Son of Adam
by
MARGARET ROME
“You must not fall in love with me!”
Marc Blais’s warning annoyed Dove, especially as he added,
“However much you are tempted.”
Of all the vain, conceited men, she thought indignantly. She was in the Middle East to look after Sheik Rahma’s children, not to entice the tough exLegionnaire in charge of the oil kingdom’s security. Besides, she had no desire to fall in love with an experience-scarred woman hater.
“You are in no danger from me,” she answered him coldly. “Absolutely no danger at all.”
CHAPTER ONE
Dove manoeuvred her white Mini into a parking space outside her parents’ shop and before alighting sat for a moment contemplating the plate-glass window behind which was displayed an assortment of magazines, paperbacks, dummy packs of various brands of cigarettes and tobacco, and the usual array of wide-necked glass jars filled with sweets, chewing gum and other novelties guaranteed to tempt children to part with their pocket money.
She frowned. Things looked the same yet were in some way different. She tried to pinpoint the indefinable change and discovered a clue in a bedraggled bow of scarlet ribbon lying limp against the lid of a chocolate box, and a second in the curled-up yellowed pages of magazines left too long exposed to the sun. As she stepped out of the car to peer closely through the window her misgivings grew. A grimy veil of dust had settled upon the window display, unwrapped sweets had been allowed to melt inside of jars and then solidify into a hard, permanent mass; magazines and books were the ones she herself had set out when helping to change the window last time she was home, four months ago, and stuck in one corner was a dusty cardboard box, its contents shimmering in the sun. Christmas tree baubles on display in the middle of April! Undoubtedly some misfortune had befallen her meticulous father and her fanatically tidy mother.
Hurriedly she swung on her heel and almost ran around the corner of the building towards a side door that gave access to the flat above the shop, feeling a mixture of exasperation and worry, prepared to reprimand her father for omitting any reference to trouble during their weekly chats on the telephone. Her mother had always been inclined to be vague and latterly even more so, but that could be due to age. Still pretty, still winsome, she had over the years clung like clematis around her sturdy oak of a husband, relying utterly upon his decisiveness, trusting completely in his judgment, blossoming so much in his care that she was able occasionally to indulge in the small vanity of assuring passing customers: ‘I’m sixty-five years old, you know!’ then preening as they voiced genuine disbelief.
Music from a transistor drowned Dove’s entry into the flat. She traced the sound to the kitchen and stood for a moment in the doorway watching her mother’s unusually slow movements as she prepared vegetables for lunch. Dove’s frown deepened as she recalled watching her mother preparing Christmas dinner last time she was home, the way her nimble fingers had stripped sprouts of their outer leaves, had diced carrots and crumbled bread for stuffing, then how, when a favourite tune had been played on the radio, she had swung gaily from the sink to demonstrate the intricate steps of an old tyme dance—a pastime to which both parents were addicted.
‘Mother!’ Dove spoke loudly to combat the sound of music.
The knife clattered from her mother’s hand as she swung from the sink. ‘Dove,’ she gasped, slumping against the unit, ‘how you startled me!’
Dove hurried to slip a supporting arm around her mother’s waist. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. Sit down, you look quite ashen.’ She scanned her face while levering her into a chair, wondering with quick concern how it was possible for a person to age ten years in a matter of months. Retaining her shaking hands in her own warm clasp, she pulled forward a stool and sat down opposite. Gently she reproved, ‘Mother, you’ve obviously not been well. Why wasn’t I told?—you know I would have come home immediately had I had the least inkling.’
Her mother’s eyes brightened. Lifting a hand to Dove’s head, she smoothed her fingers over silken strands of hair. ‘Silver in moonlight, gold in the sun,’ she murmured inconsequentially. ‘I know you would have come home, child, but the need has never arisen. I can’t imagine why you should think I’ve been ill.’
‘Now, Mother!’ Dove’s tone was gently determined. ‘Something is wrong, I’m convinced of it. Are you going to tell me without a struggle or must I prise it out of you?’
