Lightning Encounter

by Anne Saunders

  Oh, go away, thought number five. The situation, as it stood, was bad enough, without that complication.

  What an idiot she’d been. If only she’d insured full comprehensive and not just third party. If only she hadn’t been driving on the wrong side of the road. If only her father hadn’t met Angela. If only . . . oh dear, she was overworking those two small words, but! If these things hadn’t happened, she wouldn’t be here now. And though nine-tenths of her wished to be anywhere but there, the remaining one tenth was extremely happy with the outcome.

  She had a quick wash, put on her dress, and ventured downstairs. At first she thought the big room was empty, until a quiet voice said:

  ‘That was some sleep.’

  This lovely old house must have got to work on him. He was mellowed, warmer, humbled, approachable. She blinked. ‘Yes, it was.’

  He abandoned the papers he had been working on, closed the writing desk, and crossed the room to lift her chin with a careless thumb and forefinger to examine her face critically.

  ‘Yes, a decided improvement. Come and sit down. And talk.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘About us. Living in the same house, until we decide what to do with you, without causing village eyebrows to stir. You know in London, in Leeds even, we could live together without causing comment. But in Hamblewick . . . ? No, it definitely isn’t on.’

  She sat in one of the deep brown armchairs, he perched on a low stool, his hands dangled loosely between his hunched up knees, his head was slightly on one side, deeply considering.

  ‘They are nice people, all of them. Not a bigot among them, but their horizon is very narrow, and consequently they think small. And, another consideration, I don’t want you to be hurt. The nicest people do tend to have gossipy tongues.’

  She hadn’t considered the moral aspect of the situation. Since waking up in hospital, a paralysing lassitude had possessed her, cross-graining her sense of right and wrong, depriving her of wider reasoning. What did he mean? What was he trying to tell her? That he had brought her here on impulse, but now that he’d had time to chew the matter over, he realized she couldn’t stay. She said promptly:

  ‘Of course, I’ll move out.’

  Anyway, it was only a temporary situation. At best a patched roof that would soon let in the rain.

  He eyed her keenly. She seemed such a small person, weighted down with such a heavy load of gloom.

  ‘No. There is a way you can stay put and not offend Willie Smith, the butcher, Pat Dawlish, post mistress cum grocer and confectioner, Alan and Alice Newby, newsagents, Mrs Bramwell, and uncle Tom Cobley and all.’

  ‘Who’s Mrs Bramwell?’ she enquired, her mouth copying his and turning up at the corners.

  ‘The old dear who does my laundry.’

  ‘You certainly wouldn’t want to offend her!’

  ‘Do you like my home?’ Her eyebrows went up at the random question.

  ‘I do,’ he said, barely giving her chance to nod. ‘I’ve always had a feeling for old houses, and when I inherited this one from my grandmother, I knew I had to live here. Despite the difficulties, I couldn’t sell; it would be like selling a part of my childhood. I’m in the export business, by the way.’ He tossed that in wryly, as if it should explain the urge that had prompted him to hang on to his country residence.

  ‘Have you seen the tele ad: the big thief, a past master at delegation, with that extra sense of perception vital for pulling off brilliant deals without turning a hair. Well, that’s not me. I don’t miss many tricks, but it’s slog, drive, graft all the way. This is where I come to rest my ulcers.’

  Her lips rushed from a gentle smile into a full-blown laugh. ‘You haven’t got ulcers.’

  ‘How would you know?’ he said.

  ‘Because it would show in your face. Tiny suffering lines. Here and there.’ Her fingers traced an outline, but carefully did not touch. Heeding her brain’s awakened warning. Inflammatory. Look, but don’t permit contact.

  ‘All right, so I don’t have ulcers. But I suffer. And this is my piece of accessible heaven. The place I come to untie the tension knots and cast out the conflict.’

  ‘And does it?’

  ‘Yes. But to go back to Mrs Bramwell.’

  ‘The lady who does your laundry?’

  ‘The very one. Well, I’ve approached her to come in daily, to dust and do a spot of cooking. But Horace, that’s her husband, strongly objects to his wife taking on more work, which leaves me foraging for myself, and I wondered . . . seeing as you are at a loose end? Anyway, think it over for a moment. The house isn’t quite as it was in my grandmother’s day. Besides doing a bit of work on the interior, I had the stables converted into a garage and had an extra bedroom put in the stable loft. If you did stay to housekeep for a while, until you find your feet, I’d move in there.’

