Four Stars For Danger

by Burke, John

  “You meant to come here all along.” Fiona grinned sideways at her and set off once more, over an increasingly stubby, rocky surface. The encroaching twilight seemed to lift. There was an unidentifiable brightness between the trees. Fiona was talking, but now her voice was utterly swamped by the sound of the waterfall.

  Ellen tried to catch her up. Pressing hard behind her, she said:

  “Did you tell Alec?”

  “Tell him?”

  “About David. Your husband.”

  “Oh, darling, I don’t go in much for telling men about my husband. Not until it becomes necessary. You know: when a situation starts to get rough and you want out, it’s not a bad thing to have a husband in the background. Useful to be able to look regretful and say you’re married. I don’t know about you, Ellie, but I find I can say things with much more conviction if they’re true.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? Instead of heading for here, running me straight into it.”

  “You’re not stuck on him, are you?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Good. Good for your own sake, I mean.”

  They stood on a rocky knoll above a sheer plunge of silver, frothing water.

  It hammered against the ground below Ellen’s feet. She backed away a few inches. The edge of the bluff was oozing away even as she watched, the moss and soil dripping into the dark pool thirty feet below.

  “How I hated it.” Fiona was addressing the far treetops. “How I hated shuttling to and fro between this mausoleum and that little slum at Abermadoc.”

  “You don’t enjoy sailing?” It was the only contribution Ellen could think of.

  “Sailing? It gives me the screamers. I don’t call that pleasure. And what it does to your nails, dear!”

  Spray brushed Ellen’s forehead like a fine drizzle. The air throbbed with the deep ground bass of the waterfall.

  She looked up at Fiona, braced against a huge boulder on the crown of the slope, staring out over the turbulent chasm as though wondering whether to hurl herself in.

  Abruptly Fiona said: “What’s happened to it? It’s changed course, hasn’t it?” Ellen could only look blank.

  “I’ll swear it has,” shouted Fiona. “It used to drop straight over that ridge there – look, down into that basin, where the water’s so calm. Only it didn’t used to be calm.”

  Ellen ventured closer. It did indeed look as though, at some stage, the angle of the waterfall had been deflected so that it began to gouge out a new pool for itself and a new path down the lower hillside. A bush still clung grimly across its path, choked by loose twigs and a mash of leaves.

  “And the path,” Fiona went on, swaying perilously over the edge: “look how soggy it gets down there. Never used to be flooded like that.”

  At last they turned back towards the Hall. The roar of the water dwindled to a comforting murmur.

  “My turn to make the dietary notes tonight,” said Fiona. “Wonder what he’s cooking up?”

  “I don’t think it’s fair to judge...”

  “No? Perhaps you’re right. Maybe he’ll be exerting himself beyond the bounds of duty, tonight. Or maybe just the opposite. Depends on whether he’s got the twitches or not. Brooding to himself in that kitchen of his. He’s not fit for human company really, you know. Likes to dabble in it every now and then – but he dodges out again before it gets too deep. Likes to be alone. When it suits him, mind you: not when it suits anybody else.”

  Ellen felt a twinge of sympathy for David. After a couple of days of Fiona, she didn’t like to imagine what years of her would be like. How many years had there been for David?

  On their way along the upper slope, coming down towards the rear of the house, they passed a gaunt steel tripod. It looked like the superstructure of a starkly simple artesian well such as a farmer might set up to irrigate his land.

  “Men!” said Fiona once more.

  They reached the house.

  The first course was smoked eel with slices of smooth, chilled scrambled egg, garnished with finely chopped chives.

  “Not imported eel, I trust?” said Fiona. “Will the chef sign an affidavit in Ellen’s notebook?”

  David looked at Ellen and said: “I didn’t expect to see you again.”

  “Evidently you didn’t play ball,” observed Fiona.

  “You thought it’d be funny.” David concentrated on Ellen. “Funny to set the police on me. You, or that boy friend of yours. They said there were two of you. Two informants, one of them a young lady. Young lady,” he repeated savagely.