‘You’re so clever at that, my darling,’ her mother sighed, ‘gently intimidating, quite as determined as your father, though without his autocratic manner which some misguided people regard as arrogance. Why can’t others see him as we do?’ She gulped. ‘Why can’t these petty officials who pester us acknowledge that a man who for years was an Army major can’t be expected to tolerate any infringement upon his liberty, nor to allow any interference in his private affairs? Now that he’s a civilian he’s entitled to run his own life in his own way.’ Bright spots of colour appeared in her cheeks, as rather shrilly she spilled out her indignation. ‘Life in married quarters was no picnic, as some people were inclined to think. Granted, we Army wives had the excitement of travel, the satisfaction of being close to our husbands, and a comradeship unequalled in civilian life, yet we were bound always by irksome rules which, for the good of the community, had to be upheld, and for twenty years we put up with them. But now circumstances are very different. As your father quite rightly pointed out, he’s no longer bound by regulations, he’s entitled to make his own decisions and to run his business in any way he thinks fit.’
As her mother’s spate of words threatened to escalate into a torrent, Dove held out a delaying hand. ‘One moment, Mother,’ she interrupted, feeling a stirring of dismay. ‘Who’s Father been crossing swords with? Not the Inland Revenue inspector again!
The question was answered when her mother rose to her feet, erect and bridling. ‘Who else?’ She looked fiercely ready to defend her absent husband from criticism, however gentle. ‘Isn’t he the one who persistently hounds him for money he doesn’t possess? Who’s harassed and worried him to such an extent that he no longer has any appetite? I needn’t remind you how much your father enjoyed his food, yet for three whole days now he’s eaten no more than a couple of crackers and a tiny piece of cheese. Oh, Dove ...!’ Suddenly the fight went out of her and she collapsed into a chair, covered her face with her hands and began sobbing. ‘I’m so worried about your father, darling, thank God you’ve come home! Perhaps you’ll be able to find a solution— we’re both of us too old to be worried in this way. At our age we need peace and contentment, not this dreadful, never-ending strife!’
Thankful that her father was being kept occupied in the shop below, Dove set about consoling her mother, and after numerous cups of tea and assurances—given with fingers crossed—that she would personally see to it that matters were straightened out, she finally persuaded her to continue with her preparations for lunch, so that when at precisely twelve-thirty, not a second earlier nor later, her father practised his habitual custom of reversing the Open sign on the door to show Closed, pulled down the blind and turned the key firmly in the lock, lunch would be ready to serve and the hour’s break he allowed himself would not be wasted. She would need to probe, she realised, deeply and carefully as a surgeon with a scalpel, until she unearthed all the relative information about his financial position. He would resent her questioning, would pooh-pooh the idea that she, a mere slip of a girl, could resolve a situation he seemingly could not. Donald Grey expected of his womenfolk only that they be decorative and indulge in gentle feminine pursuits. ‘Measure a man by his stand at time of challenge’, he had often stated, secure in the knowledge that he had never been found want
ing. Great tact would be needed if his burden were to be eased without sacrifice to his pride.
The table was laid and lunch ready to be served when Donald Grey stomped up the stairs and into the flat. For a moment, since he was unaware of Dove’s presence, his stature and expression epitomised depression. Never had she seen his upright, soldierly figure so stooped, his elderly handsome face so ravaged with worry. With eyebrows beetling beneath a thatch of thick grey hair, he glanced around the room, then spotted Dove, who was waiting, slightly smiling, to be noticed.
‘Dove, sweetheart! When did you arrive? Why didn’t you tell me she was here?’ he reproved his wife. ‘Wanted to keep her all to yourself, eh?’
‘Of course not, Donald,’ she laughed, delighted that Dove’s presence had brought back the sparkle to his eyes and a return of the teasing banter she loved. ‘She arrived a bare half hour ago, I haven’t had the opportunity even to ask her whether this is a flying visit or a break between jobs. Let’s all sit down at the table, shall we? We can talk after we’ve eaten.’
