Portrait of a Girl

by Mary Williams

  Chapter Two

  ‘I’m drawing out,’ Frank Page said bleakly, averting his eyes from William’s face as he delivered the blunt statement. ‘It’s no good, Fairley. Unless we go in with Bradley we’ve had it. Profit from the Echo’s practically nil; in a few months we’ll be in debt. Without compromising, that is.’

  He raised his eyes slowly to William’s face which in those few seconds had paled to ashen grey.

  ‘You mean you want to sell? Every one of them? Every share?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. I’m damned sorry. It’s a blow to me, as much to you. Well — you’ve more to lose — I know that. But facts have to be faced. Without the capital we haven’t a chance in a million of winning against Bradley. I’m willing to go along with him — up to a certain point, if you are. But then you’re not, obviously.’ He paused before adding, take it there’s nothing in your kitty to draw on? No personal assets to risk?’

  ‘My property,’ William answered honestly. ‘That’s about all. Oaklands.’

  Page looked away again. ‘In that case — why don’t you call it a day? The Courier wants good men — you could get in there any time; I was chatting to Martin Drake the other day, and he as good as told me you’d not be wanting a decent post if you decided to fold up. A good salary, no worries, and the challenge of joining forces against Bradley and his Comet. You’re respected in the newspaper world, and whatever that jumped-up northern Johnny thinks, his new-fangled notions aren’t going to affect the Courier.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘To no great extent anyway. He may have power, but it’s the new kind. The Wilton family’s got generations of traditions and trust — and solid currency behind it. If they have to, they’ll fight, and win. Mark my words, in another ten years the Comet will be wiped out, and Bradley’s new-fangled idea of The Midlander will be a second-rate memory, no more. You have a future there, old man, if you want it. And maybe a place on the Board. Mind you, I don’t know but it’s well worth following up. I do happen to have eyes and ears in my head, and Tom Wilton’s always been a friend of mine.’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a long embarrassed pause until Fairley said dully, ‘You mean it, about selling?’

  ‘Sorry. Yes. Unless you care to give Bradley what he wants.’

  With sudden force, William, whose temper was generally controlled, jumped up from his chair, knocking the glass of whisky over, so it spilled in a stream across the office table, staining papers of copy waiting to be edited.

  ‘Then go to hell with it,’ he said. ‘I thought you were a friend, Page; I never thought that in a bad patch you would just let me down. But that’s just what you’re doing, isn’t it? Isn’t it?’

  All colour had left his face again. The knuckles of his clenched fist were very white on the crumpled papers.

  ‘Here, steady on, old man,’ Page remonstrated. ‘You’re not well. Sit down.’

  ‘No thanks. I’m all right.’ William reached for his coat from a peg, stiffened and remarked coldly, ‘The meeting’s over, I think. I’ll lock up now, and call it a day. Ready?’

  ‘If you’re sure—’

  ‘I’m sure. I know where I stand now. Alone — except for Emma.’

  ‘I was thinking about her as well,’ Page said as they went to the door. ‘And the other one — Rosalind.’

  ‘They’ll be all right. My family’s my own concern,’ William stated decisively. ‘They’ll not starve.’

  But what would they do?

  As he drove erratically five minutes later from Charbrook towards the forest road leading to Oaklands, his mind, though whirling, felt empty and dead of ideas or the capacity to make plans.

  On impulse, before reaching his home, he made a detour of three miles or so, taking a winding route past Feyland Woods towards Bradgate. Before he faced Emma he felt an urgent necessity to bring his emotions under control so they could discuss the issue together — assess a problem that at the moment appeared not only undiscussable, but unsolvable.

  He must have peace for a brief time, allow the rugged slopes and ancient history of the park to encompass him with the tranquillity and atmosphere of things by-gone. From his earliest youth Bradgate had been his sanctuary during periods of doubt and trouble — soothing over-sensitive nerves to rest and awareness of the illusion of Time.

  On countless mornings he’d wandered there to hear birdsong as the first streaks of dawn lit the sky. At the knobbly roots of the ancient stunted oaks, where the ill-fated Lady Jane Grey had wandered before the proclamation of being proclaimed queen centuries ago, countless rabbits now had their burrows. At the time of her death, it was said, the trees also had been lopped. But sad events had not robbed the park of its beauty. The stream still trickled gently down the valley past the tumbled ruin; bracken grew thick at the base of the hills — fresh green in the spring, changing with autumn to russet, gold and brown. Deer moved gracefully and unmolested by thickets and up the slopes. Even in rutting time the great antlered stags showed no animosity. It was as though, in solitary hours, Nature’s gentle hand had erased all conflict of past history, leaving only a dreaming quiet that had generally eased William’s problems and reinforced his inherent energy.

