Miss Columbine and Harley Quinn

by Hilton, Margery

  'B-but ...' Shelley wondered if she had heard it all rightly. 'You mean you're ...'

  Samantha took a deep breath. 'For heaven's sake stop looking like Alice in Wonderland, It isn't like what you're thinking, Shelley. It isn't just an affair. We're trying to be sane and sensible and not wear blinkers. I want to know Tim when he's in a filthy temper, when he's bleary-eyed after a party, when he can't find a clean shirt. I want to be sure he can cope with domestic upsets when I want to forget everything and paint. I like to paint through the night when it's quiet, I can concentrate better, but then I like to sleep till noon the next day. I honestly don't know if we can rub along without fighting like hell when the bloom wears off, and I mean to find out first, before it's too late.'

  `In other words,' Coralie put in calmly, 'we mean to see if the misty-eyed bloom will survive reality.'

  There was another long silence while Shelley surveyed the unconcerned face of Coralie and the slightly defiant expression Samantha was wearing. Then Coralie said suddenly : 'I think we've shocked Shelley. I don't think she believes we're serious.'

  `Oh, yes, I believe you're serious,' Shelley burst out, making no effort to hide what she thought of the experiment, `and I don't think much of the idea. It's not serious, anyway, it's—it's just cold-blooded. Why pretend about getting married at all? Why not be honest and admit you're going to live together? Then if it doesn't work out you just try another experiment with somebody else and see if it works

  out. That's not love !' she cried vehemently. 'There isn't even any bloom to get rubbed off.'

  `That will do, Shelley.' Samantha immediately assumed her elder cousin air of authority. 'It's nothing to do with you, and for goodness' sake stop being such a Victorian baby.'

  'Shelley's a romantic. She's going to wait for her dream man, who'll sweep her off her feet with masterful words of sweet nothing,' said Coralie, who had listened to the interchange with amusement.

  `Shelley was born prim,' said Samantha grimly. 'She should have been called Miss Puritan instead of Miss Columbine.'

  `Well, darling, did you expect her to be anything else but romantic with a handle like that?' observed Coralie, stubbing out her cigarette and stretching lazily. 'She's waiting for Harlequin, and when he comes she'll fall into his arms with perfect trust and dem bells will ring. She won't wait to see what's behind his mask.'

  `I'd rather be like that than shack up with Tim Peyne. He's just a big-mouthed, sarcastic,---'

  `All right, Shelley,' said Samantha coldly, 'we'll take it as read. We know you've never liked Tim, but just you remember this; you wanted to see what the great big world was like and now you're seeing it, but don't forget you wouldn't have had the chance but for me. I promised Mother I'd keep an eye on little dewy-eyes and for thanks I get preached at.' Samantha stood up and her face was angry. 'Are you ready, Coralie?'

  `I've been ready for the past ten minutes.' Coralie stood up and reached for her jacket. "Bye, Shelley, be good.' On the mocking tones the two girls departed, leaving Shelley to solitude and her shocked disapproval.

  The next few days were anything but easy. Shelley found it impossible to feel happy about the imminent situation, and it was not long before Tim and Daniel cottoned on to the reason for her chilly attitude whenever they put in an appearance and made no secret of the fact that they found it highly amusing. She maintained cool reserve each time they asked solemnly if she'd found herself some nice new respectable digs with a nice respectable motherly body, and when this failed to penetrate her reserve took to issuing with owlish solemnity dark and fearsome warnings of the perils that lurked in the big city waiting to pounce on innocent country mice. Stung at last, she could not help retorting that she had filled in several gaps in her education since she had met them. To which Tim said slyly : 'Oh, I agree. We're positive walking dens of iniquity,' and Daniel quipped: 'Nick Whiny? Now there's a desperate character. Watch out you never fall into his clutches, Shelley.'

  All the same, she thought she detected behind the banter a certain resentment and barbs of dislike she was sure were not imagined. Samantha and Coralie became cooler and more offhand and she realised she must make a more determined effort to find a place of her own.

