‘I might have done at one time, but I don’t now. He has his own life, apparently.’ Alison was staring at her twisting fingers.
‘I don’t believe that, not really. He loves you—’
‘Did he say that?’ Alison interrupted, turning to look at Margaret again.
‘He has no need to say it. He’s not a man who talks about himself or his feelings. You judge him mostly by his actions. But one would have to be stupid not to realise that he loves you.’
But had he always loved her? Yes, she could believe that. As a child he had loved her and as a girl he had loved her. But that was not the way she wanted to be loved. She wanted to be loved in the same way he loved Freda Gordon-Platt, in a way that would make him take a sword in his hand and make great marks in an oak stanchion.
Margaret said abruptly now, ‘I haven’t seen my nephew, Roy, but I understand he is a very presentable young man…You have seen him a number of times?’
‘Yes. Well, not so often; three or four times.’
‘You like him?’
Alison’s lids wavered, then drooped before she answered, ‘Yes. Yes, I like him. He’s a very nice boy, and I can say, and not for the first time, that he is very different from his mother.’
‘Thinking that way, it’s going to be very awkward for you if you get to more than like him, isn’t it?’
Alison’s eyes widened just the slightest, and she repeated, ‘More than like him?…But…’ She paused as Paul came back into the room. He was buttoning his coat and speaking to Margaret the while: ‘The dress is almost dry; I’ve taken it off the boiler, Margaret. I think we’ll be getting back.’
‘Oh, all right, Paul.’ Margaret smiled and stood up; and then turning to Alison, said, ‘Would you like to come along? That is, if you’re ready.’
‘Yes, I’m ready.’ Alison cast a look in Paul’s direction that wasn’t pleasant. He hadn’t asked her whether she was ready or not. Although she was very sorry for what she had done this afternoon, she resented being treated like a recalcitrant child, especially in front of someone else, and someone as nice as this woman.
As she passed him, Paul returned her look, and it was no more pleasant than her own.
A few minutes later, wearing an old mackintosh of Margaret’s, she took her leave, promising to come back when she could to see the children. She hadn’t, she noted, been asked to go into the bedroom to see them, and in a way this added to the feeling of being one apart…shut out from Paul and his interests. They never spoke one word to each other during the whole journey home, as though they were waiting, Alison thought, until they got indoors, when the sparks would fly once more. Oh, she was tired. She had begun to shiver again and felt a little sick. This decided her that no matter how he might provoke her with his temper and arrogance, she would have no further words with him that night. She would not even go with him into the drawing room. She would go straight to her room and to bed. The last thought brought a glow of comfort—all she wanted to do was to get into bed and be warm.
But when the car drew up outside the shop, there with his finger on the bell stood Roy Gordon-Platt.
‘Oh, hello!’ he called, and in the headlights his pleasure was plainly evident. ‘I’d almost given up; I thought you were out.’
He laughed, ‘And of course you were.’ He was now speaking through the open window to Alison. Paul still sat in the driving seat and it seemed that he had no intention of getting out of the car. Then he thrust the car door open and stalked to the shop door. He did not speak to Roy, not even to acknowledge his presence, and it would have been plain to anyone but a boy very much in love that he was not wanted. But at this moment Roy was apparently blind or indifferent to Paul’s cursory treatment, for he kept on talking to Alison, almost chattering to her. ‘I phoned twice this afternoon and my mother was down this way and she called, too. And at teatime she said, Why didn’t I pop over and see if you are still alive, so here I am,’ he finished on a laugh.
In the darkness of the shop doorway Alison didn’t need to look at him. If she had been forced to, she would have had to close her eyes against his youth. He was so juvenile, so much younger than his years…So his mother had been over this afternoon, had she? She was definitely keeping the place warm. They were in the dark shop now and Paul had strode away without switching on the door light. As she pressed the switch, Alison thought angrily, he’s going to be more awkward and beastly than ever now. It really was so unjust. If he could keep company with the mother, why couldn’t she keep company with the son if she wanted to? She wished at this moment, from the bottom of her heart, that she wanted to keep company with the son. It would have solved her problem.