  That day, though, seemed a little different. He was more tired than usual; after parking the car and climbing the tricky ladder-like entrance to the domain, he walked only a few hundred yards or so, before the old nagging pain across the chest returned, forcing him to rest. He found a granite boulder, seated himself on it, and gradually the discomfiture passed. How quiet it was — not a breath of wind — only the damp sweet odours of earth and air, and occasional rustle of undergrowth where a rabbit’s white tail showed momentarily then disappeared. On his left the shape of ‘Old John’ depicted by a miniature folly, a castle-like ruin, rose golden-brown, showing darker patches of bog, against the fading sky. He lit his pipe, smiling slightly, as he noted a landmark of a twisted dead tree halfway up the slope; it had been there ever since he was a boy. Emma called it the ‘Witch’, and as a child had woven fairy tales about it. ‘P’raps she put a spell on poor Lady Jane,’ his young daughter had suggested once when she was a little girl, ‘and that’s why she had her head cut off. Oh Papa — d’you think she’s a ghost now, like the people say? D’you think she’s happy?’

  William had squeezed the small hand comfortingly.

  ‘Wherever she is, she’s all right,’ he’d said. ‘And you mustn’t think of ghosts and witches. Look at that baby fawn over there—’

  Diverted, Emma’s attention had been drawn to the graceful animal shapes moving by a cluster of silver birch. But a curious sadness had stirred William’s thoughts, and it was the same this evening, as he stared reflectively over the landscape. It wasn’t difficult, in the fitful light, to imagine the frail ethereal shape of a young girl drifting soundlessly from her ruined home down the curving drive; perhaps, indeed, something of her spirit did remain there, imbuing the area with mystery and regret.

  He pulled himself together with a jerk.

  What was the matter with him? Soliloquising with himself like any sentimental woman. He must be leaving and return to Oaklands. Even at his home there was business for him to tackle, and Rosalind would be wanting to say goodnight before she went to bed.

  As usual, his heart lurched when he thought of her. So beautiful to look at — fair like her mother, but incapable of a normal existence. He’d tried to love her, but it was difficult; his emotions were too complicated, and the thought of her future a constant worry. He sighed, tapped the bowl of his pipe on the granite, and forced the uncharacteristic vague mood from him.

  The Echo!

  Oaklands? — What to do?

  His name was good at the bank, of course; he could get a mortgage on his old home. There were ways of keeping the Echo and its Weekly going. But ultimate survival was a different matter. And William had a fierce objection to shouldering loans which eventually might force him to bankruptcy. He had a little over tw
o weeks left to solve the challenge, and with Bradley as opponent, he couldn’t see a hope of winning.

  Oh well! be damned to them! he’d soldier on to the last, and after that? Who could tell? How could any human being in the world really count on what the next week or even day would bring? Life was chancy anyway. Emma would have her mother’s small capital when he went, and he had sufficient faith in his daughter’s stubborn courage to know she’d somehow manage to look after Rosalind. So there was no point in worrying; none at all.

  He got up, feeling suddenly better and released from strain. As he turned to take the steep path past a fenced spinney to the summit of the hill, he drew a deep breath. A rush of vigour stirred his blood. He lifted his chin to the sky, noted a last streak of dying daylight catch the tip of the folly; then — unpredictably, the earth seemed to sway beneath his feet. All round him trees, rocks, and the startled movements of a deer wheeled into a vortex of whirling darkness. There was a return of the cutting pain across his chest. He clutched his tweed jacket along the heart, gulped vainly for more air. It was no use.

  As he tottered and fell a bird rose, squawking from the bracken nearby, and took flight towards the stretch of moor where the twisted form of the blackened old tree stood stark against its boggy pool.

  Hours later a gamekeeper found him. He was lying on his back with his lifeless eyes staring at the sky.

  When Emma heard, her first wild grief gradually turned to a cold deadly determination for vindication and resolve to avenge her father’s death.

  By whatever means, she swore to herself, the Echo and Oaklands would both survive. Somehow she’d beat the hateful Bradleys and see that Fairley traditions were upheld, and endured. Never, never would the northern upstart get his fists on Fairley territory.

  Just how her end would be achieved she couldn’t visualise. Neither, at that point, did she try. Her emotions were too poignantly involved, finding, after the first tormented reactions, relief only in solitude and tears.

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