'And what good would that do?' His hand dropped from her shoulder and went to her hip, pulling her back against him so that the coffee percolater was slightly out of her reach. She watched the fountain of water bubbling up into the transparent dome, trying to find some spark of life within herself, but there was none; she felt drained and dead.
'My way's best, Lallie.'
'When wasn't it ever?' she answered dully. 'You're a grand one at manipulation, you manipulate everybody. Oh, I know—I remember what you said, in about a year we'll be wondering what I was getting so worked up about, but don't you see—it's all no good, it won't work.'
'It wasn't necessary to manipulate everybody, my sweet, only you.' She thought she felt him laugh. 'You've always been the nigger in the woodpile.' This time she heard the laugh, short and hard. 'Whenever trouble broke out, I only had to look a little deeper than the surface to find you at the bottom of it—yet you always managed to get round everybody. You created quite a stir in London, but immediately, Jonty and Dwynwen were hot in your defence—he said outright that he didn't believe it of you and I practically had to tie him down to stop him charging to your rescue, and Dwynwen said you should be forgiven, that you were young and that every girl could be forgiven one mistake, men being what they are!'
'But not in your book!' Lallie wrenched herself free and took the coffee pot to the table, sitting down to pour it out and looking glumly at the two whisky glasses, each with a couple of inches of golden liquid. She seized her own and drained it at a gulp, but there was no instant lift of her spirits and the famous glow turned out to be a hot rawness in her throat that made her splutter. The whisky didn't do a thing for her.
'That's no way to treat a single malt!' Owen reproved. 'Cheer up, girl, it's not the end of the world. Drink your coffee and trot on, off to bed— you'll feel better in the morning.'
'Just what I intend to do—and you can take in Dwynwen's night-time drink and her pills, and you can also get your own supper.' She halted at the kitchen door. 'You won't be told, will you? Well, you'll just have to learn for yourself. I'll do what you want, but you'll regret it, I promise you that!' and with a defiant fling, she was through the door to bang it noisily behind her.
Her feet carried her upstairs unwillingly and along the passage to the bedroom. She was wasting valuable talking time; Owen wasn't going to let her have her say. She would therefore do what he wanted and not because he was driving her into it. She made a face at the mirror. She would do it because she was as weak as water and she wanted it that way. On impulse, she went back to the bedroom door and slammed that as well.
Once in bed, she lay awake thinking. Owen wanted his own way and he should have it, so she left the grim prospect of the distant future out of her planning programme to concentrate upon immediates. When she had those settled in her mind, she turned on her side and drifted off to sleep, so that, in the morning, when she met him over the breakfast table, she was composed and calm.
'I have to go to London.' It wasn't a request but a plain statement of fact.
'Why?'
'Immoral purposes, of course,' she hissed. 'Isn't that what you expect?' and then her tone changed to one of ice. 'I want to see about my flat, my rent's due at the end of April and I may as well give it up. There's no point in keeping it on, not now.'
'You can do that by phone,' he pointed out reasonably.
'Ugh-ugh,' she shook her head. 'There are some things I left there, clothes and personal items, and I want them.'
'Such as?'
'Like I said, my clothes. There aren't many, but I don't see the sense of abandoning them, and there are some photographs and books, my portable typewriter and the desk it stands on…'
'I'll take you this weekend,' he offered, and she choked on his magnanimity.
'No "conference", Owen? My! You are the liberated man!'
'And that's something you'd better start learning to control,' he glowered at her. 'Your tongue—it's a pretty deadly weapon.'
Fortunately, Stella's advent stopped a full-scale quarrel. Lallie simmered down while she made fresh toast and Owen told Stella the news. Stella took it very well, considering.
'All the best, Owen, and congratulations to you, Lallie.' Her smile was tight and Lallie wondered if the turn-round of the phrases had been deliberate. It was she who should have been wished well, but Stella was evidently not one to weep over spilled milk, being more of an 'off with the old and on with the new' type, and Lallie realised for the first time that she'd never been jealous of Stella. She hadn't liked her, but there had never been anything of jealousy in it, merely envy at an appearance and sophistication which she herself could never achieve.
