but still, it was on the right side!
‘Okay,’ she said. Anything was better than losing sight of Anarita!
They had a good view of the market at the end of the road, and the cars and bicycles going by as well as the strange little carts drawn by the Creoles. There always seemed so many people in the town, and as they sat under the bright-coloured sunshade at the small table, Megan and Anarita talked again about her childhood. It was certainly a sad one, Megan thought. She had always been sorry for herself, but now she felt sorrier for Anarita.
Megan was glancing at her watch, for Miss Weston must not be kept waiting—or that would be reported to Mr Lambert, no doubt, Megan thought bitterly—and soon they ought to go.
‘May I join you?’ a deep masculine voice said.
Megan turned and saw herself staring at a hippie, as undoubtedly Mr Lambert would have called him. The long, brown hair that came down his back was beautifully silky and he was wearing a thin crimson silk jacket and purple trousers.
‘There isn’t another table,’ he said pathetically.
It was true. All the tables had filled. ‘We’re going in a moment,’ Megan said, ‘so do sit down.’
‘I’m Tracy Thompson,’ he said, holding out his hand and shaking Megan’s, then turning to Anarita.
‘Hullo,’ she said coldly, hardly letting her hand touch his and turning away.
Megan sighed. Why had Anarita always to be so rude? To try to make up for it, she chatted to the hippie. Even if he was one, he was a very nice one, and anyway, what was wrong with being a hippie? she thought. Everyone has a right to have a personality of his or her own . . .
‘I’m an artist,’ he told them. ‘Marvellous views here. You on holiday?’
‘I work here,’ Megan said, ‘and . . . and . . .’
Anarita turned her head and looked at him contemptuously.
‘I’m a schoolgirl,’ she said, her voice bitter.
Tracy Thompson’s eyebrows were lifted in surprise. ‘What, at the famous Lambert School? How do you like it?’
‘Not much,’ Anarita said, and turned away. ‘We’d better go, Miss Meg. I’ll pay this time,’ she said as she stood up and walked into the café.
Megan hesitated and stared after the girl. ‘I teach dancing at the school and . . .’
What’s your name?’ He smiled at her.
‘Megan.’
‘Welsh?’
No, but my grandmother was.’
They both laughed. Anarita returned, looking impatient.
Megan said goodbye and hurried after Anarita. They got to the market much too early. They talked as they waited and finally Megan said:
‘I thought he was rather nice.’
‘I thought he was pretty ghastly. So immature. I prefer older men,’ said Anarita.
Maybe it was as well, Megan was thinking, as Miss Weston’s car came into view, for Mr Lambert would certainly not approve of a friendship between Anarita and Tracy Thompson!
Back at the school, Megan was alone in her flat when there came a knock on the door. She had just showered and was in her thin, psychedelic-coloured housecoat, her hair hanging wetly round her face.
It was Craig Lambert. His eyes narrowed, his voice low, tense with anger as he strode into the room, slamming the door behind him and swinging round to stare at her.
‘I thought I could trust you!’
Megan stared back. ‘You can.’
‘A fine example of it, then. Why were you and Anarita sitting with that ghastly-looking hippie?’
‘We were not sitting with him. There were no seats and he asked if he could join us. As we were just leaving, I said of course. I could hardly have refused, could I?’ Megan asked.
‘He bought you cold drinks?’
‘Of course he didn’t. He . . . or rather we weren’t there long enough.’
‘He asked for your names?’
‘No. He told us his . . . oh, and he asked me mine. Anarita went to pay the bill and . . .’
‘Of course you told him yours,’ Craig Lambert said sarcastically.
‘I only said Megan. I didn’t give him Anarita’s name at all. In any case, how do you know? Did you send Miss Weston to snoop on me?’ Megan’s anger was mounting fast. ‘I hate all this spying. Why do you do it? Either you trust me or you don’t. If you don’t, I’ll go!’ she almost shouted the words at him.
