by Hilary Wilde
Suddenly the tears won and Megan flung herself on the bed, hugging the pillow tightly, as she cried. Why, oh, why had she ever come out here? she asked herself miserably. It could only lead to heartache. It had already led, and there was nothing she could do about it. Nothing at all.
CHAPTER VIII
Megan had to face up to the truth: Miss Wilmot was right. There was only one thing to be done. Megan knew she must hand in her resignation.
Craig was too kind-hearted to do it himself, but, as Miss Wilmot said, he would be glad to be rid of the dancing mistress who had caused so much trouble!
Looking at the clock, Megan saw that soon her lunch would be brought to her on a tray. If she wrote the letter quickly, she could give it to whoever brought the tray and ask her to take it straight to Mr Lambert.
It wasn’t an easy letter to write. In fact, she crumpled up three attempts until finally she decided it was the best she could do.
‘Dear Mr Lambert, I am sorry I have caused so much trouble. I hope you will believe me when I say I didn’t mean to. I can’t help feeling that the best thing is for me to leave the school, so may I hand in my resignation? I am sorry, as I am very happy here, but I really do think it is the only thing I can do. Yours sincerely . . .’
She signed it, re-read it to make sure her spelling was right, and then found an envelope. She had just sealed it when there came a knock on the door and Odette brought in her tray.
‘Please give this immediately to Mr Lambert,’ Megan asked.
Alone again, Megan had no appetite at all and she played with the food. So that was that . . . the end. The end of her dream, the end of everything.
Now she would have to plan what to do next. Miss Wilmot said they would fly her back to England, and once there, what sort of job could she get without proper training? What kind of reference would Craig give her? Perhaps she could go back to Mrs Arbuthnot in Hastings.
She went out on to the balcony and breathed in the warm fragrant air. How still the lagoon was. She turned to look at the mountains that dominated the island. How she loved it all, and soon she would see it for the last time as the schooner took her to the mainland and the waiting plane.
There was a knock on the door, so, thinking it was Odette again, Megan called: ‘Come in!’
She was startled to see as the door opened that Craig stood there. He pushed the door to behind him and came towards her, her letter in his hand.
‘What’s this nonsense about?’ he demanded.
‘I . . . I thought you’d like me to go.’
‘It has nothing to do with me liking anything,’ he told her impatiently. ‘If I allow you to leave it will look like an admission of guilt, and I don’t believe for a moment that you were to blame for what happened.’
Megan clasped her hands tightly. ‘I’m most grateful. Please . . . I honestly had no idea.’
‘I know you hadn’t. I’ve told you before that you’re a rotten liar. Sit down.’ He jerked a chair out from the side of the table and straddled it.
Megan sat down slowly on the edge of the armchair, holding herself stiffly as she waited.
Craig stared at her. ‘Do you think your sister-in-law was really ill?’ was the first question he shot.
Megan was startled. ‘Yes, I did . . . I do think so. I’ve never seen her look like that before. Her hair was in an awful mess and her face very white.’
‘Well, there is such a thing as make-up. I’ve just phoned the hospital and they say she’s been discharged and that there’s nothing wrong with her.’
‘I can’t understand it. That’s what her doctor said, but honestly . . . honestly, she looked dreadful. So pale and . . .’
‘I see. As I said, there is such a thing as make-up, of course,’ he said drily. ‘It was obviously a plot designed by someone to cause bad publicity to the Lambert School. You agree?’
Megan nodded miserably. It could only be the truth.
‘Unless . . . unless the photographers were there because Mr . . . Mr . . .’ she paused.
‘You mean the important man your brother wanted to impress? What was his name?’
‘Yes.’ Megan hesitated, for she didn’t know it.
‘Was there such a man?’ said Craig. ‘Or was your brother playing on your sympathies?’
Megan brushed her hair back with her hand.
‘I don’t know,’ she confessed. ‘I didn’t think it at the time, but . . . but now you ask me, I do remember saying to Patrick something about the man and he—Patrick, I mean—said something like “The man? What man . . . oh yes, the man.” I thought then it was rather odd. As if he . . .’
