An Affair to Remember

by Virginia Budd

  They’ve pushed her too far, he’s sure of that. If only they’d let him see her he knows he could have been of help, but that charlatan, Moss, had been adamant. Claiming without a vestige of evidence that at this stage for them to meet would be dangerous. How did he know? The answer of course was he didn’t, he’d been working in the dark like everyone else, he simply thought that in his so-called capacity of expert he had to exert his authority. And now of course it was too late. Tomorrow his beloved would be carted off in an ambulance by the men in white coats, as old Mrs Hodgkins who lived at the corner of Kitchener Road when he was a boy, used to call them, and incarcerated in some ‘nice, quiet nursing home’, where she’d be drugged and interrogated by another posse of so-called experts and he would never see her again.

  What could he do? What could he bloody do? His tired mind simply refuses to function. Too much had happened; too much to take in. As far as the ‘finds’ under Tavey’s tree were concerned, the thought that for all those centuries the area had been used as a dumping ground for the neighbourhood’s unwanted babies simply made him feel sick, and he had to admit he cared little or nothing for the historical implications of the dig and its aftermath. All he cared about was Beatrice.

  What about Petrus, then? He did, or thought he did, feel something about Petrus. ‘Go in Peace’ someone had scratched hopefully on the casket containing his remains, sending the little boy on his way with two coins, a silver cup and for good measure a pagan torque. Had they helped ease his passage into another world, he wonders, as through a mist of rain he looks morosely out on the dark garden. A flash of lightning illuminates the monkey puzzle, followed by a hefty burst of thunder and he feels a cool hand on his shoulder.

  “It’s been a long day,” Clarrie says, from behind him, “are you feeling okay?”

  “A bit dazed, Mrs Woodhead, and wondering what to do next, that’s all.”

  “For heaven’s sake call me Clarrie.”

  “Sorry. Clarrie. It’s as though I’m in a sort of limbo. When my wife… Emmie told me this afternoon we weren’t married after all, it seemed marvellous news, I thought I could see the way forward, everything was clear, but now…”

  Clarrie sits down beside him, takes his hand. “But that was good news, surely? You and Beatrice can get married now and –”

  “But can we?” Sam’s eyes are those of a hurt and bewildered child. “There is no Beatrice now, only this, this Octavia,” the words come out in a sort of hiss. Clarrie shivers in spite of herself.

  “Now that’s defeatist nonsense, Sam Mallory, and you know it. Of course Beatrice will come back, and very soon too. After all the dig was successful – they found what they needed to find. Surely, now, the curse is broken.”

  “We don’t know that, do we? I mean nothing’s happened yet to show us it has.”

  “It must be – surely…?” Sam doesn’t reply, and for a while they sit in depressed silence. The rain’s eased off a little. The party behind them is breaking up, its members wearily making their way upstairs to bed, goodnights called, bedroom lights coming on. Clarrie, unable to think of anything very positive more to say, is about to suggest they too retire, when Sam, with all the appearance of someone who after a struggle has finally come to a decision, lowering his voice, despite there being no one there to hear but Clarrie, asks:

  “What you said this morning – do you still believe it? That I, otherwise Brian, have to perform some task before the curse is broken? Or do you think that now they’ve found the baby everything’s changed? As you haven’t mentioned the idea again, I thought you must have abandoned it, but I’ve been thinking about it all day – even while all those other things were happening. And although at the moment I can’t quite get to grips with it, I’m becoming more and more convinced you were right.”

  Clarrie swallows nervously. She knows she must be very, very careful. Dr Moss had been adamant that no one must try out any unsupervised therapy with Beatrice or Sam. It was dangerous and the consequences could be grave. “Leave these things to the professionals, my dear,” he’d told her, when she’d tried to voice an opinion on the matter, “contrary to what the majority of people believe, we do know what we’re doing – most of the time anyway.”

  “To be honest, I don’t know whether I was right or not,” she says at last, “but I do know it’s something you have to work out for yourself. For what it’s worth I think you probably will and what’s more, when you have, it’ll be the right decision. Now, if I don’t take myself off to bed pronto I’ll be in no fit state to face the rigours of tomorrow. Goodnight, dear Sam, and good luck.”

