The Treacherous Heart

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  He came in on Wednesday, briefly, to give some piece of information or other to Mr Whetlore. Mr Whetlore had not told her this. He always played his hand close to his chest, in the vain and illusory hope that she would remain in the dark. Though it was a flying visit, Mr Conrad still had a pleasant smile and a cheerful word for Anne; he did not regard her, as some of the clients did, as a part of the furniture.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘As well as can be expected,’ she answered.

  ‘You sound like a hospital bulletin. Are you unwell?’

  ‘Oh no, life just seems a little complicated just now.’

  ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’

  ‘Oh no, nothing serious.’

  ‘Good,’ he said.

  ‘You sounded almost as if you meant that,’ Anne said. He looked surprised.

  ‘Shouldn’t I?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s generally only politeness.’ He smiled at this.

  ‘Only politeness! If you knew what a difference politeness makes, you wouldn’t call it an “only”.’

  Anne blushed a little. ‘I didn’t quite mean that,’ she began.

  ‘I’m glad,’ he said quickly, ‘because if you remember, we promised each other a polite relationship right from the very beginning.’

  ‘So we did,’ Anne said, feeling that she was rapidly being outclassed as far as clever remarks went. She was not put to further test, for at that he simply smiled his slightly lopsided smile, and left.

  It was late that afternoon that Joe telephoned her – so late that she was in the process of clearing up to go home.

  ‘Oh, I’m glad I caught you,’ Joe said, sounding a little breathless. ‘I’m sorry I left it so late, but we’ve had a busy day, and I couldn’t get to the phone sooner.’

  ‘That’s all right, Joe,’ Anne said soothingly. ‘I knew you’d phone.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’ he asked, sounding a little anxious.

  ‘No problem; rather the reverse. It’s just that I had some good news for you which I meant to give you over the weekend, but, what with various events, I forgot to pass it on. It’s about the land you’re interested in.’

  ‘Oh,’ Joe said, and there were many conflicting emotions in that one word. Anne wondered, fleetingly, if he was sorry it hadn’t turned out to be on a personal matter that she wanted him to phone.

  ‘I expect you can guess what it is – the news I mean.’

  ‘The land is up for sale?’

  ‘That’s right. Apparently they need to raise some cash, and that particular piece is the obvious thing to sell, not being attached to anything else at the moment. Mr Cass says it’s up to him whether to sell privately or on the open market, and since you’re a customer of his, he’s going to give you first refusal.’

  There was a long silence, and in the end Anne said, ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m still here. I was thinking.’ Another long silence. ‘Do you know what the price is?’

  ‘No, he didn’t say. I should think it’s a matter for discussion between you and Mr Cass. He is a Trustee, after all.’

  ‘That means coming in to see him,’ Joe said slowly.

  ‘Yes, of course. But you’d have to anyway, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘But what? Surely you can get the time off; you’ve never had trouble before.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ Joe said, and added in such a low voice she hardly heard it. ‘It’s you.’

  ‘Oh Joe.’ Her heart turned a little in her breast. ‘I’m sorry. I never wanted to hurt you, you know that.’

  ‘Yes I know. It wasn’t your fault. I suppose I must just get used to the idea.’

  Better to stick to business, she thought. ‘Well, I’ll tell Mr Cass you’ll be coming in. No need to make an appointment; he knows how you’re fixed and he’ll see you any time.’

  ‘Yes, thank you. Tell him I’ll try and come in on Monday – better get my word in as quickly as possible.’

  There was a glimmer of humour in that speech, and Anne was glad.

  ‘Yes, I think so. I’ll see you on Monday, then.’

  Joe didn’t sound too happy about it, but Anne was pleased at the thought of seeing him again: after all, they had been friends for four years, and she missed him.

  Dad, when she got home, was gloomy.

  ‘I’ve been round to see the place,’ he told her by way of greeting.

  ‘What place?’ she asked absently, and then the penny dropped. ‘Oh, you mean—’

  ‘The bungalow. The dwelling, as they call it. I’ve written to tell them I won’t have it. There’s always been a resident station master in Winton Parva, since time began. If they don’t want to repair this place, they can rebuild it.’

