by Anne Weale
"Isn't that dull for her?" Joanna asked.
She knew very little about the way in which English girls lived, but she had supposed that nowadays even the wealthier ones had some kind of career.
"I shouldn't think so," Charles replied, as if the possibility had never occured to him before. "She's a very domesticated girl, and with the difficulty of getting capable staff and your grandmother being a semi-invalid, there's plenty for her to do."
He lit a cigarette, missing the slight grimace that twisted Joanna's soft lips. Somehow she didn't much like the sound of her cousin Vanessa.
"Aren't you afraid that I may corrupt her?" she asked, with a gleam of mischief.
Charles crossed his long legs and leaned back in the sun- bleached basket chair.
"I'm hoping that she may have an improving influence on you," he said blandly.
It was only a thrust, of course — and she had left herself open to it — but she felt herself flushing slightly.
"And what is our relationship?" she asked quickly.
"An extremely remote one, you'll be glad to hear. My grandfather and yours were stepbrothers."
"Do you live at Mere House too?"
He shook his head. "No, I have a place of my own—but it isn't far away. Now that your grandfather is dead, I run the family business."
A thought occurred to her. "Are you married, Charles?"
"If I were, my wife would be with me," he said drily.
"Oh, not necessarily. I believe people often go on holiday separately nowadays."
"So one hears, but that isn't my idea of marriage."
Joanna glanced at him. Her father was the only Englishman that she had ever known well, and she had heard that they made excellent husbands but indifferent lovers. But in Charles Carlyon's case — from what little she knew of him so far — she would have supposed the reverse to be true. Physically, as she had already had to concede, he was extremely attractive — if one had a weakness for that particular type of aggressively masculine magnetism. But as a husband, she was sure he would be insufferable. He was so sure of himself, so arrogant.
"How are you going to explain me to the neighborhood ?" she asked, when they were driving on again. "Do they know the true story, or will you think up some respectable explanation of why I've never been to Mere House before?"
"Many of the older people knew your mother, and I dare say the rest have heard a garbled version of what happened."
"I see. Well, at least my arrival will give them something to gossip about," she said carelessly.
They reached Calais an hour before the ferry was due to leave, and Charles left her in the car while he went to arrange her passage. The weather was changing. It was still sunny, but a gusty wind had blown up and there were cloud banks on the horizon.
"Have you been to sea before? It may be fairly choppy," he said, as they waited in a queue of cars to pass through the Customs sheds.
Joanna smiled to herself. "I shan't mind that," she said briefly.
"What's the joke?" he asked.
"Nothing, really. Your question was rather amusing in the circumstances, but you can't be expected to know the kind of life we led when my father was alive."
"What kind of life did you lead?" he asked, studying her profile.
She shrugged, turning her head to follow the flight of a seagull. If he could have seen her eyes, he might have detected a flicker of remembered heartache in them.
"Michael once said that if he ever wrote his memoirs he would call them 'Here Today and Gone Tomorrow,'" she said carelessly. "That was just how we lived — like nomads. I had my ninth birthday in Rio, and my tenth in Lisbon. When I reached eleven, we were somewhere in the Indian Ocean."
"And the war years?"
"I don't know where Michael was then. He never talked about it. I was in a convent near Toulouse and he came to fetch me after the Liberation." She repressed a sigh as she remembered how peaceful the convent had been — and how different from all that had followed.
"Did you know who he was?" Charles asked .
"Oh, yes. I'd had a photograph of him, and the sisters used to remind me about him. He had told them that my mother was French to get them to take me in. I don't know whether they really expected him to reappear. If he hadn't, I should probably have stayed with them. I might even have joined the order," she added wryly.
"I can't easily imagine that," Charles answered.
But it was not said as a taunt, Joanna realized, with surprise.
"Why not?" she sked curiously.
His face was unreadable. "I suppose because I see you as you are now — an unusually beautiful girl," he said, without expression.