  But it was easier in theory than practice. A bedsitter or flatlet that fell within the standard she wanted and the limits of her slender budget just didn't seem to exist in London. She followed up adverts, spent her lunch hours combing the back streets for cards in newsagents' windows, receiving a few shocks at the end of certain of the trails, and tramped mile after mile, to finish tired and disillusioned. To make things worse Ocky, who she knew would have helped, had departed on a lecture tour and would be missing for a month. There just wasn't anyone else.

  Two weeks later she was still at a standstill and on the point of giving up and running home to Aunt Lou. And then help came from the most unexpected source.

  On the Thursday evening Tim and Daniel arrived in exuberant humour and announced that they had found her a super place.

  `You're the luckiest girl in the world,' they told her. 'Nobody ever did this for us.'

  `I don't believe it,' she said. 'You're kidding me.'

  `We're not !' Tim held out a card. 'There's the address.'

  Still unconvinced, she took it from his hand and murmured aloud : ' Silverlane Mansions, Fernbridge Park.' She looked up and handed it back sadly. 'I don't think much of

  the joke. Do you think I'm a long-lost heiress, or something?'

  `Oh, come on, Shelley! You can manage a fiver, can't you?' said Daniel. He took a quick sidelong glance at Tim and Samantha, but he did not smile. `You're a lucky little girl, Shelley. You've touched for a philanthropist. It's a super place.'

  `I bet it is,' said Shelley, 'but it's way off my cloud.'

  Daniel ignored this. `It's all fixed up. Tim fixed it through his boss. His nephew has been staying there—Geoff Taylor—remember him, Coralie? You met him at the Fairleys' party.' Coralie gave a confirmatory nod and he went on; `Well, he's finished with college now and the room's vacant, so we had a word with Geoff and Tim's boss and grabbed it for you.'

  `Is the room at Tim's boss's place?' asked Shelley.

  `No, but they're friends of the old man,' Tim put in. He grinned. `Mind, we had to spin a right old tale about how respectable you ,are, and promised that there'll be no wild parties, no entertaining until the small hours of the morning, or pot parties or disco rave-ups. You'll have to be on your best behaviour, Shelley, or you'll be out on your neck.'

  `I—I don't know what to say,' she said helplessly, still unbelieving and not a little suspicious. 'Can I go and see it before—'

  `Better than that,' said Tim. `In fact,' he rubbed his hands and winked at Samantha, who was smiling, `we've fixed that as well. For tomorrow night. That'll give you the weekend to settle in.'

  `Tomorrow! But . .

  `Yes, tomorrow. Aren't you going to thank us? We've gone to a lot of trouble for you.'

  `Yes, but . . .' Shelley shook her head, and Tim, with an ostentatious fuss, went through his pockets and extended his hand.

  `Believe me now?' On his palm lay a key.

  But Shelley was not completely convinced. The next day at lunchtime she gobbled down a sandwich—she'd almost forgotten what a proper lunch looked like—and boarded a bus for Fernbridge Park. After the second person she had

  stopped shook his head and said he'd never heard of Silverlane Mansions she decided it was the cruellest and most audacious leg-pull ever played on her and turned to cut through the little park to find the return bus stop. She came out into the pleasant tree-shaded road at the far side and the first thing she saw was the sign on the railings: Silverlane Mansions.

  She blinked twice, then walked slowly along, looking curiously at the tall gracious houses with their dignified Georgian half-moons above the entrances. Opposite number eight she stopped, her gaze searching the crisply netted windows, the scrolled iron balconies at the first floor windows, the spotless white paint
work, and her imagination tried to penetrate the interior. Her foot hovered over the edge of the kerb—dare she go over and ring that handsome bell-pull, announce herself, ask ... ?

  There was a car parked almost immediately in front of the house, the kind of car Shelley had glanced at occasionally in the window of the automobile showroom she passed each day on her way to the office. Long, sleek, discreetly gleaming metallic silver-grey, hinting at the softly sprung comfort of leather and push-button-studded walnut within.

  While she poised indecisively the white door opened and a woman emerged. She was tall, slender and quietly dressed in the kind of plain severity that Shelley knew instinctively was expensive and her hair was rinsed with the slightest suggestion of palest lilac. She paused at the top of the stone steps and checked that she had secured the door before she descended to street level. There was a smaller car parked in front of the Bentley and the woman went to it, sunlight catching the key in her hand. As she stooped to the car lock she glanced across the road and saw Shelley. She did not smile, but her eyes and mouth held friendliness and something that was almost a smile, and Shelley took an impulsive step on to the road.