  Sam, surprising himself, leans forward and kisses her on the lips. “Goodnight, dear Clarrie, and thank you.”

  “What for?” she asks, rising to her feet.

  “I’m not quite sure,” he says, watching her go, “being yourself, I think And if poor old Brian had had someone like you around things might have gone a little better for him.”

  He hears her laughter as she disappears into the shadows behind him. “Don’t be too long and don’t forget to switch the lights off.”

  He’d have one more cigarette, he decides, and then turn in. But before he does he needs to work out his campaign. Curiously at peace now, he knows what that campaign has to be, but like all good generals he must first work out the details.

  *

  “And what were you and the mad major talking about?” asks Sel. “I’d a mind to come and rescue you.”

  “He’s not mad, Sel, you mustn’t call him that.” Clarrie kisses her husband’s belly button. They’re lying naked on the Louis Quinze bed, thunder still rumbling away outside. “And I didn’t need rescuing. Sam was telling me a bit about his so-called marriage, that’s all.”

  “Oh that. Well it was certainly an odd business. I gather the woman is probably going back to husband number one, and good luck to her. Clarrie, darling?”

  “Yes?”

  “I have an odd feeling that today’s excitements have somehow got my adrenalin on the move. If you don’t mind too much I think I’d like to have a go at testing my manhood.”

  “That’s one way of putting it.” Rolling obediently on to her back, Clarrie smiles into the darkness.

  Sid Parfitt snores quietly into Emmie’s ear, and she too smiles into the darkness. She’d forgotten Sid snored; such a comfort somehow, you felt safe with a man who snores, she thinks, as she drifts away into unconsciousness.

  Ron, Philippa and Izzy Moss, in their respective beds, sleep the sleep of the just and inebriated. Today has been quite a day and who knew what tomorrow would bring. And Beatrice? Well, Beatrice lies on her back, angry eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. Fools, she thinks, fools.

  Sam alone is awake. Not since he was a boy of twenty, waiting with his platoon to go over the side at Suez, has he felt an adrenalin buzz like this, as fully dressed, he stands at his bedroom window running through final details of his plan. The rain has stopped, but the night sky remains wild and stormy and it looks as if there’s more to come: water gurgles in the overflowing gutter above his head. Out in the garden a black shape crosses the shaggy grass beneath the window; he watches it in wonder as it disappears round the corner of the house. He’s never seen a fox in the wild before, town boy that he is, and finds it somehow comforting to think of all the wild creatures there must be round about, quietly carrying on their lives undeterred by the idiotic activities of the human race. He looks at his watch. Two am. Everything seems quiet. Surely people will be safely asleep by now. All Systems Go, then! Bracing himself, Sam takes a deep breath and, shoes in hand, opens the bedroom door.

  Phase One of the plan and the first setback. Downstairs he discovers the door to the office, where the casket and its precious contents is being kept overnight, is locked. Of course Sel would have locked it, it was obvious; so why, fool that he is, had he not made preparations for this? Fine general he’d make! Never mind, no use wasting time backtracking, or he’d never get anywhere, and it sh
ouldn’t be too hard to find some sort of tool in the kitchen with which to break the lock. He’d just have to hope against hope they hadn’t tightened up security even more and put the casket in the office safe. If they had, then he’s well and truly up the creek. Not to worry – he’ll jump that fence if and when he comes to it.

  After a prolonged and fruitless search, however, the kitchen refuses to yield up any suitable tools, and he has to make do with a miscellaneous assortment of utensils he finds in a drawer next to the fridge. Armed with these – a knife, an ice pick and an instrument used for the purpose of extracting flesh from the claws of a lobster – he hurries back up the passage to Sel’s office, thanking heaven that years ago he’d done an army course in undercover activities. Back then he remembers feeling this to be a complete waste of time and no doubt it was, however everything comes round in the end. Included in the curriculum had been a session on how to force locks, enabling him – despite the lack of proper tools and the complicated locking system, Sel was obviously taking no chances – to force this particular one with the practised ease of a master burglar. Once inside the room, using the torch brought with him from the kitchen (better not use the lights) the first thing he sees is the casket, covered in a cloth, reposing on Sel’s desk. Offering up a silent prayer, he embarks on Phase Two.

