Miss Columbine and Harley Quinn

by Hilton, Margery

  the first floor landing as she sped along to the head of the lower flight, knowing only an urgent hunger for the sight and touch of him. She heard his step below, and his voice, and she cried joyously, and then it happened.

  Somehow, one of the mules turned over under her foot. It skidded on the lip of a stair, she grabbed at the banister rail and missed, and her cry turned to a gasp. The hall was rushing up to meet her and she thrust out her hand to save herself, and a strange sickening jar ran from it as she crashed to the foot of the flight. There was the sensation of time stopping, of disbelief, of every sense, even breath, suspended, until the reflex of shock set in.

  Feet came hurrying. Black shoes, the steps vibrating, the blue carpet against her face ... the agonising pain that seized her arm, her shoulder, and burned and burned ...

  `Shelley! Darling—are you hurt?' He was bending over her, his hands reaching down. 'Here, let me—'

  `I—I can't—it's my arm. I—' She bit her lip to stifle a cry as she tried to move, and he saw the frightening, unnatural twist of the arm crumpled under her. She looked at him with pain-filled eyes and he exclaimed at the deathly pallor of shock that had drained her colour.

  `What was that?' Eleanor Quinn came hurrying downstairs, to halt with a horrified gasp. 'Oh, Shelley! No!'

  `Is that you—? Hey, you all right, guy? Strewth!' Bruno arrived and stared at the huddled form in the hall. `How did—? Pore little ... come on, lovey, ups a—'

  `Don't touch her ! I'm afraid she's—' Quinn bit back his suspicion as he gently probed, then tried to ease her weight off the injured arm. He glanced up. 'Mother, ring the doctor, ask him to come as soon as possible. Bruno, something for padding and a broad bandage—anything.' His voice softened. `Try not to be frightened, darling. It's going to be all right.'

  Bruno still hovered. 'Shall I make her something hot—nice and strong, with a drop o' something?'

  No, just sugar in water, in case ...' Quinn's voice tailed and his own face was pale with alarm. She was struggling to sit up, and he put his arm round her, drawing her against the support of his chest. She moaned with the movement,

  and he said: 'Try to stay still, you're shocked. Here ...' aware of the chill of her, he wriggled out of his jacket and slipped it round her, trying to instil assurances as he did so.

  Bruno returned with the sugar in water and an armful of towels. Quinn held the cup to her lips and said softly, 'Drink this, then we're going to pad that arm and support it until the doctor comes to see what you've done to yourself.'

  'It hurts—here,' she pressed her hand to her shoulder, 'and—'

  'Of course it hurts. You can't fall down a full flight of stairs and expect to come out on top.'

  Her mouth trembled. 'Look, it's swelling, all my hand and arm, and—Quinn, is it—?'

  'We don't know,' he said gravely. 'Now try to be brave while we bind it, then I'm going to carry you into the study.'

  When the doctor arrived she was lying on the settee, swathed in blankets, and Quinn had immobilised the injured arm in an improvised sling. While the doctor examined her, asked questions and maintained the mask of professional reticence Shelley's fear turned to despair. Before he spoke she knew what the verdict would be : hospital, X-rays and ... and the day after tomorrow was her wedding day.

  She huddled against Quinn in the car while Bruno drove them to the hospital, and misery drove physical pain into second place : even his tenderness couldn't help now.

  Numbed with despair, she submitted to brisk ministrations, more questions, the long wait while the X-rays were developed, while the ominous terms : 'Colles', 'reduce', 'clavicle', and the query, 'When did you last have food?' floated round her head.

  At last she could bear it no longer. Tears welled up and she cried: 'Tell me what's happening, please! I'm being married on Saturday and I—I—'

  'Married!' The young resident swung round. The nurse stopped wheeling the trolley, and the other man in the white coat let go of her wrist.

  Suddenly they ceased to be strangers. They gathered round her and smiled at her woebegone face. 'And what's

  going to stop you?' asked the doctor. 'This won't be a good enough excuse to let him off the hook!'

  `You'll set a new fashion in brides with a beautiful new line in bridal muffs. We'll dress it up specially for you,' joked the anaesthetist.

