'That's right,' Lallie smiled. 'You go up, get yourself cleaned up a bit—you look as though you've bedded down with that cow—and I'll bring you up the aspirin and another cup of tea.' She walked behind him to the bottom of the stairs and watched as he hobbled up, then when he was halfway, she called softly, 'You'd better have a shower or a bath— no, not a bath, you'll get the dressing wet—have a shower and try to keep your foot out of it. You smell something 'orrible! Did she really drop the calf on you?'
He turned to look down on her. 'Right in my lap when I was on my knees, groaning in agony, and then she looked at me with eyes full of mother love and licked my face!'
'Ten minutes,' Lallie giggled. 'I'll drop a clean change on the bathroom stool for you, so don't be modest and lock the door.'
When she brought up the tea later, he was lying in bed, his face still rather grey and the lines from his nose to his mouth were etched more deeply with pain.
'You won't give me a drink?' and when she shook her head, 'Then stay with me for a while, it's hurting like hell!'
'Stay with you? Owen, are you mad?' Indignation pushed her voice up to a squeak as she turned from him to adjust the lampshade so that it didn't throw the light in his face.
'Don't be a bigger fool than you are normally, Lallie,' he hissed at her. 'I'm in no condition, and I'm not in the mood for bedtime romps. I wouldn't even make a pass at Raquel Welch if she was lying naked beside me. There's not much of the night left, but it's going to seem like eternity.'
'Very well.' Lallie put the cup on the bedside table and sat down on the edge of the bed. She couldn't recall Owen ever being ill in all the years she'd known him. There had never been anything wrong with him before and Dwynwen always said that men were dreadful patients. 'Just for a while, until you go. to sleep.'
Quietly, she began to talk, little anecdotes from long ago—'do you remembers'—her plans for a Greek holiday this year and the stratagems she'd used to save up for it, until her words were lost in a mammoth yawn and the sleep which she hadn't been able to find at half past ten swept over her and her eyes closed. She didn't feel herself toppling pillow-wards as she slid into a warm darkness which was more comfortable than anything she'd ever known. She gave a sleepy little grunt of satisfaction and stopped registering anything.
A bar of bright sunlight across her closed eyelids woke her and she let her eyes wander over those parts of the room she could see, frowning meanwhile at the unfamiliar surroundings. The door and window weren't where they should be and the wallpaper was strange. Then memory returned in a rush and she groaned as her eyes met Owen's. She opened her mouth to speak, but he put a hand over it.
'Don't make a row. It's eight o'clock and Nerys has just arrived. I heard her a few minutes ago.'
Silently, Lallie slid out of the bed, untangling the folds of her robe from where they were wound round her legs. 'Why didn't you wake me earlier?' she muttered.
'You're not blushing,' he accused.
It steadied her, effectively killing any embarrassment. 'With my reputation?' she said scornfully. 'Proof positive for you because I'm not as red as a turkeycock?—I'm white with fear, if you're really interested. How long have you been awake? And why didn't you wake me earlier instead of leaving it till the last minute? Oh God, Owen, I hate you! Stop grinning or I'll break the toes on your other foot!' And she was at the door, peering cautiously along the passage. 'And why,' she demanded, turning back to him, a scolding note in her voice, 'why, when I put you out a clean change of things, can't you wear them?'
'Never did, never do,' he answered, but she was far too busy making sure there was nobody about before she fled back to her own room, where she grabbed herself a handful of clean underwear and steadied her pace to a dignified walk as she crossed to the bathroom.
When she emerged, it was to find Nerys wandering about the passage like a lost soul and bearing a rapidly cooling cup of tea.
'You were late down this morning,' the girl looked her usual vacuous self, 'and I've just looked in on Owen, but he's still asleep. Shall I wake him? I could give him this cup of tea.'
'Not this morning.' Lallie belted her robe more firmly over her bra and panties. 'He had a bit of an accident last night, a cow stood on him and hurt his foot— he didn't come in till three. We'd better let him sleep. Here, give it to me,' and she seized the wavery teacup and drank the contents thirstily. 'I'll dress and be down straight away.'
