by J F Straker
I’m being a cat, Elizabeth thought. But then both Bruce and Desmond have protested their love for me, and although I don’t mind about Bruce I do mind about Desmond. Even if I decide not to marry him I wouldn’t like Dulcie to get him. He’s too good for her.
Or perhaps I’m not a cat. Just a dog in the manger.
‘Good night, Elizabeth,’ said Dulcie. ‘Good night, boys.’
The second goodnight was on a more seductive note than the first. She blew them a kiss.
Bruce declined the proffered lift; he would walk, he said. They passed him later striding angrily through the rain, and the girl felt a twinge of remorse. Certainly he was behaving like a spoiled child; but she had promised to let him see her home, and there hadn’t been any ‘ifs’ or ‘buts’ attached to the promise. Then she remembered Dulcie, and her self-esteem was partially restored. He deserved a rebuff for flirting with Dulcie; he couldn’t have it both ways.
She was still thinking of Dulcie when the car stopped outside her aunt’s house. When she made to get out Desmond stopped her.
‘You’re not terribly keen on this lark we’re planning, are you?’ he asked.
No, she wanted to say, I’m dead against it. But she was young, and they were her friends, and the role of spoil-sport was not a pleasant or an easy one to adopt. So she said, swallowing her misgivings, ‘I don’t mind. Not so long as you keep off blood and murder and things like that.’
‘We will. But let us know if you change your mind. She’s your aunt.’
‘And Michael’s,’ she reminded him.
‘True. Maybe it was that sobering thought that gave him the murder bug.’
They were silent for a while. Elizabeth waited for him to put his arm round her shoulders and kiss her goodnight, but he made no move. With his hands still on the steering-wheel he sat staring thoughtfully through the rain-spattered windscreen at the small area of light thrown by the side-lamps.
Well, thought the girl, it’s not for me to suggest it. ‘Good night, Desmond,’ she said. ‘Thanks for the lift.’
He stopped her again, a hand placed quickly on her arm. But he did not change his position or turn his head.
‘There’s that other little matter I mentioned a week or so back.’ He sounded unusually diffident. ‘About getting married. Remember?’
Elizabeth turned towards him, glad of the darkness that enveloped them. It made it easier to say what she had to say.
‘Yes, I remember. In fact, I’ve thought about it a lot. Only — well, for one thing I don’t think I’m in love with you. Not madly, head over heels, in love, anyway.’
‘I might grow on you,’ he suggested. ‘Why not try it and see? Or is there some one else?’
‘Oh, no.’ She squeezed his arm gently. ‘You’re streets ahead of all rivals. So far ahead, in fact, that I’d probably say ‘yes’ if it were not for Aunt Charlotte.’
‘Marry me — marry anyone — and bang goes a tidy little fortune. Is that what you mean?’
‘No,’ she said sharply. But she did not blame him. That was what they all thought; not only her friends, but the whole village. Every one believed that she only put up with her aunt for the inheritance that would one day be hers. Had she Aunt Charlotte to thank for that belief? It was the kind of malicious story that Aunt Charlotte would delight in spreading. ‘Oh, I’m not saying the money isn’t attractive; I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t think about it sometimes, and it helps to tide me over some of the more difficult moments. But the all-important reason is that I promised Uncle Edward I’d stay with her; and I don’t like breaking a promise.’
He was all contrition. ‘I shouldn’t have said it. I’m sorry, darling.’
‘It’s all right. I’ve got used to it now; everybody says it — or thinks it. But if they only knew how gladly I would give up all thought of the money for a chance to get away from her — go out and earn a living, be independent. It would be marvellous.’
‘Or get married, perhaps?’ he suggested.
‘Yes. Or get married.’ He had spoken lightly, but her voice was serious. ‘That’s why I don’t think I’m in love with you, Desmond.’
That took some working out.
‘You mean that, if you were in love with me, the promise to your uncle wouldn’t seem so binding? Is that it?’
‘Yes. At least — oh, I don’t know what I mean. It isn’t only Uncle Edward, you see; there’s Aunt Charlotte herself. She couldn’t live alone with that heart of hers — and who else would stay with her?’