  Fiona showed moist white teeth in an admiring smile. “Ellie, I had no idea. Boy friend? You mean you’ve really been trying every dish on this tour? Good for you.”

  Ellen stonily returned David’s stare. “And what did you tell them?”

  “The truth. What else? Nothing to hide. Pipes being delivered for extensions to the central heating...”

  “And about time, too.” Fiona crossed her arms over her breasts, clutched her shoulders, and came out in goose pimples. She could really make herself believe in every phase of her own act, thought Ellen.

  “Pipes,” said David. “And what did you think it was?”

  “I don’t know,” said Ellen.

  “You don’t know. But it doesn’t stop you shoving your nose in? Stirring things up. Haven’t got a clue, but stir it up. And” – he chopped his fork viciously down at the segment of smoked eel with the same gesture she had seen evenings ago when he attacked his ham cornet – “now you bring her up here.”

  “Meaning me?” said Fiona. “I was the one who did the bringing, Dai.”

  “And don’t call me Dai.”

  “I thought you were setting yourself up as a professional Welshman these days.” David finished his eel. Fiona’s plate was already clean: she had beaten the other two by more than a minute. He got up and came round the table to remove the plate.

  “No servants?” she said.

  Still David addressed himself to Ellen. “We’re closed,” he said.

  “Not even little Ceinwen? What happened to Ceinwen?”

  “I haven’t kept any staff on,” said David to Ellen.

  He went out.

  Fiona sat back and appraised the room. “Mm,” she said thoughtfully. Then, elbows propped on the table, she shook a cigarette from its pack. “Have one? Go on, do. It gets him so furious when people blow smoke all over his precious goodies.”

  Ellen wondered what would happen if the truck put in an appearance. So far there were no distant reverberations.

  “You’re lucky he didn’t make you stay on that other evening and do the washing-up,” said Fiona. “Or did he confine himself to breathing hard down your neck while he fiddled with your napkin?”

  “If you hate him so much,” said Ellen, “why did you come back?”

  As though in reply, Fiona resumed her inspection of the newly painted room. After a while she said musingly: “There was always one. We might have twenty people staying here, and I could always spot which one he was going to fall for. Usually a married woman. Safer that way. Used to drool over them at table, trail round the grounds, go pale with longing. It was quite a show, I’m telling you. Worth every penny of the inclusive tariff. And way down inside he had a nice, sneaky feeling it was all right: whoever she was, she’d be leaving at the end of the week or the fortnight or whatever. And once she’d gone, there had to be another. He had to start craving again, telling himself he was being deprived.”

  “Why did you have to involve me in it?” demanded Ellen.

  “You’re doing marvellously, Ellie.”

  “I don’t want to do marvellously.”

  “You’re in no danger. I’ll guarantee that. By the time I got round to packing and clearing out, his tastes were changing. Not so many of the married ones. He liked his birds younger and younger.” David’s footsteps drew closer to the dining room door. Instead of lowering her voice as the door swung open, Fiona raised it.

  “How
far back d’you suppose he’s got now? All the way to sweet sixteen?” She waited until David had reached the table and set down a red Danish iron casserole. Then she said: “Who’s the current dolly?”

  Ellen thought of Myfanwy’s adoring face. As colour flooded into Fiona’s cheeks, it drained from David’s, as though she were a vampire drawing his blood without even making physical contact.

  He turned away and fetched an opened bottle from the serving table near the door.

  “Not even worth decanting?” Fiona studied the label. “Is this all we’ve got left?”

  “If I brought anything else,” said David to Ellen, “she’d say I was rolling in money and what about giving her some more of it.”

  “But you are rolling,” said Fiona softly. “I’ve only got to look round. I can smell it in the air. Money! Where’s it coming from?”

  “You’ve heard of Irish stew.” David took a plate and began to serve Ellen. “This is my own Welsh stew.”

  Fiona, sniffing dramatically after her mention of money, inhaled the savoury steam rising from the casserole.

  “Ah. I see why we get only the poor man’s plonk.”