Whether from genuine hunger or simply to allay suspicion, Mr. Grey ate a hearty meal, then, replete and seemingly contented, he pushed away his plate, leant back in his chair, then instructed his daughter fondly, ‘Now, young woman, I want to hear all your news, how your employer has been treating you and how you’ve managed with your current crop of babies.’
He waited, his eyes upon her face, and was rewarded by a sight that always delighted him, a rogue dimple that appeared at the corner of her mouth whenever she smiled.
‘My late employer was one of the very best,’ Dove supplied, ‘and as for the infants, they’re now aboard ship with their mother, who’s decided she can no longer bear to be separated from her husband, so she’s gone to Iran to join him.’
‘So wise of her,’ her mother nodded approval. ‘A wife’s place is by her husband’s side, wherever his job may take him, and children, provided they’re healthy, will thrive in any climate and under any conditions. It often irked me, my dear,’ she sighed, ‘that you had to be left in England while your father and I were abroad, but you were never a robust child and as our doctor was so adamantly against your going with us to Lagos, where your father was posted when you were five years old, we had no choice but to leave you at boarding school.’
Dove frowned. As usual, whenever this subject was mentioned, her mother sounded apologetic, even guilty.
‘I understand, Mother,’ she reassured her. ‘I enjoyed my years at boarding school.’
‘Well then,’ her father interrupted, ‘what happens now?’
She shrugged. ‘I get another job.’
‘As easily as that?’ he laughed. ‘Aren’t you being rather a conceited puss?’
‘Not really,’ she answered. ‘As it happens, the popularity of the job I’ve been trained to do has hit an all-time low. Very few girls, it seems, wish to take up child nursing, and while one might imagine that the practice of employing nannies has waned, the reverse is actually the case. Demand far exceeds the supply.’
Looking obviously gratified, her mother stood up and began gathering up the plates. ‘Such a fitting occupation for a young woman, I’ve always thought. Your father and I spent many hours deliberating upon which profession would be most suitable for a girl of your Cloistered upbringing, and I must say we’re delighted with our choice. So refined, so genteel ...”
Dove winced from the description. ‘It’s hardly that, Mother! Today’s children are very advanced, some are appalling little horrors—you’d never believe some of the remarks I’ve heard passed in the nursery! But enough about me, I want to hear all your news.’ She turned her attention upon her father. ‘Tell me, how is business?’
His face clouded. Glancing quickly at his watch, he rose as if to leave, but his wife forestalled him. Hurriedly, conscious of imminent argument, she offered, ‘I’ll open up the shop while you stay and chat to Dove,’ then she whipped off her apron and almost ran out of the flat, leaving Dove alone with her surprised, a trifle resentful
father.
Deciding that to skirt around the subject would be a waste of time, she grabbed it by the neck by demanding in a calm, determined manner, ‘How much do you owe the tax people, Father, and why hasn’t it been paid?’
A shadow of hauteur crossed his features as he treated her to the sort of look an officer might bestow upon a dissident subordinate. But when her steady grey gaze did not falter he slumped against the back of his chair, a weary soldier, grey with battle fatigue. ‘The money hasn’t been paid because I refused from the very beginning to submit to becoming an unpaid tax collector on behalf of the Government. This value added tax is iniquitous, the amount of work entailed is a diabolical infringement of the small amount of spare time left to a man once the business of the day is done. Do you know,’ he shot up straight, blue eyes glaring, ‘that when the tax was first imposed they actually had the effrontery to send round an official who was supposed to show me how to keep my own books! Naturally I sent him away with a flea in his ear.’
He snorted. ‘Never in my life have I asked help of anyone, and all I want is to be left alone to run my business, to provide for myself and your mother. Neither of us hanker after luxuries—having travelled extensively we have no wish to holiday abroad, no desire for a car, no inclination to dine in expensive restaurants, so our needs are very simple and we’ve managed very nicely with the income from the shop. We were enjoying a comfortable existence until January of this year when the first of the officials from the Inland Revenue paid us a visit demanding arrears of tax which he insisted ought to have been paid in previous years. I ordered him out, of course, but persistently he returned to harass, to question, to demand. My mind was reduced to such a state of turmoil I found myself unable to concentrate upon the shop—it’s become badly neglected, as you’ll no doubt see for yourself—but the amount of money demanded was so exorbitant I felt certain I was the victim of some official blunder. Then last week I received this letter.’ From his inner pocket he withdrew a well-thumbed sheet of paper and silently handed it to Dove. She unfolded it, glanced at the official crest dominating the page, then read its stilted, typewritten message.
