Island-in-Waiting

by Anthea Fraser

  “You don’t have to feel responsible for me,” I said bleakly. His repeated insistence on my going home was not at all what I wanted to hear.

  “But good heavens, girl, of course I do! Would you expect me to stand by and look the other way while he turns you into some grotesque kind of puppet?”

  “I shouldn’t have told you. I’m sorry.” I was perilously close to tears but I’d no intention of letting him know.

  “Well, you have, and Lord knows it’s given me plenty to think about. I know the power of the mind is only just beginning to be fully appreciated but this! Ye gods, we’ve got premonition, time-hopping, telepathy and retrocognition, all in one bewildered girl! What worries me is how long you can hold your head above water.”

  Over to our left purple storm clouds were massing and their giant shadows went racing down the hillsides, momentarily blotting out the colours. Neil stood up. “And talking of water we’d better be making a move or we’ll be caught in the rain. It’s slippery enough down there as it is. I’ll go first and catch you if you fall!”

  Down among the crowding trees it was suddenly much darker and cooler. The handrail alongside the first flight of steps soon gave out and the steep path plunged into the dimness, unfenced and potentially dangerous.

  “All right?” Neil called back.

  “So far.” I slithered after him, the noise of the waterfall roaring in my ears. On one side of the path dank gleaming rock dripped mournfully and the thin grey tree trunks were marred with the green leprosy of lichen.

  “Watch this bit – it’s lethal.” He reached back a hand and I clung to it as I started down the muddy slope. For a while the descent took all our concentration and we went in silence, but as it eased off slightly he said over his shoulder, “These dreams of yours, are they all in the past?”

  “No. There’s one particularly horrible one where I’m lost in the mist on a hill somewhere.” I put my hand against the rock face to steady myself and gasped as my fingers sank into spongy green moss. “Actually, I’ve had that one several times, beginning with a fairly mild, condensed version and gradually building up to the full horror.”

  Down here at the foot of the gorge the trees were deciduous, their bare arms lifting in supplication to the distant sky while a few yellow leaves clung sparsely to the lower branches. I was thankful I hadn’t attempted this walk alone. Hugo couldn’t have realized the extent to which the recent heavy rains had intensified the dangers of the path, turning some of the steeper parts into a treacherous slide. We came to a wooden bridge and paused for a moment to look back upstream at the thundering descent of the waterfall.

  “It’s probably none of my business,” Neil said suddenly, “but do please be careful with Ray. The more I think about what you told me, the less I like it. Whether or not he really has any hold over you, the fact that he thinks he has could be enough.”

  I gazed down into the water frothing below the bridge. “It’s not only Ray, though. I’ve a feeling that the island and I have been waiting for each other for some time.”

  “Which comment certainly doesn’t make me feel any better! I must say you’re the most intriguing girl, with all your dreams and portents. This afternoon has been quite a revelation. Just – take care of yourself, that’s all.” He hesitated a moment and then pulled me gently towards him. His mouth was warm and firm, intensely familiar and well-remembered. It was over in a minute and I had to make a conscious effort not to pull him closer and make the embrace altogether more important than he’d intended.

  “Will you have dinner with me one evening?” His voice was studiedly casual.

  “Thank you, I’d like to.”

  “There’s a staff meeting one evening this week. I’ll have to check and give you a ring.” In the five minutes we had been on the bridge it had become noticeably darker. “We’d better go, or Hugo will think the bugganes have got you!”

  He took my hand and we went in silence along the dark, narrow path until, abruptly, it ended and the wooden building of the inn came into sight, with Neil’s car parked next to Martha’s in front of it. The glen was darkening rapidly now, premature evening shadows hastened by the storm clouds which were still marshalling on the hills. We stopped by the cars and looked at each other a little awkwardly. Then Neil smiled his slow, crooked smile and held my hand for a moment between both of his.

  “Off you go then, and don’t forget to tell Hugo about all this. I’ll phone when I’ve checked about the meeting.”