  The stew was in fact delicious. Ellen wondered how he could have prepared it in such a comparatively short time. Had it been on already, planned for a meal tonight and for the next couple of days as well? Or had he been expecting visitors – or catering for truck drivers?

  After a few mouthfuls David said out of the blue: “She was always saying she couldn’t stand it. How does she manage nowadays?”

  Ellen swallowed, ready to speak.

  Fiona said: “Couldn’t stand what?”

  “She was always moaning that she couldn’t bear London. Not for more than a few months. Weeks.”

  “Some of us have to make the best of a bad job, don’t we?” Fiona had evidently decided that she, too, would direct all her remarks at Ellen.

  “She certainly didn’t make the best of much when I was around. First it was a flat in Brighton, then she was dying to go to London. Then Pompey, and then back to London.” He appeared to have forgotten that he had told Ellen all this before. “Oh, and I remember something about Ireland. The Irish were so adorable. Why didn’t we go and live there? But not the Welsh, of course. Never the Welsh.”

  “Dead right,” said Fiona. “Never the Welsh.”

  They talked to each other through Ellen with a seething masochistic joy. She might almost have been an interpreter without whom they could not make themselves understood; but they rushed on too fast for her to interpose any translations.

  Suddenly David concentrated directly on her. “That car outside. It’s not the one you were driving before.”

  Ellen waited for Fiona to speak. Fiona went on eating. At last Ellen was forced to say: “It’s not mine. It’s Fiona’s.”

  “Ah,” said David, gratified.

  Fiona laid her knife and fork down. “As if he didn’t know. Now – wait for it.”

  “Nice expensive job.”

  “You see? I knew he’d say that. As a matter of interest, my aunt left me some money. Only a little.”

  “Only a little. And for her personal use, of course. That’s a woman’s attitude to marriage: sharing...and sharing means that what’s mine is ours, and what’s hers is her own.”

  “I fancy he’s contemplating legal action,” said Fiona.

  “I’ve never as much as...”

  “Once he’s got enough money – and maybe he’s got enough now, I’d love to know, so help me I’m going to find out – once he’s stacked it up, he’ll gladly spend half of it on legal advice about why he needn’t pay me another penny.”

  Gravy congealed over the tines of her fork. Fiona couldn’t eat and talk, and talk came first. She was revelling in it. In the fading light of the evening and the table lamp’s glow, she grew prettier as she grew more excited: an unfashionable, pouting, doll-like prettiness. Uncomfortably Ellen saw the truth; and heard the truth through the malice. Fiona had left David but had never escaped from him. Without David, there was no one to bitch at. Men friends might come and go, but her real self had gone into cold storage. Now, in David’s presence, it was thawing out. She missed David, needed him to rasp against.

  “You knew about us,” David accused Ellen, “before you came. That first time – the other evening – you were sitting there sniggering at me.”

  “No,” said Ellen. “No, David.”

  Fiona chuckled.

  David said: “Sorry. Really. Ought to have known better. Of course it was her. Manoeuvring you into it. But why?”

  “Ask her.”

  Ellen was infected by the swirling hostility. It wasn’t possible to stay immune. She hated Fiona; was sorry for David but could hardly bear to look at him; hated the whole situation and wanted to get away from it.

  Fiona was eating now. There was no further conversation until she had finished. As David collected up the plates, she lit a cigarette and said: “I don’t think we’ll bother with a sweet. Eh, Ellie? Just coffee.”

  David hesitated in the doorway and looked back.

  “If you want help with the washing-up,” said Fiona, “we’re not in the mood.”

  David went out.

  Ellen said: “When are we leaving?”

  “Leaving, love? I rather fancy staying.”

  “But we can’t.”

  “He can hardly throw us out. I can always put in a long-distance call to my solicitor and demand action for restitution of conjugal rights, or at any rate a roof over my head. Or something.”

  David returned. “Coffee in a few minutes.”

  Ellen stood up. “I must be going.”