Craig Lambert turned away, his hand on the door handle.
‘I doubt if your brother would want you to do that,’ he said drily. ‘Why not ask him when you see him,’ he added, and left the room.
Megan stood still, hugging herself angrily. He had no right . . . no right at all. She was tired of all this stupid . . .
He had no right at all. She hated him. She had a sudden impulse to get out her suitcases and pack all her things and go home . . .
Home?
She took a deep breath. That was something she hadn’t got.
* * *
When the day of the party came, Megan was rather worried whether she was doing the right thing or not by going. But Craig Lambert had agreed, had even thought it a good idea. She and Frank decided it was best to keep it to themselves, so no one was told, and as Megan left her flat Petronella Weston, going into hers, lifted her eyebrows.
‘Going to a party?’ she asked, sounding surprised. ‘I didn’t . . .’
Megan smiled. ‘Yes,’ she said, and hurried down the corridor, giving Miss Weston no time to ask with whom! She was quite capable of doing so, and Frank had suggested that if asked, Megan could say simply that she was going out with him.
‘That’ll give the girls something to talk about,’ Megan said, and laughed.
‘Do you mind?’ Frank asked, suddenly serious.
‘Not really. It’s not malicious chatter.’
‘That’s true,’ he had agreed.
Now as she ran down the beautiful curved staircase, Megan thought how different it seemed without Craig Lambert there. He had gone to the Mainland, she knew, but for how long? Everything changed when he was away, she had noticed. Somehow or other he kept the peace, kept everything even, but since he had gone there were small quarrels among the staff, and a considerable number of arguments with Miss Tucker.
Frank was waiting in his car outside. He leaned over and opened the door for her.
‘So you made it,’ he grinned. ‘Did the old dragon see you?’
‘No, but Miss Weston did.’ Megan snuggled down into the seat. ‘She obviously longed to ask me who I was going with, but I just ran.’
He laughed as he started the car. ‘Probably tomorrow Miss Tucker will send for you and say: “We do not allow affairs amongst the staff . . .” ’ He mimicked her voice well.
‘So what? I shall tell her we’re not having an affair, we’re just good friends. Look, surely a man and a woman can be good friends without getting involved?’
Frank took a difficult corner carefully, for the night was pitch dark with not even a slice of moon to light the sky.
‘A man and woman, yes, I agree—but a girl and a man? I wonder,’ he said.
‘Oh, let’s forget the
m all, Frank,’ said Megan, sliding down the seat so that she could lean against him. ‘Let’s just enjoy ourselves. I’m a bit worried about going and . . .’
‘Because of me?’
‘Goodness, no. You’re my . . . what shall I call you? My guardian. It’s just that . . . well, Mr Lambert and Patrick don’t get on and . . .’
‘Mr Lambert said you should go.’
‘I know. That’s what worries me.’ Megan hesitated. As often before, she wished she could tell Frank everything, hear him sort it out in his humorous practical way and help her to see sense. Yet something always stopped her. ‘I expect it’ll be all right,’ she added quickly, lying back in the seat and half closing her eyes.
She imagined she was looking at Craig Lambert’s house. She wished she could tell Frank about that—wished she could describe the beauty and peacefulness of the thatched house, with the palm trees standing so gracefully and with no sign of violence in their straight trunks. She had fallen in love with the house as soon as she saw it. It had been almost uncanny, for it was just what she had always seen in her impossible dream. A strange house, she had thought, and still did, for a man like Craig Lambert. A romantic house, in a way, and he had said how he loved the quiet stillness of it. Yet he was such a virile man, a man knowing just where he was going and making for it, regardless of obstacles that he swept out of his way.
‘Are both Mr Lambert’s parents dead, Frank?’ she asked.
