by Anne Mather
Catherine’s jaw sagged. ‘Your-son?’ she whispered disbelievingly.
‘Yes, my son,’ agreed the man, leaving the car and walking towards her.
‘Morgan Lynch. Do you know where he is?’
Catherine felt faint. She was trembling so badly, she didn’t know how her legs continued to support her. No wonder she had thought he looked like Morgan, she thought. The similarities were so obvious now that she looked for them.
‘Do you know where he is?’
The man had reached her, and was looking down at her with cool, enquiring eyes( His attitude was polite enough, but she sensed his impatience when she continued to stare at him without speaking. She guessed he was not a man who took kindly to insubordination of any kind, and, remembering that Kay had told her that Morgan’s father had been a US Army general, she realised how aggravating to him her attitude must be.
‘I-no,’ she said now, swaying a little, as the cold December afternoon chilled her sweating limbs. ‘Isn’t he here? I know this is where he lives.’
‘Lived,’ corrected Morgan’s father, glancing over his shoulder. ‘According to the doorman, my son hasn’t been seen for over a month.’
‘Oh, God! ’
Catherine could feel a wave of blackness sweeping over her, and, realising she had to get back to her car before she collapsed, she put out a warning hand. But Morgan’s father didn’t respond in the way she expected. Instead of leaving her to make her own way to her car, he put his hand beneath her arm, and said, gently, ‘Let me help you.’
Catherine was so dizzy that she scarcely cared where he was taking her.
But when he opened the car door and helped her inside, she realised at once that this was not her Peugeot. Not that it was Morgan’s car either, she realised now. It wasn’t even the same colour. But it .was similar, and when Morgan’s father walked round and got in beside her, she had a peculiar sense of déja vu.
‘So,’ he said, half turning in the seat beside her. ‘Tell me where I can buy you a drink.’
‘Oh-no. Really.’ Catherine swallowed. ‘There’s no need for that.’
‘I think there is,’ retorted General Lynch, turning back to the wheel, and starting the engine. ‘I’d suggest we use Morgan’s apartment, if there was anything in it. But there isn’t. He, and that Filipino who looks after him, haven’t even left a bottle of Scotch to make it worthwhile.’
Catherine moistened her lips. ‘You’ve-been in Morgan’s apartment, then?’
‘Yeah. That doorman opened up the place for me. He didn’t want to. But when I told him I had friends at Scotland Yard he became a bit more co-operative.’
‘I see.’
Catherine breathed a little more easily. While in one way it was devastating to think that, even if she was prepared to face his anger again, she wouldn’t be able to find him, the alternative-that Morgan might be lying in his apartment, sick, or worse-didn’t bear thinking about.
‘I assume you’re a friend of my son’s, right?’ the man beside her said now, and without any other option open to her, Catherine nodded. ‘And you don’t know where he is?’
‘No.’ The full weight of that realisation was beginning to bear down on her. ‘No. I’m sorry.’
General Lynch cast her a thoughtful look. ‘How long is it since you’ve seen him?’
‘Oh-some time.’ Catherine hoped she was not going to have to go into that.
‘We-er-we agreed not to see one another for-for a while.’ It was only half the truth. She couldn’t tell him that Morgan had refused to see her again, could she?
Morgan’s father nodded, and then, noticing a small restaurant in a side-street, he swung off the main thoroughfare. ‘Will this do?’
Catherine shook her head. ‘Honestly. If you could just take me back to Jermyn Gate-’
‘I will,’ he promised, stopping the car on double yellow lines, and pushing open his door. ‘After we’ve had a drink.’
The waiter who met them at the door of the restaurant was most apologetic.
Yes, he said, they had been open for the lunch period, but they were closing now. It was Sunday; they were sorry, but they had their licence to think about.
Two minutes later however, he was showing them to a candle-lit table in the window. Some notes-Catherine didn’t know how many-had changed hands, and, with the utmost courtesy, they were invited to look at the menu.
‘Just Scotch,’ General Lynch declared, handing back the over-sized bills of fare. ‘And brandy for the lady. That’s all.’
‘I don’t want any brandy,’ Catherine protested, but Morgan’s father only quirked a greying eyebrow.