  “Sit down,” said Fiona. “We can’t possibly get anywhere tonight. David can provide beds. David’s got lots of beds, haven’t you, darling?”

  “I had no idea,” said Ellen, “when you insisted on driving up here...”

  “I’ve told you, you’re perfectly safe. If he tries to molest you, just scream and I’ll come running. I know how to damp his ardour. I’ve done it often enough.”

  “You bitch.” David said it dully as though it was hardly worth the saying.

  Ellen said: “May I use your phone?”

  “Ellie, there’s absolutely no call to be so dramatic. We can stay the night here and push on in the morning.”

  “So you’re going,” said David, “in the morning.”

  Fiona contemplated the curl of smoke from her cigarette. “Isn’t that what you want?”

  “The sooner the better. Why not leave right away?”

  “After an invitation like that, I’m tempted to stay longer.”

  They were talking to each other at last and not across Ellen, but still they stared pathetically in different directions, not allowing their gazes to meet. Helpless, hopeless gazes. They took up their absurd stances, but really there was nobody else in the world but themselves; could never really be anybody else for either of them.

  Ellen said doggedly: “Where is the phone?”

  “Darling, who on earth can you ring up at this time?”

  “A friend of mine’s staying at the pub down the road.”

  “Is he?” said David. “Is he, indeed? That same friend who’s been trying to make trouble for me? Your drunken friend. Yes, perhaps you’d better go.”

  “Lucky old you,” said Fiona. “A lover boy waiting on the doorstep. You’re a sly one, Ellie. There’ll be a welcome in the valley, huh?” She waved towards the door. “Our host isn’t being very cooperative. The phone is by the reception desk. First right, and across the hall.”

  Ellen found it in an alcove which smelt of fresh paint. The woodwork gleamed. And she noticed that along the wall and up the side of the door-frames were central heating pipes, also recently painted. Everything looked glossy and complete.

  She rang the Pride of the Valley. She’d be in a fine mess if Mark wasn’t there.

  A woman answered the phone. A Mr Nicholson? No, she didn’t know if they’d got anybod
y there by that name. “Go and have a look I will.”

  There was a pause. The rattle of the receiver at the other end was followed by Mark’s voice.

  She told him where she was. He said: “What – again? Have you got reduced price dinner-vouchers, or a crush on the chef?”

  “Can you meet me at the gate?”

  “You sound a bit fraught. What’s going on up there?”

  “Mark. Please.”

  “I’ll be there,” he said. “I’m on my way.”

  Ellen went back to the other two, dreading the mere sound of their voices.

  “All that lovely lolly,” Fiona was saying. “You must tell me more, my pet. Lots, lots more.”

  David stood on the far side of the room. He was pouring himself a glass of port. As Ellen entered hesitantly, he snapped: “Fixed it up? All fixed with your German pal?”

  “Gets more romantic every minute,” said Fiona. “You didn’t tell me your adorer was German, Ellie.”

  “He’s not. And he’s not my...”

  “Germans,” said David. “At it again. Creeping in, getting ready again. And there’ll be more concentration camps, more tortures, more filth. Don’t call themselves Nazis any more – but you don’t suppose they’ve all changed overnight, do you?”

  “Oh, dear,” sighed Fiona. “He requires at least fifteen uninterrupted minutes on the soap-box when he’s in this mood. Did you have to choose a German boy friend, duckie?”

  “I tell you he’s not.”

  “No?” raged David. He held his glass out as though to drink a defiant toast, or maybe damnation to somebody. “Then why’s he so interested in what goes on? Him and his maps. Working for the Germans.”

  It was a jolt right the way up her spine. Ellen said: “How do you know about his maps?”

  “Just like the nineteen-thirties. Youth clubs, that phoney friendship society...what was it?...The Link, that was it. Yes. Friendship, brotherhood, and all that. While they made maps of the country and prowled round installations. Reported back to the Führer.”

  “How do you know?” Ellen insisted. “How do you know he’s working for a German map firm? Because one of your pals told you? One of your pals who had a good look into the car – and bashed him over the head?”