Lightning Encounter

by Anne Saunders

  She renewed her efforts to get out, putting her shoulder to the door and heaving with all her might. Nothing happened. She gritted her teeth and tried again, perhaps desperation lent strength because this time the door gave and she half fell into the foul-smelling ditch. Except that as she fell, stumbled, crawled, two or three steps, it was the sweetest smell in the world.

  A shadow fell over her and a voice, it was male and very angry, demanded: ‘What the hell were you trying to do? Kill yourself? And me, too? You little fool, don’t you know better than to—’

  He must be the driver of the yellow car. She hadn’t thought about it, but it was reasonable to assume he would come to her aid. Especially as he had driven her into the ditch. That unspeakably horrid ditch. She was aware now of the slime and the smell and she didn’t know whether to cry or belt into him. He hadn’t even had the common decency to ask her if she was hurt. Was she hurt? Well, her dignity had taken a trouncing and her shoulder throbbed painfully, and if that wasn’t enough she must look an absolute sight. And it was all his fault!

  She screamed: ‘You maniac driver! You’re an imbecile, a menace to all road users. You’re a—’ She wished he would keep still. She couldn’t see his face properly. Looking at him was like looking at a distorted film.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she stammered. ‘I think—’

  ‘It’s all right. I was angry with you because you gave me a fright. Relax, now, I’ll take care of you.’ Something was wrong with his voice. It was coming to her through wads of cotton wool. She thought he was lifting her. The ground certainly went from beneath her feet. She protested, saying that if he’d give her a minute or two to collect herself, she’d be able to walk. Something—smoke or fumes?—was stinging her eyes and choking her throat, making it difficult to breathe, let alone speak.

  She felt his arm tighten round her body as they began to climb, presumably out of the ditch. It was all very hazy. He didn’t seem to be taking any notice of her protests; instead he told her to stop wriggling. She must have obeyed because progress suddenly became easier. Her throat stopped feeling as if it had been scrubbed raw, and she began to experience a delicious sensation, like swimming under water. The crystal water round her island home had been perfect for aqua sports. How she had loved poking about among the rocks, identifying the different species of brightly coloured fish: red, coral, darts of pure dazzling gold. Oh! such pretty colours danced before her eyes! But what was that terrific noise? Eruption? Explosion? Now she was falling through layers of soft midnight blue . . . down . . . down . . . down.

  She knew she was in hospital. In a spotlessly clean bed. Who could have put her in such a beautifully clean bed, when she was covered from head to toe in mud and slime? But she was no longer dirty, even her hair felt silky and clean. The man in the yellow car had gone away and another man stood in his place. A doctor in a white coat. In a little while he, too, went away, but she was not alone. Her tender tyrant sat by her bed, holding her hand.

  She felt comforted and at peace. She didn’t think it strange for him to be there. It felt natural and right. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘You do get around.’

  ‘Come to think of it,’ he said, his voice stern and grave, just the way it had sounded in the restaurant, ‘the same might be said of you.’

  She pouted. ‘If you’re going to be cross and disapproving, I shall go to sleep.’

  He said drily: ‘You will, anyway. You’ve been given something to make you rest.’

  ‘Is that why I feel whooshy?’ She giggled. ‘The last time I felt like this was when I drank three glasses of Sangria straight off. That’s a local drink, you know, and very potent.’

  ‘I’ve heard of it,’ he said. ‘There’s one vital difference. When you wake in the morning you won’t have a hangover or any nasty aftereffects. Which is a darned sight more than you deserve.’ After that she did go to sleep.

  It was morning when she awoke and the events of yesterday had taken on the elusive quality of a dream, or a sunbeam that for ever dances out of reach. She wasn’t surprised to find herself in hospital, she remembered that much. It was the events leading up to her admission that were hazy.

  She was in a private ward with green emulsioned walls. She thought green was a very tranquil colour. She wasn’t very keen on the hospital smell of carbolic soap and strong antiseptic.

  A nurse came in. When she touched her forehead, her hand felt as deliciously cold as marble and her voice was as soft as an angel’s—she had been thinking in terms of an angel’s wing, but for some reason that seemed to evade her, she had an aversion to angels—so she substituted, as soft as a kitten’s paw in play.