  `W-will I be all right? Will I be able to—you're not going to keep me in?' she whispered.

  `Just till tomorrow morning,' the young doctor assured her. 'We're going to make you drowsy while we take care of that Colles' fracture to your right wrist, and your shoulder is only bruised; there's no injury to the clavicle. You'll be stiff and sore tomorrow, mainly from the tumble, but apart from that you'll be over the worst by Saturday and quite capable of walking up that aisle.'

  `You're sure?' She wasn't quite convinced, and he said firmly : 'Sure. Now come on, let's get it fixed. All you've got to do is start counting ...'

  She thought she had got to ten, but couldn't remember : maybe she ought to start again, but what did she have to count the days for? ... Her eyes fluttered open and took in a hazy mound of white, then a blurred head that cleared and resolved into Quinn, and she remembered.

  He smiled and put his finger to his lips, and said softly : `That's better. You look wonderful, and you'll look even more wonderful on Saturday.'

  `I won't,' she said sadly, 'with this.'

  `Yes, you will.'

  `Oh, I'm sorry. I've spoilt it all,' she lamented. 'Why do I do such silly things?'

  'We all do silly things,' he said softly, 'because we can't see ahead to the outcome. But if we could it would make life awfully dull.'

  `I suppose so. Quinn, are you sure you don't want to cancel the wedding?' The question cost a great deal to voice and her heart began to thud as she waited for his answer.

  `Do you?'

  She moved her head slightly and avoided his gaze. `If you want to, I'll understand.'

  `That didn't answer my question.' He got up and came to

  the bedside, then perched on the edge. 'It might have been me, you know. Would you have wanted to cancel the wedding, then?'

  This brought her troubled gaze back to his face, as no doubt he had intended it should. 'That's different,' she said.

  'No, it isn't. Oh, Shelley, you just can't help being the most contrary child I've ever come across, can you?' He bent over her and silenced the tremulous mouth before it could form a protest. 'There'll be no more nonsense about a wedding cancellation and I'll be here first thing tomorrow morning to take you home. Now you must try and sleep and be thankful it wasn't any worse.'

  The nurse appeared at the door of the side ward in which Shelley had been put, and Quinn's response to Shelley's sudden feverish retention of him had to be relinquished. `Goodnight,' he whispered, 'they're going to throw me out, I'm afraid.'

  He paused at the door and gave her a last reassuring little gesture, then the nurse came forward briskly, her manner calm and cheerful, and suggested a cup of tea.

  But later that night, her tired brain fighting the sedative she had been given, Shelley could find no heart's ease in the memory of Quinn's tenderness as she lay in the shadows under the dim shaded lamp. Maybe it could have been worse: but it seemed a disastrous omen for her marriage and her future happiness with Quinn.

  CHAPTER VII

  Arm then suddenly, leaving a snowballing pot-pourri of memories, it was all over and the car was racing over the miles to the airport and the evening flight to Rhodes.

  Shelley had long since surrendered to the sense of unreality which began to steal over her long before the actual moment when she entered the church and took the first step towards the vows that were going to give her into the keeping of the newly strange man who was waiting to respond with his own vows.

  Of the Friday she remembered little, of the last-minute whirl, the people about her becoming more distracted and Aunt Lou's harassed expression, and the frantic rush to adjust her
wedding dress and going-away clothes so that her right arm with its ungainly burden of plaster could be accommodated. Everyone had pretended not to notice the quivering of her mouth when the beautiful material of one sleeve had been unpicked up one steam and sewn up out of sight, and no one had tried to make humorous cheer-up remarks about the absurd frills of gauze the nursing staff at the hospital had carefully bound over the plaster to try to disguise the disfiguring bumps where her fingers protruded. Oddly enough, she had almost forgotten about it during the actual ceremony; the thing which worried her more than anything else was whether or not she would manage a successful signature when the moment came to go through into the vestry for the signing of the marriage register.

  It was Quinn who, on the Friday evening when this dreadful realisation occurred, suggested that she try with her left hand, and had sat with her for over an hour, patiently steadying a writing pad and her unco-operative left hand while she covered page after page with shaky, spidery signatures, until sheer determination and his encouragement succeeded in producing a signature that if not exactly copperplate quality was recognisable and readable.