Colour drained from her face before she had finished reading. It was worse than she had steeled herself to expect. Disjointed sentences jumped out of the written page—lack of co-operation; unwillingness to accept guidance; adamant refusal to settle outstanding debt; no alternative but to put matters in the hands of the Official Receiver!
‘Am I right in suspecting,’ her father’s usually resonant voice quavered like a child’s, ‘that our home and business will be put up for sale in order so that they can recover the amount they insist I owe them? ’
Dove drew in a shuddering breath. ‘It won’t be allowed to come to that, Father,’ she choked, ‘it mustn’t be! I’ll visit the office myself, offer to pay off the debt in small instalments,’ she carried on eagerly, half of her mind juggling with finances, calculating what amount could be spared out of her salary. Already she had amassed a small nest-egg by saving a regular amount each month. With a living-in job expenses could be trimmed to a minimum, so she could quite easily afford to double the amount she
was already saving.
Relaxing a little, she sent her father a reassuring smile. ‘Don’t worry, darling, between us we’ll clear off the debt in no time. How much is it, by the way?’
His answer had the effect of a vicious hand clutching her throat and squeezing hard. ‘How ... how much did you say?’ Smoke-grey eyes pleading to be told he had just indulged in some sort of macabre joke.
‘Four thousand pounds,’ was his heavy, despairing reply. ‘That’s the amount I must find if your mother and I are not to be left homeless and without means of support.’ Dove’s spirits zoomed to zero. How on earth could a children’s nurse be expected to raise such a huge amount? With the best will in the world, a well-paid job, and practising stringent economies, it would still take the better part of ten
years to accumulate all that money. Unless ...! She was almost afraid to ponder further, but tentatively she forced herself to recall some of the stories Jennifer Pedder, a close friend since schooldays, had recounted about the vast sums of money being offered to English girls working in the Arab States. The information was first-hand because Jennifer, herself an air hostess, had been the recipient of lavish tips from generous oil sheikh passengers. Other hostesses, Jennifer had assured her, who had been dated by wealthy young Arabs had fared even better—one girl had received a three-thousand-pound bracelet simply for allowing herself to be escorted to one of the world’s finest restaurants, eating a delicious dinner, and lending an attentive ear to her Arab host’s troubles.
‘A three-thousand-pound bracelet just for that!’ Dove had queried suspiciously.
‘So she said,’ Jennifer had shrugged, ‘and having seen for myself the way these oil sheikhs throw their money about I find it hard not to believe her.’
‘Daddy,’ Dove swallowed hard, ‘do you know if Jennifer Pedder is home?’
‘What ...? Er—who ...?’ He had been so deep in thought she had to repeat the question. ‘Oh, that school friend of yours! Yes, I often see her about—I was talking to her only last week. She’s based at London Airport, I believe, so as that’s a mere thirty miles away I expect she comes home pretty frequently. Why not phone her home and ask?’
‘I’ll do that!’ Dove reached a sudden decision.
‘Don’t worry, Daddy,’ she stopped in passing to run consoling fingers through his hair. ‘Go downstairs and give Mummy a hand in the shop—no sense in your brooding alone up here.’ She hesitated, then continued cautiously. ‘I don’t want to say too much at this stage in case I should raise false hopes, but I think I may have found a solution to our problem. Nothing definite as yet,’ she added hastily when his head jerked up, ‘just a barely formed idea shimmering, as it were, upon the horizon.’ Jennifer was home and delighted to hear from her. ‘Come over!’ she pressed. ‘I’m sunbathing in the garden, we can have a lovely long natter.’
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