by Gloria Cook
Putting on his dressing gown, he slipped along to the bathroom. It was infinitely nicer being a guest here than at the convalescent home. He had received every kind attention there, and also on his release into Justine’s care. Justine, the good old thing, had taken three weeks off work, but he’d hated being an invalid.
‘You don’t have to stay at home with me, Justine,’ he’d stressed, although he’d been desperate in those early days to have her with him.
‘You were at death’s door, Mark,’ she’d replied. ‘If you hadn’t been liberated when you were I’d have lost you.’ Strange, how affectionate they were, how much they cared for each other, yet were planning to put an end to their marriage. He missed Justine, as one missed a best friend. There could have been more between them. Perhaps they had never given their marriage the chance to work. She had no new man in her life and said she wasn’t looking for anyone, and he as sure as hell wasn’t interested in anything of the sort. He had to reclaim himself as the person he’d used to be, if that was possible, before considering any such new alliance. He must talk to her, see if they should think about starting again on a fresh note. He wouldn’t mind that at all. He and Justine had a lot in common. She shared many of his thoughts, so perhaps she was thinking along the same lines too.
He had learned, as one only could in a POW labour camp, to take one day at a time, and right now he was enjoying the stay at Tremore House. He stripped off and sank down into the hot water in the porcelain bath. There was just the Government-ordered few inches, but ah, such luxury. In No. 2 camp, Sonkurai, he had dreamt of soaking himself in hot clean water, breathing in healthy steam rather than the lung-clogging stuff of the jungle, to smell clean skin instead of unwashed bodies and the putrid flesh of tropical ulcers and gangrene. He soaped himself all over and washed his hair, the smell of the coal tar soap as sweet as roses after breathing in the stink of bodily functions and death for so long. On liberation, his horribly greasy hair had been shaved off to remove the bugs and filth. It had grown back nicely. Justine liked his soft waves. Justine. His mind drifted. He recalled her gorgeous figure… fine mantelpiece of a bosom… shapely legs… laughing voice… intelligent and fun… miss you, Justine. He floated off to sleep.
Susan was giving Bob and Len’s room a good ‘bottoming’. Agnes’s age and rheumatism had lately denied her doing this sort of thing. The boys’ room needed a thorough clean-up. The cheeky scamps were hoarders, and from under their twin beds she dragged out old biscuit tins and boxes of stones, leaves, horrible dried up insects and sweet wrappings – some obviously picked up from the ground. There were slingshots, and bows and arrows made from hazel sticks. There was also a box of blobs of something indescribable that smelled offensive and could only be animal droppings – she would put everything back after she had brushed and polished the wooden floor but this collection would have to go. She wiped down the window sill and cleaned the glass and did all the other extra cleaning, then, satisfied she’d done the room justice without encroaching on the boys’ right to have the room their own way, she gathered up the cleaning materials and rubbish and left. There was only Mr Fuller’s room and the bathroom to see to now. She had heard him running the water for an earlier-than-usual bath and assumed that by now he would be downstairs. She would finish upstairs before going down for her morning break. She broke into singing again. It was many years since she had felt this cheerful. She liked working here, everything was perfect, and when Agnes left next week she was looking forward to setting up her own routine.
As soon as she entered the guestroom, she saw Mr Fuller had not yet dressed. His dressing gown was not on the hook behind the door. He must still be in the bathroom. She frowned. He had been in there a long time. She hadn’t heard a sound when passing the door just now. Suddenly afraid for him she hurried there and tapped on the door. ‘Mr Fuller? Are you all right?’
There was no answer and she tried the door. It wasn’t locked and she thanked goodness, for he was slumped in the bath. ‘Mr Fuller! Mark!’ She went to him and shook him. His skin was cold and clammy, and for one terrible moment she thought he was dead. Then one of his eyelids flickered. She got down on her knees and splashed cold water on his gaunt face. ‘Mark, wake up. Wake up!’
Next instant she was looking into his startled eyes. ‘Ohh… what?’ he mumbled groggily. ‘Oh, Mrs, um… what’s happened?’
‘You fell asleep in the bath. You’re freezing. You must get out.’ Susan reached for a towel. ‘I’ll help you.’
