The Paper Marriage

by Flora Kidd

  THE PAPER MARRIAGE

  by

  FLORA KIDD

  Brooke’s hasty marriage to the disturbingly attractive Owen Meredith was one of simple convenience on both sides. He wanted a companion for his motherless daughter, she needed to get to Venezuela urgently to get news of her missing father and seized the opportunity offered to her.

  But what would happen if one of the marriage partners fell in

  love?

  CHAPTER ONE

  Coming out of the hospital where she had worked for the past two years, ever since she had qualified as a physiotherapist, Brooke Marston ran into Wendy Rowlands and they waited together for the bus which would take them through the suburbs to the part of the city on the north-west coast of England, where they both lived.

  Over the years their relationship had been casual and intermittent. Although they had known one another since primary school days and had at one time lived on the same street, they had never been close friends.

  Wendy had just changed her job and was now working in the administrative part of the hospital. She was a small young woman with large heavy-lidded eyes, dark curly hair and a lively but inquisitive mind. It was knowledge of that inquisitiveness which put Brooke on her guard so that she was not surprised when Wendy gave her a characteristic sidelong glance and said,

  “Kevin Daley’s departure for Canada was a bit of a surprise, wasn’t it? Kept us all in the dark, didn’t he?”

  She means he kept me in the dark, thought Brooke wryly, noting that Wendy still had a Welsh lilt in her voice.

  “I suppose he did,” she murmured evasively, wishing the bus would come before the conversation could develop any further along the same lines.

  The February day was damp and overcast and was having the usual dismal effect on her spirits, which had a tendency to slide downwards these days, whenever the weather was dull. Her immediate surroundings didn’t help to cheer her up either. The redbrick, soot-filmed wall surrounding the hospital buildings was high and forbidding like the wall of a prison. The old terraced houses on the opposite side of the road, also built of brick and grimed with dirt, some of their windows broken, others boarded up, looked deserted and decrepit, condemned to be demolished so that new angular columns of council flats could be erected in their place.

  Gazing at them, she was filled with a longing to escape from dreariness and ugliness, to fly away high above the grey clouds into the rarified atmosphere where the sun shone all day and to go to a land where the sea was a placid vivid blue, where mountains glowed purple against a serene sky; a magical faraway place such as she had often seen pictured in travel brochures.

  “We all thought you and he would marry one day,” Wendy’s high light voice had a curious steel-like quality like a dentist’s probe searching for an exposed nerve. Her bright brown eyes were watching for Brooke to show a change of expression in reaction to the probe, but with a great effort Brooke managed to keep her face bland and her dark blue eyes smiling and serene.

  “Why should you think that?” she asked casually. “I can’t remember ever saying that marriage to Kevin was my goal in life.”

  Wendy was temporarily disconcerted. Her brown eyes flicked away from the steady frank blue gaze.

  “But you and he - ” she began uncertainly, paused, and then began again. “You and he went about together for so long, ever since sixth form days. You took all those holidays together, hostelling. Then he was always at your flat and naturally we all assumed that one day you and he would marry.”

  Wendy sounded quite aggrieved, as if Brooke and Kevin had let everyone down by not doing the expected.

  The bus was coming at last. Brooke could see it leaving the last stop, lurching out into the stream of home-going traffic like a huge green and cream monster.

  “That’s the trouble,” she replied calmly. “People always assume. Just because Kevin and I enjoyed each other’s company and liked visiting foreign places everyone assumed. Well, they assumed wrongly.”

  Inside she was crying to herself: “Oh, Kevin, why did you do this to me? Why did you go away without telling me? Remember we always said we would tell each other everything and that there would be no secrets or lies. And if either of us wished to do something without the other we’d tell each other honestly. But you haven’t kept the bargain, and you left me here alone to face the raised eyebrows and the sniggers.”