  Now there was only Bruno to wish them happiness and bon avion before he took the car back to London, and a suddenly jovial Customs officer whose experienced eye never missed a honeymoon couple and who chalked their luggage without a murmur as he appeared to restrain a jocular comment to Quinn regarding a war-torn little bride.

  An autumnal sunset was radiating the patchwork fields and the blue-grey sprawl of buildings that looked like toy towns as they soared towards the Continent. People settled back, little blue spirals of cigarette smoke curled up into the cabin, drinks circulated, voices buzzed and Quinn said :

  `You can relax now : the ordeal's over.'

  She sighed, still aware of unreality. `Was it an ordeal to you?'

  He hesitated. `I'm exhausted, frankly, and so must you be.' He touched her hand. `Even the happiest of occasions can prove a test of endurance, you know, and I think weddings head the league every time. At least you escaped the handshaking. Mine's beginning to feel in need of some support.'

  `I've never been kissed so much in my life,' she said wryly. `It must have worn all the make-up off my cheek.'

  After a pause she sensed he was watching her and turned her head.

  He said, `It wasn't as bad as you expected, was it?'

  `I suppose not.' Her smile was uncertain, then it strengthened reflectively. `The photographer was wonderful, wasn't he? The way he arranged my veil and bouquet so that this didn't show. He said if it showed the tiniest scrap on the photographs he'd give up and go and be a dog-minder in the doghouse.'

  `Yes.' The response was abstracted, then she realised that the stewardesses were serving the evening meal. Aware of the tiredness born of tension she sat silent, thankful to have Quinn seeing to everything. Although she had been too excited to eat very much that day and her own share of the sumptuous wedding buffet had consisted of a sausage roll, which she had put down half-eaten when someone came to talk to her and then forgotten, and a piece of wedding cake, she was still not conscious of hunger. She saw the champagne arriving and demurred : `I don't think I could drink any more champagne.'

  `Of course you could, even if it's only a small glass,' Quinn said firmly, holding it out to her.

  She eyed the bottle, a small sense of thrift reflecting inconsequently that it would be an awful waste if it didn't get finished. 'I'll be sloshed by time we get there,' she observed.

  He did not smile. Tin not sure that that wouldn't be a good idea.'

  `What? On my honeymoon !' she exclaimed in a shocked tone.

  `It's time you started to unwind,' he said firmly, eyeing the

  flushed-cheeks and overbright eyes. 'Now try and eat something.'

  `Yes.' She sighed and looked at the tray of little airline dishes, all so hygienically served and brightly colour-matched so as to appear almost unreal. She reached awkwardly for the cellophane sealed packet of cutlery and put the corner to her mouth to bite it open. She said indistinctly : 'I never realised how wonderful ten fingers are.'

  `Oh, darling ...' he was contrite, 'I forgot ... I should have realised. Forgive me ...' He took the cutlery from her and carefully rearranged the tray, cutting up the chicken into small portions and slicing the three little roast potatoes into neat quarters. 'The sweet should be easy, and use my spoon for the peas,' he instructed.

  She looked as horrified at this last suggestion as though he had suggested she use her fingers, but he was unmoved. Who the devil cares if anyone does see?' he said calmly. 'They should count themselves lucky not to be in the same plight. Now, eat,' he said sternly, 'or ...'

  This small interlude of understanding had a predictable effect; an almost unbearable surge of love mingling with chagrin at her uselessness brought such a lump into her throat that for some moments she had difficulty in obeying. He had never betrayed the slightest flicker of impatience over the clumsy moments which had been frequent during the journey. She had dropped her bag getting out of the car, she'd got into difficulties trying to stop her light pink linen jacket slipping off her shoulder as she boarded the plane, she wanted to deal with a troublesome wisp of hair, but trying to cope with everything with one hand made her decide to suffer the suspected untidiness a little longer. She couldn't be for ever asking him to help and hold things for her. If only it had been her left hand it wouldn't have been so awkward.