  ‘Come, rouse yourself, Miss Shaw. You’ve had your beauty sleep.’

  ‘Why am I here?’

  ‘In the cottage hospital?’

  A thermometer was popped into her mouth. She pushed it out with her tongue.

  ‘What am I doing in hospital? I’m not poorly.’

  The nurse retrieved the thermometer and the kitten’s paw opened to reveal a tiger’s sharp claw. ‘No, not poorly, or you would have been in the infirmary. Now, we will endeavour to take your temperature. And no nonsense this time, if you please!’

  It seemed politic not to argue with the tiger’s claw.

  ‘Good, very good,’ beamed nurse. ‘Normal. Your brother will be pleased.’

  Karen thought it as well to point out the error. ‘I haven’t got a brother,’ she said, thinking magnanimously that it was a wonder mistakes of this sort weren’t made more often. Poor thing, if she was icily impatient and harassed, it was probably because she was rushed off her feet. A moment later, as the nurse rounded on her, she felt her sympathy was misplaced.

  ‘Really!’ clicked the sharp tongue. ‘You are very trying this morning.’

  ‘I haven’t got a brother,’ repeated Karen firmly.

  ‘No? And I haven’t got a difficult patient! Now, stop! Otherwise I won’t let him visit.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now.’

  Karen sat up in bed, her eyes were round and incredulous. ‘Perhaps I do have a brother. Perhaps I’m poorly and don’t know it. I might be concussed.’

  Tetchily nurse said: ‘Yes,’ trying hard to anchor her patience. ‘Perhaps that’s it.’

  But Karen meant it. She thought it cruel of the nurse to resort to satire when she felt helpless and confused. Yet she didn’t know why this should be so because her head felt beautifully clear. Just as Ian had predicted. Had he really visited her yesterday evening? Sat by her bed, held her hand?

  She was remembering everything now: buying the car, crashing it. Her thoughts went back to the evening prior to the accident, and a tide of crimson washed her cheeks. In the restaurant she had only been able to pour out her heart to him, because he wasn’t a permanency in her life. She would never have confided those intimate details if there had been the slightest possibility of meeting up with him again. She must hurry and discharge herself from hospital, in case he decided to pay a second visit. As soon as this ridiculous brother business was cleared up, she would put it to nurse.

  On the heels of this thought, came nurse, this time not alone.

  ‘Here is your brother,’ she said, gushing sweetness, obviously for his sake.

  ‘Oh brother!’ croaked Karen.

  ‘Sister dear,’ said Ian, bending to peck her cheek. ‘You gave me quite a fright.’ His tone was indulgent, kindly even, but his eyes were as fiendishly condemning as ever. She thought she must have been at a very low ebb to think of him as a tender tyrant. Just plain tyrant was nearer the mark.

  ‘I should have known it was you,’ she said in a hoarse whisper. ‘Why do you say you’re my brother?’

  ‘M—m.’ He tugged at his chin and pretended to study her face with deep—and brotherly?—concern. ‘You are in a mood, aren’t you?’ he had the audacity to say, and then, to Karen’s choking indignation, he turned to nurse and blandly volunteered: ‘My sister can be very tiresome at times. Her arriv
al was,’—the beast, he had the gall to grin openly at Karen—‘to say the least, unexpected. I’m afraid we’ve all contributed to spoiling her. You know how it is?’

  ‘Indeed I do,’ sympathised nurse, continuing to look at him in a foolish, besotted way. Apparently some behind the scene calefaction had taken place; somehow he had managed to defrost Miss Frozen Tiger’s Paw and had bamboozled her into believing his lie. Nothing Karen could say would convince her Ian hadn’t spoken the truth.

  ‘And now,’ said nurse. ‘I’ll leave you. You must have lots to discuss.’

  Indeed yes, thought Karen, and was further mortified by nurse’s parting shot. ‘Now behave yourself, Miss. Your conduct has been irresponsible, foolhardy and totally lacking in consideration for others. If I were your brother I should be sorely tempted to take you across my knee and spank some sense into you.’

  ‘We-ll!’ gasped Karen. Rounding on Ian she commanded: ‘Call her back. Tell her she can’t speak to me like that.’