  He stood waiting while I started the car and moved slowly out on to the road. In the mirror I could see him still standing looking after me until I came to the bend and turned out of his sight.

  Ten

  Annette St Cyr had rung while I was out to let me know that she was well enough to return to work, and I was surprised when, the next morning, Martha called that she was on the phone again.

  “Gaston and I were wondering if you’ve time to come over for a quick coffee this morning? We’d love to meet you, and thank you personally for helping out as you did. I have to leave for college about eleven, but if you could be here around ten o’clock it would give us an hour or so.”

  The storm clouds which had gathered over Tholt-y-Will were falling as heavy rain when, an hour later, I drew up in the little car-park alongside the restaurant. Annette St Cyr opened the door as I reached it. She was tall, with wide grey eyes and dark hair tied back in a businesslike ponytail.

  “Welcome to the Viking!”

  I looked about me with interest. The room in which we stood was long and fairly narrow, its stone walls colour-washed in a warm shade of cream, and the heavy beams and rafters were a reminder of its days as a coach-house. Ten or twelve tables lined the walls, most of them only large enough for two, and at the far end of the room, alongside an enormous open fireplace, an impressive array of hotplates introduced a note of modern efficiency. Over the fireplace hung a model of a Viking longboat.

  “It doesn’t look its best at ten o’clock on a wet Monday morning,” Annette remarked with a smile, “but when the tables are laid and the lamps lit it really has quite an atmosphere.”

  “I’m sure it has. And you run it entirely by yourselves?”

  “Except for Nancy Finn from the village who comes in to do the washing-up. It’s pretty hard work, I can tell you. Come through to the kitchen and meet Gaston.”

  Gaston St Cyr was slightly shorter than his wife, as typical a Frenchman as one could imagine, with huge spaniel-like eyes and dropping moustaches. I automatically greeted him in French, to Annette’s obvious approval.

  “Is this tonight’s menu?” I asked with interest, picking up the heavy card from the kitchen table.

  “Mais oui.” Gaston looked over my shoulder. “You will see, mademoiselle that we specialize in cuisine bourgeoise rather than haute cuisine. There are different plats régionaux each evening – cassoulet, fruits de mer and so on, and there is always offered also one English dish – baked ham or a roast of some sort.” He spoke with a strong Provençal accent, reminding me forcibly of Jean-Claude at the hotel in the mountains.

  Annette was pouring boiling water into the coffee jug. “We hadn’t realized you were à professional cook yourself until your brother mentioned it on the phone. I hope you didn’t show me up too much! I’m very much the assistant round here, doing the roasts and vegetables and things that aren’t too complicated.” She picked up the jug. “Let’s go upstairs.”

  The stairway to the flat above led from the little passageway behind the kitchen where I had collected my supplies the previous week, emerging directly into a small living-room, plainly and comfortably furnished. A tray of French pottery coffee cups was laid ready on the table before the fire.

  “I’d better confess,” Annette added as we sat down, “that we asked you here with an ulterior motive.”

  “Oh?”

  “Your brother was saying you hadn’t decided what you want to do.”

  Excitement moved inside me. “That�
�s right.”

  “We’ve been looking for someone to join us for some time; not just an employee – to be honest, we couldn’t afford to pay out any wages – but someone who really knows about cookery and is prepared to put some money into the business – come in as a partner. As I said, my contribution is limited and Gaston really needs more experienced help.”

  Gaston was gauging my reaction. “And you, mademoiselle. It is essential that you go to London?”

  “Not essential, no.”

  “Then might our proposal be of interest? We should be happy to discuss it in greater detail if the idea appeals to you.”

  I said slowly, “It’s very kind of you both.”

  “Au contraire, mademoiselle, it is very much in our own interests. As my wife tells you, we have felt this need for some time but it is not easy to find someone who, as well as being of the standard we require, is also – how shall I say? – sympathique.”

