by Sheila Burns
I love you so much.
We shall never regret this. Here it is rural life, deprivation, starvation. I …
No more.
Lindy knew the writing, for she had but a week ago found in a drawer a laundry list which had been made out by Edna, and it had been signed. This hut had been Edna’s. She had come here to sew, or to write letters, maybe to bathe, and very probably she had met her lover Rafaello here, the Hungarian violinist. Lindy stood with the old tired half-sheet in her hand, and she stared out to the water of the estuary.
Here, quite suddenly, she had walked into some association with the other wife, the one Simon would not discuss, the lovely, defiant, dominant girl whose haunting violet eyes watched her as she ate her meals.
She went slowly through the hut. She drew out a drawer and found in it a curious mixture of shells which perhaps she had collected, some needlework, and a notebook with singular jottings in it. They were the everyday details of living, and the planning of a new wardrobe. They were sheer womanly things, details men do not write about, a cooking recipe, a knitting pattern, and a torn letter obviously from the Hungarian. In broken English he professed an abiding love, a deep passion, but it was only half intelligible.
She put it back where she had found it.
Half of her felt like a spy, someone peering in on another life, a life now sacrificed; the other half wanted to know more. Truthfully the thought of Edna fascinated her.
She heard the sudden patter of rain and looked out. There had come one of those downpours which attend to that part of the coast quite unexpectedly. The rain told her that there was a roof of corrugated iron to this little hut. The rain whirled away again. It went as quickly as it had come.
I must go before the next one catches me, she thought, and picked up her coat. She waited in the doorway for a moment. Here Edna had stood! Here Edna had come on that last day before she eloped with the Hungarian violinist.
She shut the door after her, and wished that she could have locked it, but as it had been so safe for years, locking it now would make no difference. The tide was coming in, it made a new sound which she recognised. She moved on to the very wet path up the rising which was almost cliff. That was when suddenly she was transfixed. In the new mud were footprints, a woman’s footprints; someone must have followed her down here. She stared at them not believing that she was seeing right, and unsure of herself. That’s curious, she thought, and at this moment felt like Robinson Crusoe whom she had loved as a child. It can’t be true! she thought, as he must have thought.
As she climbed to the top, and when she saw the vista and the house before her, there was no living thing in sight. Nothing. She went home with the curious feeling of dissatisfaction.
When Simon returned that evening he was not in one of his more offhand moods as she had expected. He wanted to know what she had been doing and where she had been. Lindy told him.
‘I went down to the estuary. It is quite steep there, and I found a little sort of summer-house place, half summer-house, half hut. The door was open and I went in.’
He looked at her. She got the impression that his eyes were hostile and that somehow or other he was angry about it.
‘Edna had it built. She took sewing there. She liked sketching, and went there to do it. There’s nothing in it today.’
‘There was a little sofa, a couple of nice chairs, and a table. It is a pity it is so mouldy, for it is most frightfully damp. Couldn’t it be done up?’
‘You mean it was just as she left it?’
‘I should have said so, even to a letter that she had not finished.’
‘A letter?’ He stared at her. At this moment there was a sudden darkening of his eyes, and she realised for the first time that Simon could be insanely jealous. ‘A letter?’
‘Yes, Simon. Come down there with me?’
‘I will.’
She said half apologetically, ‘It was so odd, so very odd, but when I walked back I saw that someone must have followed me. There were footprints in the mud. I got the idea that I had been followed, yet nobody was there.’
‘I’ll come down with you some time.’
‘I left everything as I found it, even the letter. Anyway it has been there so long now that it is certain to be there for yet another day or two. The hut looked sad, and I felt sorry for it in a way. Once it had been so pretty, now it was tired, spoilt, wasted, I felt.’
He said, ‘We’ll go to it some day.’
He did not talk much that evening, but sat there listening to records, which he enjoyed. In the end he went out with Trixie. Two hours later she went up to bed. She felt that she could not wait about much longer, knowing how strange he could be. She woke at four, for she had heard a sound in the dressing-room beyond her. Someone had entered it, and she knew that he had returned.
He got into the bed, she heard the strange little creak that it always made, though there was no other sound.
She woke four hours later, feeling sick and ill. When she came down to breakfast still feeling wretched, Simon had had his and had gone out. Davies told her he thought he had gone shooting. It was one of those lovely mornings with the haze on the horizon, and a light amethyst sea betokening good weather. She went through the daily duties, saw Mrs. Waterford and arranged the meals, then went out herself.
She went back to the hut where she had gone yesterday. She thought that perhaps she would see the impression of Simon’s feet, for she guessed he had been there. Yet as she approached the difficult path down there was no sign of any disturbance whatever. She went down it and into the hut which appeared to be just as she had left it. She opened the door and went inside. Everything was exactly as yesterday. Then she saw what had happened.
The letter had gone.
Chapter Sixteen
They dined at the Crown that night.
Simon had been difficult all day, in one of his ‘fey’ moods, and Lindy had become thoroughly depressed. Joan had come round in the late afternoon and had asked if they would come to the Crown with her instead of on Saturday. Lindy had not expected that Simon would accept the offer, but he did. It worried Lindy that Mrs. Waterford might not be too pleased, it was to have been lobster mayonnaise, but she said nothing. She was eternally in command of her emotions, one never found her becoming angry.
