Miss Columbine and Harley Quinn

by Hilton, Margery

  Miss Columbine and Harley Quinn by Margrery Hilton

  `She's waiting for Harlequin,' they said of young Shelley Columbine, but Shelley didn't mind — she was used to teasing about her unusual name. She didn't mind — much — being the odd one out and the dogsbody among her sophisticated older cousin Samantha and her sophisticated London friends, until a cruel practical joke on their part landed her in the most embarrassing situation of her life, with the sardonic, intriguing heart-wrecker, the unpredictable Harley Quinn!

  Printed in Great Britain

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the Author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the Author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

  The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  First published 1970

  This edition 1979

  This edition @ Margery Hilton 1979

  ISBN 0 263 73100 6

  CHAPTER I

  THE girls in the basement flat at 17 Kelvynton Mews were giving another party. The room was dim, warm and smoky, and surprisingly quiet apart from the sulky tones of a record player tuned down to a muted volume. On a side table draped with a large flag which had once flown proudly over a distinguished Colonial outpost were several bottles in varying degrees of emptiness, a half-spilled bag of potato crisps and an ornate silver entrée dish bearing the name of a certain famous hotel and now holding a wilting assortment of savouries.

  Two couples were dancing almost without motion in the small cleared space centre of the room, two brogue-shod feet and a slender nyloned leg which gave an occasional wiggle protruded over the end of a sofa in one shadowy corner, and on top of a step-ladder near the door was perched a man who wore an orange shirt and a pair of dusty, most un-partylike corduroy pants. His hair was untidy and fell in a heavy wisp over his brow, and his face was thin and intent over a slowly revolving gadget clipped to a small spotlight suspended above the door.

  It provided the only illumination in the room, an ever-moving kaleidoscope of swirling patterns and dissolving shapes that played like a fantastic snow-storm of red and amber and green and blue over walls and ceiling and faces. The man in the orange shirt touched something in the mechanism he had rigged and for a few moments the colour ceased and an oval of warm light slowly diminished and centred on the face of a girl who looked strangely alone by the side of the record player.

  Perhaps it was the hypnotic quality of light in perpetual motion which had induced her state of detachment, but it was not the entire cause of Shelley being far away in thought and space. She had just discovered, a shattering truth about

  life and her place in it. She had realised that none of what was happening in the room about her had anything to do with her, and that it never would. Having faced this disturbing conclusion she was now uncertain whether she should be experiencing wild relief or darkest despair.

  All those letters she had written home to Aunt Lou had been fiction born of her own illusions. The fun it was sharing a flat with her cousin Samantha and Coralie; all the exciting people they met and the parties they gave. But Samantha and her friend Coralie met the exciting people; they were the party throwers, Shelley thought wryly. Her contribution towards tonight had consisted as usual of a bottle of vin rosé she couldn't really afford and making herself as unobtrusive as possible. Well, it wasn't her fault that she couldn't think of bright replies to every remark that was made to her, was it?

  'Shelley!'

  `She's gone to a wake again, darling. Don't wake her.'

  Automatically she reached out and flipped over the record on the turntable. A protesting groan greeted the sound and she realised she'd already played that side. Remote to the derisive howl, she riffled through the wire rack of records and selected a sultry blues. With appropriate sighs of ecstasy the couples swooned into each other's arms and Shelley resumed her soul-baring moments of truth.

  Everything had proved so different from what she had imagined when she had first succeeded in persuading Aunt Lou to let her make the trek to the big city and the wonderful swinging freedom which awaited her there. Her cousin had tasted that freedom for almost a whole year, ever since she had overcome the family's objections to her pursuing her chosen career in art. After that, how could Shelley be left behind? But it had taken almost a year of pleading before Aunt Lou had relented. Samantha was twenty-one; Shelley was only seventeen, and Aunt Lou wouldn't dream of allowing it before Shelley was at least eighteen. And even then Aunt Lou had been reluctant, because of the deeper sense of responsibility she felt towards her niece, for whom she had cared ever since the tragedy which had robbed Shelley of her

  parents when she was only a baby.

  Shelley sighed and cupped her chin in her hands. It had taken a full three months to bring the realisation of exactly what her aunt had meant the night before the great journey when she had said : `You do realise, child, that it may not be as wonderful as Samantha makes it sound.' Her smile at Shelley's shocked expression had held sadness. `Because it won't be unless you find your own path to follow—not Samantha's. Samantha is different.'

  Yes, Samantha was different. The brooding light in Shelley's eyes did not change as her awareness switched back to the scene before her. Fascination and a trace of envy crept into her expression. She couldn't ever imagine herself having the courage to gyrate like Samantha, wearing those crazy silver tissue tights and a top that consisted only of a long fringe of glittering chains suspended from a collar of vivid scarlet velvet. Oh, it was in-gear, to be sure, and the soft jingling of the chains as she moved made a strange seductive music of its own, but ... Shelley sighed and shook her head; it was almost preferable to be called Miss Puritan than risk derisive amusement by trying to pretend a veneer she would never acquire in a million years. And if Aunt Lou could only see ... All the same ...

  `Dreaming again?'