  The bus came and stopped. Several people got off. Brooke stepped aboard and went inside, hoping that she would not have to sit beside Wendy. Fortunately there were only two empty seats, one up at the front and one at the back. Brooke chose to go up to the front one. She sat down, made her mind blank and the lumbering journey along the ring road, past numerous semi-detached houses, shops, schools and churches, passed in a blur.

  But Wendy was there waiting for her when she stepped down from the bus at her stop, and as they lived in the same direction they walked together in the cold damp air which had an unpleasant way of creeping icily round the neck and face and seeping through the warmest, thickest tweed coat, to chill the marrow of the bones, so that Brooke began to wish that she had worn a woollen cardigan under her coat and a scarf around her throat.

  “Do you remember Gwen Thomas?” asked Wendy, as she took quick tripping steps to keep up with Brooke’s long-legged saunter, as they walked beside the red sandstone wall which skirted the park, under the bare curving branches of horse- chestnut trees.

  “Yes, I do. She went to the Royal Academy of Music to study the violin,” said Brooke. “It’s ages since I last saw her.”

  “She’s been teaching music at a girls’ school in the south,” said Wendy. “But she’s home this week-end. She and Dennis Meredith have announced their engagement. Do you remember him?”

  Meredith? Meredith? The name was very familiar to Brooke. It was the surname of the little girl who had been in intensive care for almost a year at the hospital. She had been badly hurt in a car crash in which her mother had been killed instantly. For a while everyone had thought she would never walk again because the severe injuries to her back seemed to have paralysed her, but now, after Brooke’s persistent efforts, she was beginning to show signs of walking again. Her name was Megan and she was always chattering about her father and wishing he would come to see her. But he never came.

  “I think I remember Dennis. Wasn’t he one of the crowd which used to meet at The Nook on Allerton Road?”

  “That’s right. Tall and wide, with curly hair. Played Rugby Union. Welsh descent like the rest of that crowd,” replied Wendy.

  They had nearly all been of Welsh descent, Brooke remembered, and they had met regularly at a small cafe to drink tepid tea or coffee and to talk. They had all had Welsh names and their parents had attended the Welsh church. Some of them had sung in the local Welsh choir and many of the young men had played Rugby for local clubs. Gwen Thomas’s father’s claim to fame was that he had once played for Wales in a Rugby international. Not Welsh herself, Brooke had always been fascinated by their sing-song voices, their love of laughter and music.

  “Dennis is a specialist now - gynaecology. The engagement party is being held tonight at Gwen’s home. Why don’t you come?” said Wendy.

  “Oh, I couldn’t. I mean, it’s been such a long time since I last saw Gwen. She might not want... ” Brooke was floundering badly. The thought of going to a party where she might meet old acquaintances who would know about her and Kevin alarmed her.

  “Of course she’d like to see you again,” insisted Wendy. “She was asking after you last night. Wanted to know what you’re doing these days. You needn’t worry about the invitation being last-minute. I expect there’ll be a lot of gatecrashers, people who have just heard about Gwen and Dennis and turning u
p to congratulate them. Anyway, if you decide to come, give me a tinkle on the phone and we’ll share a taxi. Gwen’s parents live at Hunt’s Cross now, a bit of a problem to get there by bus.”

  They had arrived at the old sandstone house built on the edge of the park where Brooke had two rooms and a kitchenette with use of bathroom, so after saying good-bye and promising to telephone if she decided to go to the party, Brooke turned in at the gate.

  As she entered the hallway her glance went automatically to the letter rack on the wall. Nothing for her from Canada. Nothing from Venezuela, either. Slowly she went up the uncarpeted stairs feeling depression, temporarily lifted during the short conversation with Wendy, descend like a pall over her mind. A long Friday evening alone stretched before her, empty and dismal. Her morale was at a low ebb, her life suddenly without direction, and no longer was she sure of her identity.

  Taking off her coat in her living room, she went through to the kitchenette, poured some milk into a glass, grabbed a handful of biscuits from a tin and drifted back into the living room. She knew she should prepare a proper meal for herself, but somehow the incentive to do so wasn’t there any more.