  Phase Two consists of checking the object is still in the casket – it is, although the torque round the baby’s neck and the two coins have been removed – and then packing the whole thing safely and securely in the canvas satchel he found in the downstairs cloakroom on his way up to bed earlier. The bag, of the sort used by sportsmen as a receptacle for any game they may be lucky enough to have slaughtered, turns out to be just the thing, and it’s only a matter of minutes before he has the casket, packed tightly round with the contents of Sel’s overflowing waste paper basket, a couple of dusters from a drawer in the desk and a copy of yesterday’s Times safely inside it and the bag itself slung securely round his shoulders.

  Now for Phase Three and by far the most complicated exercise; namely, the kidnapping of Beatrice. He re-checks his watch. Half an hour on the job already, but still on schedule. Will he make it before dawn? He must, there’s no option, once morning comes it will be too late.

  Beatrice’s bedroom door too is locked; Dr Moss was obviously taking no chances. Not to worry, he’d soon have it open. And despite the horrendous clatter made when the ice pick accidentally slipped out of his hand on to the polished floor outside Beatrice’s door – he’d stood, frozen, waiting for someone to appear in a dressing gown and ask what was going on; no one did, thank God – it doesn’t take long before he’s in.

  For a moment, when he sees the inert figure on the bed, her blonde hair spread out over the pillow, such a wave of love, and pity at her vulnerability, catches at his throat, his courage fails him. But he remembers Clarrie’s words and knows that he must carry on whatever the outcome, there really is no other option. Carefully divesting himself of the precious satchel, which he places on a chair by the door, torch in hand, he approaches the bed.

  “Piss off, you oaf!”

  “Beatrice, darling, it’s me, Sam. Please don’t be afraid, I’m here to rescue you.” Far from being afraid or for that matter pleased, his words have the effect of releasing a stream of obscene invective from the figure in the bed, some of which he can make out, some he’s glad he can’t. Luckily the words come out in a sort of harsh whisper – has her voice gone, or is it the drugs? At least she’s not going to wake up the entire household. Crouching beside the bed, unable to think of a way of stemming the flow, he lets it wash over him until gradually shock and incredulity at his beloved’s behaviour gives way to a proper understanding of what he’s up against. Sure, he’d accepted the fact his self-appointed task would be difficult, but he somehow hadn’t banked that in the early stages of his plan at least it would be Tavey, not Beatrice, he’d be dealing with. Again of course, he should have done. OK. If that’s how she wants to play it, then that’s how it’s going to be played – when in Rome and all that. So… here goes. Accepting the fact that any efforts on his part to calm her at this juncture will be useless – how come she knows such filth? – as quietly and efficiently as he can, under what can only be described as pretty trying circumstances, Sam gets on with the job.

  First and foremost he must keep her quiet. She’s plainly still partially drugged with whatever fiendish potion Dr Moss has dosed her with, but the effect of the drug is beginning to wear off, and to get her out of the bed, let alone dressed and out of the house, is undoubtedly going to be some struggle. She’s already trying to sit up. Half lying across her he manages to hold her down, and using his handkerchief and several tissues from the box conveniently placed on the bedside table, he succeeds in making a gag. This, although far from satisfactory, for the time being at least, manages to successfully shut her up. Beneath him Tavey lies rigid with shock and fury, her long fingernails reaching out for his eyes.

  The ensuing scuffle leaves Sam breathless and limp, but somehow or other victorious. Halfway through it he’d genuinely lost his temper, a thing he very rarely did, and this had undoubtedly given impetus to the struggle. Certainly from then on Tavey seems to accept the fact that despite his role as much reviled interloper, he is now her master, and as such must be given, albeit grudgingly, a certain respect. Indeed, as he struggles with the zip on the skirt he finds in a pile of clothes on the bathroom floor – it looks as if Moss too must have experienced a struggle before giving his patient the knockout drops – he fancies he detects a spark of admiration in her eyes.

