The Treacherous Heart

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

Joe looked offended. ‘I’m not an ignoramus, you know. I can read.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘I’m interested in Socialism. Well, all politics really, but Socialism and Economics mostly.’

  ‘Good gracious,’ was all Anne could say.

  ‘Irene recommended me to read up about the beginnings of it and she told me that book. We had quite a long talk about it. She’s interested in it too.’

  ‘Irene, I presume, is the vet,’ Anne said faintly.

  ‘Miss Brown,’ Joe confitmed, his boldness leaking away and leaving him shy again. ‘I have to go now,’ he said, and made a bolt for the door.

  ‘Goodbye,’ Anne said, and she felt it was as final as his goodbye had been a moment ago. It seemed she had not known him very well after all. She had never had any idea he was interested in anything other than pigs. This Miss Brown had found out more about him in one visit than she had in four years.

  Unless, of course, the interest in socialism dated from the discovery of Miss Irene Brown’s interest in it. But either way, it looked as though Joe was gone for good. She told herself she ought to be pleased that he had found someone else without too much heartache, but it was an effort.

  By the time she was ready to go home, a lot of her cheerfulness had evaporated, and she had a splitting headache. Michael had not come in during the afternoon nor phoned her, and the noise of the typewriter seemed to have hammered into her head like horseshoe-nails. She covered up her typewriter wearily and stood up, and had to grab her desk to stop herself falling, for she was dizzy. She hung onto it for a moment as the blackness receded in that horribly slow way it had, and then shook her head and immediately wished she hadn’t. Dear me, you are an up and downer, she told herself wryly. This morning on top of the world, this afternoon in the depths.

  She cycled slowly at first, afraid she might feel dizzy again, but she seemed to be all right, and put it down to standing up too quickly. Her head still ached, though, and she decided to stop off in the village on her way home for some aspirin. The chemist was still open, and she went in there for them. It was a lovely shop, a big brown dignified shop, with Moore Bros. in curly gold writing along the shopfront, and those huge coloured-glass jars in the windows among dusty displays of perfumes and talcum powder. It was still run by a Mr Moore, a nephew of the one who had painted Est. 1898 over the door. He was now nearly sixty and had lived in the village since he was ten, so he knew everyone, and all their business, and could give them pretty sound advice on their various ailments, with which he was also well acquainted.

  Anne went into the cool, scented gloom of the shop and, since he was busy serving old Mrs Benson, or rather listening to her talk, she leaned on the counter with her eyes half closed, gazing idly at the various displays around her. Mr Moore had a nice way of combining the old and the new in medicine. The front counter was laid out with all the modern proprietory drugs in their bright tempting packets, all the well-known names, and the bottles with the white labels marked BP which used to puzzle her as a child, for she couldn’t think what they had to do with Scouts.

  But behind the counter were the other things that many of the villagers still relied on – tall jars of coltsfoot rock and liquorice; small, glass-stoppered jars of herbs, pennyroyal and rosemary and peppermint and marsh-mallow; and the little, square, gold-lettered drawers with those mysterious and exotic-sounding names, alum, and borax, and Flowers of Sulphur. Dreaming there in the cool of his shop, Anne could imagine herself coming in dressed in flowers like Ophelia and buying a pinch of pennyroyal and a shilling’s worth of borax in little twists of paper, as she had bought sherbert and hundreds-and-thousands as a child …

  ‘And what can I do for you, Anne?’ Mr Moore’s deep voice broke across her dream and startled her back to reality.

  ‘Oh! Sorry, I was dreaming, I was miles away. Well, about a hundred yards away, to be exact, at Mrs Fathom’s sweetie shop, when I was a kid.’

  ‘Ah yes, dear old Ma Fathom. Passed on ten years since, but still missed,’ Mr Moore acquiesced with the ease of long practice to her random thought.

  ‘I only came in for some aspirin. I had a splitting headache, but it’s eased just standing here – it’s so cool and peaceful.’

  ‘Well, if it’s just a headache you’ve got, have a sniff of this. He reached behind him for a small jar, which he unstoppered and held out to her. ‘Close your eyes and have a good long smell of this. Gently.’