Before she went into the kitchen, she spent a few minutes on the phone, ringing Mr Meredith in Trellwyd—it wasn't any good ringing the County Offices yet, they didn't start work until nine, so she could safely leave that to Stella. It was one job at which she excelled, making calls and answering the phone— about the only one. Lallie grimaced; as a typist, Stella was hopeless.
The telephone call concluded, she watched Nerys' latest efforts, which entailed negotiating the staircase with soiled clothing piled so high in her arms she couldn't see over the top.
'Washing again today?' she queried—Dwynwen had only ever washed on Mondays. 'Isn't it a bother doing it frequently? You have to light that copper, the dreadful old thing.'
Nerys gave her a sly grin. 'Not since Dwynwen,' she hastily corrected herself, 'Miss Roberts has been ill. Owen put in a lovely electric washing machine and a tumble dryer when they brought the electricity up from the farm, but she—Miss Roberts—wouldn't let me use it, she said it was too dangerous and it didn't get things clean, but I'm using it now. Lovely in the winter, it'll be.'
They both turned to look as Stella let herself in through the front door, ignoring them as she made her way to the office.
'Face in a knot this morning!' Nerys' whisper reached Lallie as the girl made her way to the kitchen. 'Proper put out, isn't she?'
Lallie followed behind picking up the odd towel and handkerchief which dropped off the pile on the way. She opened the door so that the girl could get out to the washhouse and then came back to start breakfast.
'Has Owen left already?' Stella had come in silently, she was wearing flat shoes this morning, Gucci-type things, and her legs looked beautiful in them. They'd look beautiful in anything, Lallie decided savagely, they were that type of legs.
'He's still in bed,' she answered shortly. 'He had an accident last night, so he's taken the day off to get over it. That reminds me, will you ring the County Offices and tell them he's not available today. Did you want him?'
'Yes.' Stella's reply was languid but there was a fretful twist to her mouth. 'Actually, I expected him to call in on me last night, I waited quite a while.'
'I expect the accident drove it out of his mind.' Lallie filled the kettle and switched it on before beginning on Dwynwen's breakfast. She wasn't eager to help, but she didn't want to be thought hardhearted. 'Is there anything I can do?'
'I hardly think so,' Stella brushed aside the offer of help as though the matter was too important to be discussed with the kitchen staff. 'I'll wait till he comes down,' and Lallie, who had been going to offer a cup of tea, a piece of toast and some sympathy, if Stella needed it, clammed up.
'Suit yourself,' she said shortly. 'I'm taking him up this cup of tea, and if he's awake, I'll tell him you want to speak to him.'
'Do that.' Stella was sharply definite as she went back to the office.
Lallie didn't hurry, the brush-off had upset her equilibrium which had already suffered a nasty jolt this morning. She made Dwynwen's scrambled egg and soft toast, added a cup of tea to the tray and when she took it in, she took her time about retailing the news of Owen's accident.
'Two small toes broken and some lacerations,' she concluded. 'He was in a filthy temper, especially when I wouldn't give him the whisky bottle.' Of the rest she said nothing, she didn't want to upset Dwynwen's strict chapel conscience which might be rampant this morning. She tapped at Owen's door and swished in to find him sitting, dressed only in a pair of cord slacks and one sock, on the side of the bed and winding a fresh dressing about his foot. There seemed to be a lot of bruising and she
frowned at it, but when she raised her eyes to his, his look was sardonic.
'Sleep well?' he enquired.
'Wonderfully.' She glared at him and then changed her expression for one of sweet reminiscence. 'I always do when I have somebody to cuddle up to.'
'And you cuddle so nicely.' Owen finished winding the bandage, pinned it and looked up into her face. 'I'd have done something about it if this foot hadn't been hurting so much.'
'Well, at least you're honest,' she grinned wolfishly at him. 'Admitting it was only pain that stopped you. Lots of men would have claimed to be too honourable.' She changed the subject swiftly. 'Stella's fretting for you. She's downstairs, champing at the bit—you didn't call on her last night and she has some private business she wants to discuss with you. You'd better come down and soothe her before she loses that monumental calm.'
'It was a question of priorities, you bitter little weed,' Owen grinned back in an equally wolfish fashion. 'Another lady had first call on my attentions last night, a Welsh Black called Glenys. Sorry I had to skip out on you, but she was in difficulties, the calf was the wrong way round—we worked hard on her and she repaid me by treading all over me. That's gratitude for you!'