  ‘But she already has,’ he pointed out with exasperating truth. ‘And what sound advice. I’m almost tempted.’

  ‘I th-think you’re h-horrible,’ she said, anger thrusting a stammer in her voice. ‘A . . . a tyrant!’

  ‘That’s the thanks I get for coming all this way.’

  She remembered. ‘That’s another thing. Why did you? Or should that be how did you? How on earth did you manage to find me?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ he explained. ‘The hospital authorities found me. The card I gave you at the railway station was in your pocket. Muddy but readable. You had no other identification on you.’

  ‘I see.’ A thought struck her and she amended that to: ‘No, I don’t see. Why did you say you were my brother?’

  ‘I said stepbrother. To cover the discrepancy in our names.’

  ‘But why?’ She tried to sound detached and not jellied by his severe countenance.

  He conceded: ‘I suppose I could have said we were engaged. But I don’t affiance myself to children. If you mean, why did I claim relationship, the answer is simple. It was the only way to get you discharged in my care.’ For the first time she noticed the green and gold carrier bag in his hands. He was clutching it—nervously? Or was that too fanciful a notion. She couldn’t imagine anything putting him out. He was saying: ‘Look, I’m not an ogre.’ Not ogre, tyrant. ‘I couldn’t let you roam the streets. And I couldn’t be sure you’d enough sense to contact your father. So it seemed the only solution. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘Only to disagree,’ she said tightly.

  He chided: ‘I think you’re being stubborn and ridiculous. Stop acting like a child and get dressed. Then we can get out of this place. Or have you developed an attachment for the hospital? I almost said nurse, but thought your sense of humour might not have that much stretch. Ah! you’re smiling. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten how.’

  ‘I’m beginning to see I don’t have a choice.’

  ‘Good girl.’ As he spoke he tipped the carrier bag—he was nervous she realized in mute fascination—clumsily on the bed, and out billowed a dress in a stunning shade of emerald. ‘How clever of you,’ he said, his smile bashful, his cheeks glowing brick red, ‘to have eyes the exact colour of this dress. I hope the . . . ehm . . . fit is right.’ He gave the carrier bag another shake and out fell a dainty underneath set with a lace trim and microscopic pink roses, and a bra with the size ticket and name of a well known store still attached.

  She stared dumbly at his suddenly averted profile. ‘Yes, but these aren’t my clothes. I want my clothes.’ Her voice took on a shrill note and she knew that if he took her to task for acting like a child again, it would be a just criticism. It was because she was afraid, afraid to explore that one dark corner of her mind. Like a child she was cringing from the unknown, probably imagined, terror. That was it. It was her imagination. How often had her father said, ‘One day that imagination of yours is going to knock you for six.’ There was no terror, no unprobed corner, and yet . . .

  ‘Don’t torture yourself,’ he said with kindly insight. ‘Concentrate on getting through today. Tomorrow is soon enough to talk.’

  ‘There’s something to talk about?’

  ‘Nothing serious. Will you take my word for that? I can’t have you fretting unnecessarily.’ But as he stopped measuring the tip of his shoe to slant her a sideways glance, he saw she was fretting. It had to be discussed now.

  ‘What do you remember?’ He folded his hands and flung the question at her nonchalantly.

  ‘Crashing the car.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. The reason I crashed.’ She paused to draw a needful breath. ‘It was an unfamiliar make of car and that being so I was handling it with excessive caution. The road was twisty, so I didn’t see the yellow car until it was almost on top of me. That idiot driver! He came hell for leather round the bend, on my side of the road! If I hadn’t swerved into the ditch it would have been a head-on collision.’

  ‘I think it is only fair to point out,’ he inserted tonelessly, ‘that the idiot driver, as you call him, acted with commendable presence of mind and saved you from possible burns.’ He was watching her closely, as if he’d given her the vital piece of a jigsaw puzzle, and it was only a matter of moments before she clicked it into place and made complete a hitherto senseless picture.

