`He won't think anything of the kind,' Quinn told her firmly, `so for the time being let Bruno cope; it'll be better that way.'
As usual, Quinn was. right. There was little she could do in the home-making line and Bruno was more than capable; he was expert. He had evolved a routine to run the house like oiled clockwork and she suspected that her initial efforts would fall far short of perfection. Bruno did not put on eggs to boil and decide there was time to slip up and make a bed. It took Shelley a quarter of an hour to make a bed with one hand. Nor did Bruno go to answer the phone, forgetting that he had not lowered the heat under a pan of soup, and tear himself away from an engrossing conversation nearly half an
hour later to rescue the ruin.
'I think you ought to do what the guv says and leave it all to me, madam,' Bruno suggested gently the morning she broke the green glass ashtray while trying to dust Quinn's desk. 'Stands to reason, you can't do things proper wiv one 'and out of order, now can you? I couldn't, nor could anybody,' he added with endearing tactfulness.
'But I never thought I was such a scatterbrain,' she sighed, gazing worriedly at the wreckage on the carpet. 'Oh, dear, I hope he won't be mad.'
'No need to worry 'im.' Bruno got down with the brush and dustpan. 'I think we'll be able to find one the same colour and size.'
'Bruno!' Her eyes widened. 'That would be dishonest.'
Bruno glanced up and the scar waggled over one brow. 'Now why should you worry 'im and make 'im feel guilty with himself if he gets riled 'cos you didn't do as you was told?' Bruno swept up the last shard and lumbered to his feet. 'You leave it to me, madam.'
She had to smile. 'Bruno, you're just plain crafty. And I wish you'd stop remembering to call me madam.'
'That's what I should call you, luv.'
'That's better, and Shelley would be better still. I'm learning to answer to Mrs Quinn, but I'll never learn to answer to madam—sounds as though I were a very haughty pedigree Great Dane or something—oh!—there's a chip there. You know, I never used to do stupid things like this—at least, not often,' she groaned.
'You'll learn, Miss Shelley,' Bruno said kindly. 'It's probably love. It has funny effects on some people.'
And so does the lack of it ! she thought sadly, wandering into the lounge and switching on the radio. She had not really been surprised that first day home when Quinn had retired into the dressing room adjoining the big bedroom. She had not commented, and neither had he, and now a certain measure of pride was overshadowing emotion; if the thought of her temporary disability worried him so much then not for worlds would she make the slightest attempt to dissuade him from his decision not to sleep with her. But she
could not help speculating on how the same circumstances might have affected the situation if it had been Samma, or Coralie, or—or Myra ... Somehow, she was sure it would have been very different. But then she wasn't one of them, and things like falling downstairs and breaking an arm on the eve of their wedding didn't happen to the Sammas and Coralies and Myras of this world; they only happened to Shelley Columbine, who was just beginning to realise how immaturely she was equipped to cope with a man like Quinn once he had made his decision.
However, she was cheered the following Monday by a letter from Pamela.
Pamela was thirsting again for London and was planning to come down for a few days to have a shopping spree and see the new ballet at the Garden, 'and to hear everything about everything about the wedding !' the letter concluded.
Shelley smiled ruefully at Pamela's extravagant way of expressing herself on paper as she re-read the letter, well aware of Pamela's hopeful curiosity and the somewhat leading questions she might be called upon to answer. All the same, it would be fun to see the irrepressible Pamela again ...
She got out her diary and noted the day of Pamela's proposed arrival, and also that it coincided with the departure of the two friends of Julia's who had just arrived to stay with her—she hadn't seen much of Julia since she got home, and the couple of times they had met poor Julia had looked quite harassed. Now Pamela was going to land on her for a week. Oh, well, Pamela could come here for a lot of the time, Shelley thought, noting that Quinn expected to be away for most of that week. And it would all help to get over the days and weeks she was counting off the calendar ... surely the day must come when she would bid a thankful farewell to her burden.
Somehow the days were passing, though, and forming into weeks she could cross through with a triumphant stroke of a thick vivid red marker.