‘As if there was no man at all. That’s what I believe. I must say the whole thing seems to me like a woman’s scheming. What about your sister-in-law? Was she eager for you to take her place as her husband’s partner?’
‘We didn’t talk about it. You see, when I saw her, it was several days before she was taken to hospital. There was no question then of my taking her place.’
‘Do you think she would have minded?’
Megan sighed. ‘I honestly don’t know. When I went there to rehearse as I said she had gone. I know she wasn’t very keen on impressing the man.’
‘She mentioned him, then?’
‘Yes. She said Patrick was more concerned with the man’s opinion than with her feeling so ill. She doesn’t want to leave the island. She loves it here.’
‘I see.’ Craig looked thoughtful for a moment, gently tugging at his ear. ‘Was Madame Duval there at the time?’
‘Gaston’s mother?’ Megan asked, then felt uncomfortable because of the way Craig looked at her. ‘Yes. I was with Georgina when Patrick came and told me I had a visitor. I went with him, and that was when I met Madame Duval.’
‘How did you get on with her?’
‘I rather liked her. She was most friendly.’
‘And very bitter about me, of course.’
‘Not really, just resentful, because she feels it couldn’t make any difference to you letting Gaston make money here.’
Craig gave a little grunt. ‘Sometimes it’s convenient to be blind to the truth. I wouldn’t trust her. Like most mothers, she’s completely amoral when concerned about her children. They don’t want the school to stay here. They want to close it down and have the whole island to themselves. They think that if they make life impossible for the school—and they’ve done their best in the past with anonymous letters and malicious gossip—I might go back to my real work and sell them the island.’
‘Your real work?’ Megan asked.
His face relaxed a little. ‘I’m an archaeologist by desire. I gave it up when my father died and I had to come here to take over. This is my responsibility. I respected my grandfather very much. He was good to me, understanding and stepping in where my father wouldn’t bother, so I felt I owe it to my grandfather to do my best to keep his ideal of a school going. Of course, as I’ve said before, we must change quite a few things here. I plan to start that next year . . .’ He frowned suddenly. ‘I mustn’t waste time chatting like this.’
He stood up and looked at her thoughtfully. ‘I think everything has been smoothed out now and even the irate parents have accepted Miss Wilmot’s diplomatic letters.’ He smiled. ‘She’s an amazing person. I often wonder what I’d do without her.’
Megan thought that what Clare Wilmot had said must be the truth. Next year, Miss Tucker would go, Craig would marry Clare and they would modernise the school.
Craig walked towards the door. ‘Only ten more days before the end of the term, so we’ll return to the routine.’ He looked at his watch. ‘How time flies! Look, Frank Parr is going into town tomorrow as he’s having trouble with his new glasses. I suggest you go with him and call on your brother.’ At the doorway, he paused. ‘You might shock him into truthfulness for once,’ he added as he went out.
Megan stood up, standing very still, her hands pressed to her face hard. So now what? She was staying, but . .
.
For how long? Next year when Miss Wilmot became Mrs Lambert and took over, the first person to be sacked would certainly be Miss Crane!
However, now she was free to return to her usual duties, so she hurriedly changed her dress and went down into the school, seeking Mr Taft as she had been studying his notes and there were several questions. He was friendly as usual and no reference was made to her behaviour. Dinner time would have been a nightmare, but Frank took care of her, sitting her between himself and Mr Taft. No one spoke to her except them; in fact, she had a strange feeling of not being there because it was so obvious that Petronella Weston and the other staff had decided to stay far from her in case they got involved!
Afterwards, Anarita came up, her dark hair swinging, her lovely face happy.
‘We threatened to go on strike, Miss Crane, when we heard you were housebound, but Mr Lambert explained it was to protect you from the journalists. Miss Crane, it was such fun. There were journalists and men with cameras and it was just like war, we weren’t allowed out so we waved from the windows . . .’ She laughed happily. ‘Are you going to town tomorrow with Mr Parr? I know he’s going, only I’d like to go, too.’
Megan hesitated, very conscious that several members of the staff were looking at her disapprovingly, they were probably afraid that some of her ‘wickedness’ might come off on poor Anarita.