Becoming aware of the situation, Mark blushed fiercely, and it made his sallow complexion patchy and peculiar. ‘Th-there’s no need to trouble yourself, Mrs, um…’
‘It’s Susan. Your limbs will be rigid and you might slip. I’m afraid Mr Harvey has gone with Agnes to move some of her things into the cottage. Don’t worry, I’m quite strong.’
Mark coloured hotly again. ‘I wasn’t thinking about that.’
Susan knew he was horribly embarrassed about his nakedness, mainly for her sake. ‘I’ve been a married woman. The only thing that matters is that get you warm and dry.’ She pulled the plug to let the water drain away, tossed the towel over her shoulder, and after getting to her feet was ready to support him.
‘Yes, of course.’ Mark could have died of mortification. He had suffered many a humiliation as a prisoner of war, but this was somehow worse. Never had he felt so stupid, useless and such a nuisance. He put his hands on the sides of the bath and after a couple of tries managed to lever himself on to his knees. He felt dizzy, and the effort made him hang his head and take a couple of deep breaths. Susan was close at his side. When he tried to stand, she held on to his arm to steady him, pulling to help him up. As soon as she was sure he was stable on two feet she put the towel round his middle and tucked in the end at his sunken stomach, keeping slightly behind him all the while for decency’s sake.
‘You’ll need to turn and place your hands on my shoulders and step out. I’m afraid there’s nothing else for you to hold on to.’ Mark obeyed, but he underwent more embarrassment when it was necessary for her to stoop and lift each of his feet high enough to clear the side of the bath. Susan pulled the bath stool up close and eased him to sit down on it. She wrapped a second towel about his shoulders and rubbed at his back and arms to get the blood flowing through him.
‘Oh God,’ he moaned. ‘I feel such a fool.’
‘There’s no need,’ she said softly. She dried his feet and helped him into the spare pair of slippers loaned him by Tristan. Then she put his dressing gown over his shivering shoulders. ‘Let me help you to your room then you can get dressed.’
He crept along the long landing with her as if he was a bent old man and finally he was sitting on his bed. ‘Oh hell to it – sorry, Susan – I was going to ask you not to mention this to anyone, but I’ve made you all wet.’
‘I don’t think it would be right for me to keep anything from Faye that goes on under her roof, Mr Fuller. Please don’t worry about it.’ She brought his clothes to him. ‘Try to dress as quickly as you can. You’ll soon warm up when you’ve had something hot to eat and drink.’
‘You’re a damned fine woman,’ Mark said, slipping into the sort of talk he used with the down-to-earth Justine. ‘Call me Mark. I feel we are friends. If that’s all right with you.’ Susan did not take his compliment as a pass at her, she was thinking she had never met a more genuinely pleasant man, except, of course, for Tristan Harvey, who was the epitome of good manners and gentlemanly conduct. ‘That’s fine with me. Now, you get dressed. I’ll tell Faye she can start your breakfast in a few minutes.’
She was smiling when she went to the kitchen. Faye was stationed at the table, with eggs and bacon and cut bread in front of her. ‘Ah, on his way down, is he? Good heavens, Susan! What’s happened to you? Has one of the bathroom taps sprung a leak?’
‘No.’ Susan recounted what had happened. ‘The poor soul was so upset, but hopefully I reassured him. I thought I’d dry off and then sort th
e bathroom out.’
Faye was consumed with jealousy that something significant had happened to Mark and it hadn’t been she who had been there to help him. ‘You should have called me at once!’ Susan blinked at the snap and drew in her breath. She went rigid, in the same way as when Lance had shouted at her, always over something he’d had no right to be angry about, usually a prelude to prolonged verbal abuse.
Faye was immediately sorry. Susan had done nothing wrong, and now it looked as if she had brought a shutter down against her. ‘Oh, please forgive me, I shouldn’t have said that. I was worried about Mark.’ Her apology had not impressed Susan. A defensive look was in her eyes and she seemed unsure, perhaps even worried. Faye had to think fast or the slow friendship she was forging with Susan would take irretrievable steps backward. She put the kettle on the hob. ‘I’m very annoyed, you see, Susan. Take a seat and have your coffee. I was hoping Mark’s things would have arrived this morning. You’d think that after all he’d been through, his wife could at least have arranged something quickly. Uncle Tris is happy to lend Mark whatever he needs, but he’s bound to feel more comfortable if he had his own belongings.’