  A sharp toot of warning made her jump back, and by the time the approaching taxi and the two cars following it had passed the woman was in her car and drawing away from the kerb.

  It was too late. Shelley retraced her way thoughtfully, wondering if she would have had sufficient courage to ask the woman if she might see the accommodation she was so soon to take. Although her doubts concerning the strange house were banished on one score—Shelley, despite her youth and a certain amount of naiveté, was not innocent enough to believe that outward appearances were invariably what they seemed—and she knew her instinct was sound in this case other doubts came to take their place. She did not entirely trust Tim and Daniel, nor did she now entirely trust Samantha, and she had a suspicion that something was out of place. It would probably be the rent. The sum mentioned would prove sadly misleading. There would be heaven alone knew how many extras; heat, light, telephone, and by the time she bought her food and paid her bus fares—ten pence more per day than she was paying at present—she'd have nothing left. She'd probably be dipping into her savings and they didn't amount to much. Still, even if it did prove too expensive it would tide her over the awkward patch and give her time to look round at leisure. The thing to do was find a couple of girls who were looking for a third to share a flat. Perhaps she could advertise; why 'hadn't she thought of that sooner? If only she dare ask for a rise .. .

  Tim and Daniel certainly seemed to have organised everything. They arrived early that evening in an ancient van of somewhat dilapidated roadworthiness and cheerfully helped Shelley to pack and stow inside it the collection of oddments she had accumulated since she came to stay with Samantha. There was more than she had realised; the beaded Victorian footstool she'd found in a junk shop and patiently re-sewn in all the places where the beads had come adrift, and the brassbound trunk, also discovered in the same haunt, which she had relined and lovingly polished until it gleamed proudly. It held an amazing amount of stuff—just as well, she thought; she had certainly become a hoarder.

  Samantha and Coralie lent somewhat languid hands, more in the way than of use, and begged off accompinying the expedition, as Tim termed it, and they waved her off, wishing her luck, all smiles and affability now that they were once

  more in sweet possession.

  It was quite dark when the van slowed to a stop in front of the house by the park, and at first Shelley did not notice that no light showed at any of the front windows. Obeying Tim's injunction not to ring the bell, she got out the key and handed it to him, watching him insert it in the lock and not really believing that it would open the portal for her. But it did, and she passed in, looking wonderingly at the interior revealed by Tim's touch of a switch.

  The long wide hall and its delicately balustered staircase was painted in white and Wedgwood blue and carpeted with thick rich blue pile into which Shelley felt her feet sinking deliciously. Small crystal wall brackets gave soft illumination on each side of the two broad panelled doors on the right of the hall, and near the foot of the stairs was a shallow dome-shaped niche framed in delicate bas-relief and holding an exquisite porcelain group. Soft concealed lighting caught its lustre and Shelley's attention was attracted immediately. She bent to examine it more closely, almost certain that it was Meissen.

  Tim spared a glance at the fragile detailing of an eighteenth-century lady and small child with pomeranian dog, every goffer and flounce of costume beautifully fashioned in tinted porcelain, and said warningly, 'Taboo !'

  'I wasn't going to,' she said, and looked up at the silent heights above. 'Isn't there anyone at home?'

  'Not this evening,' he said. 'That's why I got the key.'

  'Then how do I know where my room is?' She swung round and her expression filled with doubt. 'Are you sure it's all fixed? That it's all right?'

  'Of course!' Tim bent forward and laughingly shook his head close to her worried little face. 'You're having Geoff's room, like I told you. Come on, I'll show you.'

  Confidently he took the stairs two at a time, and more slowly she followed him, up the first flight, along a landing the full depth of the house, past a broad window with a dainty Sheraton side table below it, and up another flight to a blue door outside which Tim stopped. He waited till she caught up to him, then threw open the door with a flourish

  and motioned her to enter.