  `Oh—' She looked up and smiled. `I'm always dreaming. It must be the effect of your lights—they're hypnotic.'

  `Never mind about the lights.' Octavius lowered his long thin frame to the floor by her side and hunched up his knees. `Isn't it time you started living and having fun yourself for a change?'

  `Living? But I do! Whatever do you mean, Ocky?' `That it's time you tried it somewhere else.'

  `But where would I go? Anyway, doesn't one live wherever one is?'

  `Not always.' He rocked gently to the music, his gaze following Samantha even while his attention was still on Shelley. 'You should know by now that you don't belong here, little girl, and you never will.'

  `But I want to,' she said slowly. `I want to be in, part of

  the scene, having fun and meeting lots of people and—' She heaved a sigh, despairing of being able to communicate her subconscious fear that in some way she was apart, on the fringe of a circle she wanted to be within and unaware of how to break through the intangible barrier surrounding that circle. Samantha and Coralie and Tim and Daniel were all within it, their friends were, even the little girl with the wispy urchin hair and too big mouth who had starte
d in the department only last week was within it. Why wasn't she—, Shelley?

  She upturned her gaze to Octavius, to the untidy pepper and salt hair wispy on the collar of his garish orange shirt, the dark hollowed eyes under the high lined brow, the thin, whimsically curling mouth. Ocky was within that magic circle; it made no difference that he belonged to an older generation, everybody liked Ocky, he inspired trust. And yet he stood alone, friendly but detached, as though he were sufficient in his own strength.

  He said in his slow, kindly tone: 'You won't find fun that way, Shelley, not the happiness that is born of knowing yourself truly, knowing where you are going, and, most important of all, why.'

  `Yes, but . . .' She turned a wide earnest gaze on him. `Samantha and Coralie don't think that way. Nobody I know does, except you, because you're wise. But they always seem to be hippy and going places.'

  'No.' Ocky shook his head. 'They aren't going any place, they're just skating over life, sampling every sweetmeat on the stall. That kind of fun is very transient and it doesn't leave anything except the taste to gobble more. Stop trying to be like them. Be yourself and one day someone will come along who will want the real Shelley. But if you wear a mask they might miss you, go looking elsewhere, and you may never find them again.'

  `But I don't think I'm looking for one special person, not yet.'

  He smiled. 'Aren't you, Shelley?' He got to his feet, and looking up at him she saw a depth of sadness behind the smile. He bent and patted her hand, and she barely caught

  the whispered words as he turned away : 'Aren't we all?'

  The party broke up a little while later, and as she heard the secretive whispers and giggles of Samantha and Coralie she thought of what Ocky had said. It was all very well for him to philosophise about being oneself, but he didn't know the loneliness of being the odd girl out, of not sharing, of hearing the sudden silences between Samantha and Coralie when she entered, and of being in the way when they entertained Tim and Daniel. It wasn't that they hadn't made her welcome; indeed, she had her uses as far as taking her share of expenses and domestic chores was concerned, and they treated her with the amused indulgence they would have adopted towards a younger sister. But this was not what she wanted, and she knew that her coming had disrupted the routine they had worked out to suit themselves. It was inconvenient always having to fit in with their set-up, having to go out on Tuesdays and Fridays whether she wanted to or not because the two older girls and Tim and Daniel, who shared a bachelor flat in the next block, had always made these evenings strictly for twosomes, Tim and Samantha dining at home while the other two were tete-a-tete at the boys' place. There was only one solution, Shelley thought, a place of her own, which she would have preferred right from the start.

  This possibility engaged her thoughts a lot during the next couple of weeks, but no amount of thinking could solve the snags. For one thing Aunt Lou would throw a fit if she thought Shelley was cutting loose on her own in the big wicked city—Aunt Lou was terribly old-fashioned—and secondly, places of one's own were far beyond the slender means she had at her disposal. For Shelley's idea of a place of her own was one that approximated as closely as possible to the spacious, well-furnished room of her own back home at Aunt Lou's.

  It was quite a problem, one that might drag on indefinitely. She was tempted to seek Ocky's advice when he dropped round on the Sunday morning but the presence of the two girls had its usual inhibiting effect and she refrained. Already they had a tendency to tease her about the confidences she made to him, and when he said lightly, 'Found that magic key yet?' she shook her head and hoped that the sly little dig from Coralie about father figures would not make its inevitable response. For once Coralie didn't, but when Ocky made his departure a little while later Samantha said suddenly : 'What was that about a key, Shelley? Are you flat-hunting or something?'

  Shelley started. 'I was thinking about it,' she said cautiously, watching covertly to see what reaction this might elicit from her cousin.

  However, Samantha continued her calm manicuring of her long, beautiful filbert nails. In a matter-of-fact tone she said, 'Yes, I think it might be a good idea if you did. After all, you've been here three months now. If you don't know your way around by now you never will.'

  Surprise temporarily robbed Shelley of response. She had been so prepared for a bossy, elder cousin reaction that Samantha's cool endorsement came as somewhat of a shock. `Wouldn't you mind?' she asked at last.

