The River Flows On

by Maggie Craig

  ‘Welcome to my humble abode.’ She looked around. The driveway was made of small red granite chips. Not a weed marred its perfect surface. Between the house and the road was a lawn which wasn’t so much cut as manicured. There were four rose beds on it, with a small fountain at their centre. A jet of crystal-clear water, shooting a yard up, sparkled in the sun as it fell down again into a stone basin in the shape of a large shell.

  ‘You like?’ he asked. He was smiling, watching her reaction.

  ‘I like.’

  He reached for her hand. ‘Think you could get used to it?’

  All at once, the tiredness and unhappiness of the day before left her. They did have an understanding. Didn’t the question Jack had just asked prove that?

  ‘I think I could get used to it,’ she said, smiling and waiting for him to kiss her, but he was looking over her head. Kate heard the sound of tyres on the stones and turned her head.

  ‘Ah,’ he said smoothly, ‘the others have arrived.’ Dropping her hand, he walked forward to greet his guests.

  Kate liked all of it, delighting in the beautifully cooked meal, the elegant lace tablecloth, the sparkling wine glasses, the unobtrusive service provided by two parlourmaids, neat and demure in black dresses, white aprons and caps. Even Suzanne Douglas was on her best behaviour. Her eyes sweeping over the eau-de-nil dress into which Kate had changed in the ladies’ cloakroom at the Art School, she told her that she looked very nice.

  Marjorie, characteristically, told her that she looked perfectly lovely, and kissed her on the cheek. She linked her arm through Kate’s and went with her into the dining room, but not before Kate had caught a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror in Mrs Drummond’s lobby. She didn’t look half-bad, at that. She had put vinegar in the rinsing water when she had washed her hair last night to make it shiny. She’d had it trimmed the week before so that it hung in a short, neat bob, emphasising the curve of her neck and the shape of her shoulders, and the dress was a dream, definitely her colour, and skimming to just on her knees, making her legs look long and shapely - well, shapely, anyway. She could never aspire to Marjorie’s willowy height. One of the maids had relieved her of the feather-light stole when she came into the house, had even called her madam as she did so. Fancy! And her just a wee girl from Clydebank.

  She had too strong a sense of humour to allow it to go to her head, but yes - she could get used to this. Encouraged by the admiration in the eyes of the men at the table, she came out of her shell, laughing and talking and paying scant attention to how often her glass was being re-filled. She drank the champagne and the white wine which followed it with appreciation. It was refreshing - like liquid sunshine, or the sparkling water which played on the fountain in Jack’s garden. When the parlourmaid went to fill her glass for the fourth time, however, Kate put a hasty hand over it to prevent her.

  Marjorie looked across the table in mock-alarm. ‘Don’t let Kate have any more to drink, Jack - she’ll get tight.’ She grinned at Kate to show her that the comment was meant only in fun. Kate watched as Jack lifted Marjorie’s hand to his lips and kissed it.

  ‘Don’t worry, darling, I’m driving her home in my little bus. She’ll be quite safe.’

  ‘That’s all right, then.’ Marjorie turned to talk to her parmer on her other side. She was blushing, and Kate saw something she should have realized months ago. Marjorie was in love with Jack. A pang of sympathy pierced her. It was true what they said, then - money couldn’t buy you happiness. Jack wanted to marry her, not Marjorie. Was that why he had gone to such lengths to keep their romance quiet - so as not to hurt their friend’s feelings? Oh dear. Marjorie would have to know soon, and that could make life very complicated.

  Suppressing a sigh, Kate lifted her almost empty wine glass to her lips. Greatly daring, she had put on the thinnest smear of lipstick when she had changed into the new dress. The three glasses of wine she had drunk had probably rubbed it all off by now. She set the crystal glass down on the lace tablecloth. The dark wood of the table was showing through, its glossy dark patina making an attractive pattern when seen through the white lace. She was staring fixedly at it when she felt her eyelids droop. With a start, she caught herself on. She was tired, the legacy of having woken several times during the night from troubled dreams which had evaporated as soon as she had tried to remember them.