  Her first impression was that it seemed a remarkably unmasculine room to have been occupied by a youth, then she reflected quickly that it was unlikely that the owners would redecorate especially for that reason, as Geoff was the nephew of friends and therefore would be more like family, `and now that this lovely room was hers she was very glad that they hadn't made it all mannish. It was perfect as it was, with the cool floral wall motifs predominantly in lemon, the ivory drapes at the two tall windows, the Adam's green carpet and the bright coral rug beside the divan bed, which was covered with a sunshine yellow quilt. There was a roomy, white-painted wardrobe, a large armchair, a small desk and a big sturdy table, and tucked in an alcove a dressing table.

  While the two boys stood watching her from the doorway she walked slowly round on a tour of inspection and her eyes held elation. No slot meter, no fire at all—the delicious warmth was central heating—and, best of all, in the alcove was a small fitted basin and towel rail. Her own hot and cold. It was too good to be true.

  It was not until all her things had been carried up and dumped in a heap in the centre of the room that Shelley noticed the first and most vital omission. Where did she cook for herself?

  `There's an electric kettle and plug somewhere,' Tim told 'her, 'and I think you'll be able to use the kitchen. Geoff did. Of course he had most of his meals at the Union. He just had breakfast here and made himself a drink up here at night if he wanted anything.'

  `I see.' It seemed that Geoff had more or less only slept here and his catering had been of the skimpiest, which hadn't been exactly what she had had in mind. Oh, well, she would sort out that problem later. She looked at the two boys. `Thanks for helping.'

  `The pleasure is ours.' They grinned at her and then at each other. 'Well, we'll be off. Happy housewarmings. And mind you invite us all along!'

  Shelley nodded, and the boys went out. Their footsteps receded down the stairs and their voices faded. Just in time

  she remembered something and rushed out on to the landing. She leaned over and saw their figures down the stair well. `Tim!' she cried. `Wait!'

  Two faces upturned. 'Yes? Now what?'

  `You haven't told me the name of my new landlady,' she shouted.

  `Ssh! Not landlady,' he adjured. 'This isn't a rooming house, you know.'

  `Well, the owner's, then.'

  `It's Quinn,' he called, 'and don't worry—you're going to go together like a horse and carriage ! 'Night, Shelley.' The front door slammed and silence crept ba
ck into the house.

  Slowly Shelley turned back to her new abode and drew the curtains, then she sat down on the divan and stared into space. Quinn. Could that have been Mrs Quinn, the lady she had seen yesterday? She must have been, decided Shelley, and she brightened. She had looked nice, and understanding. Shelley glanced at her watch and sprang up; time she made a start. It was nearly half past eight and she had a lot of straightening out to do.

  An hour later she had put away most of her possessions, after several small intervals of stopping to listen to the stillness. It seemed strange to be making herself at home, the only sounds being those she made herself. The owners must be very trusting, she thought, to take her on chance like this. She could have been anybody, could have robbed the house —there was bounty here for nefarious visitors, she thought inconsequently, and hoped fervently that Mrs Quinn was well insured.

  By this time she was beginning to be aware of hunger. She found the electric kettle, the stand to place it on for safety, the two power points and a rather battered saucepan whose inner traces of past contents didn't seem to go with the rest of the room. It must have been Geoff's, she decided, wrinkling her nose as she replaced the utensil in the bottom of the wardrobe where she'd found it. But equipment wasn't much use without a grocery stock to go with it; how' could she have had so blind a spot? After a slight hesitation she switched off the light and ventured downstairs.

  Instinct led her unerringly to the kitchen without having to open doors to anywhere, else, and she gazed at its spacious American-styled modernity with appreciation. This was what she called a super kitchen. The rest of the house might be lovingly preserved Georgian, but this was pure space age. There, was also a breakfast area With a vermilion-topped bar and matching stools tucked beneath.

  She made herself tea in a gleaming stainless steel teapot, toasted bread in a gleaming toaster, and raided the well stocked cupboards for a small tin of baked beans. She would replace it later or pay for it when she had settled things with Mrs Quinn. Feeling considerably better, she washed up the dishes and left everything as sparkling and tidy as she had found it. That done, she returned upstairs, unconsciously treading as softly as a small pink-jersey-clad ghost, and reconnoitred for the bathroom.