`Anyone would think it was a prison sentence you were serving,' Quinn remarked one Sunday. morning, coming to stand at her shoulder as another week received its marching
orders.
'It is like a prison sentence,' she grumbled. 'Have you ever broken anything?'
He shook his head, and she retorted: 'Then you're lucky —you don't know what it's like.'
'No, but I have a modicum of imagination.'
'And it's started to itch—right under the plaster where I can't reach to scratch,' she lamented. 'I'm sure it's setting up a frightful allergy or something.'
'Poor Shelley!' His tone was teasing but held no sting. 'Broken any good ashtrays lately?'
'What?' She whirled round. 'How did you know? Oh !' she gave a wail, 'I told Bruno it was dishonest!'
'But Bruno didn't breathe a word,' he told her gravely. 'Then how ... ?'
'Somebody left the receipt in the desk diary : one green crystalline ashtray—and it should have been studded with moon dust at that price!'
'It was the only one in London exactly that shape and size and colour,' she said in a small voice.
Was it so important?'
'Oh, yes. It was yours and I'd broken it. But I can't think how I came to leave the receipt there. I remember unwrapping it and ... I think I went to show Bruno, and ... oh, yes! it was the morning—'
'It was the morning you finally realised you'll never make a successful criminal master-mind?'
He took the ashtray from her and replaced it on the desk before he went to the fireside and looked idly down at the leaping blaze.
Encouraged by the amusement lingering in his expression, she said suddenly: 'Isn't the roof on that town hall yet? It's never going to be finished.'
'Roof?' He laughed outright. 'I didn't tell you the latest, did I? They've now discovered there's a long-lost underground stream flowing right under the site. At present everything is static while they debate the pros and cons of sinking a concrete raft to take the foundations or reconsider the other site which was proposed at the start of the discussions.
But apparently there has been a spate of correspondence in the local press from one of the oldest inhabitants who has maintained from the start that this stream existed, and which the planners have indulgently turned a deaf ear to, after producing evidence that the said stream actually took a course to somewhere totally different. Now questions are being asked and faces are turning red, and the whole affair is hanging fire again.'
`They should have asked a computer,' she said flippantly, `but don't suggest it and perhaps they'll sleep on it for a while and you won't have to go up there again for a long time.'
She looked up and surprised his gaze on her. He raised his brows, and she said impulsively : 'I miss you.'
`Do you, Shelley? Perhaps I should take you with me next week.'
`Would you?'
For a moment she thought he was taking her eager response seriously, then he shook his head. 'You'd be bored, for a certainty, not knowing anyone, and I shouldn't be free to take you around.'
`I suppose you're right. Quinn ...' she hesitated, then said in a rush, 'do we have to go out today? You've been away all week. Can't we ring up and make an excuse, and just stay home?'
`I thought you came to town originally to sample a gay life.' His tone was light. 'Are you turning into a stay-at- home already?'
`No, it's not that.' She looked down, wanting to put into words her desire to have him to herself this
weekend, not to share him with four other people, charming as they might be, yet some instinct warning her not to make the first move from the neutrality their relationship had assumed since they came home. 'I just thought you might prefer to have a quiet weekend at home after ...'
His touch on her shoulder made her start slightly. He held her for a moment within the circle of his arm and said, 'Why not? To be truthful I wasn't exactly looking forward to driving down to Tonbridge today. I—'
The ring of the phone interrupted him and his arm fell away. He moved at the same time as she did and said, 'All right, I'll get it.'
She stayed there, a wistfulness about her slight form as she looked down into the fire. He did not draw the door completely closed when he went out into the hall and she heard the sudden cessation of the phone's ringing and the deep even cadences of his response. They sounded rather clipped, she thought idly, and decided it must be a business call. He said `no' twice and then, `I'm afraid that isn't possible, not for a while,' and then there was a long silence, as though the caller was speaking at considerable length, before he said, `Yes, she's very well, thank you,' and a rather abrupt, 'Goodbye.'