Over her shoulder she said to Roy, ‘Be careful of this table, there are vases on it.’
She held out her hand as a guide and was not amused when it was grabbed and held on to. She steered him past the table but he did not relinquish his hold and, hand in hand, they reached the staircase door. Alison was thinking, what does it matter, when Paul’s voice came from out of the dimness, startling her as he said, ‘Well, what are we waiting for?’
She had imagined that he had already gone upstairs. She snatched her hand away from Roy’s and raced up the two flights of stairs.
In the softly lit drawing room the fire was blazing, the meal was set at the dining-room end, and everything was shining and inviting. It could have been so wonderful. It had been wonderful this time last week.
‘This is a beautiful room.’ As Roy stood looking about him, Alison walked towards the fire without making any comment, and it suddenly seemed to dawn on the boy that the atmosphere was strained. Alison was now crouching down on the rug, her hands held out to the blaze, but then Roy’s voice came to her saying, ‘I had better be going, for I had no intention of staying. I just came to ask you, sir’—he was now addressing Paul—‘if you would phone Mother around eight o’clock.’ At this Alison turned her head towards Roy. She felt full of contrition that he should have been made to feel unwelcome. But now her eyes turned to Paul, for he had swung round from the sideboard and was staring at the boy in an odd way.
‘She would have come with me,’ Roy went on, ‘but she’s not feeling too good. She’s had a headache all day. Well, I’ll be off. Goodbye, Alison. I’ll…I’ll phone you, if I may.’
‘Yes. Yes, do that, Roy. I’m sorry…’ Then her voice trailed off as Paul said brusquely, ‘I’ll see you out,’ adding, ‘Would you care for a drink before you go?’
‘No. No, thank you, sir. Goodbye, Alison.’ He turned towards Alison again, his expression naked.
Alison watched him leave, Paul following, and when she had the room to herself she slumped down on the rug feeling exhausted. But a few minutes later, when she heard Paul mounting the stairs again, she rose shakily to her feet. She must go to bed. She couldn’t do any more battle with him tonight. She felt too awful.
As Paul entered the room at the dining-room end, she left by the drawing-room door, going straight down to her room, where she switched on the electric blanket and, after quickly undressing, got into bed. While she waited for the blanket to warm up she lay shivering. But even when it was giving off a good heat she still shivered.
She had been in bed for three-quarters of an hour when she heard two sharp raps on the door. She did not answer, because if she unclenched her teeth they would start to chatter again. A few seconds later the door opened and Paul was standing over her and pulling back the bedclothes from her face. Bending quickly down to her, his voice was a little less abrupt but still not Paul’s voice, ‘Are you cold?’ he asked.
‘Y…yes. I’m freezing.’
He put his hand on her head, then felt her wrist, after which he remarked casually, ‘Your pulse seems to be normal.’ And on this he turned and walked quickly out of the room.
Five minutes later he was back again standing over her. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘Get up; I’ve run a mustard bath. Soak in that and then I’ll give you some hot whisky. It’ll war
d it off.’
‘I don’t want to get up. I’m so cold.’
‘You won’t be so cold if you get into the bath. Get up and don’t be silly.’
Oh, if only he wouldn’t speak to her like that. She pulled herself up into a sitting position, saying, ‘All right, leave me alone.’
It was with an effort that she got out of bed and put on her dressing gown and went upstairs. The bathroom was steaming and hot, and when she lowered herself into the water she murmured thankfully, ‘Oh, beautiful, beautiful.’ And after a few minutes of soaking she thought it would be very pleasant to die like this.
Twenty minutes later she was back in bed and choking over a glass of hot whisky. ‘I…I can’t drink any more.’
‘Drink it up, every drop of it.’
‘But…but you know I don’t like hot whisky.’
‘There are lots of things we don’t like but have got to do…drink it up.’
She moved her head impatiently, closed her eyes and with an effort emptied the glass. Then, shuddering violently from the effects of the whisky, she lay down, turning her face away from him. The next moment she heard him switch off the light, leaving only a wall light on in the far corner of the room. And then the door closed and she was alone, with a mountain of self-pity for company.