  I sipped my coffee, analysing this new opening. The challenge of helping to run the restaurant, doing exactly what I most enjoyed, was exciting enough. Added to that – and in my heart I knew this was even more important to me it would offer the chance of staying within reach of Neil. “I’ll have to talk it over with my brother, of course.”

  “Bien sûr. It is not a decision one can arrive at without consideration. We shall not attempt to hurry you.”

  We talked then more generally of France and its regions. I learned that Gaston had been brought up in the catering business: his parents ran a small restaurant in Aix-en-Provence. I told him about the hotel where I had worked during the summer and he remembered the new management taking over.

  At eleven o’clock Annette began to collect the coffee cups together. “You two go on talking, but if you’ll excuse me I’ll have to be on my way.”

  Feeling that her husband was anxious now to return to the kitchen, I made my excuses and left with her.

  “I do hope you’ll decide to join us,” she said as we went down the stairs together. “It would be the answer to a prayer. Gaston has far too much to do at the moment.”

  “And I suppose you’ll have to start taking things more easily now.”

  She looked at me quickly. “How do you mean?”

  “Well, with the baby –” I broke off at the look on her face.

  “How did you know about that?”

  “I’m sorry, I – didn’t you say –?”

  “No, I didn’t! I’m not sure yet myself – I haven’t even mentioned it to Gaston!”

  “I’m very sorry,” I said again from a dry mouth. “I can’t imagine what put the idea in my head.” But I could.

  “It doesn’t matter, though I’d be grateful if you’d keep your suspicions to yourself for the moment. But you’re right, of course. If I am pregnant, my days of working all hours of the day are numbered, though any baby of ours will have to get used to spending its time in the kitchen! Anyway, talk it all over with your brother and let us know what you decide. We’ll be keeping our fingers crossed.”

  “Will you come back to the life class this afternoon?” Martha asked as we finished our lunch. “The boys really ought to have another go at last week’s sketches.”

  “Not today, if you don’t mind. If the weather improves I’ll probably have to sit for Ray all day tomorrow and there are several letters I must write this afternoon.”

  The telephone rang as Martha was fastening her mack. “I can’t stop now, I’m late as it is. If it’s for me, say I’ll ring back.”

  But it was Neil, for me. “I’ve just been checking through my diary. The meeting I mentioned is tomorrow, unfortunately, so our dinner date will have to wait till Wednesday, if that suits you. Is there anywhere you’d particularly like to go?”

  “I’ve heard the Viking is very good.” And it would be interesting to judge it from the other side of the table as it were.

  “Right, I’ll phone and book a table. I missed you at lunch time, by the way. The mashed potatoes lacked your special touch!”

  Smilingly I put down the phone, but as I was turning away a sudden sharp pain in my hand made me cry out involuntarily. I wasn’t aware of having knocked it, and when I examined it I could see no sign of any cut, though the base of my left thumb was very tender to my probing fingers. Shrugging it aside, I went in search of writing-paper.

  For a while I wrote steadily: a formal little note to my parents, a more informative account of the holiday to a girl friend, and several pages in French to Jean-Claude. I wondered if he was still hoping I’d go back to France for Christmas as he’d suggested. That was another possible outlet for my culinary skills – La Patronne at Les Cinq Nids. The fact that never once had it occurred to me to stay there was indication enough that my interest in Jean-Claude had never been, and I knew now never would be, serious. So I wrote lightly and non-committally about my plans, and hoped he would realize that my decision had in fact been reached before we even parted.

  I was addressing the last envelope when the door bell rang and I opened it to find Vivian Quayle under a huge umbrella.

  “My dear, I hope this isn’t an inconvenient time to call?”

  “Not at all, but I’m afraid Martha’s at college this afternoon.”

  “Actually it was you I wanted to see. I have a favour to ask.”

  “Oh?” I quickly masked my surprise. “Come in, then. Would you like a cup of tea? I was just about to make one.”

  “That would be lovely.”