  ‘But Dad, you know they won’t,’ Anne said.

  ‘They can’t put me out,’ he said robustly. ‘What can they do – throw me out on the street? Drag me out of here by force? This is my home, and yours too, since you won’t be marrying Joe. They can’t leave us homeless. They’ll have to do something.’

  ‘But they have, they’ve offered you alternative accommodation,’ Anne said despairingly. ‘They don’t have to do anything more about this place. They can let it fall down around our ears. They’ve nothing to reproach themselves for, if they’ve offered us another place that’s reasonable.’

  ‘Reasonable! What’s reasonable about a bungalow miles from the station, a modern bungalow at that, a thing like a cheese-dish on a concrete table!’

  ‘Is it really that bad, Dad?’ she asked gently. He turned on her, amazed.

  ‘Are you on their side? Don’t you care anything about your own home?’

  ‘Of course I care, but I don’t see there’s anything that we can do.’

  ‘Well you ought to know what we can do: you’re the one who knows all about buildings and property and such-like.’

  ‘That’s exactly it, Dad. I’m not a qualified surveyor, but even I know that this place needs a lot of work done on it. The foundations are sinking, and there’s no mains sewage. Why should they spend money rebuilding this house when they’ve others ready for us just to move in?’

  ‘If you don’t know that, my girl, then you don’t deserve to live in a house like this.’

  ‘Oh Dad, I don’t mean that, and you know I don’t. All I’m saying is that they won’t see it that way. They’ll only see the money side of it. But we’ll stick it out, and fight, if that’s what you want.’

  ‘It’s what I want, and it’s what I’ll do. If my little girl’s staying here with me, I’m going to make sure she has a proper home, and the place she’s known all her life.’ He stumped over to the sink to fill the kettle. ‘Blooming mousetrap!’ he muttered under his breath. Anne smiled fondly at his back.

  ‘There was some good news today, Dad,’ she said to cheer him up. ‘Mr Cass told me that the piece of land Joe’s interested in has come up for sale and he’s giving Joe first refusal, so I phoned him up today to tell him.’

  ‘Well, that’s nice. I expect he was pleased.’

  ‘Pleased about the land,’ she said. ‘He didn’t seem so pleased that he would have to come into the office on Monday to see Mr Cass about it.’

  ‘Oh, he’s coming in to the office, is he?’ Dad said, nodding significantly. ‘Well well.’

  ‘Now Dad …’

  ‘You never know, Anne my girl, you never know. Great oaks from little acorns grow.’

  ‘Joe’s no acorn,’ Anne said.

  Anne was determined not to spend Thursday alone, and she went across to the café to meet Wendy with the firm intention of securing her company that afternoon and, if possible, evening. Even if Wendy had already arranged to go out with Graham, they might agree to take her along with them as far as the door, so that she would at least have the opportunity of meeting some new people.

  Not, she thought, that there were all that many new people flying around in a town the size of Winton. Yo
u couldn’t count the holidaymakers, of course, for they were here today and gone tomorrow. And her thoughts returned, inevitably, to the one stranger who was apparently staying put for the time being.

  Wendy, too, asked about him when they had settled down with their coffee.

  ‘Have you seen anything of him? I wonder if he’ll come in for coffee again?’

  ‘I should think he’ll be too busy with his business enquiries,’ Anne said. ‘Anyway, never mind him now, I want to ask you something.’

  ‘No I can’t lend you any money.’

  ‘Oh hush! Can I meet you at the market this afternoon?’

  ‘Of course, if you like. I don’t mind wandering round the old place. Joe working?’

  ‘Oh Wendy, I told you Joe and I were finished! Don’t you ever listen?’

  ‘Of course I do, I just don’t take it in. Now you come to mention it, I do recall you saying something about it, but of course I took no notice. After all you and Joe are like Victoria and Albert – practically a National Institution. Is it really serious?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Afraid? You mind, then?’