It was as though she had known from the moment they met that Owen had no long-term arrangements for Stella; she wasn't right for him, he knew it and Lallie had known he knew it. All her dislike had stemmed from Stella's treatment of Dwynwen, nothing else, and if she had made capital out of Owen with her 'your Stella', there had been no jealousy involved. She brought the fresh toast to the table with a pleasant smile and sat down feeling much better.
'How big's the desk?' That was Owen harking back to what he considered the basics.
'Quite small,' she sketched with her hands. 'About three foot by a little more than one and a half and the usual height. Why?'
'Could we get it on the back seat of the Bentley, or would we need the Land Rover? Is it heavy?'
'No, not very,' she buttered toast reflectively, 'and I think it would go in the Bentley, upside down. I bought it about fifteenth-hand, and it didn't cost much, but I liked it, it's a pretty little desk. I'd like to keep it if I can.' Mentally, she crossed her fingers hoping she was right and that it would go in the car. The thought of a journey to London and back in the hard-sprung Land Rover wasn't to her taste and beside, she was feeling a bit battered and delicate, too delicate for the Land Rover.
'All right, this weekend we can fix up with Mrs Parry to stay with Dwynwen, they'll talk their heads off and be quite happy.'
'Thanks.' She was meagre with her gratitude— but then why should she be generous? It was all being done for his benefit, not hers! She smiled nicely, while one part of her was filled with the evil hope that Jonty and Vi would continue in their irregular relationship for years and years—that would learn him!
The narrow Victorian house looked narrower and more cramped to Lallie's eyes as she looked at it from the car window. It looked like a shabby, down-at-heel matron, but she shrugged the thought aside. It was just the contrast with Bryn Celyn where everything was well maintained, where the paint always looked fresh. There was nothing run-down about that house despite its great age; Owen thought too much of his home to allow it to grow shabby.
The landlady was surprised to see her. She seemed a little offended, but Lallie put it right. 'I'm leaving at the end of the month,' she smiled at the woman. 'What I really mean is, I'm giving up my tenancy as from April the thirtieth. I'll pay you a month's rent in lieu of notice, of course.' She stood there in the hall, waiting for Owen, who was coming up the steps with a picnic basket she'd packed specially for the occasion.
'We'll need something to eat when we get there, or at least a cup of tea,' she had explained. 'So we'll have to take a few things. There'll be gas, but I rang when I knew I was staying at Bryn Celyn and the landlady will have cleared out the fridge and anything perishable. You can make us a drink while I sort things out and we'll go to a restaurant for a meal when I've done.'
'We can take in a show, if you like.' She had marvelled at his good temper; he hardly ever called her a vicious little bitch now, just sometimes it was there in his eyes, that suppressed anger, but she ignored it. She was practising for the future which had to be made tolerable.
Upstairs, she looked in her kitchenette and wondered how she had ever managed in such a confined space, before she went back into the lobby to feed a few coins into the gas meter. Coming back into the living room, she frowned at the narrow divan.
'Have you made arrangements for tonight?' she asked.
'Two rooms in a hotel in Islington—everything very proper, Lallie, so don't start suspecting my motives,' and he went off to the kitchenette to put the kettle on while she started opening drawers and cupboards.
'I'm not bothering with the pots and pans,' she called through to him. 'The next tenant can have them with my good wishes. Oh dear, I didn't realise there were so many things I'd want to keep.
'Is the desk too big?' she asked as they sat by the gas fire drinking tea and eating ham sandwiches.
'Go on the back seat easily.' Owen measured it with his eye. 'You're right, it is a pretty thing, we'll have to find somewhere for it.'
'I thought of putting it in the window embrasure in the sitting room.' Lallie was talking, they were both talking just for the sake of something to do, she realised that, and her heart fell. Was this how it was going to be for the rest of her life? Speaking, saying words, words that meant nothing—no real tie between them? Without thinking very much and with her eyes fixed on the glow of the fire, she thought back aloud.