She waited for him to come back and when a rather long time seemed to have elapsed she straightened and went across the room. He was still sitting in the little telephone alcove, an unlit cigarette in his hand, and she said, 'Anyone exciting?'
`Oh'—his expression relaxed slightly and he shook his head—'nothing of importance.' Abruptly he stood up, glancing at his watch. We'd better get moving or we're going to be late.'
She was halfway back into the study. She stopped and looked round. 'But I thought ... are we going?'
`Yes, we must. How would you like to be a hostess who has prepared for guests and then have them cry off at the last minute?'
`Yes, of course. I shouldn't have suggested it.'
She sensed his turning away and knew she was alone, but for the moment made no move to follow and get ready for the departure. She looked out at the grey, univiting October morning and tried to quell disappointment and a growing sense of unease. There had been a subtle change in his mood which only the phone call could have evoked. Who had it been? Why had he evaded telling her? Why did she have this sudden conviction that the caller had been Myra Delane?
Had Myra returned to England? Had she telephoned? Why? Oh, why hadn't he told her?
Shelley turned away sadly and stared unseeingly at the
warm, silent room. Unbidden a memory picture came : of a sunlit hour when she had stood on this very spot and homed impulsively to Quinn's arms, and the echoes of her own words were small ghostly confidences that returned with poignant bitterness. 'Can I say anything to you? ... I want to be honest always' ... and his own response ... 'No secrets in this perfect marriage you're blueprinting..:
No secrets! But he had never once mentioned Myra. And now, she could not ask ...
Abruptly she stooped to put the fireguard in place, aware that she was shivering. In two weeks' time she would be free : free of the impediment that hampered every move, ruined her appearance, that had become a barrier of despair. Surely everything must come right in two weeks' time. Two weeks, a space of time that would fly if its hours were filled with happiness—or drag to eternity if it held fear, despair and uncertainty. But surely nothing else could happen to her in two weeks. She had to believe that ... and forget Myra Delane.
CHAPTER IX
UNEXPECTEDLY, Quinn changed his plans that week. After leaving early on the Monday, leaving Shelley resigned to his four days' absence, he telephoned late that evening to say he would be back the following night. 'About six-thirty or so,' he added, 'but don't wait dinner later than seven if I'm delayed. All right?'
'Oh, yes! That's wonderful. We'll make something special to celebrate. ask Bruno to—'
'I haven't been away for two years, Shelley,' he said with amusement.'
'It feels like it,' she exclaimed unguardedly. 'You won't be going back, will you?'
'Not this week—have a heart.' The note of amusement vanished and he brought the call to a conclusion. 'Take
care—goodnight, darling.'
The hall seemed empty again when she put down the receiver, and despite the flare of delight at his call she was conscious of something forgotten. It eluded her until the following afternoon when once again the phone summoned her. The moment she heard Pamela's excited voice she remembered. This was the evening she was spending with Pamela at Julia's home. But when she made the arrangement she had thought Quinn would be away.
Shelley struggled with conscience as she tried to explain to Pamela and suggest an alternative arrangement for another afternoon. Unfortunately Pamela had already planned out most of her short visit, and there was a disappointed silence at the other end. Then Julia's voice sounded in the background and Pamela exclaimed : 'That's it! Bring Quinn over with you. Julia says it doesn't matter if he's a bit late because Derek just phoned to say he has to see some man tonight and he'll not be home till eight, so it'll work out all right.'
`All right means a pot luck meal!' Julia's voice cut in. 'And just you get that brother of mine over to see us, do you hear? Once since you got home! I know possession's nine points of the law, but you don't have to be obvious about carrying it out to the letter.'
'Yes, I know,' Shelley began earnestly, 'but it's with him being away several times and
'I was only teasing—you don't have to explain, dear,' Julia interrupted. 'We understand. Make the most of it—living tends to take the shine off that initial bliss, worse luck—not that I want to depress you, pet! So shall we leave it at that and we'll see you when you arrive? Good!'