  ‘Couldn’t I move into the stable accommodation? Then I wouldn’t feel as if I was turfing you out.’

  ‘No, because you see I’ve asked Val Stainburn to come down. She’ll be company for you. And besides that, Val will make an excellent chaperon.’

  He sounded so serious that she found it necessary to quell an impulse to laugh, and absorbed herself in pretending to turn over his recent proposition. In fact, she was wondering what he was getting at. Did his eyes mock, or was it her imagination? He did have splendid eyes—they mocked and condemned so beautifully, that it was almost worth engendering his disapproval. But she mustn’t let herself be mesmerised, or side-tracked by superfluous, and blatantly untrue, thoughts. Let him reserve his dark looks for someone else, someone with a back strong enough to ride them. She’d settle for, would willingly perform a backward somersault for, a grain of his approval. But this line of thought wasn’t furthering her cause. What other possibilities? Was he ribbing her? Hinting that she was a child of yesterday’s generation, who wouldn’t feel safe unless chaperoned? And had he been so certain of her acceptance that he’d already asked this person to come down!

  ‘Who is Val Stainburn?’ she enquired an inspired moment later.

  ‘A friend. Also a business colleague.’ His voice was curiously toneless, giving nothing away. ‘We shall be at work for the greater part of each day. I hope you won’t be lonely.’

  ‘I’ll try not to be. Anyway, I shall have my domestic duties. Oh!’ Her hand went up to her mouth, smothering the gasp. ‘I hope you didn’t get the wrong impression when I said I kept house for my father. The truth is, I’m not very competent. Father said it was because I lacked concentration. I think it’s just too wonderful of you, asking your friend down so that I won’t feel compromised, and everything, and I promise to concentrate really hard.’

  His mouth straightened out and he looked distinctly uncomfortable.

  ‘Look, I do need a housekeeper, so forget all that wonderful rot. And the first thing I want you to concentrate on is getting well. You know, your recent ordeal took its toll.’

  ‘Yes . . .yes, I believe it did.’

  His tongue was no longer saturnine, hadn’t been all evening for that matter, and now, even though his face was tormented by a whiplash of unease, it was still warmly compassionate.

  ‘When does Miss Stainburn arrive?’ she enquired.

  Not only did the name signal a frown, but his tone cooled and became so remote it could have travelled via satellite.

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  Why? Why so cold, so curt? She remembered his thoughtfulness in stitching Darling Ugly. If this was another kind of thoughtfulness, it was unnecessary. She knew, as Miss Stainburn wasn’t arriving until tomorrow, they would be unaccompanied tonight; she didn’t need that fact underlining, just as he didn’t need to erect a stone wall, not for her benefit. Despite odd skirmishes with fate, her faith in human nature was still reasonably intact. Even her father’s offhand treatment, one of the darker grey skirmishes, had not seriously diminished it. And, everything apart, she felt secure and trusting where Ian was concerned. Unless it was a deliberate
measure, so that she wouldn’t get any wrong ideas!

  Oh! Could that be it! Her hand moved up again, to stem a second exclamation, and a blush shamed her cheeks. Mercifully his back was to her as he said: ‘I’ll move my things into the room over the garage. Then we’ll have supper.’

  Supper was a constrained meal. Ian was thoughtful, and she, in humiliation, couldn’t think of anything to say.

  After the meal, Ian bade her goodnight. She locked the door after him. Now that she was alone she began to think, not only about the present, but the future. If only she could lift up the edge of tomorrow and take a small look. A trickle of self-pity crept in. After all, this housekeeping job could only be a stop-gap. And then what? Should she write to her father? For more money? But that must be the last resort. She didn’t want to have to tell him what a foolish girl she’d been; besides, he’d prefer to spend what spare cash he had on Angela. Which wasn’t much. He was going through a lean period, unless his luck had changed since her departure, and, considering, he had been as generous as he was able to be. So that left her standing on her own insubstantial, cotton-wool legs.