  ‘Of course I mind,’ Anne said indignantly. ‘I’m very fond of Joe. It wasn’t my idea to break it off. I’d have been happy enough to go on seeing him, as a friend. But Joe didn’t want that.’

  ‘All or nothing, eh? Well, I suppose I can understand that. We passionate types are like that, but it would be hard to understand for a cold, efficient person like you, Anne, all brains and schedules.’

  Anne stared at her friend in open-mouthed astonishment as she burbled on.

  ‘You see, there are some people in this life who live on their emotions – warm, loving, exciting people, passionate and temperamental, who need excitement and danger, and live life to the hilt. Whereas people like you – no no! Pax! You don’t want to throw that at me, and waste all that lovely cream!’ Anne put down the plate she had picked up, and Wendy pretended to wipe her brow. ‘Thought I’d had it that time.’

  ‘Passionate and temperamental – you!’ Anne snorted derisively.

  ‘It reminds me of a story, though,’ Wendy said, grinning impishly. ‘Could almost be you and Joe. There was a girl, you see, a nice warm-hearted girl, who went out with a farm hand, as it might be Joe …’

  ‘Go on, but be careful,’ Anne said.

  ‘No, you’ll like this,’ Wendy said. ‘Well, this chap loved her all right, but he wasn’t much of a talker, and when he did finally get round to saying something, it was pretty dull talk, about tractors and football, while all she wanted was for him to say how pretty she was, and how much he loved her.

  ‘Well, one afternoon they’d gone for a walk by the river, and they sat down under some trees, and it was all very romantic, but he didn’t so much as put an arm round her, let alone whisper sweet nothings in her ear. At last the girl got tired of it, and said to him, plaintively, “Oh Jack, whoi don’t you say someth’n soft?”

  ‘And he thought for a long minute, and then said, “Roice – pudden”.’

  Anne had not long been back from lunch when the outer door opened and Mr Conrad came in, pausing in front of her desk to give her a flourishing bow.

  ‘Madam, your servant,’ he said.

  ‘Pleased to have you know me,’ Anne replied grandly. She was not going to be outdone today. He smiled crookedly.

  ‘What a blessing it is to have plenty of excuses to come in here.’

  ‘What’s today’s excuse?’ she asked, not rising to the bait.

  ‘Something I forgot to say last time I came. I always make it a point to leave something unsaid, just in case I want to come back. How’s life treating you?’ he asked, suddenly serious. ‘You don’t look as cheerful as you used to.’

  ‘I’m sure I do,’ Anne said indignantly. ‘I should never let my personal life interfere with my work.’

  ‘Great resolve. But that means there’s something wrong with your personal life?’

  ‘Mr Conrad, you take liberties,’ she fenced.

  ‘Michael,’ he said. ‘Michael F. Conrad. I would be honoured if you’d call me Michael.’

  ‘What’s the F. for?’ she asked, full of curiosity. Now at last she’d be able to satisfy Wendy’s curiosity.

  ‘I don’t like my second name. I never tell anyone what it is.’

  Anne laughed. ‘You won’t be able to keep it from me. It’s one of the pieces of information we have to have from you, and I’m the keeper of the files. So I shall know sooner or later.’

  ‘Cruel woman! You’ll be party to all my dark secrets, and hold them over me, and bend me to your wicked will!’

  ‘Don’t you ever stop fooling?’ she asked him, laughing. His face straightened.

  ‘Sometimes. The F is for Frederick, and if you laugh at me I shall never speak to you again.’

  She was serious in her turn. ‘I should never laugh at you. And I think Frederick is a beautiful name.’

  ‘Thank you. Do you like cars?’

  Anne blinked at the sudden change of subject. ‘Some cars,’ she said warily, thinking of Joe’s scrap-heap van.

  ‘What kind of car do you like best?’

  ‘I don’t really know much about them. But I remember once seeing a lovely sports car, a Triumph it was, I know that, but I’m not sure what it would be called.’

  ‘What colour?’

  ‘What colour? Oh, I think it was green. Dark green. Why?’