When he had had the ’flu she had looked after him…nursed him at all hours. Whatever he had done, she would have forgiven him if only because he felt ill, she knew she would. He was hard, unforgiving, and unjust. So unjust. So ran her thoughts until, the whisky taking effect, she slowly dropped into sleep.
She must have slept for a long while before waking, her body running with perspiration and her hair clammy. After this she dropped into fitful dozes, awakening briefly to find herself talking. At one point she awoke shouting out aloud and flinging her arms about. Her arm struck against something, and she felt her hand taken gently and pressed down under the clothes. As her hair was lifted from her sweating brow and neck, she kept her eyes closed. Paul was with her. He was sitting as he used to do when she had toothache or laryngitis. Paul was nice, Paul was wonderful. The fingers moving on her brow wiped away any thoughts of a Mrs Freda Gordon-Platt. There was only Paul and her in the whole world. The past week had been but a feverish dream. Yes, she had dreamt it all. There was no Bill Tapley and a car parked in a wood. Paul would never have taken her by the shoulders and shaken her violently; Paul would never shout at her. Paul was wonderful, Paul was good. She put out her hand and caught at the fingers, and holding them fast she dropped off to sleep again.
The next time Alison woke Paul was still there, this time with a cup of tea. He said quietly, ‘How do you feel now?’
How did she feel? She closed her eyes again for a second. She felt sapped and tired but the shivery feeling had gone. She said, ‘I feel better.’
He said, ‘You should stay where you are today.’
She did not protest, since the last thing she felt like doing was getting up. He stood beside the bed as she drank the tea, and when she handed back the cup their eyes met for a flashing second. The gulf between them was still there but filled now with embarrassment. He was no longer angry, as he had been yesterday. He was once more his quiet, reserved self. He could even be tender to her, although the gulf would remain. He said now, ‘Can you eat anything? Some toast?’
She shook her head. ‘No, thanks.’
‘Another cup of tea, perhaps?’ As he made to turn from the bed he paused, saying, ‘As soon as Nellie is here, I’ll have to go. I’ve made arrangements to view some pieces in Balfour Terrace. Then I’ve an appointment at twelve. I won’t be in for lunch, but I should be back just after two.’
Alone once more, Alison lay gazing up at the ceiling. He had an appointment for lunch. Well, what did it matter? He would do what he wanted; he was made that way. He wanted to pick up the threads of the past and he was grasping them with both hands. But she felt so low, so awful, that she couldn’t even think up a caustic comment to make about Freda Gordon-Platt.
When he brought her a second cup of tea he handed her two pills, saying. ‘Take these.’
‘What are they?’
‘They’re the ones the doctor gave me.’
She held them on the palm of her hand and said, ‘Oh, but they’ll make me sleepy. No, I don’t want them.’
‘Take them. Go on, take them.’
She put the pills on her tongue and drank some tea.
As she laid the cup on the bedside table she noticed he did not go but stood looking at her for so long that she felt he was about to say something, something important. She glanced up at him, at the face of the Paul she loved, and waited, her eyes on his and held fast now. She watched his lips move twice as he prepared to speak, and then abruptly he turned about and was gone.
Well, what would he have said if he had spoken? Would he have tried to enlist her sympathy for Mrs Gordon-Platt? She was always irritated with situations in books where the hero or the heroine could have straightened out their particular muddle with a few plain words, but refrained from doing so. When she came to a part like that she generally put the book down; it was too silly. Now she asked herself if she really wanted Paul to talk. Did she…did she want plain speaking? No. Like the heroine in the novels, she wanted to avoid the truth. The foibles that you laughed at in others weren’t amusing when they came to the fore in yourself.
She did not hear Mrs Dickenson come in, nor Paul leave the house, for she went to sleep almost immediately. She must have slept until about twelve o’clock when, dreamily, she heard Nelson saying softly, ‘Aa’ll just put me head round the door.’ When she heard the door open she kept her eyes closed and made no movement. She did not want to talk to Nelson. The door closed again and she dozed once more. Then it was Mrs Dickenson saying, ‘Come on, miss. I think you’ve had enough sleep for one day. Come on, sit up and get this…How are you feeling?’ Alison pulled herself up in the bed, and lying back against the bedhead, said sleepily, ‘Oh, I think I’m feeling a lot better, Nellie, but I don’t want anything to eat.’