  Ian was right. The accident had taken its toll. She didn’t feel as good as she usually did. She ached inside and out, and oh it had been so nice talking to Ian, the mellowed Ian, even though the sweetness of it had almost ripped her in two.

  Oh, why had he changed so suddenly, reverted right back to type? When she wanted more; more kindness, more soft kitten comfort.

  The telephone rang. She considered not answering it. It couldn’t be for her. It rang three times and then stopped. She wished she’d answered it. Five minutes elapsed, then it rang again.

  ‘Hello,’ she said.

  ‘Karen, is that you?’

  For a moment she wondered if Ian had a line rigged up from the garage to the house. She said: ‘Yes, it’s me,’ and held her breath.

  A chuckle carried down the line. ‘I didn’t think it was old Ian. You’re staying at the house, then? I did wonder . . . are you alone?’

  ‘Quite alone. Who is that?’

  ‘Don’t you know? Can’t you guess?’

  ‘No, I can’t,’ she snapped. ‘Please stop teasing.’

  ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to. It’s Mitch.’

  What did he mean by, ‘Are you alone?’ Was he hinting at anything? Ian’s manner, his calculated coolness, had triggered off a reaction in her. Her brain teemed with thoughts, making her brand ‘suspect’ what might have been kindly motive, impelling her to explain: ‘It’s all very correct, I assure you, so you can stop wondering. Ian—’ (Should that have been Mr Nicholson?) ‘has engaged me as his housekeeper. Since you thought it worth while to check up on me, I’ll repeat. I am alone, quite, quite alone. Ian has moved into the premises over the garage.’

  ‘Sweet porcupine, I’m not checking up on you. I phoned on the off chance you might be there. That’s all. I swear it. And I’m certain Ian will make a praiseworthy employer. But if you want a reference, go along and see the vicar of St Mary’s. He’s known him almost as long as I have, and it will make the old boy feel useful.’

  ‘Don’t be irreverent,’ she reproved, still feeling raw. And, anyway, she had been taught to respect the cleric.

  ‘Sorry,’ came the contrite reply. ‘But I don’t want to talk about Ian.’

  ‘What did you want to talk about? If you weren’t checking up on me, why did you ring? Anything special?’

  ‘Very special. I wanted to say goodnight.’

  At the moment Howard Mitchell was a salesman. The first thing a good salesman learns to sell is himself, and though a comparative newcomer to the business, he had the qualities of a very good salesman. It has been said he could sell milk to a dairymaid, if not to a dairyman.

  ‘That’s very sweet of you, Mitch.’ Sweet, because it’s what she had craved for all evening. Just a small spoonful of friendship, lightly flavoured with affection.

  ‘Not sweet. Selfish. I shall take your voice to bed with me. Did you know you have the dulcet tones of a singer. Have you ever sung, professionally I mean?’

  ‘No. I do sing, but only for my own pleasure.’

  ‘I hope some day you’ll let me share that pleasure. Are you relaxed now? Not tense and all screwed up like a ball of twine any more?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I inherited the clear sight from my perspicacious grandmother. It told me there was a little girl who needed cheering up. And now . . . goodnight, little girl.’

  Ian came out of the Woodpecker, one of Hamblewick’s two pubs, whistling the tune the girl guitarist had been strumming. It was an evening ritual, one drink, pleasant conversation. He got on well with the locals, who had known him on and off since he was a lad. He lit a last cigarette, enjoying the peace of the unlit lane.

  The cottage was in darkness. Good. She needed an early night. He wondered what Val would make of her, and what she would make of Val. He also wondered if he could sneak some papers out of the desk without waking her.

  No, it was too late. If she did wake she might think someone had broken in to commit burglary. He paused where the drive split in two, and was just about to turn to his own quarters when the scream hit the night. His immediate thought was that someone had broken in. His key clicked into the lock and he took the stairs at two and three a time. As he thrust open the door, the landing light splashed in ahead of him, illuminating her bed, her shaking shoulders, her glazed, terror stricken eyes.

  She was sitting bolt upright, sobbing and screaming, and it was like nothing he had ever heard before. He grasped her by the upper arm and said her name, over and over again, trying to release her from the turgent grip of whatever nightmarish horror possessed her.