'I was quite happy here, I used to think of it as a kind of fortress, when I was up here. I was out of touch, away from everything. Those people you put me with,' she smiled, 'isn't it odd, I can't even remember what they were called. I didn't like it there. I know they were probably doing what they thought was best for me, you know—in by ten every evening, nice substantial meals, but all the time, the idea in my head that I was being watched, distrusted. I felt as though I was being reclaimed or something like that. I wouldn't have been in the least surprised if they'd prayed over me.'
'Good for you,' he said unsympathetically, 'it gave you a chance to learn some self-discipline, and you never had very much of that, cariad.'
'No,' she chuckled. 'I didn't, did I? I must have been a foul little monster.'
'I'm glad you realise what I had to put up with.' Owen helped himself to another sandwich from Dwynwen's treasured picnic basket.
'Oh, I wasn't as bad as all that, and when I came here it was wonderful—the relief of having somewhere of my own, not being supervised. It didn't go to my head, though.'
'You had a rough time, but you learned from it, I hope.'
'Oh yes, I learned.' She kept her eyes on the fire as though she was looking back at those days. 'I used to think everybody was looking at me, talking about me—I nearly developed a complex about it until I realised that most of them didn't know me from Adam and that those who did recognise me couldn't care less whether I was alive or dead. It was something the same with the papers as well. After a while, they were just newspapers, no good on the day after except to wrap up the rubbish in—it was the letters that offended me most.'
'Letters?' He prodded heron gently.
'Mmm, I had quite a lot. You know the thing, "Betrayed Wife in Wimbledon", "Abandoned Wife in Streatham", that type of letter—anybody would have thought I was personally responsible for every broken marriage in the country! There were a few others from men,' she giggled. 'Most of them contained proposals of marriage—some men have the kinkiest ideas!'
She heard Owen grunt and went silent while her thoughts took another direction. She'd never thought of this solution before, it wasn't what she wanted, but then neither was what he proposed, but if she was to be unhappy for the rest of her life, did it matter?
'Owen,' she began hesitantly while she put her ideas into a logical sequence, 'you know I'm not happy with your way of doing things?' She waited for some response, even if it was only another grunt, but none was forthcoming.
'I've just thought of something, I can't think why it didn't occur to me before…'
'Another hare-brained scheme?' Owen didn't sound very co-operative—but then, she consoled herself, he wasn't thinking as far ahead as she was and he was so blandly sure that he could cope and that she could cope… oh hell!
'There's no need for us to get married.' She was bald about it, there had been just the one way of saying it and she'd taken it. She went on swiftly before he could stop her.
'We needn't, not really. Look, this is Friday and we arrived here just after two, we're going back either tomorrow night or Sunday—that's right, isn't it? Why can't we come down again next weekend or even the one after, stay for the same amount of time and go back to tell them we were married at some London register office. You could say you got the licence today while I was packing my things up. Nobody would ever know, and then after a while, when Dwynny's all brand new, I can come back to London.
'Don't you see,' she raised her head to look at his uncommunicative face, 'it'll save a lot of bother later on. We won't have to go through a real divorce if we don't have a real marriage, and in two years or so, I'm not all sure about the time required, you could be as free as air, all your worries over, Jonty nicely settled, Dwynwen back on her feet, and I'll slide gently and gracefully out of the picture.' She gave a weak chuckle. 'I can't think why I didn't think of it before, it's the perfect solution. I could dress up a bit, we could have a photograph taken…' Her voice faltered into silence.
Owen put his cup and saucer on the floor and stood up, drawing her up with him. His arm went round her while his free hand tangled in the hair at her nape, forcing her face upwards. When his mouth found hers, she struggled weakly and then relaxed, giving away to the sweetness of it, the warmth, the demand, until she felt as though she was floating.