‘It’s rather awkward, Anarita. You see, I was going to see my brother and . . .’
Anarita laughed. ‘He’s out of bounds as far as I’m concerned. Right? I only like going with you, Miss Crane. The other girls get lifts in, but I wanted to wait for you.’
Megan smiled. ‘That’s nice of you. Look, why not ask Mr Lambert yourself? Say I wasn’t sure if he’d agree?’ She looked round. ‘There he is. Come on, I’ll go with you.’
Craig was standing on the terrace, talking to Petronella Weston. He turned with a frown as Megan and Anarita went up to them.
‘Well? What is it this time?’ he asked.
Anarita spoke first. ‘Could I go into town tomorrow with Miss Crane?’
‘Of course you can,’ Craig said irritably. ‘You always do.’
‘I wondered . . .’ Megan began.
Craig scowled. ‘Don’t wonder, just do what I say. I told you life had returned to normal.’ He turned away, almost rudely.
Anarita giggled as they walked away. ‘He’s in one of his moods! Anyhow,’ she gave a little skip, ‘that’ll be nice. See you tomorrow, Miss Crane,’ she said, and danced away to join her friends.
Megan returned to her flat. She felt she didn’t want questions, comments—or what was even worse was being sent to Coventry, which it seemed to be what most of the staff were doing.
Tomorrow . . . but how was she to see Patrick if Anarita was with her? Could she ask Frank to chaperone Anarita for an hour or so? It was all so old-fashioned, Megan thought restlessly. Yet she remembered she had been told that girls in Spain and Italy are chaperoned even today, so perhaps it was wiser in a school where there were so many different types and nationalities to be on the safe side.
The next day Anarita was waiting by the car when Megan joined her. Frank was sitting behind the wheel, listening to Anarita’s chatter. Not that it stopped once they were in the car, for Anarita seemed thoroughly miserable.
‘I’ve just heard, Miss Crane, that I’ve got to stay here for the hols. I’m so mad! I thought I’d be going to Rome this time, but my aunt is ill and none of my other relations will have me, so my guardian says I must stay here . . .’
Megan, twisted round in the front seat so that she could talk to Anarita, smiled. ‘Is that so terrible?’
‘It certainly is. At least it will be this time. There are only eight of us and the others are kids—no one of my own age group. Are you going to stay for the hols, Miss Crane?’
Megan was startled. Somehow she hadn’t really worried about it, but it was a problem. If she didn’t, or couldn’t, stay, where could she go? Certainly not to Patrick’s. She felt so angry with him that she knew there was going to be a really big row. She had done her best to help him and what had he done in return? Made her look an absolute heel, someone not to be trusted, someone cheap and nasty. If it was Patrick, of course, but the more she thought of it, the more she felt Craig was right, for who else could it have been? Patrick had talked of the man, had said Georgina had to go to hospital, and he must have known about the photographers and given the press her name, although she had told him that no one must know she taught at the Lambert School.
The car was approaching town as Anarita leaned over the side, pointing towards the jetty. ‘Look, Mr Parr, isn’t that the schooner? I didn’t know they came on Saturdays.’
‘They don’t usually,’ said Frank, swerving deftly to avoid a herd of goats strolling across the road. The small pastel-painted houses were coming closer now and they could plainly see the jetty going out into the harbour. ‘There was a breakdown of some kind, so it didn’t go yesterday.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’ll probably go about four o’clock or a little later.’
‘Look, Miss Crane,’ Anarita said excitedly. ‘There’s a baby monkey on his mother!’
‘So there is,’ said Megan, a little puzzled, for they were always seeing monkeys and as a rule Anarita ignored them. ‘Got some shopping to do, Anarita? I want some toothpaste and some air mail letter forms.’
She should write again to her father, she knew, though he never bothered to answer her letters. But he would have seen the headlines in the papers and perhaps even her photographs, and might be wondering what she was up to. If he cared, that was, she thought unhappily.
Frank dropped them, as usual, just below the noisy colourful market and Megan led the way to the post office, Anarita following meekly by her side.