  Suzanne Douglas was smiling at her. She was dreaming, then - or having a nightmare, but she would be gracious, as befitted a woman who might soon be the mistress of a beautiful house like this. Kate silently told herself off. She must be getting tiddly, letting her thoughts run away with her. Jack hadn’t even asked her. Not yet.

  The lunch-party broke up at half-past three. Suzanne Douglas was the last to leave. She hovered on the doorstep as one of the boys, who was giving her a lift, impatiently sounded his horn.

  ‘Bye, darling,’ she said, kissing Jack full on the lips. ‘Sure you don’t want me to stay and act as chaperone?’ She gave Kate an arch look.

  ‘The cook and the parlourmaids can do that,’ Kate said sweetly,coming forward to put her arm through Jack’s. He had told her to be ready to leave in ten minutes, but there was no reason for Suzanne to know that. ‘We wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble, would we, Jack?’

  ‘The cook and the parlourmaids?’ Suzanne was staring at her. She turned to Jack. ‘Jack, haven’t you-’

  He cut her off, giving her a gentle shove out of the door. ‘Shut up, Suzanne. Now say cheerio like a good little girl.’

  Kate drew her breath in sharply. She had never heard him be quite that rude to anybody. Suzanne glared at him, her eyes glittering, but she went. He closed the glass-panelled inner front door behind her and leaned against it. Now that the guests had left he looked, all at once, as tired as Kate felt.

  ‘Jack ... is anything the matter?’

  ‘Not a thing.’ He smiled. ‘Let’s open another bottle of champagne. Just for the two of us.’

  Kate lifted her hands in a gesture of exasperation. ‘Let’s not. I’ve had more than enough to drink and I think we should talk.’

  ‘Talk?’ His face wore a pained expression, as though she had made the strangest request imaginable. ‘What would you like to talk about?’ The mask was back in place, an expression only of polite interest on his face. He pulled out his cigarette case. ‘You don’t mind, sweetie, do you?’

  Striding forward, Kate snatched the case out of his hand and laid it down on the hall table.

  ‘Yes, I do mind. I want some answers. I want to know what Suzanne was talking about there. I want to know why so many things are left unsaid between us. I want to do more than just have fun!’

  He took a deep breath. ‘Would you like to see round the house?*

  ‘Jack, please ...’

  ‘It’s a serious question,’ he said, looking at her gravely, ‘and it might give you some of those answers you’re looking for.’

  He showed her the downstairs rooms and then he took her upstairs to look at his mother’s bedroom. It was exquisitely decorated and furnished and completely dominated by a huge painting which hung on the wall opposite the luxurious bed.

  ‘Your mother?’

  He nodded and Kate went to stand in front of the painting. It was a conventional society portrait, the’sort she secretly despised, where it was the painter’s job to do as flattering a job as possible on the subject, posed in her best gown and showing off the family’s wealth by the jewels decorating ears and wrists and ample white bosom.

  In this case Kate had the feeling flattery hadn’t been necessary. Mrs Drummond was a lovely woman - too much a female version of her son for there to be much doubt about that.

  ‘She’s beautiful.’

  ‘Oh, yes, she’s beautiful.’

  Kate turned, intrigued by something she heard in his voice. He was standing leaning in the open doorway, his arms folded.

  ‘Do you know why she’s really not here?’

  Kate shook her head. />
  ‘Because she’s off visiting some titled friend in the Highlands. Only asked her last week. She knew fine well that I wanted her at the party today, but she doesn’t care. She’s not interested in anything I do. I can never match up to my father, you see. He had the good luck to die a hero’s death at an early age - so all his faults are forgotten and all his virtues are magnified. Whereas, because I’m here all the time, it’s the other way round for me.’ He ran a hand through his hair, and gave her a lopsided smile. ‘Sad, ain’t it?’

  ‘Oh, Jack!’ Kate’s eyes were full of compassion. She knew only too well what it was like to have a mother whom you could never please. She crossed the room towards him and laid a comforting hand on his arm. ‘I thought maybe she disapproved of you seeing me.’

  ‘She doesn’t know about you.’ Seeing Kate’s eyes widen, he hastily amended this to: ‘She doesn’t know that you’re special.’