The three of them went down to the Crown together in Simon’s car. The place was full of people walking about in small groups. Along the front some were still bathing.
The hotel was old. It had stood here for a hundred and fifty years. Once it had housed Victorian aristocracy, and had catered only for the gentry. There were back rooms for ladies’ maids and valets, where today children were put. Times had changed.
They sat down in the lounge to have drinks, a lounge which was entirely without charm and yet with a bon camaraderie about it that one liked. They lingered over the drinks and went in to dinner later than most, the older people already there and half through, but the young not yet arrived, for the beach still held them.
Lindy liked the room which still maintained the dignity of the early part of last century, and had a Georgian grace. The tables were square with tiny bowls of flowers on them and a candelabrum. The room had in it the sort of people who visit a seaside town which has grown out of favour, because it is cheaper, and not so crowded. In the far corner Ronald Forbes was sitting.
Seeing him there was a surprise, and he explained that his housekeeper had a sick brother, and had gone off for a week to nurse him. What he would do he did not know, and he had come here to get a decent meal, and whilst he was eating it, think the problem over. They joined up together.
‘As far as we go, we have got a cook at last,’ said Simon, ‘and Lindy’s better.’
He ordered champagne, it was something of an occasion, and they sat at the table by the centre window. There was something very pleasant about being all together, it comforted Ronald who had been on edge, and Joan was the sort of personality who fits in with any pictu
re. One always felt happier from being with her.
They lingered over chicken vol-au-vents followed by a mousse, and sat on talking. Ronald was distraught that his help was away, and Simon wondered if pro tem Mrs. Baker could help him out. She had made up her mind not to return to them, even if the old man was dead, but as yet she had not gone off to live with her daughter in Ipswich. Maybe there was a hitch, her daughter might not be too keen. Privately Simon rather hoped that she had trouble, seeing the way that she had behaved to them.
They had their coffee at the table, for it was comfortable away from the rest of the room, and the lounge was full, they knew, with the television going strong. They talked of their early lives and suddenly there seemed to be a homesick something within Lindy so that she wished that she had had an early life, something lovely to remember. Joan had been a spoilt sister with a lot of brothers, all of whom had gone to the colonies; then she had come here. Ronald Forbes had come here because it was one of those places where a man could paint. Both he and Joan turned to Simon.
‘Why did you come here?’ they asked.
He found it rather hard to explain. His early life had been spoilt, he knew. He had had a doting mother who had let him do whatever he wanted and had given him far too much money. He had originally come here by mistake, for the car had broken down outside this very hotel.
‘Fate plays tricks with us all,’ he said.
It had been autumn, a time of the year when in this part of the world the horizon is amethyst and every day beautiful. He had gone for a walk along the cliff and had seen the ruined house standing there and somehow felt that it called to him.
The owner was sick of it. He had not anticipated a bid, and seeing the condition the place was in, quite obviously thought that Simon was mad. His blue eyes laughed at that. He had made an absurd offer for it and had bought it. It had been a joy to watch it change and grow. It had worked out so much better than he had ever thought it could. He had rebuilt it and loved it. He did not care if rumour had it that a woman wept there (for the first time he admitted to this, and it surprised Lindy to hear him speak of it), he did not care if it had ghosts.
In the middle of the transformation he had married for the second time, and Edna had not liked it. That had been where they had begun to go wrong. She had hated seeing that beautiful picture of her in the dining-room and would only come for odd visits, not make it permanently her home.
Joan remembered her.
Simon was in a talking mood. He went on. Edna had been very lovely, but the Hungarian violinist had been the ugliest man he had ever seen, and this was not jealousy. He flung back his head and laughed, then put out a hand and took hold of Lindy’s.
He does love me, she thought, he has put all this behind him and I am the one who matters to him. He said, ‘It was a joy when it all ended. Oh, I daresay I ought to have felt dreadful about it, but I was thankful. It’s over and done with, and I’m terribly happy with Lindy now.’
They finished the coffee with the long evening closing in. The front had cleared, for most people had gone to some of the entertainments on the pier, or to a dance hall. The tide was far out, and the firm sand scattered with drifts of weed, and shells. They went down to it, the four of them together, and they walked on it. It was as firm as a lawn and the strong ozone scent was invigorating. Lindy found herself with Joan, and they walked arm in arm.
‘You’re lucky,’ Joan said. ‘You keep Mrs. Waterford at all cost. Time will warm her to you, but keep her, for they can be so difficult to get.’
‘I know. I just hope she’ll like me.’
‘She will. Don’t ask too many questions, just let her settle in in her own way.’
They walked right under the pier, the tide far out, and here were the occasional pool, the weed, and a dead starfish. They could hear the sound of canned music and of people dancing, yet were far enough from it for it to be nothing more than a mere accompaniment to their own hearts.