Without any conscious thought on her part, her hands went to his head to thread through the hair and hold him to her, her lips parted under his and she felt his whole body tauten and harden demandingly against her. When he finally raised his head from hers, she was trembling and her face wore a drugged look, her eyelids too heavy to lift to look at him.
'And what do we do about that?' His harsh voice broke the spell. 'Are you going to live in sin with me, Lallie?'
'S-stop sounding so old-fashioned!' she was almost crying. 'Of course not, but we can pretend, can't we? We're alone in the house, who's to know any different? A b-business arrangement, strictly business, that's all.'
The shake he gave her wasn't violent, more the sort he would have given a puppy which had only slightly misbehaved itself.
'You said my way wasn't right, that it wouldn't work,' he reminded her. 'You said it couldn't work, it was founded on lies and deceit, but compared to what you've just suggested, it was a shining example of honesty. No, my dear, we do it my way.'
'But it isn't necessary!' She pushed against him, trying to free herself. 'It's all a pretence,' she muttered dully, 'an outward show. I know you think you're right, but you're not, you're only laying up more trouble, and by the time you've finished, it'll be so deep I'll never be able to get out from under.'
'Scared, Lallie?'
'You're so right, Owen, I'm scared. I've been running my own life for too long now to toss into somebody else's keeping with a lighthearted laugh. You stifle me!'
'Not you,' he disagreed. 'Just a few of your less lovable tendencies, like your bitter little tongue and your predilection for middle-aged men.'
'I knew you'd get round to that some time.' She wasn't miserable now, she was furious. 'So you don't think I'm a lily of purity—well, I don't think you're so stain-free either. Tit for tat!'
'That's better,' he laughed in her face. 'I don't like it when you get morbid. Stop looking so far ahead, you can leave that to me. Now, find yourself something nice to wear this evening and put it where you can get at it easily, I don't want to have to rake everything out of the boot because you've forgotten where you put your shoes or something.'
So she could leave it to him, could she? Her eyes sparked with a small fury. 'I shall do some shopping tomorrow morning,' she announced as firmly as she knew how. 'I shall buy a wedding dress. White!'
CHAPTER NINE
Stella went off to her hotel, leaving her last little barbed remarks sticking in Lallie's tender flesh.
'I do hope you'll be happy.' Stella made it sound as though it was s
o improbable, it was an impossibility. Lallie didn't think it was probable either, but she put on a brave front.
'I'll work at it,' she murmured with the ghost of a smile.
'Mmm.' Stella gave her the complete head-to-foot inspection which made her feel desperately inadequate. 'Of course, with Owen knowing all about you,' the all was very gently stressed, 'you won't have to worry overmuch about bones in the closet, will you? Although in your shoes, I'd be more inclined to run than stay. Men can be very unfair, and that's the sort of thing that gets thrown in a girl's face during the first quarrel!' Stella crossed her legs and contemplated the toe of one shoe. 'You're a fairly efficient housekeeper and with the proper sort of training, you could be a good cook.'
'I'll come to you for a reference.' Lallie painted a smile on her face.
'Or a job.' Stella looked businesslike. 'I like to have an efficient staff, as you know, and you'd soon learn my ways,' she shrugged. 'Don't turn up your nose at the offer, I mean it, and you could always look on it as a lifeline. You might need one.'
Lallie walked down the garden path with Stella, saw her off in her little car and went back to the house with the feeling that one problem had been solved. Now there was only Dwynwen who was enjoying a bad-tempered convalescence and had been bitten with a spring-cleaning bug.
'Not a fresh bit of wallpaper or a lick of paint anywhere,' she grumbled as she sat in her chair and seethed with impotence.
'It was all done last year,' Lallie soothed, pointing out three errors in the latest of Dwynwen's interminable games of Patience.
'I almost wish she was a proper invalid again,' she grumbled to Owen later. 'She was much easier to manage!'
In an odd way, she and Owen were getting on much better now that she had accepted her fate with the proper degree of meekness. He seemed almost amused at her infrequent outbursts of temper, contenting himself with a smile of lordly condescension at the worst excesses of her cutting tongue.
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