  ‘Am I special?’

  ‘You know you are.’ He bent forward and kissed her, a gentle nuzzling of the lips. Then he leaned his forehead against hers and laid his arms on her shoulders - heavy, warm and possessive.

  ‘My bedroom’s along the corridor,’ he whispered.

  Kate pulled her head back and smiled sweetly at him. She too, spoke in a whisper.

  ‘Forget it, Mr Drummond.’

  Jack Drummond threw his head back and laughed. ‘Oh, Kate! What would I do without you?’

  She let him open another bottle of champagne.

  She had definitely had too much to drink. Oh, she wasn’t tight, not by a long chalk, but she felt warm and mellow and she was doing things she normally wouldn’t. Like lying on a sofa in his mother’s drawing room, with her shoes kicked off and her head in his lap - telling him about Robbie. She hadn’t wanted to, but he had badgered and cajoled and made her drink two glasses of champagne.

  ‘If you must know,’ she said, too tired to resist any longer - maybe she could have a wee nap before he drove her home - ‘he asked me to marry him and I said no.’

  Jack’s fair eyebrows shot up. ‘Why would that be?’

  ‘Can’t you guess, you idiot?’ She stretched her neck and squinted up at him.

  Jack dropped his eyebrows and grinned at her. ‘Darling! I do so love it when you give me a good ticking off.’

  Kate’s heart turned over at that darling, even though she knew he and Suzanne and Marjorie tossed the word around between themselves so much that it meant very little.

  He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the lips. Fine. There was nothing wrong with kissing him, was there? They’d done that lots of times. He kissed her again. This time it was harder and his hand slid round to rest on her left breast. She tilted her head and gazed pointedly down at it.

  ‘Going to come over all respectable, are you?’

  ‘Is there anything wrong with that?’

  He gave an ostentatious shudder. ‘Everything. And you an artist too. As all these people here this afternoon told you.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘Respectability’s so boring Kate,’ he drawled. ‘Don’t you think so?’ The hand resting on her breast began to move, stroking her through the thin fabric of her dress. Deep within her, something leapt into life.

  ‘Stop that.’

  ‘Not a chance. You don’t really want me to:’ He slid his hand down to her knee and smoothed her dress up, exposing her stocking tops and suspenders. ‘Ooh, nice.’ He bent forward, adjusting their positions so he could delicately kiss the exposed flesh.

  ‘Stop that,’ she murmured once more.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll scream,’ she said, but her hand was stroking his hair.

  ‘Scream all you like. There’s no one else in the house.’ He turned his attention once more to her mouth, his hands roaming over her body, alternately sliding over cool crepe-de-chine and warm skin.

  ‘What about the cook and the parlourmaids?’

  ‘They’ve gone off for the afternoon,’ he mumbled. ‘They don’t live in.’

  That seemed odd, but she let it go for the moment. There was silence, broken only by the sound of heavy breathing. Was that her - or him?

  ‘Jack, we shouldn’t be doing this ...’

  ‘Hush, now. Of course we should. Stand up.’ He moved, pulling them both to their feet and stopping any further protests with a succession of passionate kisses. She tried one last time, laying her fingers on his lips to stop him kissing her again. She couldn’t think straight while he was kissing her.

  ‘This is wrong.’

  He smiled, his eyes tender. ‘Have you any idea how lovely you look?’

  ‘Jack, please...’

  ‘How can this be wrong? We love each other, don’t we?’

  ‘Jack,’ Kate said again, but she said it on a little moan of desire. It was all he needed. He loosened his hold and held out his hand to her. It was such an elegant gesture.

  ‘Come on, Kate,’ he said softly. ‘Come upstairs with me.’

  Kate Cameron looked at that outstretched hand and at the handsome face behind it. And because he had said ‘We love each other, don’t we?’ and because she was entranced by the house and the party and the champagne and the flattery, and - above all - because she thought she could see past that handsome mask to the vulnerable little boy within, she put her hand in his and let him lead her upstairs to his bedroom. And once they got there she let him do what he wanted to.