As they left the post office, they met Tracy Thompson, the artist, in his trendy gear.
‘Hi!’ he said in his friendly manner.
Anarita turned her back and strolled a few steps away to pretend to look in a shop. Megan frowned. Even if Anarita preferred older men, that was no excuse to be rude.
‘Hullo,’ Megan said friendlily. She liked this hippie-type artist, for he had good manners, and she liked his long curly brown hair that was so clean it shone in the sunlight. ‘How are things?’
‘Not too bad,’ he told her. ‘I’m pretty lazy. Not used to this heat. It makes me sleepy when I should be painting.’ He glanced at Anarita’s back and looked at Megan with a wry smile. ‘Why is she mad at me?’ he asked.
Megan laughed. ‘At the moment, she’s mad at everyone. I’m sorry she’s like it.’
‘An adolescent temperament,’ Tracy said with a grin. ‘Be seeing you!’ He walked away, merging into the crowd.
Megan joined Anarita. ‘There’s no need to be rude,’ she scolded.
Anarita laughed. ‘You don’t know that type. Give them a smile and they’re after you. I don’t like being pinched.’
‘But he’s not Italian.’
‘It isn’t only Italians who pinch,’ Anarita said with a sigh of exasperation that made Megan feel about sixty years old.
‘Let’s . . .’ she began, and stopped, for— blocking their path—Gaston Duval and his mother stood.
‘My dear child!’ Madame Duval exclaimed, holding out her hands as she looked admiringly at Anarita. ‘You remind me of your mother. She was a beautiful woman, too.’
Gaston’s hand was under Megan’s elbow. She shivered a little and he obviously took it as encouragement, for his fingers tightened, digging into her flesh.
‘Let’s have a cold drink,’ said Anarita. ‘I’m thirsty.’
‘But . . .’ Megan began, then paused. Back to normal, Craig had said, so how could she refuse to let Anarita have cold drinks with people she had obviously known for years? She could see no choice, so she walked with them to the café, then they sat near the road, under a green and white sun-umbrella.
Gaston talked to Megan. ‘What a tyrant, that man of yo
urs is, is he not?’ he asked her. ‘The way he has no manners, at all. We had danced but once, and . . .’
Megan drew a breath. If he was involved in the conspiracy he had no right . . . But was he involved? That was the question.
‘I heard Georgina was discharged from the hospital as being perfectly well,’ she said, her voice sharp.
Gaston shrugged. ‘The hospital, they are perhaps mad. Like her doctor. But who is the one to know the pain? I say to Patrick, this is a serious matter. Take her to the mainland. Go and find a proper doctor.’
‘I was told the doctors here were very good.’
‘Good!’ Gaston said scornfully. ‘What is good on this island?’
Angry, yet not wanting to make a scene there in public, Megan turned to Madame Duval, and found to her amazement that Anarita and Gaston’s mother were talking in Italian.
Madame Duval, who had looked a little depressed, Megan had thought, seemed to have changed completely. Her face had brightened, her eyes were sparkling. She even clapped her hands, nodding her head so that her small mountain of white hair swayed gently. Then she seemed to remember Megan and turned quickly.
‘I’m sorry, my dear. How very rude of us, talking Italian when I know you can’t speak it.’ She smiled at Anarita. ‘You’re just like your mother, my dear—full of bright ideas. I hope it works out. And what did Mr Lambert say about your portrait in the paper, Miss Crane?’ Madame Duval asked, her voice amused.
‘He wasn’t at all pleased,’ Megan said, her voice controlled. ‘Nor was I.’
‘Ah, but why? It was just a warning . . . to our friends, perhaps?’ Madame Duval chuckled happily. ‘You’re staying for the holidays, Anarita? I shall be here. Maybe you could come to me?’ She looked enquiringly at Megan who had caught her breath. ‘What do you think, Miss Crane?’ Madame Duval continued. ‘You too, for I imagine you’ve got nowhere to go? That would be very nice, wouldn’t it, Gaston?’
‘But of course,’ he said quickly with that special smile of his, but this time it left Megan completely cold. ‘We would have fun, that I am sure.’