‘I think you do,’ he said drily. ‘You nearly keeled over back there.
Girls- women-of your age don’t just pass out for no reason. I’m curious.
What’s wrong with you?’
He paused, and then added softly, ‘You can’t be pregnant?’
‘No!’ Catherine realised Morgan’s father had the same directness of manner as his son, and it was no easier to deal with.
‘OK.’ There was a trace of regret in the old man’s face, but he hid his feelings admirably. ‘So what is there between you two?’ he persisted.
‘Why should the news that Morgan’s left the country make you want to faint?’
Catherine stared at him, her consternation evident. And then, after acknowledging the drink the waiter set in front of her, she exclaimed,
‘How do you know he’s left the country?'
‘I don’t. Not yet.’ General Lynch studied the Scotch in his glass, before swallowing a mouthful. ‘But I’d say it was a fair possibility. Wouldn’t you?’
Catherine pressed a hand to her throat. ‘I-don’t know.’ She hesitated a moment, and then ventured, ‘Where would he go?’
‘Mango Key?’ suggested Morgan’s father tentatively. ‘What do you think?’
Catherine sat back in her chair. ‘Mango Key?’ She shook her head bewilderedly. ‘Is that-is that in-Florida?’
‘So he told you about that, did he?’
There was a wealth of hope in the old man’s voice now, but Catherine had to disappoint him. ‘No,’ she said, stroking her thumb over the rim of her glass. ‘Kay did. Kay Sawyer.’
‘Ah.’ General Lynch expelled his breath on a sigh. ‘I thought it wasn’t like Morgan to talk about himself.’ He ran a weary hand over his jawline. ‘For a minute I thought you and he had been . . . close.’
‘We were!’ Catherine couldn’t let him think she was some kind of American groupie. ‘We-oh-I thought something was-going to come of it.’
Morgan’s father studied her doubtfully. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’ Catherine groaned, and then unable to prevent herself, she asked, ‘Did you make him come to London?’
General Lynch looked a little formidable now. ‘What business is that of yours?’
Catherine flushed, and then realising she had nothing to lose, she said unsteadily, ‘Because I love him. And-and I don’t think you understand him very well.’
‘Don’t you?’ Morgan’s father sounded ominous now. ‘And why should you think that?’
Catherine bent her head. ‘Because-oh, because I don’t think he was ever happy here.’
‘Not even with you?’ There was definite sarcasm in his tone now, and Catherine’s eyes sparkled with sudden anger.
‘No. Not even with me,’ she conceded painfully, and then found refuge in a little of the brandy.
‘Then what were you doing at this apartment this afternoon?’
That was harder, and Catherine wet her lips before replying. ‘We-we had an argument,’ she said, wondering how she could tell him things she had never told anyone else, not even Aunt Agnes. ‘Morgan said it wasn’t . . .
fair to me, to go on with our relationship. I-didn’t agree.’
Morgan’s father looked staggered. ‘Then-you know. . .?’
Catherine didn’t attempt to define what she knew. She just nodded, and
the old man closed his eyes with sudden emotion. For a few moments he remained silent, marshalling his composure. And then, as she was about to tell him that a traffic warden was putting a parking ticket beneath the windscreen wiper of his car, he said, ‘Morgan must have told you that. I don’t think the Sawyers-well, I’m sure they didn’t know.’
‘No.’ Catherine inclined her head. ‘Yes, it was Morgan who told me. It was his way of ending our relationship.’
Her voice broke, and, as if understanding her distress, Morgan’s father put his hand across the table, and squeezed her wrist reassuringly. ‘You know...’ He shook his head. ‘Oh, I don’t even know your name!’
‘It’s Catherine,’ she said huskily. ‘Catherine Lambert.’
‘Well. .. Catherine? May I?’ And at her nod of assent, he continued, ‘It may be of some comfort to you to know that, as far as I know, my son has never divulged his . . .condition . . .to anyone.’
Catherine sniffed. ‘I believe you, General.”
‘General?’ His blue eyes were wry. ‘Now I’m sure Morgan didn’t tell you that.’
‘No.’ Catherine forced a small smile. ‘Your son doesn’t talk much about himself, or his family.’