‘There wouldn’t be a rush for the job,’ he agreed. ‘But why shouldn’t we get married and have her to live with us?’
‘She’d never agree.’ But she could not tell him why; that was something she would never willingly confide to anyone. They all knew that Aunt Charlotte was difficult; but they didn’t know just how difficult or in what way, and she hoped they never would. ‘She doesn’t want me to get married at all, you see. She’s threatened to disinherit me if I do.’
A match flared in the dark. He lit two cigarettes, handing one to her.
‘I wouldn’t want to come between you and affluence,’ he said slowly, ‘but I do want to marry you. You wouldn’t care for a secret wedding, I suppose?’
Elizabeth’s heart beat a little faster. A secret wedding! How romantic that sounded, and what a happy jewel to hug to herself in the drab unpleasantness of life with Aunt Charlotte! She said, trying to keep the flutter from her voice, ‘How would that help? Anyway, Aunt Charlotte would get to hear of it eventually. You know how people talk.’
‘I do indeed. But I meant secret from every one, not just from Aunt Charlotte. As for how it would help — well, that’s debatable, I suppose. It would help me because I love you. To know that you really belong to me, that no one could step in and whisk you away — that would be more than something.’ He sighed. ‘I’m not very good at this, am I? Maybe I should have put in a spot of practice first.’
‘You’re doing all right for a beginner.’ Elizabeth no longer tried to keep the tenderness from her voice; it was wonderful to be loved, even if she could not love him in return. And if his phrasing was not in the vein of the great lovers there was sincerity in his voice. ‘If I don’t fall for it it’s because I’m not sure of myself.’ She gave a nervous laugh. ‘I’m not completely sure of you. I’m no femme fatale; it could be Aunt Charlotte’s money that attracts you.’
He groped for and found her hand, pressing it gently.
‘Why not put me to the test? Marry me openly, and to hell with the money. It’s you who are hesitating, darling, not me.’
That was true. But even if no money was involved she could not do as he asked. There was still her promise to Uncle Edward.
‘I didn’t really mean it,’ she said, returning the pressure of his hand.
‘Money comes in handy,’ he said, ‘but it isn’t everything. You are — to me. As for not being a femme fatale — who’d want to marry one of those?’ He let go of her hand and put his arm round her shoulders, pulling her towards him. ‘I’ve a feeling I’ve handled this badly. I should have been more demonstrative — swept you into my arms with bags of ardour. You might have said ‘yes’ then. But if you marry me the risks are all yours, darling, and I wanted to be fair. Keep your big hands to yourself, I told myself, and talk it over dispassionately first. The rest will follow — I hope.’
He kissed her gently. Her cheeks were cold. ‘Can one be dispassionate about love?’ she asked wistfully.
The rain had ceased, but it still dripped in untidy splodges of sound on to the roof of the car from the tall elms that partially concealed the house from the lane. As a child Elizabeth had been fascinated by the old rambling building, with its buttresses and gables, its soft grey stone walls almost hidden by wistaria, its windows askew and its roof sagging. The garden was a large, untidy wilderness that stretched from the main road to the river, with a gravel drive debouching into the narrow lane that led down to a disused ford and nowhere else. I
t was a house of character, a house of memories — memories of which the youthful Elizabeth had known nothing, but about which she had never ceased to wonder.
That was in the past. Now, though the house had not changed, it seemed to Elizabeth more of a prison than a home. For her Aunt Charlotte had warped its character, destroyed its memories.
She rubbed the mist away from the car window. No light shone from the house. ‘She must be in the kitchen,’ she said. ‘She can’t have gone to bed; she knows I haven’t a key.’
‘Does it mean a row?’
‘Not exactly a row. Just a full-scale ticking off. You can’t have a row, can you, when all the noise is on one side?’
Her voice was bitter. The grip on her shoulder tightened.
‘Is it worth it?’ he asked. ‘When you made that promise to your uncle you didn’t know what you were letting yourself in for. Do you have to go on?’