'Something which a female should have done to you years ago,' she shot back at him. 'It might have deflated that massive ego of yours!' She gestured at the tea on the bedside table. 'Drink that and hurry on down, your Stella's waiting and I haven't had my breakfast yet.'
'A nice little calf,' he murmured, 'and in remembrance of what her coming into the world had interrupted, I persuaded them to call her Lallie.' She let him have the last word as a sop to his ego, merely sniffing as she slammed the door behind her.
It was eleven o'clock before Lallie heard the cause of Stella's bad temper, and then, as far as she was concerned, it was a blessing in disguise.
'I've already told Owen,' Stella said plaintively. 'The hotel where I'm to be manageress was scheduled to open for Easter and working on that assumption, I'd let my cottage to summer visitors as from that date and I've got bookings for it right through to September. Now the hotel opening has been delayed, the alterations won't be finished in time and I don't think we'll manage an opening before the Spring Bank Holiday. I asked Owen,' here she turned to gaze at him sweetly over the rim of her coffee cup, asked him if he knew of a room in Aber or even hereabouts, I want to vacate my cottage in a week's time at the latest so that my sister can decorate and have everything clean and fresh for the summer visitors.' She smiled smugly. 'Owen says he's sure you'll be able to fit me in here, any little corner would do as long as there's plenty of wardrobe space. I do so hate having to crush my clothes.'
'It's all right with you, Lallie?' That was Owen deferring to her, it was a nice gesture, but it meant nothing, he didn't care whether it was all right with her or not, but she didn't care. The problem of finding an odd corner with the large hanging space for clothes was one which she shelved for the time being; there were other things which were more important. She was getting a fare-paying chaperon and one with an eagle eye—which would stop Owen's little gallop, so she beamed all over her face. She had her own axe to grind!
'It's a splendid idea,' she enthused. 'Stella will be on hand to answer that damn phone, it's driving me mad, but there are a few points, I meant to bring them up at a suitable moment, and this seems most suitable to me.' She looked up at Owen with a melting glance. 'This place is so old-fashioned, darling,' she laid particular emphasis on the 'darling'. 'I'd like a few alterations.'
'Sounds ominous.' He surveyed her lazily. 'When you start asking for things in that tone, as though butter wouldn't melt in your mouth, I get the feeling that everything's going to be turned upside down.'
'You always did have the worst opinion of me,' she murmured softly while her eyes glittered. 'I want an electric cooker, Owen. You can throw out that bottled gas thing in the scullery, Dwynwen won't eat anything cooked on or in it—and I'd like a dishwasher as well.'
'Is that all?'
'Not quite.' She dropped all signs of wheedling and became cool and business like. 'Come Spring and summer, this kitchen gets too hot with this solid fuel cooker, but we have to keep it going because of the hot water, so I'd like an immersion heater, an electric one. And then, when Stella does go to her hotel, I suppose you've elected me to do the typing?'
'Who else, my love?' Owen's eyes were now shining with the light of battle. It was catching, and her own eyes glowed with relish.
'Then I want an electric typewriter, a standard office model, nothing fancy but with a carriage big enough for tabulating. You can throw that old thing out,' she nodded in the direction of the office where an ancient Imperial stood on the smaller of the two desks. 'Either that or you can donate it to a museum where they can put it on show, labelled "ancient artefact". And you can install a telephone answering machine as well.'
'And I was going to replace the Land Rover,' he mourned.
'You can do that any time,' she murmured. 'Out of the petty cash!'
'You drive a hard bargain.'
'Mmm,' she nodded complacently. 'But look who I had to teach me!'
CHAPTER SEVEN
Stella delayed over her coffee for as long as possible, but eventually she had to go to answer the telephone and Owen stretched himself in his chair with a perceptible wince as his foot touched the table leg.
'You're looking like a cat fed on cream, Lallie,' his eyes glinted. 'What's pleased you so much? You're not that fond of Stella.'
'Not fond at all,' she agreed, 'but you've just provided me with a ready-made chaperon. There can't be any gossip now.'