  She switched on the T.V. set. A familiar face appeared - a news reader. The sound was turned down and for a few moments she watched the face mouthing unheard words. Rain lashed suddenly at the windows and the dreary dimness of the room crept up on her. Quickly she turned off the T.V. and went from the room, switching on lights as she went, desperately, not wanting to be in the gloaming because in that half-light she thought of Kevin, of his arm around her as they had sat together and had watched the flickering screen, of the warmth of his mouth against her cheek and then against her lips.

  In the bedroom a rosy-shaded lamp showed her the reflection of a tall young woman of about twenty-three with red-gold hair sweeping in a cheeky fringe across her forehead, above dark blue eyes and a retrousse nose; a face which was too thin and haggard; a mouth which drooped slightly at the corners.

  She looked a mess. Older than her years, as if something awful had happened to her. Well, awful things had happened to her emotions recently, hadn’t they? Kevin, her friend for so long, had gone away without telling her. Admittedly, their friendship had been flexible. They had tried hard not to expect too much of each other. Certainly he had not made any demands on her except to seek out her companionship at weekends and for holidays. Now she knew she had hoped for more from him, believing that he would come to love her as she loved him and that one day he would ask her to marry him. Even now she hoped to receive a letter from him asking her to join him in Canada, to go and live there with him. And when the letter came she would go, giving up her career willingly, going her own way. Independent like her father.

  Her mouth quivered and she glanced at the photograph on the dressing table. A finely-moulded face under a quiff of greying fair hair; a quiet smile on the lips and twinkling in the depths of the eyes; her father, a quiet brave man who had hidden his grief at her mother’s sudden death three years ago and had taken a job far away in Venezuela, on loan to the government there to do a geological survey on government reserves of land for mineral ore.

  And now he was missing and must be presumed dead. That was the message she had received by letter two weeks ago from the Venezuelan Department of Development in Caracas. A search had been made, but so far no trace had been found of the helicopter in which Tony Marston had been travelling. He had been swallowed up by that mysterious half-explored country which had swallowed up numerous explorers and adventurers in the past as they had searched in vain for El Dorado, the name given by the Spaniards to the mythical king of the city of Manoa, whose golden turrets were covered by a large lake, which, according to the Achagua tribe of Indians, was just around the corner, or over the next mountain ridge or on the other side of the jungle.

  “He wouldn’t think much of me now.” Brooke spoke aloud and startled herself. Apprehensively she glanced again at the photograph. Was it her imagination or did the face look more severe, rebuking her for having so little backbone? She found herself straightening her back, tilting her chin and smiling a quiet smile in reaction to that rebuke.

  Turning, she left the room, went down the stairs to the hall to ring up Wendy and tell her she would go to Gwen’s party after all. She would go just to prove to everyone that they were wrong about her, that she wasn’t carrying the torch for Kevin Daley or for any other man.

  Three hours later she was wondering how she could leave the rather noisy party without seeming rude. She was listening, or rather appeared to be listening, to a long-haired, bearded young man who was trying to impress her with his knowledge of the Welsh language. Contrarily she began to wish she had not come. It wasn’t that anyone had been unpleasant. Gwen had welcomed her warmly with that lovely smile of hers. Dennis, big and jovial, had pretended he remembered meeting her in The Nook. Other acquaintances had acknowledged her pleasantly. No one had mentioned Kevin or her father. There had been no furtive pitying glances.

  But such parties were not for her. She would have preferred to go walking in the rain. She and Kevin had shared a love for the rain and had walked in it together in many different parts of the country - in North Wales, in the Lake District, through the dales of Yorkshire, down Cheshire lanes, along the wet streets of the city, holding hands, looking at reflections in puddles.

  The young man had stopped talking and was excusing himself. He looked disgusted and impatient as he realised she hadn’t heard a word he had said. She nodded and smiled at him and searched with the toes of her right foot for the shoe out of which she had stepped for a few minutes to ease a foot which had rebelled against narrow leather straps and high clumpy heels to which it had been unaccustomed. Balancing on one foot, she reached out as far as she could without falling. No shoe!