  She became aware of his presence and stopped screaming to look at him. Her mouth was still in the shape of a scream and the pupils of her eyes were wild and dilated.

  ‘You promised you wouldn’t leave me alone . . . but you did, you did. You knew I’d be frightened . . . it hurts . . . please take it away . . . the pain . . . I can’t stand the pain.’

  He’d thought, for a moment, that she was awake. Now he realized she was still in the dream, the nightmare.

  ‘Where is the pain?’ he asked.

  She whimpered: ‘You know where it is.’

  ‘No, I don’t. You must tell me.’

  ‘It’s . . . it’s . . . the pain is here.’

  She drew a line from the base of her throat to the hollow between her breasts. And the line stayed as a livid pinkness, a burn scar that hadn’t yet faded. But she hadn’t been burned in the car accident. Bruised, shocked, covered in mud. But not burned.

  ‘I’ve taken the pain away,’ he said. ‘It’s gone.’

  ‘Gone,’ she repeated dully. ‘Gone.’

  Her body relaxed, grew languorous. He began to enjoy the fragrant nearness of her, the soft feel of the satin skin beneath his fingers, and he knew it was time to go.

  CHAPTER SIX

  On waking, the first thing she noticed was the butcher blue and white striped pyjama jacket folded across the foot of the bed. It had not been there last night. She buttoned it on, and listened to the creak on the stair.

  ‘Anyone for breakfast? Do you like boiled eggs?’ His head poked round the door. ‘I’ve done you two.’

  ‘I love boiled eggs. I didn’t expect waiter service.’

  ‘Nor will you get it,’ he said. ‘After today. I don’t cosset my housekeepers. I expect them to cosset me. Did you sleep well?’

  ‘M-m. Lovely, thank you.’ She was cracking the top of her egg and smiling up at him. She knew nothing about the nightmare. He wondered if he should mention it, but the last few weeks had bowled her nothing but shocks and he felt that now wasn’t the time to ferret and probe, not while she was vulnerable from sleep. Perhaps later, perhaps never, if it proved to be an isolated incident. What had terrified her? Marked her flesh? And had she come to accept her disfigurement, or was it a still painful subject?

  ‘You
’d better do some personal shopping today,’ he said. ‘Here’s some money.’

  ‘It’s too much,’ she said, reluctant to touch the proffered notes.

  ‘No, it’s not. You’ll need a coat.’

  ‘It’s still summer. What do I need a coat for?’

  ‘You’ll find out. This is England, remember. Buy a couple of dresses, and a cardigan. Oh, and,’—his eyes charged past hers and chased up the wall—‘a nightgown and a pair of bedroom slippers. But you’ll know what you need.’ His glance seemed to be fixed on the ceiling, his mouth wore a peculiar kind of smile. ‘If there’s anything left over, call at the butcher’s and get three decent sized fillet steaks for supper.’

  She left off examining his expression to examine the money, maintaining a mute and stony silence. Still enjoying his own private joke, he tucked it under the brown earthenware marmalade jar. ‘Buy the meat locally. I like to support local tradespeople whenever I can. You’ll need to go farther afield for any decent clothes. I’d recommend Todbridge, that’s where we had lunch yesterday. Number twenty-nine bus, on the hour. The bus stop is outside the post office. Any comments?’

  ‘Yes. What the heck are you smirking at?’

  ‘Smirking? Smirking? Who’s smirking?’ His lips smacked into a frown.

  ‘You were.’ She eyed him suspiciously, but he was on guard now and showed her his saturnine countenance. She willingly abandoned the probe to ask:

  ‘Did your grandmother possess a sewing machine?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. She may have. She thriftily made up her own curtains, so it’s more than a possibility. I disposed of some of her stuff, but not a sewing machine. If it’s anywhere, it’ll be in the attic.’

  ‘Mind if I root? I’m not professional enough to make a coat, but I could manage a couple of nighties, and some undies. Perhaps even a dress.’

  ‘You don’t have to. I can let you have some more money if that isn’t enough. I’m not hard up.’

  ‘No, but I am. And I can only accept an amount I can pay back. It must be a loan. I promise to pay back every penny.’ She was immutable, mindless in her determination to pay back the loan.