Susan offered no opinion. She was hurt and felt she had been put in her place. She wanted to leave the kitchen and get on with her work, away from the woman who seemed at times eager to make a firm friendship with her, but at other times was haughty and demanding. It was impossible that she and Faye Harvey could have anything except a working relationship, she the cleaner, Faye the employer. They were worlds apart. Faye Harvey was twenty-one, four years younger, but she seemed sophisticated and worldly in comparison. While Susan was wearing a dress and cardigan she’d had for years, faded from the wash, and a print apron and a scarf tied turban-style round her hair, Faye was in her jersey dress, of utility make but stylish, with a cute collar and self-coloured narrow belt and piping. Her ebony hair was in rich waves, pulled up from her temples by antique tortoiseshell combs. Faye exuded the money she had. She owned the village garage and filling station, and from gossip Susan had learned she had inherited a share of a wine business in Truro but had sold it because she didn’t approve of her late father’s shady partner. She looked like a movie star with her red lipstick and pearl necklace and open-toe slingbacks. Anyone would think she was dressed up for a luncheon engagement. Susan pulled out a chair at the far end of the table and placed stiff folded hands on top of it. She didn’t speak. Her happiness at working here had been stamped out, but she should have known it would be short-lived. Her mother had stamped out every bit of childhood hope and ambition in her, and then Lance had taken over in exactly the same way.
Faye was anxious to make amends. She fetched the biscuit barrel and carried it to Susan. She put on her brightest, most eager voice, ‘Help yourself. They’re delicious, there’s real butter in them. You must take some home for Maureen. Oh, here’s Uncle Tris.’ Faye’s heart hammered in her chest. If Susan continued to look glum, her uncle would have something to say if he found out she’d upset her. He was always singing her praises, and Faye was unsettled by the suspicion he was falling in love with her. And Susan was independent and proud. If she began to hate it here she would leave and rather struggle if she couldn’t find employment elsewhere. Suddenly everything had become complicated.
‘Hello!’ Tristan called out cheerfully, coming in via the back entrance, his boots off after the walk back along the muddy lane. ‘I’ve left Agnes on her own to settle in and get the feel of the place. Ah, Susan.’ He had taken the liberty of calling Susan by her first name, hoping she wouldn’t mind. ‘Has Faye asked you about our little favour yet?’
‘Favour?’ Susan said warily, keeping her face pointed downward. It had never paid to look Lance in the eye when he was in a bad temper or a brooding mood and it was something she was apt not to do with anyone.
‘Yes,’ Tristan said uncertainly, glancing at Faye with a question on his face.
Faye made a show of pouring the coffee. ‘You’re just in time for a drink, Uncle Tris. No, I haven’t mentioned it yet. Susan, we’re planning to take Agnes out for a retirement dinner at the Red Lion Hotel in Truro, to thank her for all the years she’s worked for the family, and of course we’ll need someone to look after the children. We were wondering if you’d be kind enough to come and stay the night, you and Maureen. Maureen could share with Pearl, and Uncle Tris would sleep at the farm and you could have his room.’ She went on with jolly enthusiasm, ‘Actually, I could take his room and you could have mine. We’d pay you, of course.’
Concerned at Susan’s dejection, Tristan said, ‘Maureen would have a lot of fun with Pearl, I’m sure. If Mr Fuller is still here I’m sure he wouldn’t be any bother. He retires early and sleeps the sleep of the dead. What do you say? Would you like time to think about it?’
‘No,’ Susan said. She wasn’t one to sulk or be awkward and she was happy to do anyone a kindness where it was appreciated, in this case for Agnes and Mr Harvey. The extra money would be very useful, and having tidied Faye’s room the last two mornings it would be a treat to sleep in such sumptuous surroundings. ‘I’d be happy to do it, and Maureen will be excited about sleeping over, she’s never done anything like that before.’