  ‘No reason.’ He jumped up from the edge of the desk on which he was perched. ‘I must be going.’

  ‘But don’t you want to see Mr Whetlore?’

  ‘Not a lot.’ He was at the door. Anne called after him, puzzled.

  ‘But I thought you had business?’

  ‘It’ll keep.’ His voice floated back over his shoulder, and he was gone.

  ‘Strange man,’ Anne said to herself, shrugged, and dismissed him from her thoughts.

  At two o’clock she was just putting the cover on her typewriter ready to leave when Michael Conrad came back into the office with a breezy smile.

  ‘Miss Symons,’ he said, ‘your carriage awaits you.’

  ‘Carriage? What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’ve come to take you away.’

  ‘How did you know I finished at this time?’

  ‘Silly! I’ve been watching you for a week. I know your routine inside out now. You’re a creature of habit, aren’t you? Which makes it easier, of course. Anyway, if you’re ready, we’ll just step outside, onto the magic carpet, and away.’

  ‘I thought you said it was a carriage? Anyway, I can’t go anywhere, I have to meet my friend.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘I have to! It’s all arranged.’

  ‘Miss Symons, I have to speak to you very seriously,’ he said gravely. ‘You really must get rid of this terrible negative attitude you have. You have done your best from the beginning to put me off, but I’ve persevered. You must learn to say yes to life, Miss Symons, to Life with the big L. Your friend won’t miss you. Your personalised jet plane is out in the street, waiting to whisk you away towards the sun. Come.’

  Bemused, Anne followed him out and down the stairs into the street where, parked opposite the door against the kerb was a dark green sports car of the sort she had mentioned before. Her jaw dropped inelegantly with surprise, and then she turned speechlessly towards him. He smiled with faint pride.

  ‘I got it right, then? It’s a TR5 – remember that, you ignoramus – and the colour, for your further information, is known as British Racing Green. Like it?’

  ‘It’s gorgeous,’ Anne said with feeling. ‘But—’

  ‘No buts,’ he warned her. ‘You’ve more buts than the goats you know so much about. I’m taking you for a lovely drive in the countryside, and maybe to tea somewhere. That sounds very polite and proper doesn’t it? And you’ll enjoy it, so jump in, and shut up.

  ‘I don’t know whether you’re being polite or rude – you have me all
confused,’ Anne said.

  ‘Good,’ he said, helping her in. ‘It may help to stop you arguing.’

  ‘But I really did have an arrangement to meet my friend.’

  ‘The little snub-nosed girl? It’s all right, I saw her ten minutes ago on the arm of a man who certainly wouldn’t thank you for joining them. She won’t miss you.’

  I suppose that must be Graham, back “on” again, Anne thought. Michael Conrad went round the other side of the car and climbed into the driving seat.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked.

  ‘If you’re sure.’

  ‘I’m sure. Say “yes” just for once, Miss Symons. You’ll find it quite painless.’

  ‘Yes,’ Anne said, and the car roared away down the street.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘I’m going to drive fast now,’ he said as soon as they got onto the main road, ‘and I like to concentrate when I drive fast, so I won’t be talking to you for a while. You can talk if you like, or sing – I shan’t mind. You don’t mind driving fast?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t done it much.’

  ‘I’m quite safe. I’m a very good driver. Just sit tight and enjoy it.’

  Then he was off. The car, being low to the ground, seemed to travel much faster than it really did, as Anne judged from glances at the speedometer. It was very exhilarating, especially as the hood was down and the wind was rushing around her head. She hunched a little further down in her seat to get the shelter of the windscreen, and, as she had been instructed, enjoyed it.

  The car made a pleasant noise, not harsh, but warm and throaty, and he drove so smoothly that she was never jerked or thrown about in her seat. He really is a good driver, she thought, he isn’t just boasting – though he hadn’t said it boastfully, but as if it were simple fact. When she was not looking at the scenery whisking past her, she took sidelong glances at him, glances that grew longer as she found that he took no notice of her. He really did concentrate, and it gave her the opportunity to study him.