‘She’s ill,’ Elizabeth said, begging the question. ‘She looks healthy enough, apart from her high colour; but her heart’s dicky, and she doesn’t give it any rest. She drives herself almost as hard as she drives me.’ That was a lie, but it was what she wanted him to believe. She reached for the door handle. ‘I must go, Desmond. It really is late.’
‘And you won’t marry me? Not even in secret?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps. Don’t press me for an answer tonight, my dear. Let me sleep on it.’
‘Of course.’ He leaned forward to stub out his cigarette in the ashtray, and then turned to put both arms round her. Elizabeth responded only mechanically to his kiss; already her thoughts had strayed into the house and were pondering on the unpleasantness that lay ahead. ‘But don’t let it slip your memory, darling. To me it’s important.’
‘It might be important to me too,’ she said.
Chapter Two
An Accumulation of Straw
‘I’m afraid It’s rather late,’ Elizabeth said. ‘I’m sorry.’ The apology was not entirely mechanical. She had snatched at liberty that evening without first seeking permission from her aunt, and she felt some contrition at her part, however small, in the plot that had just been hatched. But the expression on her aunt’s face told her that the apology would not be accepted, and had there been the slightest chance of escaping from the wrath to come she would have taken it. Mrs Lane, however, was not easily eluded. Although short, she was buxom. She stood squarely in the narrow hallway, seeming to the girl to swell with indignation until her elbows almost touched the walls.
‘Is that all you have to say?’ the woman said softly.
Elizabeth closed her mind to all the other things she would have liked to say, and nodded.
‘Nearly midnight. It surprises me that you bothered to come home at all.’ The voice had lost its purr, was becoming shriller. ‘Perhaps the rain interfered with your — pleasure?’ Aunt Charlotte hesitated over the word, stressing it. ‘Or maybe he wasn’t sufficiently generous?’ She shot out an arm and snatched at the startled girl’s handbag. Her podgy hands shook as they fumbled with the clasp. ‘Let me see.’
Elizabeth’s face went white, and she clenched her fists in an agony of restraint. It had never been like this before. Tears, reproaches, rage, invective — she had imagined that by now she knew all the forms in which her aunt’s jealousy was likely to express itself. But this was something new, something she did not know how to handle. There had been scantily veiled hints of the menace that was man, warnings that Aunt Charlotte would oppose any male interest in her niece’s life. There had even been accusations that such an interest existed. But this crude suggestion that Elizabeth. . .
‘I — I don’t understand,’ the girl said. She felt cold, her body was trembling.
‘Oh, yes, you do.’ Unable to find what she sought, the woman let the handbag fall to the floor, its contents spilling. ‘You’ve been with a man, haven’t you?’
‘Only with Michael and —’
‘Michael!’ She spat the name venomously. ‘That good-for-nothing cadger! Very flattering, I’m sure, to know that you prefer his company to mine. Who else was with you?’
‘Some of his friends.’ No names, thought Elizabeth. Mention of Alan and Bruce would only infuriate her further, and she didn’t want to bring Desmond into such a scene. Desmond was a possible way of escape; Desmond must not be allowed to come under suspicion.
‘Friends of Michael’s, eh? I can imagine what they’d be like.’ She took a step forward, peering suspiciously up at the girl. Although she was short-sighted, vanity forbade the wearing of spectacles. ‘Which of ‘em brought you home? Not Michael — he hasn’t a car.’
Elizabeth looked with distaste at the too heavily powdered face, the faded eyes under the mascaraed lashes, the plucked and pencilled eyebrows, the cracked red lips, the thinning grey hair freshly waved and set. Revulsion rose in her, as it did when ever her aunt came too close. The cloying scent with which the older woman was wont to drench herself made her feel sick, and she drew back involuntarily, aware that the movement would only increase her aunt’s anger, but unable to prevent it.
‘Well?’ Aunt Charlotte demanded.
The girl shut her eyes, straining the lids against the cheekbones. ‘Go away from me, you horrid old woman,’ she wanted to scream. ‘Go away — before I put my hands round your fat neck and strangle the life out of you. I can’t stand any more, do you hear? I can’t stand any more.’