  ‘Yes, I remember bits. I was semi-conscious when he reached me. I think I was pretty far gone because I’d concentrated all my efforts on getting out of that wretched car. I did get out, didn’t I? Under my own steam, I mean? The door was jammed but I thought—?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said in that same, unemotional monotone. ‘You got out. Howard Mitchell, that’s the name of your rescuer arrived in time to carry you clear.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but from that point I only seem to remember colours. Fiery, flashing colours in shades of red, orange and yellow. I don’t know why. But wait a minute, I believe I do know why. You said he saved me from possible burns. That can only mean—’ She covered her face with her hands as partial realization washed over her. (The immensity of her loss didn’t hit her until later). She didn’t want him to see the torment in her eyes.

  ‘I think I knew all along,’ she said at last. ‘Deep down I knew the petrol tank had exploded. The car is—?’

  ‘A write-off.’

  ‘Oh!’ she gulped.

  ‘What is it?’ His eyes seemed to burn a way through her fingers, yet, surprisingly, his tone was uncritical and she knew she had not earned his contempt. ‘Didn’t you insure?’

  ‘Only third party. Foolish of me. Not only am I accident prone, but I do foolish things, take ridiculous chances. Was nothing saved?’—hopefully.

  ‘No.’

  ‘My suitcase, my handbag containing every penny I owned was in that car.’ Even then it was doubtful if it fully registered. He took hold of her fingers and lifted them away from her face.

  ‘Look at me!’ His voice was a thrust, a roar, a command. ‘You can look at me. Feel me.’ As his voice, by its strength and enthusiasm, impelled her to hear, his fingers folded round hers, forcing her to know, and acknowledge, the sensation of touch. ‘You can feel me with your own two good hands. You can get out of that bed and walk out of this hospital on your own two good legs. Isn’t that wonderful? Marvellous? Aren’t you the luckiest girl alive!’ He paused, shaken. As if the wonder and magnanimity had only just penetrated. Gruffly, how gruffly, how humbly he said:

  ‘You’re alive, Karen. Within a week the scratch on your arm will disappear, the bruise on your cheek, fade. You’re a whole woman.’

  A whole woman . . . lucky to be alive . . . breathing, feeling, seeing.

  Why couldn’t she gloat? Where was the glorious feeling of exultation?

  Her hand found the hollow at the base of her throat. This time her face might have been marked. That would have been more shattering than . . .

  But everything. Possessions are nothing, until you haven’t got any to posse
ss. Her fingers danced away from his, to curl into mallets and hammer the pillow. ‘That idiot! That damned idiot! If only he’d been looking where he was going.’

  Ian’s mouth twisted with a hint of wryness. ‘Before you start apportioning the blame, how’s your driving?’

  Her eyes blazed green fire. ‘I drove for my father. Let me tell you I’ve driven on some of the best roads in Europe!’

  ‘That may be,’ he said quietly. ‘But this is England. The land of quaint customs. One of them happens to be driving on the left side of the road.’ He nudged the emerald green dress with superior largess. ‘Put this on.’ In other words, wrap up, forget it. But she couldn’t.

  ‘You mean—?’ Her voice was a croak, a plea; she retreated from arrogance and self-righteous indignation and fell back on a pair of haunted eyes. ‘It was my fault?’ Oh, dear God, no! Not that, not that.

  But his continued silence told her it was, indeed, the truth. The man in the yellow car was blameless. She was the one guilty of driving on the wrong side of the road.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Her thoughts were strewn haphazardly. She began collecting them up. She had set off driving on the left side of the road, but she must have grown careless . . .

  She didn’t want to go with him, his highhandedness was virtually kidnap, but in her present state of weakness, she hadn’t the will to resist.

  . . . The mind does grow careless when the eye is enchanted.

  The dress was a perfect fit. The addition of a bra (Had he really walked into a store, selected and paid for it?) improved her figure. She had got into the relaxed habit of not wearing one. Her own sandals, well scrubbed, were located in the bedside locker. Nothing else, apparently, had been salvaged. He’d forgotten to purchase stockings; not that it mattered, her legs were the colour stocking manufacturers had been trying to create for years.

  With quiet fuss, goodbyes all round, he escorted her out to his car. It was a shadow-grey saloon. Infnitely superior to the one she’d ‘bent’.

  He opened the door for her with polite solicitude. ‘Well?’ he questioned, when she hesitated.