  She held the jar to her nose and breathed in, a half-familiar, herbal smell. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Never mind, have another sniff.’ She did so. ‘It’s rosemary,’ he told her. She opened her eyes.

  ‘So it is.’

  ‘The best thing for headaches. My Aunt Sybil used to have a great bush of it in her garden, and whenever she got a headache she’d go out and run her hands over the bush and then have a good sniff. Cleared it away like one-o’clock.’

  ‘Is that the Aunt that ran this shop with your uncle?’

  ‘That’s right, marvellous woman. Knew everything there is to know about herbs. Pity really she didn’t write it down, pass it on. Nowadays everyone writes books. It would have sold a million. Made wine out of anything that came to hand, too. How’s the headache?’

  Anne thought. ‘It’s gone,’ she marvelled.

  ‘There you are. I’ve done myself out of a sale. Never mind, I won’t be here much longer.’

  ‘You aren’t thinking of going are you?’ Anne cried, aghast. ‘Winton Parva without a Mr Moore to cure its ailments—’

  ‘Chemist shop doesn’t pay any more. Ask anyone. Losing money hand over fist. I don’t mind. I’ve not got much longer to go, and I’ve my bit put aside; I shall retire and grow vegetables and go fishing. Love fishing – no time to do it. Chemist has to work all hours, when he’s needed. But the government don’t pay enough. Costs money to fill prescriptions. Only way to keep going is diversify, sell all that fancy stuff, like the big chain shops in the towns. I’m too old for that lark. No, I’ll just keep going a year longer, then I’ll pull out. They can turn this into a supermarket when I’m gone.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Anne said, ‘it would be a crying shame. Such a lovely shop! I was thinking that as I came in. All the lovely polished wood and the gold lettering.’

  ‘Original,’ Mr Moore said proudly. ‘But it doesn’t pay. Got to be sharp nowadays to make business pay. Talking of which, what about that Mr Conrad?’

  ‘What about him?’ Anne said, astonished. Not astonished that he knew, but that he had brought it up so abruptly, in mid-flow as it were.

  ‘He’s a sharp one, so I’ve heard. City boy – slick. I should watch him, if I were you. You can’t be too careful, pretty young girl like you.’

  Anne flushed red, torn between anger at his interference and gratitude for his care. ‘He’s all right,’ she said briefly. No use piling on the praise where it wouldn’t be appreciated, or believed. ‘And I am careful.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He nodded, closing the subject with more delicacy than she might have expected. ‘You’re looking a bit flushed. I think you might have one of these summer colds coming on. Stay in bed tomorrow if you don’t feel well. Too many people go to work and spread the germs, not to say delay their own recovery.’

  ‘I’ll remember what you say,’ Anne said. ‘And perhaps I’ll take some aspirin after all, in case the headache comes back.’

  ‘Right you are. So I didn’t lose a sale after all. Keep you chatting long enough and you’ll buy up the shop, eh?’ She smiled at his little joke, aware of her red face and the returning headache, and wondering what to attribute them to – embarrassment, or virus.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Anne knew, as soon as she woke up the next morning, that she had a cold. Mr Moore’s diagnosis had been accurate, as usual. She didn’t feel too bad, but bearing in mind what he had said, she stayed in bed, and when Dad came in to see her she told him that she would not be going in to work.

  ‘I’ve got a cold,
and I think I might shake it off if I stay home today.’

  ‘Sensible girl,’ her father approved. ‘No use going in to work today and being off all week for it. I’ll phone them up for you and tell them you won’t be in.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad. It’s all right, there isn’t much on at the moment.’

  ‘Of course it’s all right,’ he said soothingly. ‘Now, is there anything you want?’

  ‘Not just now, Dad. I think I’ll go back to sleep for a while.’

  ‘That’s right, dear. I won’t disturb you.’

  He crept out on tiptoes, and Anne smiled lovingly at his careful back. He loved to fuss over her, but rarely had the chance. She closed her eyes and snuggled down again, and was soon asleep.

  She woke mid-morning to find herself very uncomfortable. She was too hot, and sweating and turning restlessly had made a mess of her bed. The sheets were wrinkled and damp, her head ached, her nose was stuffy, and she was parched with thirst. She was relieved now that she hadn’t gone in to work, but she felt too miserable to feel very glad about it. She dozed again, lightly, and then Dad came in, and she felt a great relief at seeing him, for she was feeling lonely, as people ill in bed do.