‘Hmm.’ He sighed. ‘I suppose it was Kay who enlightened you. Is she a friend of yours?’
Catherine shrugged. ‘We work for the same company. I’ve known her and Denzil for about five years, I suppose.’
‘I see.’ He nodded. ‘You know then that Denzil is a sort of nephew of mine.'
‘Yes.’
‘Poor Denzil!’ General Lynch’s expression was resigned. ‘I don’t think he’s ever forgiven Morgan for having a general for a father. Denzil’s a career diplomat, and he would have so liked that distinction for himself.’
So that was why Denzil resented Morgan, Catherine thought. It explained a lot, not least his reasons for inviting Morgan to dinner. She didn’t suppose Denzil ever forgot the influence General Lynch could exert.
‘Anyway,’ went on Morgan’s father, ‘it made his day when Morgan ran away and enlisted for Vietnam. I suppose he hoped he’d never come back.’
Catherine frowned. ‘But why did Morgan run away and enlist?’ she asked.
And then, realising she was being abominably personal, she coloured. ‘I’m sorry. Forget I asked. It’s none of my business.’
‘No. I’d like to tell you,’ said the old man heavily. ‘It’s strange, but I have the feeling you know Morgan as well as anyone.’ He propped his elbow on the table, and rested his chin on his knuckles. ‘It was all my fault, you see.
I drove him to it.’
Catherine blinked. ‘You did?’
‘Yes.’ General Lynch considered his drink for a moment, and then he went on, ‘Morgan’s my only son, you see. My wife-God rest her soul!-and I had three daughters before Morgan was born.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘We’d almost given up hope of having a son, so you can imagine how delighted we were when Morgan came along.’
Catherine nodded, and he continued, ‘His sisters were quite a bit older than he was. The eldest, Maggie, is nearly fifty; Rose and Elizabeth are a few years younger? He paused. ‘They spoiled him, of course. They’d always wanted a baby brother, and Morgan only had to lift a finger to have all three of them running to do his bidding.
‘However, I didn’t like it. I worried about him. About the influence four women would have on him as he got older.’ He made a weary sound. ‘I didn’t want my son to grow up to be effeminate, lacking the kind of moral fibre I’d always instilled in the men of my command.’
He shook his head. ‘Of course, I was wrong. Morgan was gentle, and sensitive, that’s true, but never at any time did he exhibit any of the spineless tendencies I accused him of.’
Catherine caught her breath. ‘You-accused him?’
‘For my sins.’ The old man shook his head. ‘I wanted him to join the army, you see. I wanted him to go to West Point, as I had done. I wanted him to become an officer.’ He lifted his shoulders. ‘Morgan didn’t want that. He had no time for the army. 'He wanted to go to UCLA-that’s the University of Los Angeles-and study marine biology, for God’s sake! I told him, he didn’t have the brains to be a marine biologist!’ He pulled a wry face. ‘He said he supposed that was why I had become an army man.’
Catherine bit her lip. ‘So-he ran away?’
‘Not immediately, no.’ This was obviously getting harder for his father to relate, and he swallowed the remainder of the Scotch in his glass before going on. ‘There was a girl, you see.’ He grimaced. ‘There were always girls. I should have realised, a boy as . . . well, as sexually attractive as Morgan would have no trouble proving his masculinity, but I was-I still am-a stubborn old man.’ He sighed. ‘Anyway, this girl was totally unsuitable. A little gold-digger; it was obvious what she wanted. And she got it. When I forbade Morgan to see her again, it was the last straw.’
‘But-he married her, didn’t he?’ ventured Catherine cautiously and Morgan’s father conceded that he had.
‘I should have known better than to forbid him to see her,’ he said. ‘I know that now. I knew it then, but it was too late. By the time I found out what was going on, they were married, and Morgan had enlisted.'
He made a harsh sound. ‘Oh-I would have gotten him out again. I’d have moved heaven and earth to have him declared unfit to serve, but Morgan swore he’d never speak to me again if I used my influence to get him discharged. In consequence my wife invited Della-that was the girl’s name-to move into our house in Arlington-that’s near Washington-and Morgan went to Vietnam.’ He brushed a hand across his face, as if the memory was too painful to bear. ‘He was eighteen.’