‘Yes. It was a good thing his father died when he did or there’d be no school today. Poor Craig. He was in South America, making a fortune on his own—I’m not sure how, but everything that man touches turns to gold. Then his father died and his mother sent for him. She was desperate, because she had just discovered about her husband’s gambling and wasn’t sure quite how much of the island was left to them. This was about eight years ago when he was in his early twenties. He really worked hard at it. You’ve got to hand it to him, Meg. He’s a hard worker and expects the same of others and somehow gets it out of them. All seemed to be going well, then his mother was ill and passed on. We all wondered what Craig would do—sell the lot? Because he wasn’t the type of man really to run a school. At least, you wouldn’t think he was, yet he’s surprisingly successful. He generates confidence, makes the anxious parents feel they can trust him— and trust him, they can,’ Frank said.
‘So he didn’t sell the school?’
‘No. He began bringing it up to date. His main pain in the neck is Miss Tucker, of course. I wonder he doesn’t get rid of her. Mind, she’s been with the school for some fifteen years. She was a close friend of his parents and bitterly resents any suggestion that the success of the school is due to Craig. She likes to think it is herself that has done it. Ah, this is where we get close to danger,’ Frank chuckled as they reached the town. ‘Might do Miss Tucker a bit of good to go to Paris, or better still, Hamburg, if she wants to see a bit of real night life. Ever been?’
‘No. This is the first time I’ve been out of England.’
Megan was busy looking at the lighted shops and the groups of people chatting and laughing. The locals were a happy lot, she thought, so often singing and nearly always joking.
Now they were driving past the hotel that was ablaze with light, throwing shadows on the brightly-lighted Front and then they reached the Crane Studio. Frank parked his car and took Megan’s arm. It was so hot that she had merely put a thin shawl over her shoulders. She was wearing a white dress, sleeveless and backless. She had been surprised when Miss Wilmot had chosen it.
‘You’ll be so hot out there,’ Miss Wilmot had said, and how right she was!
The Studio was a very big hall that could be divided into different rooms with folded-back louvre doors. It seemed to be packed with people, standing and sitting, some dancing, others drinking.
Frank and Megan hesitated as they went in and then Georgina came towards them. She looked even lovelier than usual in a deep red dress.
‘Megan, how nice to see you!’ she smiled, holding out her hands, surprising Megan, who wasn’t used to such friendliness from her sister-in-law. ‘And this is . . . ?’ She looked at Frank, puzzled.
‘Frank Parr, an artist,’ Megan said. ‘Frank, this is my sister-in-law, Mrs Crane.’
‘You must come and have something to eat,’ Georgina told them, and led the way towards the long tables covered with plates of food, round which the guests were standing. ‘I thought you were bringing Craig Lambert,’ she whispered to Megan.
‘Craig Lambert? Why should I? You didn’t invite him.’
‘We said your boy-friend. He is, isn’t he? He seems to let you do a lot he won’t let the others. For instance, always bringing that Anarita Marco into town.’
‘You know her?’ Megan was startled.
‘Everyone’s heard of her. She used to come in, of course, but not so often as she does now. How do you and Craig Lambert get on?’
‘He employs me,’ Megan said coldly.
Georgina laughed. ‘You haven’t changed— just as prickly! Come, Frank, because I can’t call you Mr Parr, come and get us some drinks.’
Later Megan was standing alone when, to her surprise, Patrick came up.
‘Come and dance. It’s many a year since we took to the floor together,’ he said quite cheerfully, taking her by the hand and leading her to the dance floor.
His arm went round her and they were off . . . from then on, it was a nightmare for Megan. She knew Patrick was doing everything in his power to make her dance badly, or bungle it and look a fool.
He tried everything. Every trick that luckily she knew so well and how to combat and even anticipate. If only she was in Craig’s arms, she found herself thinking.
That startled her, for it was the first time she had thought of him as Craig and not Craig Lambert. Now what had made her do that? Was it the memory of the wonder of the dance she had shared with him? the strength of his arm, the courtesy of his leading, the . . . togetherness, there was no better word for it, the togetherness of dancing. She couldn’t forget it. She would never forget it.