  It’s nearly 3.30 am by the time Sam, leading his prisoner, now fully clothed and attached to him by a belt fastened round her waist, emerges at last into the yard. The wind has started to rise; the storm, having rumbled away over the hill for an hour or two, is on its way back. Amazingly, despite the racket they made getting downstairs, and him having to rummage in the cloakroom for suitable outdoor gear, including a woolly hat for Beatrice which she instantly took exception to, no one in the household seemed to have woken up. He looks doubtfully at her, docile now after the struggle over the hat, and staring up at the great barn and trees behind it as though she’d never seen them before. Would she manage the walk in all this weather? Well, she’d have to. To take a car would be out of the question; there could be trees down, anyway it would be impossible to drive safely and cope with her as well.

  Phase Four at last then! They’d made it so far; they’d bloody well make it to the end. Turning up his coat collar, Sam tugs smartly on the belt and in his best military voice orders his prisoner to follow him. Behind them in Tavey’s tree the rooks, their frail perches swaying dangerously in the rising wind, feathers fluffed out, their eyes bright with fear and foreboding, await the coming storm.

  By the time they reach the Grove it’s after four. The rain had started just after they’d crossed the bridge, bringing with it the storm, this time angrier than ever. Sam’s never seen such lightning, even in the tropics, and as they’d struggled up the lane lashed by the full force of rain and wind, he’d looked wonderingly at his companion, trudging stoically behind him, her face obscured by the hood of her duffle coat. She hadn’t spoken since they’d left Brown End, but gave no sign of being frightened by the force of the storm. Indeed, after one particularly bright flash of lightning, she’d taken a quick look up at the sky and he’d seen quite clearly that she was smiling.

  On reaching the Grove they shelter under the trees for a few minutes, in the hope the rain might let up. Sam lights a damp cigarette while Tavey squats on a log muttering to herself. Please God, he prays, as rain drips down his face, and thunder crashes overhead, she’d turn back into Beatrice soon. However, like the storm, there’s as yet no sign of change. His cigarette having gone out, and unable to light another as the matches are now wet too, he decides to push on. They’d better get going anyway, or they’d never make it before daylight. He gives a tug at the belt: “On your feet, Sunshine, it
won’t be long now…”

  Downhill is better; the hedges bordering the lane are higher and help to shelter them from the worst of the wind, although there’s a sticky moment when a sizable branch crashes across the road only a few feet away. To Sam’s relief, Tavey seems unfazed. Perhaps, he finds himself thinking, as they weave their way through fallen debris, happenings such as this were the norm in her world. Certainly, despite her well-heeled background, whichever way you looked at it ordinary, everyday life must have been one hell of a lot tougher than it is today.

  Just before they reach the village, they leave the lane and take a footpath leading across the fields between it and the river. He’s almost sure that if they follow it, at some point they should come to one that heads uphill to the churchyard. They don’t want to be seen by anyone and he’s taking no chances. The storm now appears to be more or less directly overhead; thunder following lightning in quick succession with no gap between, great gusts of wind tearing viciously into the trees. The ground squelches beneath their feet and leaves, having not yet reached their autumn fall, whirl teasingly into their faces. After a few hundred yards he’s beginning to think he’s made a mistake; there isn’t a path to the church after all; they’ll have to follow the one they’re on to the far end of the village, then walk back; when he sees it. At right angles to their path is a narrow, well-trodden track leading uphill across the field to a small wicket gate set in the boundary fence of the church yard. Thank God for that!

  Half way across the field, following a flash of lightning that illuminates the landscape in such a way the church ahead looks as though it’s floodlit, there’s such a crash of thunder that even the intrepid Sam cries out. The noise reverberates round the hills, seemingly coming from the direction of Brown End. Tavey whimpers: for the first time showing fear, and Sam, unable to stop himself, risks putting his arm round her. “We’re almost there, my love,” he shouts into the storm, “no need for worry.” She turns to look at him and in the ensuing flash of lighting, he’s almost sure she’s smiling.