Then the party broke up for Joan was on the Bench next morning, and they gave Ronald a lift back up Fiddler’s Hill. Twilight was here. It crept in from the sea like some pretty fog which in the end blotted out the stark lights of the world. It was then that Lindy suddenly saw Mrs. Waterford. She was near the cliff edge and alone, by the part of the cliff where last winter there had been a fall. She stood there looking out to sea, her figure dumpy, and the clothes she wore fitting badly as though she did not care. Had she lost heart with life?
Apparently she did not hear the car, for she sank down on to the close-clipped turf by the path, and they saw her sitting there and still staring. Then it seemed that her head dropped into her hands.
‘It’s Mrs. Waterford.’ Lindy’s voice was quite sharp. ‘Something must be the matter and she’s crying.’
‘Don’t you butt in!’ Simon said it firmly. ‘That is where women make mistakes. Let her go her own way and do what she wants. Leave her alone.’
But Lindy had got a picture of a woman near the cliff edge, her face hidden in her hands and utterly wretched. She misses him so much, she thought, remembering the dead husband. She would feel that way about Simon. Suddenly she could not think what she would do if anything happened to him, for she loved him. If he died, I’d go too, she thought. Life without him would not be life.
Davies met them in the hall.
‘Some coffee and sandwiches?’ he suggested. ‘Mrs. Waterford isn’t here, but I can get them for you.’
‘Where is she?’
‘She went for a walk along the cliff. She seems to be pretty partial to that cliff. I told her it wasn’t that safe, a bit crumbles away, then down you go, but oh no! She says she knows all about that one, and off she goes.’
‘She’s sitting there,’ said Simon, ‘we saw her,’ and then, ‘Don’t worry about the coffee and sandwiches, we’ll be all right.’
Chapter Seventeen
In the next fortnight Lindy became better used to Mrs. Waterford. Obviously she would never be communicative, for she wished to keep herself to herself, but she did her job magnificently, knew where everything was after a few mistakes, and behaved quietly and unobtrusively. At the same time Lindy was always aware of her. She came to the conclusion that she was herself an over-sensitive personality, who became too easily alive to everything about her. And the things that were ever close to her were always the ones that she could not analyse.
In the middle of all this Lindy found that Mrs. Baker, who would not come back to them, had gone off as a temporary evening cook to Ronald, and did his dinner every night. She had not even quibbled at the idea. The daughter in Ipswich could not take Mrs. Baker in until after she had had her holiday (apparently this holiday was vital to her), and as Mrs. Baker was finding money slightly short, she went to Ronald.
There was some difficulty with Davies. He found that Mrs. Baker had discovered something of his previous history and had gone all round Alderson Point discussing it.
‘It’s a bit hard, m’Lady,’ he told Lindy.
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Never again, m’Lady. Pure as the driven snow for me from now on.’
‘I think that’s wise. The only thing.’
‘You’re ever such a sweet lady. I only hope Sir Simon knows what a lucky man he is!’ and Davies went off purring contentedly to himself. Simon was annoyed with Mrs. Baker for going round the place saying rude things about Davies, but there was nothing anybody could do. Davies would have to live it down.
That day Lindy had been feeling sick again. Privately, deep down in her heart, she had an awful apprehension that she had a ‘grumbling appendix’. It was the last thing she wanted, but she kept on feeling this way, and with a nasty niggling little pain at times. She would have to ask Felix about it, but she did not want to do this unless it got worse. She was going through the vagaries of a girl who is scared. One shrinks from truth. Anyway she did not want Simon to be worried, and that was the very evening when he told her that he would have to go away for a long week-end
.
‘I’ll come with you, Simon.’
‘You can’t, darling. It’s a very long way. The U.S.A.’
‘You’re not going over there?’
‘It’s to do with these investments. It isn’t serious, but I’d like to be quite sure that I am doing everything that I can about it. No stone unturned.’ She got the feeling that he was putting her off. She had the sudden idea that something was really wrong, worse than he wished her to know, and she shrank from it.
‘But, Simon, don’t leave me.’
‘For a few hours, darling, not much more. I can’t take you with me, I had an awful job to get a flight for myself. It will be a lightning visit, and I promise to come back.’
‘Yes, of course,’ and then she said, ‘I’ve got Davies.’
It was curious how she relied on him. She had the feeling that, bad hat though he might be, he would never let her down. She felt that she was close to him, they understood each other, whereas she couldn’t understand the off-hand Mrs. Waterford and she was not finding that growing easier.
I wonder if anybody has ever found Mrs. Waterford’s heart, she thought, she is like a body in a sarcophagus, you can’t touch it. She never warmed. Sometimes passing her sitting-room Lindy would hear her listening to radio music, opera generally. Particularly Wagner. She seemed to have a passion for Wagner.
‘When are you actually going?’ she asked Simon, being sure that he had it all settled, for this was the way he always did things.
‘Tomorrow.’
It was a shock, she had not expected it to be so soon, and for a moment it showed in her face.
She said nothing, for he was a man who particularly disliked comment, and always accepted it as being criticism. ‘And you’ll come back when?’
‘Monday evening. It’s very pleasant that one can be so quick these days, and make sure that one will come back.’