  ‘How are you feeling, love?’ he asked her in the hushed tone of a sick-visitor.

  ‘Thirsty,’ she said, picking one symptom from the many.

  ‘Shall I make you a cup of tea?’ he asked, brightening. ‘Or would you rather a cold drink?’

  ‘A couple of aspirin and a cup of tea,’ she said. ‘Thanks Dad.’

  His thoughtfulness made her feel, in her weakened state, tearful, for when he returned with the tea he brought it not in the usual ‘shaving mug’ but in the pretty white china mug with the pink briar-rose hand-painted on it, a present from a school friend some while ago. And having put down the mug on her bedside table, he tugged the wrinkles out of her sheets, straightened the covers, and plumped up her pillows, leaving her at once more comfortable and less fretful.

  ‘Now, here’s your aspirin, and there’s your tea. How are you feeling? How’s the cold?’

  ‘Oh, ripening nicely, Anne said, attempting a smile. ‘You are good to me, Dad, really you are.’

  He looked embarrassed. ‘I’m your father, I’m supposed to be good to you,’ he said. ‘Now, is there anything else you want? I’m just going to pop out on my bike for a while. I’ll only be about half an hour, and then I’ll make you some lunch.’

  ‘I don’t think I feel like eating,’ she said mildly, though the thought of food was very off-putting.

  ‘Well, we’ll see,’ said her father, exactly as he had replied to her more outrageous childhood demands. ‘So there’s nothing you want just now?’

  ‘No, I’m fine now, thanks.’

  When he had gone, she lay back and listened to the unusual silence of late morning on a working day. She only ever heard it when she was ill, or occasionally on holiday, for on all other working days she was in the office with the clatter of the typewriter and the shrilling of the phones. A sparrow outside the window chirped like a squeaky wheel, and far away a dog barked with a monotonous, heat-dazed sound. The sunlight fell still and heavy outside her window, showing up the layer of dust on it, and everything else was quiet and empty, as though the world had been deserted for some other place more full of action.

  Anne felt bored, but was too weighed-down with the lassitude of her cold to want to do anything. It was a dreary kind of feeling, and lonely too. She felt very sorry for herself, and though she knew this was only a symptom like the others, it still made her eyes fill with tears. But the tears hung there for a moment and then faded away. She was too dull even to cry, and besides, her nose was too stuffy for crying to be pleasurable. She dozed again, waking every few minutes to hear the same sparrow cheeping and the small village noises very far away and muted.

  When Dad came home, she heard him from the moment he opened the gate, right through the house until he came into her room, looking very pleased with himself.

  ‘Hullo, love. I’ve brought you some things,’ he said.

  ‘Is that what you went out for?’ she asked, pushing herself up on one elbow and feeling very dopey.

  ‘Well, half and half,’ he admitted, smiling. ‘I got you some oranges – they’re good for colds. Vitamin C, you can’t get too much of it.’ He took the six oranges out of the bag, and their pungent, maddening smell got through even her nose blockade.

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ she said. He dug further in the bag. ‘What else?’

  ‘Some Vick to rub on your chest – that’ll help you breathe too,’ he said, thoroughly enjoying himself, ‘and some lemon barley water, you ought to drink plenty when you’ve a cold. You know you tend to run to throats, and drinking a lot’s important to keep your glands clear.’ The bag was deflating now, but he still had something more, for his expression was that of a conjurer who saves the rabbit until last.

  ‘And then,’ he said triumphantly, ‘I went to the library and got you some books to read. I know how you’re always at the books, and I knew you’d be lost without them.’

  ‘You are kind,’ Anne said, feeling tearful again.

  ‘I didn’t know what you’d like, but that nice girl Jennie was on duty, and she knows what you usually take out. She said you could have as many as you liked, and not to worry about tickets. She’s a nice girl. Oh, and I saw your young man there too.’

  Michael’s face came before her eyes like a flash of light as he said that, but before she could speak he went on,

  ‘Or perhaps I should say your ex-young-man. Joe.’