This was the exact opposite. It was a battle—one she was determined to win.
As the music stopped, Patrick let her go. He looked thoughtful.
‘You’re a darned good dancer, Meg,’ he said, sounding surprised. ‘You’re wasting your time teaching kids. You could make a fortune if you became a professional.’
‘I’m happy where I am.’
They walked back towards the buffet tables. ‘I can’t get it. How can you stand that man?’ said Patrick, his voice disgusted. ‘It must be a nightmare to have him always prowling around.’
‘He doesn’t prowl around!’
‘That’s what you think, Meg. I bet he knows every single thing about you.’
Megan felt herself blush. Patrick was so right. ‘He may have a reason,’ she said stiffly. ‘At this sort of school, you’ve got to be careful who you employ.’
‘Too right,’ Patrick laughed. ‘So you’re one of the chosen few. All the same, I wouldn’t work for him. Rather starve. You just can’t trust the man.’
‘Patrick, Dad told me you said Mr Lambert had . . . well, nearly ruined you. What did he do?’
She saw the shock on her brother’s face. ‘Dad shouldn’t have told you.’
‘He was worried about you and very upset. But I want to know what Mr Lambert did.’
Patrick lifted his hand and waved to someone. ‘It’s too long a story to tell you now, Meg. Next time you come over, I will. Now Georgina and I have to dance. We give exhibition dancing always at the hotel on Saturday nights, you know, so this is an extra. Georgina and I are very popular. See you!’
Gradually the room was cleared, the guests standing or sitting in a big circle, leaving the centre of the room for the two dancers.
Megan leant against a wall and watched. Patrick was still as good a dancer, but this time he was dancing differently from the way he had danced with her! She could see how he guided G
eorgina. He was undoubtedly the strongest. But Georgina was graceful and good and they deserved the wild applause they got as they finished the different dances and then bowed to the audience.
‘Megan—ma chérie, for you I have been looking,’ a deep voice said, and she turned to find Gaston Duval by her side.
Something inside her seemed to be doing a wild dance. She decided it was her heart. It wasn’t fair that any man should be so handsome.
‘Hullo,’ she said, trying to keep her voice calm.
His hand closed over her arm, sliding down it to take her hand in his and lift it to his mouth.
‘I saw you dance with Patrick. Very good, you were. You are wasting your life at that school, my little Megan. You are too good a dancer.’
Megan laughed. ‘That’s what Patrick said, but I like my job.’
‘This is something I have no power to understand,’ Gaston said, leaning against her a little, his hand still holding hers tightly. ‘How can you work—with that pig?’ he added angrily.
‘Look, Mr Lambert isn’t . . .’
‘Excuse me, Megan, it’s time we went back,’ a voice said.
Gaston seemed to jump, dropping Megan’s hand as if it burned him. ‘And who is this?’ he asked.
‘Frank Parr, my . . . my friend,’ said Megan. ‘Frank, this is Gaston Duval.’
The two men stared at one another. They were so different that Megan found herself tempted to laugh.
Just as Frank was insignificant, so unobtrusive with his pale skin, his light brown hair, his ordinary unexciting features—so Gaston was the reverse with his lean handsome face, jet-black hair, dark warm eyes and that smile . . . No one could ever overlook Gaston, she thought.
‘What’s the time?’ Megan asked, and when Frank told her, she gasped. ‘We must go! Miss Tucker doesn’t like us to be out too late.’
‘And what right has this . . . this Miss Tuck . . . Tucker to say it is time for you to be in bed?’ Gaston asked stiffly.
‘The headmistress,’ Megan said, and laughed. ‘Look, say goodbye to Patrick and Georgina for us, Gaston. Come on, Frank.’ She took Frank’s hand and smiled at Gaston. ‘Good-night,’ she said.