‘You try; just make an effort. Get through some of it. I haven’t brought much. There now.’ She settled the bed-table over Alison’s knees, then said, ‘Straight after I get me dinner I’m going to slip down to the shops. It’s the best time; they’re clear about now. And I’m going to call in on that butcher and give him a piece of me tongue…Even then it’ll be more tender than the steak he sent this morning.’ She gave a ‘hic’ of a laugh. ‘You could sole your boots with it. They put you off with anything when they deliver the stuff. I’ve always told you that, haven’t I? There now.’ She pushed at Alison’s pillows. ‘You’re all settled, so enjoy that.’
To her own surprise Alison ate most of the lunch. A short time later Mrs Dickenson returned wearing her coat and hat and ready for the street, and exclaimed in a rush, ‘Oh, that’s good! You’ll not suffer much if you can eat. Feed a cold and starve a fever; that’s what they say and it’s true. Well, I’m off now and I won’t be long. You’ll be all right?’ Alison said, ‘Yes, oh, yes, I’ll be all right, Nellie. I even feel like getting up.’
‘Do no such thing, stay where you are. Mr Paul will be in just after two, he said. Well, here I go. Stay where you are now. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, Nellie.’
It must have been about five minutes later that Alison heard the heavy tread on the stairs. She knew Nelson’s step, and when the tap came on the door she said, ‘Come in, Nelson.’
The old man shuffled across the room towards her, saying, ‘How you feelin’ now, eh?’
‘Oh, I’m all right, Nelson. It’s just a bit of a chill. I got wet last night.’
‘Aa would say you would, goin’ out without a coat. But Aa’ll tell you what Aa’ve come up about, for there’s something up here Aa can’t understand.’ He shook his head. ‘Aa had it in me mind that Mr Paul had gone out to have a meal with that one the day. But there she is down in the street.’ He leant over her now, whispering, ‘She
came and asked to see him. Aa told her he was out and she said she would wait. But Aa wouldn’t let her up. Aa said you had the ’flu and were in a bad way. She looked at me as if she could’ve killed me.’ He nodded his head. ‘And then she stalked out of the shop. But there she is down there in the street, pretending to be looking in the windows.’
‘Did you tell her what time he was coming back?’
‘Aye, Aa did.’ Nelson moved his head in disgust at himself. ‘It slipped out. Just on two, Aa said he’d be back. That’s when she said she would wait. Aa must’ve been daft. But Aa was taken off me guard, you know, miss, because Aa was sure he was with her. There’s something funny about this business.’
‘Yes, Nelson, yes. But look’—Alison was sitting up—‘get back to the shop, you never know who might come in.’
‘Aye, Aa will. But you stay tucked up there.’ He nodded at her and Alison nodded back at him. But once the door had closed she pushed the bedclothes aside and got out of bed. She had no doubt but that when Paul came in, Freda Gordon-Platt would be with him. And she couldn’t bear to be stuck down here, she just couldn’t. She needn’t dress; she could just wear her dressing gown. She could tuck up on the couch as if she had been there for some time.
To her surprise she found that her legs were unsteady, and when she looked at herself in the mirror she screwed up her nose against the reflection. She must have a wash and put on some make-up to cover up the dullness of her skin.
As she mounted the stairs to the top floor she had to hang on to the banister. It must be the effect of the pills, she told herself as she went into the bathroom. What she would like to do was have a bath to waken her up, but there mightn’t be time. It was almost two o’clock and Paul could return at any moment.
She ran the taps and was actually in the process of sluicing her face when she heard the stair doorway open, then close again. Grabbing a towel, she hastily dried herself, but then realised it was too late to get into the drawing room before they did. She could have done it if she had dropped everything and run, but she felt in no condition to run and she must put on some make-up before she came face-to-face with that madam.
The Lady on my Left (The Mists of Memory) Page 14