  Oh. Of course, it would be Joe. Her heart sank down again into it’s usual place. ‘What was he doing there?’ she asked with an effort.

  ‘Standing in front of a bookshelf taking down all sorts of massive great books that didn’t look as if they’d been read since the year dot. I said hello to him, and then I kidded him a bit. Asked him if he’d broken a table leg or something.’ Dad grinned at his own humour. ‘Don’t think he got it, though. He just looked at me as if someone had hit him on the head with one of ’em.’

  ‘I think he’s taken to reading in the long summer evenings,’ Anne said. ‘I’m grateful for the books, anyway, Dad – I was feeling bored, but too dopey to do anything. You know how it is.’

  ‘I know,’ her father said sympathetically. ‘Well, you may get a visitor to cheer you up.’ Again, momentarily, her thoughts flew to Michael. ‘I told Joe you were poorly, and he said he’d try to pop in and have a chat. Anyway, love, I must go across for the 12.30 or I’ll be out of a job.’

  He left her thoughtful as his familiar, unmistakable step-and-thud receded through the house. Dear old Dad, hoping still that she and Joe would get back together again, hoping that visiting her on her bed of suffering would melt his heart and make her realise how she had missed him. How little he dreamt that that was now impossible, how little he realised where her heart was and what it fed on. She wanted Michael to come and visit her, but she had no way to get in touch with him. She could hardly ask Dad to phone him at his hotel – and she wouldn’t want him to anyway.

  But he would probably call in at the office some time during the day, and then he’d know she was ill. Surely he would call around? He’d come to enquire how she was and if he could see her. Dad wasn’t especially welcoming, but he would’t let that put him off. If he were ill she’d force her way in against armed guards if necessary. He would come. Perhaps this evening.

  The day dragged on, and she felt worse. It was one of those colds that develops quickly; she hoped it would clear up as quickly too. Dad popped in and out between trains fetching her drinks and straightening her bed. She read a little, but it made her head ache. She stared at the dusty window and grew irritated by it and longed to clean it. She dozed and woke stupefied.

  At last the sounds of the day quickened and cooled into evening. The sky paled from its brassy blue and the trees moved around and rustled like people gossiping on their way home from work. With
the cooling of the air Anne felt better, though more remote. She thought it must be getting on for tea time, when Dad poked his head round the door.

  ‘Visitor for you,’ he announced smugly. ‘Do you want to tidy yourself up a bit first?’

  ‘Oh yes, please,’ she said, struggling up. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Surprise,’ Dad said. Could it be Michael? But then Dad wouldn’t be so pleased. Yet if it was Joe, why did he say ‘surprise’ when he had already told her he might call? Her mind wavered between hope and doubt as she dragged a comb through her hair and rubbed her face with the damp flannel Dad brought her. He bolstered up her pillows again and brought her a cardigan to slip on, both against the evening cool and for the sake of decency.

  ‘I’ll make you some tea, too,’ he said. ‘You’ve had nothing all day. Could you eat a boiled egg?’

  ‘Yes, all right. Just one. And a piece of bread and butter,’ Anne agreed.

  ‘Nice thin bread and butter,’ Dad said, smiling. ‘For the invalid. Ready for your visitor now?’

  Her heart plunged upwards on a crest of hope, and tumbled down again in disappointment as Joe came in, pink and scrubbed after work, his hair still spiky with the wet comb he had used to try to discipline it, and in his hand a bunch of bluebells.

  ‘The last from the wood up Haldane’s,’ he said by way of greeting, holding out the flowers to her. ‘They don’t last long, poor things, but they smell nice.’

  ‘I can’t smell anything with this wretched cold, but it was kind of you to bring them,’ Anne said ruefully. ‘Please sit down. You don’t need to act like a visitor here.’

  ‘I’d better put these in some water first,’ he said. ‘They’ll die else.’ He went out and came back again a moment later, presumably having asked Dad for a vase. He put the flowers down on her bedside table, picked up one of the books that was lying there and read the title, smiled absently and put it down again, and then remembered his manners.

  ‘Um, how are you? Are you feeling bad?’

  ‘Pretty awful, but it’s only a cold. Dreary while it lasts, but no mortal danger.’