  The young man had gone, fading into the crowd, and she was alone on the edge of a group of people. Quickly she stepped out of her other shoe and picked it up. Then she glanced around for the missing shoe. It wasn’t there. It must have been kicked aside by someone who had pushed past her. It would be lying somewhere in the midst of the crowd waiting to trip up an innocent person.

  Longing to laugh at her predicament, brought on by her bad habit of discarding her shoes whenever sitting or standing, Brooke put a hand to her mouth, glanced round to see if anyone was observing her and met the steady gaze of the man who was leaning against the wall immediately behind her.

  Shock waves quivered through her on meeting that strangely compelling gaze. For an eerie moment she felt as if there was no one else in that smoky room except herself and him. She had noticed him when he had arrived because Dennis had greeted him like a long-lost brother and Gwen had kissed him. Now his gaze was mesmerizing her. She was unable to look away and before she realized what she was doing she began to move towards him.

  He was taller than she, but not much. His shoulders were wide and bulky. His face was square, the brow craggy and lined, the nose straight and dominant, the jaw thrust out and pugnacious, the mouth enigmatic with its touch of sensuality.

  “I’ve lost a shoe,” she explained. “I wonder if you’ve seen it?”

  Now that she was nearer she could see his eyes were grey, not a clear crystal grey, but opaque, smoky, with little yellow flecks radiating out from the dark pupils. The heavy lids slanted upwards slightly at the corners. The slant was copied in his thick dark eyebrows, giving his face a somewhat diabolical cast, and the satanic impression was emphasized by the rough brown hair curling like horns above his forehead.

  “Leaving a little early, aren’t you? It isn’t midnight yet.”

  His voice was a deep purr and the cadence was unmistakably Welsh.

  “But then my name isn’t Cinderella,” she retorted sweetly.

  His grin was quick and appreciative. He had been holding one hand behind his back, but now he moved and held it out. In it was a

  wisp of green leather and cork soling - her shoe.

  “Is this it?�
�� he asked with a questioning tilt of slanting eyebrows.

  “Yes, it is. Thank you.” She reached out a hand to take it from him, but with a swift movement he raised his hand high in the air, out of her reach.

  “Oh no, you don’t get it that easily, girl,” he said softly, and devilment gleamed in his eyes. “I have to try it on your foot first to make sure it’s really yours. If it fits you then you’re the one I’ve been looking for.”

  A shiver tingled down her spine, but she did not show that she was disconcerted. Considering him coolly she wondered if perhaps he had had too much to drink and would possibly make a scene if she refused to do as he suggested. Probably the best way to humour him would be to sit down somewhere and let him fit the shoe on her foot.

  “No, I’m not drunk,” he said with devastating insight into her thoughts. “But it would be wise if you humoured me. I can make quite a scene when I want to.”

  Brooke stepped back a pace, astonished because he could read her thoughts so accurately.

  “You can put it down to the Celt in me. We’re supposed to have a highly developed extra sense, so I’m told,” he went on, answering her thought as if she had spoken it aloud. “Come into the hall. You can sit on the stairs. Unless you’d prefer to go home in your stockinged feet?”

  “Just as you wish, Mr. ... er ...?” replied Brooke coolly, as she turned and went into the hallway.

  “Meredith - Owen Meredith. Second cousin of Dennis. I’m from the unrespectable renegade branch of the family, turning up like a bad penny when least expected,” he said with a touch of selfmockery.

  “Oh. Weren’t you invited?” she asked in chilly tones as she glided across the shining parquet floor to the stairs.

  “Not really. I only arrived in Britain a few days ago from South America. Came up here by train this afternoon from London. Heard about Dennis and Gwen and came over here to offer my congratulations. Sit on the fourth stair and hold out your right foot.”

  She did as she was told, not thinking it strange any more. The light