'They could say I've taken advantage of Dwynwen's illness to start my own private harem,' he pointed out, an amused smile touching his lips, and she wagged her head at him reprovingly.
'That's what they might say in the Rugby Club, the men there have very coarse minds, but it's not what the women will say, and it's the women who do the gossiping. It's what they say that counts, not what a lot of overgrown schoolboys whisper over their beer mugs.'
'And where are you going to sleep Stella? What little corner do you have in mind for her?'
Lallie considered, her head on one side and her lips pursed in thought. The conclusion at which she arrived was one which didn't please her—it wasn't a particularly happy one, but beggars can't be choosers—it was the only one possible.
'I could put her in your room,' she shook her head, 'but there isn't enough wardrobe space, so I'm afraid she'll have to have mine, it's the only one with a decent sized wardrobe.'
'And where will you go?'
'I think,' her eyes sparkled aggravatingly, 'I think I'll sleep in yours.'
'Glad to have you any time,' Owen chuckled, 'and it won't be a novel experience for you, will it?'
'If that's the way you're going to take it,' she spat the words at him, making no attempt to hide her temper, 'I shall go straight down to Jonty's and you and Stella can sleep wherever you fancy—and,' she paused to give the words more effect. 'I bet I know where your Stella fancies!'
'You coarse little bitch!' His hand shot out and fastened on her wrist. 'You bloody little termagant! If I hear one more remark like that from you, I'll scrub your mouth out with soap!'
Lallie maintained her dignity with difficulty, her wrist felt as though it was being mangled. Her face whitened with the pain of it and she spoke through stiff lips and in an icy voice.
'How unoriginal can you get? That's the second time you've threatened me with that, and that does it! Maybe I did let my temper run away with me and maybe it wasn't a very nice thing to say. I apologise for it, of course, but I'm not staying here to be threatened!' She made to rise, but his fingers clamped on her wrist and he increased the pressure slightly so that she caught her breath on a sob. 'I'm going to Jonty's,' she repeated wildly, 'and you can't stop me!'
'Can't I?' He raised his eyebrows at her. 'And keep your voice down, or do you want everybody to know we're quarrelling?'
; 'Anybody can know for all I care!' Lallie struggled to free herself, scratching at his enfolding fingers. 'Let me go, you pig—time might have given you a few grey hairs, but it hasn't improved you one little bit! You're just the same as you always were, a dictator, and I'm not putting up with it a moment longer!'
'You're not going anywhere,' even his smile was a threat, 'and you're certainly not going running to Jonty. He's got something good going for him and I'm not letting you spoil it.'
'Spoil it?' She gasped with outrage. 'When have I ever…'
'…All the time,' he interrupted. 'Ever since you were about sixteen. You always ran to him, you had him so he didn't know whether he was coming or going. The poor young fool thought the sun shone out of your eyes. Well, he's over it now and you're not starting that up all over again.'
'I don't believe you,' she said truculently, while she remembered. She always had run to Jonty and he'd always been kind to her. Every time she'd had one of her monumental rows with Owen, Jonty had always been waiting in the wings to give her comfort—to build up her morale which Owen was so good at shattering. He'd pet her and make her feel better again. 'It wasn't like that,' she muttered. 'Jonty was my friend.'
'There wasn't much "friendship" about it, at least not as far as Jonty was concerned, he had it badly and he was still wet behind the ears, poor kid. Maybe that was all it was to you, but you never could see farther than the end of your nose, and every thought was about Lallie, you never noticed the effect you had on anyone else. It wasn't like that for my kid brother, Lallie, he wanted to marry you—you had him tied up in knots. All right,' as she started to protest, 'I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, maybe you didn't realise what you were doing to him, but you nearly broke up this family, what there was left of it. He wouldn't understand when I disapproved of his marrying you. So you had to go.'
'I had to go?' She looked at him with puzzlement.
'It was either that or having him try to talk you into running away with him, and I couldn't chance that, you might have agreed just to spite me.' She looked at Owen's face and saw the pain in his eyes. 'He wasn't up to your weight, girl—you'd have made a doormat out of him. There'd never been an idea in his head you hadn't put there, La Belle Dame sans Merci had nothing on you!'
The Road to Forever Page 9