It seemed the best solution : she had looked forward to a giggle with Pamela, but she wanted Quinn more ... how Julia must be laughing, because she didn't want to spend an evening away from him ... she hoped he wouldn't be delayed tonight ...
But Quinn was not delayed; he got home an hour earlier then she had expected—and he flatly refused to fall in with the arrangements.
'Shelley, I've driven three hundred miles today, it poured
all the way, I had a lousy lunch, I've some paper work to get through tonight and I don't feel inclined for socialising—even with my own sister.'
He took his drink and dropped on the settee, stretching his long legs over the cushions and eyeing her with a certain directness that told her clearly not to argue. 'But you go. You don't have to throw everything out of gear just because I switched plans at the last minute.'
'Yes, but ...' her dismay was obvious as she stared at him, 'I forgot you'd be tired ... I should have—'
'How could you know?' he interrupted with a hint of impatience. 'What time is she expecting you?'
'Oh, any time, but I don't want to go if you ...'
'Then don't go,' he said calmly, finishing his drink and holding the empty glass out to her. 'Ring up and say I'm playing the heavy husband, or something. You'll soon learn the range of time-worn excuses and evasions,' he added dryly.
For a moment she stood, indecisive, still holding the empty glass, then she gave a small exclamation that was meant to be a giggle but didn't quite succeed. 'You sound as though we'd been married for years.'
He shot that sharp, disconcerting glance at her again. 'It feels like that at times. Oh, Shelley, for heaven's sake, don't stand there looking pathetic. Why don't you just go?'
Her mouth quivered. 'All right,' she said in a small voice. 'I'll go and tell Bruno.'
She had almost reached the door before he spoke again. 'I'll come over and pick you up about ten-thirty.'
'No, don't bother,' she said steadily. 'I'll bus back.'
'You won't. Ten-thirty. Give my love to Julia and the awful child.'
Not very happily, Shelley set off a short while later. It hadn't turned out at all the way she had expected and his brusqueness still hurt. Had she looked pathetic? Didn't he understand that she only wanted to put him first, always? For the first time it occurred to her
to contemplate the havoc a real quarrel would wreak in her: she had only known the predominantly best side of his nature, and occasionally
glimpsed impatience and a tendency to 'moodiness kept well under restraint. But in spite of this she was not naive enough to believe he lacked an innate hardness, and she knew instinctively that her guess was accurate—that when he did give rein to temper it would be the cold, unviolent variety, infinitely more dangerous and quelling than the hot-headed, tempestous outbursts that died as quickly as they flared.
The thought was disturbing, engendering a new awareness of her vulnerability where he was concerned and the infinite power he held to hurt her if he should ever choose to exert it, and she was in a very subdued frame of mind when she arrived at Julia's home.
Julia's initial reaction to a lone Shelley did not exactly help, either. Since the time of the engagement Julia had developed a rather proprietorial, elder sister attitude towards Shelley and a tendency to tease. Now she shrugged when Shelley made a brief Little explanation and started to laugh. 'Doesn't it work anymore?'
Shelley looked blank, and Julia glanced at Pamela. 'Shelley,' she said lightly, 'is a believer in adoring the brute. He only needs to smile at her and she's flinging her arms round his neck. Honestly, the first time I saw her I could hardly keep my face straight. I suppose my dear brother must be quite attractive, but..: she gave a mirthful sigh. 'It must be the new approach among the uninhibited young—my generation believed the right thing was to keep 'em guessing and pursuing us.'
'We do both these days—we're cleverer,' said Pamela. 'I adore your cloak—it's new.' She fingered the soft warm dark red folds as she hung it up in the hall. 'I suppose it's easier than a coat and it hides your arm—what a super idea.'
'She looks like Little Red Riding Hood,' said Julia, leading the way into the living room while Pamela made a nauseated face behind her back.
By the time the 'pot luck' meal was over Shelley was feeling brighter, although Julia's unthinking remarks still occupied a part of her mind while she listened to Pamela's chattered news. Had she really been so obvious in her demonstrations of affection towards Quinn? Had he found them
Miss Columbine and Harley Quinn Page 17