Instead she said evenly, ‘No, it wasn’t Michael. One of his friends had a car. It was raining, and he offered to run me home.’
‘Very kind of him. No doubt he was suitably rewarded. Or did you merely discuss the weather while you were sitting out there in the lane?’ The shrill voice faltered, a plump, bejewelled hand clutched the girl’s arm. She went on, not waiting for an answer, ‘Why can’t you find your pleasures at home, Elizabeth? Here, with me? Aren’t I good to you? Don’t I look after you better than your mother ever did — feed you, clothe you, give you all the pretty things you want? Isn’t that enough for you?’
No, it isn’t enough, thought Elizabeth. You give me all that, but you don’t give me freedom. You’re a rapacious maw trying to swallow me up, to make me so much a part of you that I’ll no longer have a will or a life of my own. I have to fight for every moment away from you, lie and trick and deceive in order to gain what every human being has a right to enjoy. And when I come home . . .
Home!
She opened her eyes. Fat tears were on the woman’s cheeks, ploughing their crazy way through the powder. Elizabeth sighed. Now we are back to normal, she thought, uncertain whether to be glad or sorry. Now she will tell me how much she loves me, that I’m all her life, that . . .
‘You wouldn’t understand,’ she said. ‘Need we discuss it any more tonight, Aunt? I’m tired.’
‘Tired!’ The tears were coming fast now, the voice was a little shriller. ‘Do you never think of anyone but yourself, Elizabeth? You walk out of the house without a word of explanation, leaving me to fret myself silly with anxiety, wondering where you are and what you are doing, imagining all the terrible things that might be happening to you, and me unable to lift a finger to help. You’re tired! How do you think I feel?’ Another step nearer, another sigh welling up from her well-filled stomach. ‘Oh, Elizabeth, how can you be so heartless, so cruel, to the one person in the world who loves you just for yourself alone? Do you think Michael feels that way about you? Or the others? Of course they don’t. They’re selfish, like all men. They wouldn’t be content just to sit and look at you, to talk to you; you’re not all that beautiful, my dear, and it’s no use pretending you are. You’re young, and your figure is good, but that’s not enough to hold a man’s attention for long.’ A sly look came into the weak eyes. ‘It wouldn’t be your money they’re after, I suppose?’
‘I haven’t got any money,’ Elizabeth said.
‘Not now. But you will have when I’m gone. And they know that, don’t they? Every one knows it. But that man who brought you home — did
you tell him he’s wasting his time, that you won’t have a penny, never, if you leave me or marry before I die? He might not be quite so attentive if he knew that.’
‘We didn’t discuss it,’ Elizabeth lied.
The reproaches went on, but the girl gave them little heed. She was thinking of Desmond. It was true that she was not beautiful. It was also true that by marrying now she would impoverish both herself and her husband. But Desmond knew that — and still wanted to marry her. What makes a man fall in love, she wondered, with one particular girl — with some one like me, for instance, who has so little to offer? Can it be . . .
Her aunt’s next words jerked her back to the present.
‘For some time, Elizabeth, I’ve been doubting the wisdom of leaving you on your own, and this confirms my doubts. I shall write to Ethel and tell her I can’t come. It’s a pity — I’ve been looking forward to my visit — but it cannot be helped. You’re not to be trusted, Elizabeth. That is a terrible thing to say of a person one loves, but unfortunately it happens to be true.’
The thought of losing her precious days of freedom, so eagerly anticipated, seemed to the girl like a major catastrophe. What a fool she had been not to consider this possibility before walking out so recklessly that evening!
Somehow she must rectify that stupid blunder.
‘I shan’t be alone,’ she said. ‘The Greens will be here.’
‘The Greens won’t be able to exercise the control over you that I can.’ The tears had ceased, though their ravages remained. Mrs Lane was feeling better. ‘Mrs Green will do her best — I fancy she knows on which side her bread is buttered — but she cannot insist on your staying at home in the evenings. I shall hear all about it later, of course; but by then the harm will have been done.’