  `Not in the least. It has made the place a bit crowded, your being here. Oh, not that we minded that, darling.' Samantha smiled and bent over her careful application of silvery-green lacquer. 'But one has to face these things and three has been straining it a bit here.'

  `What about Aunt Lou?' Shelley felt constrained to ask.

  Samantha shrugged. 'I can still keep friendly tabs on you and salve our consciences as far as Mother is concerned. But I've been thinking for a while that you'd be happier in a place of your own, or with someone nearer your own age. Don't you think sb, Coralie?' she glanced up at her friend who had come through from the bedroom.

  Coralie flopped down on the sofa and a rather meaning smile curved her full mouth. 'You could put it that way. But why don't you tell the kid the truth? She's old enough to know.'

  Samantha frowned and made an involuntary gesture, and Shelley, sensing a sudden undercurrent, stared at the two girls in turn. When no immediate reply was forthcoming she said sharply, 'What do you mean? What truth?'

  Still Samantha said nothing, frowning down at her hands as she fluttered her fingers to speed the drying of the lacquer, and the faintly cynical smile continued to linger on Coralie's face.

  Suddenly Shelley's former preoccupation with the idea of moving elsewhere underwent a sharp reversal. She said indignantly : 'Are you wanting to get rid of me?'

  aid, of you?' Samantha stared, then sighed. 'Don't be silly, you know you wouldn't have got in here in the first place if we hadn't wanted you.'

  `Then what's the matter? I haven't been a nuisance. I've always done my whack of the chores—more than my whack,' Shelley asserted.

  Coralie lit a cigarette and swung her feet up on the sofa. `You may as well tell her and stop hurting her feelings. She'll never be convinced otherwise.'

  The first tremors of alarm were beginning to manifest themselves in Shelley, and she was realising that the faint undercurrents of tension she had sensed during the past few weeks had not been imagination. There was something cooking and her cousin did not want her to know. Her expression set, and ignoring her cousin, she turned to Coralie. 'Since Samma's been struck dumb, supposing you tell me. Before my poor little fears get hurt anymore.'

  Coralie smiled. 'Okay, why not? You'd better sit down and cool down first.' When the younger girl had done so she regarded the tense young face with quiet humour for a moment before she said: 'Doesn't it ever occur to you that life moves faster here? People and situations don't maunder along like they do in that thatched picture postcard you and Samma hail from.

  `They don't maunder,' said Shelley hotly. 'It's a myth that villages are sleepy. It's just that they—they don't make as much noise about nothing as they do here. Anyway, what's that got to do with my not being wanted here?'

  `No?' Coralie smirked. 'I suppose folks still get married in little Marsh-in-the-Mud, or whatever it's called.'

  Samantha giggled. 'That's just it.'

  Shelley was not quite so slow in her perceptions, whatever

  opinion the slick Coralie might hold of her country upbringing. She stared at her cousin and exclaimed: 'You're thinking of getting married! Oh, Samma! Who? You've never breathed a word, you meanie. You might have told me' She hesitated her eyes bright and animosity forgotten. 'Is it Tim? When?'

  `Not so fast.' Samantha was not smiling, nor was there anything to suggest future bridal radiance in her expression as she swung round on the stool. 'Perhaps we are, but not just yet.'

  `But you'll want the flat. Of course I understand now.'


  Samantha sighed and glanced at Coralie, who made a face and tried to suppress a giggle. 'We're thinking about it,' Coralie said, 'but we want to be absolutely sure before we give ourselves up to the bonds of wedlock. So we've decided to have an experiment. And that's where you come in.'

  `Me?'

  `It's all a matter of arithmetic, darling. There's Samma and Tim, and this flat. And there's Daniel and me, and their flat. See?'

  `I can add two and two,' said Shelley tartly, 'but I fail to see the need for all the rigmarole. Why not say outright you're getting married and you want the flat? Of course I don't mind—I'll start looking for a place right away.' The inevitable train of thought opened up and with it the usual questions. 'Have you told Aunt Lou yet? Oh, Samma, you must get married at home. It'll be super. Have a big white wedding with all the village there and they'll put your picture in the Gazette, Miranda Slayne's was on the front page, remember? When little David Meredith was a page and he had a stand-up scrap with the littlest bridesmaid and cried his eyes out all during—'

  `I remember,' Samantha interrupted with a shudder. `There'll be nothing like that at my wedding, if I have my way.'

  `You're not going to have a registry wedding!' Shelley looked horrified. 'Oh, don't, Samma, it's not the same.'

  `That depends.' Samantha's mouth compressed and she looked warningly at Coralie. 'Listen, Shelley, that isn't important. Marriage isn't all idyllic white lace and wedding bells and happy ever after. I want to be sure, and so does Tim, so we're going to try this experiment. Tim's moving in here and Coralie's moving in with Dan. For six months.' Samantha was speaking quickly now, not looking at Shelley, as though she were already regretting launching on explanations. `If, after six months, we aren't hating the sight of each other, we are going to get married, but not before.'

  There was a long silence after she stopped speaking, and Coralie lit another cigarette from the tip of the one she had just finished. 'Well,' she said lightly, 'now you know.'