  She shook the surplus rain from her umbrella, leant it against the wall of the porch and stepped into the hall. I took her coat and left her in the sitting-room while I hurried to put on the kettle. My left hand was throbbing painfully, though there was still nothing visible to account for the discomfort. When I returned with the tray, Vivian was standing at the window looking out at the wet, misty countryside.

  “How depressing everything seems in the rain, all sodden and water-logged. I know there’s usually a magnificent view from this window.” She smiled slightly. “Give the island its due, the scenery is superb.”

  I poured the tea and handed over her cup and saucer. “What was it you wanted to ask me?”

  “I don’t know if Martha has mentioned it, but the village branch of the Women’s Institute is holding its annual bazaar on Thursday and I’ve just had a phone call to say Mrs Pargiter, who runs the cake stall, is ill and won’t be able to help this year. It’s an awful blow at such short notice. She’s the backbone of the committee and as well as running the stall, usually supplies over half the goods herself.” She looked at me appealingly over the rim of her cup. “I imagine you’ve guessed what I want to ask.”

  “I’ll make some cakes for you, certainly.”

  “Would you, my dear? I’d be so grateful. And could you also take over the stall? It’s not too arduous really and would be such a load off my mind.”

  “I should think so. How many cakes will you need?”

  “As many as you can manage! They’ll all go. And if you’d be a love and produce one really special gateau, we could raffle it. There are about a dozen stalls altogether, fancy goods, stationery, indoor plants – you know the kind of thing. It’s largely run by college wives, of course, since St Olaf’s accounts for at least two-thirds of the population of Ballacarrick. Have you met any of them?”

  “One or two, at the King Orry last week. They seemed very pleasant.”

  “Oh, they’re all right in small doses, I suppose. The trouble is there’s no getting away from them. We have a very narrow social circle, as you can imagine. The same faces show up everywhere – church, bridge, the W.I., not to mention these infernal sherry parties we have hanging over our heads each term. And of course gossip is rife; Ray Kittering sees to that.” Her eyes flicked in my direction. “I hear he’s fastened on to you, my dear. Do for pity’s sake be careful and watch what you say. He has an unpleasant knack of twisting your words and throwing them back at you. Believe me, I should know. He had the impudence to make a pass at
me once. I soon put him in his place and he’s never forgiven me.”

  She leant back in her chair and lit a cigarette. “Everyone knows everyone’s business – it’s inevitable. That’s why it was so humiliating when Frank Harrison stepped in front of Nicholas and took over as deputy. The whole of St Olaf’s knew Nicholas came over on the specific understanding that the post should be his. Of course, the headmaster’s a fool.” She exhaled, watching the smoke spiral towards the ceiling. “A well-meaning, jovial fool, far too easily influenced. It never occurred to Nicholas to kow-tow to him but Frank Harrison had no such scruples and look where it got him. It’s amazing what a bit of buttering up can accomplish and our worthy head is as susceptible to flattery as the next man.” She gave a brittle little laugh. “He’s known throughout college as H.M., you know. I remember Simon Fenton saying once he was sure the old boy thought it stood for His Majesty!”

  Her eyes came back to my face. “You must think it’s all very parochial and childish, this jostling for position and caring what everyone thinks of you. Believe me, so did I at first, but somehow you get sucked into the stream yourself. I honestly don’t know how I’d have held on these last few years if it hadn’t been for Neil.”

  ‘Old Vivian has quite a hankering for him,’ said the serpent’s voice in my ear. Almost as though she’d read my mind she smiled wryly.

  “No doubt friend Ray had Neil and me tucked up in bed together long since. In his world there’s no such thing as platonic friendship.”

  I moved to the fire to screen my burning cheeks and threw on another log. I was realizing for the first time that Ray’s poison was so insidious that I’d been in danger of half-believing it and I was bitterly ashamed.

  “God!” Vivian burst out explosively, “if only Nicholas could land this Downhurst appointment! There might still be time for him to make his mark after all. He’s brilliant, you know, completely wasted in a backwater like this.”