‘Good! That’s settled.’ Faye smiled at Susan, and her stomach eased when she was rewarded with a short smile in return.
‘When will it be?’ Susan asked.
‘We thought on Saturday evening. Then we could all have Sunday lunch together, and if the weather is dry the children could all go riding. I’m sure Maureen would like to learn. I’ll supervise her myself,’ Tristan said, trying not to admit to himself how delighted he was to have Susan stay and eat at the house. ‘Agnes will move into her new home the following Friday.’
‘You’ll miss her,’ Susan observed.
‘It’s good she won’t be far away, just down the lane where we can keep an eye on her now she’s getting on a bit, and she’ll pop in occasionally for a cuppa.’ Tristan sounded casual, but he was thinking how fascinating Susan was. In the last few minutes various expressions had formed on her lovely young face and he’d enjoyed every one of them, even if it was silly and unwise to do so.
Susan drank her coffee quickly, not wanting to linger with the Harveys. They were friendly, well, Faye was most of the time, but it didn’t feel right sitting round the kitchen table with them. ‘I’d better get on.’
‘Of course,’ Tristan smiled and stood up as she left the table, always the gentleman.
‘I’ll make a start on Mark’s breakfast. He should be down any minute,’ Faye said, putting a frying pan on the hob of the range. Cross with herself over the discomfiture she had caused Susan she resolved to play things Susan’s way from now on by keeping a more formal footing, and never to be sharp with her again.
Tristan took his coffee to the library to get on with business matters. Faye was pleased. Mark ate his breakfast in here, and she would have him all to herself. He came in and bid her ‘good morning’ as she was lifting the eggs from the pan and placing them beside the bacon on the plate. ‘My, that’s a generous helping.’
‘Food is easier to come by from the farm,’ she said lightly. Even so, she had given him her rations for the week. The doorbell rang. She hoped it was no one wanting to see her. ‘Uncle Tris will answer that.’
Mark sat down and looked at the food appreciatively. ‘Mmm, this look delicious.’
‘Good. I’ll make the toast. We had a good harvest from the plum trees last year so there’s plenty of jam.’
There were voices in the hall. One was loud and chuckling. Mark put his knife and fork down and turned his ear to the door. ‘If I didn’t know better I’d think that was…’
‘Who?’
Mark got up. He grew excited. ‘It must be…’
The door was opened. Tristan showed someone in and Mark exclaimed, ‘Justine, darling! So it was you. What a lovely surprise.’
The attractive, femininely-built woman ran to him and they joined in
an eager embrace, kissing cheeks. Justine Fuller leant back in his arms so she could take a good look at him. ‘Well, I had to see for myself just how you were, darling. I’ll never forgive myself for letting you give me the slip. I said I’d bring you down in the spring when it was warmer and you’d have been stronger for travelling, remember?’ She gently pushed back his hair. ‘You are an old duffer, Mark. What am I going to do with you?’
She released herself but took a firm hold of his hands, then turned to Faye. ‘You must be Faye. Pleased to meet you. I can’t thank you and Tristan enough for taking care of Mark. I hope he’s not proving too much trouble.’
‘None at all,’ Faye got out through almost clenched teeth. ‘Mark’s very welcome.’ You’re not! The whole situation was ridiculous. Witnessing how close the couple was, it seemed crazy they had even considered going their separate ways. Faye had only known him for three days and had no right to be possessive about him. But she was, and she had already snapped at one innocent woman over him today and was having a hard task not to do it to another. ‘Perhaps he should sit down and eat his breakfast.’
‘Quite right too.’ Justine led Mark to the table as if he was a weakling. ‘Go on, tuck in, you’re still like a human scarecrow.’
‘This is a nice surprise.’ Tristan didn’t know what else to say, and he was baffled by the frosty reception Faye was giving Justine Fuller. It was a good thing she seemed not to have noticed. ‘Justine’s brought Mark’s things down with her.’
‘And a few bits of your own, I hope, darling? You won’t have time to travel back today,’ Mark said, hopeful she would stay, for Justine was inclined to be elusive, to go her own way. ‘We could book a room at a hotel.’