‘Eighteen!’ Catherine remembered all those reports she had read about Vietnam. He had been so young.
‘Yes, eighteen,’ said General Lynch, determinedly strengthening his tone.
‘He was twenty-five when he came back. And we hardly knew him.’
Catherine licked her lips. ‘What about Della?’
‘Oh...’ Morgan’s father made a dismissive gesture. ‘She got a divorce, as soon as the news came through that Morgan was missing, believed dead.
My wife took it the hardest. Not the divorce, you understand. We were all glad to see the back of Della. But by then, Mary, my wife, had discovered that she had cancer, and she knew she would never see her son again. I think she lost the will to live.’
Catherine felt so sorry for him. Not only had he lost a son, or believed he had anyway, but he had lost his wife, too. Some punishment! she thought.
‘But-Morgan did come back,’ she reminded him, and he agreed.
‘Yes. Morgan came back. But not the Morgan who had gone away. It took some time for us-my daughters and I-to realise that he wasn’t going to get better without professional help. They called it delayed stress syndrome.
But it wasn’t just that. Morgan had spent five years in a North Vietnamese prison camp. It was a measure of his strength of will that he didn’t lose his mind.’
‘But-he was ill.’
‘Oh, yes. He suffered all the usual symptoms-alienation, rage, guilt; but it was when he tried to commit suicide that we realised he needed proper treatment. He was hospitalised, and for six months we despaired of his reason.
‘But Morgan’s a fighter.' He sniffed. ‘Imagine me saying that! Do you know, Catherine, my son has shown more courage than I ever did. I fought in the last war, I was with the liberation army that swept through France and Belgium, but I never had the kind of experiences Morgan had.’
He shook his head when the waiter came to ask if they wanted another drink, and pushed his glass aside. ‘Afterwards, when Morgan came home again, he asked if he could go and work in Florida. A friend of his, someone he knew before he went to Vietnam, had a marina down there, and Morgan wanted to help him run it.’
‘And you said no?’ Catherine was horrified.
‘No, I said yes,’ said the general defensively. ‘I let him stay there for-well, for mor
e than five years. But, you have to understand, Catherine, Morgan is my son. I wanted him to be with me. And-when I thought he was fully recovered, I suggested he return to Washington.’
‘And he did?’
‘Oh, yes. You have to understand-since...well, since Vietnam, Morgan doesn’t fight me any more. I don’t say he doesn’t want to fight me, but he kind of-humours me. Do you know what I mean? So-he came back to Washington, and, for a while, it was OK. But then-I could see the change in him, the restlessness. That was when I suggested to Denzil that he find him a job in London. I thought the change of scene might do what Washington couldn’t. It seems I was wrong.’
Catherine shivered. ‘What you said-Mango Key. That’s where he was before, isn’t it?’
‘In Florida, yes. It’s an island just off the gulf coast! He grimaced. ‘I’ve got an agent checking it out right now.’
‘An agent?’ Catherine frowned. ‘Do you mean a private detective?’
‘Something like that.’ Morgan’s father looked slightly shame-faced. ‘I didn’t want to run the risk of him seeing me and thinking I was keeping tabs on him.’
‘But you are.’
‘Only because I’m worried about him,’ replied the general impatiently.
‘Catherine, when Denzil eventually had the sense to tell me that Morgan hadn’t been in to work for the past three weeks, I was desperate. I got the next flight to London, half afraid of what I’d find.’
‘You thought he might have. . .?’
‘I didn’t know what to think. I only knew I had to come here and see for myself.'
‘And the enquiry agent?’
‘That was my way of covering all possibilities,” he said wearily. ‘Do you have any idea what it’s like spending hours in a plane, not knowing what you’re going to find at the end of it?'
‘No.’ Catherine was honest. ‘I’ve never crossed the Atlantic.’
The general regarded her with sudden intensity. ‘Would you like to?’
Catherine gasped. ‘What? To cross the Atlantic.’ It seemed a totally inappropriate question.
‘Yes.’ Morgan’s father nodded. ‘To Florida. To Tampa, actually. And from there to Mango Key.’