  But it wasn't until they landed through the rich Mediterranean night and reached their hotel that the full implication of her plight dawned on Shelley. At home there had been unlimited willing, loving hands to help with the countless everyday actions that ten unhampered fingers deal with automatically during the course of living. She had cursed

  and grumbled at the useless hand suspended in the sling, but she had still failed to look ahead. Now, in the spacious double room, a soft velvet coolness drifting through the gay Venetian slats, and the heap of luggage on the white carpet, she experienced dismay as imagination closed the gap of forgetfulness. She had to unpack, wash, clean her teeth, undress, do her hair, eat, dress, make-up, shower ... and there was no one—except Quinn. And it was her wedding night.

  She did not realise she had sunk down on the end of one of the twin beds and that dismay had painted its telling picture on her small set features. She'd been crazy to go through with it. She should have postponed the wedding; even having to cancel all those invitations and the reception and everything would have been better than—than inflicting a practically helpless bride on him. Two weeks with a hindrance to spoil his freedom. She wouldn't be able to swim, she'd look a charming companion in a bikini with her arm in a sling and half a ton of plaster ! She hadn't even two arms to put round him and ...

  'You're not giving in already?'

  'Trying not to.' She could not look up.

  'Come on, you'll feel better when you've got settled and had a rest.'

  'I'm not tired,' she mumbled.

  'Shelley, I once told you you were a lousy liar.' He was slipping the jacket from her shoulders. 'Which half of the wardrobe do you want?'

  'Any one.' Sighing, she hunted for the key of her suitcase and bit back an impatient murmur of protest when he took the case from her and swung it up on to the bed, deftly snapping open the locks and flinging the lid back. He said softly : 'You better take advantage of my protective instincts before age wears them thin.'

  Will it wear them thin?' With a slowness that secretly infuriated her she began undoing Eleanor Quinn's immaculate packing.

  'Yes, if you insist on being so independent.'

  'There's a difference between independence and being a nuisance.'

  For a moment he did not reply. When he did the banter had gone from his tone. 'I know how you feel, Shelley. If it were me I'd be raging, and probably not fit to live with, but though it sounds like a' smug platitude you'll just have to accept it and remember that four or five weeks will go far faster if you don't fret through them.' />
  `A nuisance is a nuisance is a nuisance,' she said bitterly.

  `And I never said that,' he said quietly, 'and I'm sure Gertrude Stein didn't either. Now, how much drawer space do you need in this ridiculous little chest? I've never fathomed why hotels either give you vast cavernous wardrobes that your stuff gets lost in or a chink in the wall that might house a spider's leggings! And it seems to be international, not just limited to home.'

  She said nothing, carefully stowing things into one of the minute drawers which had evoked his sarcasm. The bikini could go back in the case, she thought furiously, if she baked alive she wasn't going to be seen dead in it and half a ton of plaster!

  He hovered over the telephone, then gave her an enquiring glance. 'Is there anything else you'd like? A drink, or biscuits or something?'

  `I—I don't think so. Anyway, it's late. It's long after midnight.'

  The time doesn't matter,' he said patiently. 'If you're thirsty or hungry just say so. I believe in checking on a hotel's claim to room service right at the start,' he added firmly.

  `I don't want anything,' she turned away. 'It's going to take me ages to get myself organised.'

  Quinn said nothing, intent on completing his own unpacking, and she surveyed her assembled needs for the night, her heart quailing. Six months ago she would not have credited her feelings at this moment, certainly not the trepidation she was now experiencing. In secret moments of contemplation of her wedding night she had acknowledged the possibility of shyness, the awkwardness of inexperience, even doubts of her ability to express her love perfectly in the way he would desire her to, but she had never bargained for this ghastly

  handicap—this disfiguration—this not being able to help herself ...

  `Stop worrying and let me worry for you.' He had come to stand behind her. 'Keep still.' With hands that were almost impersonal he unhooked the sling, undid her blouse and slipped it off, found the zip at the back of her skirt and lent a supporting hand while she stepped out of it, and released the fastener at the back of her bra before he put her wrap round her shoulders. 'What next on the agenda?'