  She was crying. Quietly, so as not to waken him up. It had all been so beautiful, with Jack laughing and kissing her and telling her how lovely she was ... Then he had changed - become urgent and demanding ... overpowering ... and he’d been so strange afterwards - distant and cool. She had expected him to take her in his arms, to kiss her and hold her, but he had simply patted her arm and turned away.

  ‘Have a little snooze,’ he’d said, as though what they’d just done had meant nothing.

  She stifled a sob. The body lying beside her stirred.

  ‘Why are you crying?’

  ‘I’m not.’ She sniffed and turned quickly away from him, rubbing her eyes with her hand, pulling the sheet up to cover herself.

  ‘That’s all right, then.’ She felt the bed dip. He was getting up.

  ‘Sorry if it hurt. It’ll be better next time.’ She heard the rasping sound of a match being struck. A second or two later the smell of tobacco reached her nostrils. ‘You’d better clean yourself up. I need to do something about the sheet.’

  Kate turned in time to catch the look of distaste on his face. He raised the cigarette to his lips. Sorry if it hurt? As though he’d stepped on her foot?

  He was looking at her in exasperation. ‘Get a move on, Kate! It’s nearly seven o’clock. What time did you tell your parents you’d be home?’

  ‘About eight,’ she said, her voice dull. They’d planned to go back into the city early, just the two of them, collect her things from the Art School, and have a bite to eat somewhere. She’d thought he might be going to use the opportunity to ask her a question - the same one Robbie had posed yesterday. She didn’t think so now.

  He pulled up, as usual, two tram stops before Yoker Ferry Road. Tonight of all nights Kate wouldn’t have minded being taken all the way home but he hadn’t given her the option. They’d barely exchanged a word during the drive from his home to hers. People said that men lost respect for girls who let them do what she and Jack had done this afternoon. Was that why he had gone so quiet and cold?

  Yet when he leaned across to open the door for her, he smiled and kissed her cheek. She made no move to get out of the car, looking at him with a mute appeal in her green eyes.

  ‘Shall we see each other again next Sunday? As usual?’

  She was hoping he wanted to see her earlier than that. He lifted a finger to stroke her cheek.

  ‘Sorry, sweetie. I’m going to a house party near Dumfries next weekend.’ She waited for him to say more, to suggest another date. He didn’t. It was left to Kate
to stutter something about having to collect her things from the Art School, her everyday clothes, her two paintings and her pottery - an awkward load for her to bring home on the tram by herself.

  ‘I’d forgotten about that,’ he murmured. ‘Why don’t you meet me there on Wednesday night - about six o’clock?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Look, Kate, I’ve really got to be going.’ He dropped another light kiss on her mouth and then somehow she was out of the car, standing on the pavement. Usually she waved to him but tonight she didn’t, turning her face for home, listening to the sound of his car disappearing in the other direction.

  The tears weren’t far away. She could feel them rising in her throat. She had to get home before she disgraced herself by crying in the street. She quickened her pace and stopped suddenly, wincing. It had hurt - more than she’d expected - and what hurt even more was the way Jack had been afterwards, as though he didn’t want to know her after he got what he wanted.

  ‘Hello there, Kate. Been out on the town?’

  It was Mr MacLean, touching his bunnet to her as he passed. She gave him the briefest of smiles and turned her burning face away, sure he must be able to see her for what she was.

  You were supposed to save yourself for your husband. She knew that. It was the way she’d been brought up. Girls who didn’t were fallen women, laughed at and gossiped about, unworthy of any decent man or woman’s respect. She, Kate Cameron, had broken the rules, crossed a line which could never be re-crossed, because she had thought... But there had been nothing in return - no words of love, no promises, not even a comforting hug when she had been crying.

  Maybe all men were like that afterwards. Perhaps it was the way things were. Kate shook her head angrily. She didn’t want to believe that. She tried to think of another explanation for Jack’s coolness. Could he be feeling guilty? Embarrassed that he had succeeded in persuading her to forget her principles? Perhaps he needed a few days to come round, was feeling as confused as she was. And he had spoken of the next time. Surely that meant he loved her really?