Then the queue of cars began to move and he quickly switched on the engine and edged the car forward. Joanna sat fingering her passport. It was completely irrational, but his answer had evoked almost the same reaction as if it had been meant as a compliment. If his eyes had held hers for a moment longer, she would probably have blushed, she discovered, with a shock. But how extraordinary! A man (whom she definitely disliked) told her that she was beautiful (but in the most unemotional statement-of-fact-manner), and, all of a sudden, she was as flustered as a teenager. It simply didn't make sense.
Tnere were not many people travelling, and those who were made for the shelter of the bar.
"Shall we have a drink?" Charles suggested, as they emerged from the car-hold.
Joanna tied a silk scarf over her hair and slipped on a pair of sun-glasses.
"If you don't mind, I'd like to be alone for a while. You go inside if you want to. I'll stay on deck," she said politely.
Charles hesitated, frowning. Then he said, "As you wish," and walked to the entrance to the saloon.
Left to herself, Joanna wandered about the forward deck, the wind whipping her slacks and blowing keenly against her cheeks. It was a long time since she had smelt the sharp freshness of sea air and heard the waves slapping against a hull.
It was not long before the ferry was cast off, and soon they had left the harbor behind and were rolling on a mild swell, a flock of gulls wheeling and gliding above their wake! Joanna leaned against the rails, watching the coast of France recede into the distance, the spindrift salty on her parted lips.
It must have been nearly an hour later, and her thoughts were far away, when a light touch on her shoulders roused her. Turning, she found Charles at her elbow.
"Come inside and have lunch. You must be hungry," he said. The wind had loosened her scarf, and as she moved to follow him a strong gust snatched at the thin silk and almost blew it free.
Joanna gave a startled exclamation and put up her hands, but Charles was quicker, and before a second gust could carry it away he had reached out and caught it and, with it, a skein of her hair.
"Thank you. I should have knotted it," she said breathlessly, taking it from him and trying to smooth the flying tangle about her face.
"You should have a coat," he said. "Didn't you bring one?"
"Yes, it's in my case. But I'm not cold. I love the wind."
They crossed the deck and passed into the covered way leading to the dining-room. Joanna opened her bag and hunted for a comb and mirror.
"I shan't be a minute. I can't have lunch looking like a haystack," she said.
"Here, let me hold the glass for you," he said, taking it.
It took her only a few seconds to restore her hair to order, but when she thanked him and took back the mirror, she found him watching her with an odd expression.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
"I was thinking that you're not at all like Janine Alain at the moment," he said. "It suits you — your hair blowing about and color in your cheeks." But, this time, his eyes were mocking.
"It's only a sea-change," she said carelessly.
The dining-room was almost empty, as the ferry was rolling more strongly now and many of the passengers had retreated below decks. "What is this business of yours?" Joanna asked, as the steward b
rought their soup.
"A shoe factory. I suppose that sounds pretty dull to >i you.
"Oh, no. I love shoes. They're my worst extravagance," she said pleasantly. "What kind do you make? Fashionable ones, or the serviceable kind?"
"Mainly fashion shoes, but we also make children's shoes and some specialist lines such as ballet slippers and certain types of sports footwear. If you're really interested, I'll take you round the factory some time."
"Yes, I am. I should love to see it," she said sincerely. "I've never had any English shoes. The ones I'm wearing are Belgian."
"Yes, I thought they were. The Belgians are first-class craftsmen and they can sell much more cheaply than we can," he told her.
"Did you want to take over the factory, or did you have to?" she asked.
"Fortunately I wanted to," he said. "It's Neal who dislikes it. He works in our design section, but he fancies himself as a serious artist and doesn't take kindly to commercialising his talents."
"Must he?" she asked.
"He isn't forced to stay with us, but he's not prepared to rough it while he makes his name," Charles said drily. "He's been spoilt a good deal by his mother and thinks he should have a directorship to support him while he turns out a masterpiece. However, I expect he'll tell you his troubles himself. He has a weakness for attractive women."
"While you, no doubt, are proof against the most alluring creatures," Joanna remarked sweetly.
Charles eyed her sardonically. "Experience tends to reduce one's susceptibility," he agreed coolly.
Joanna waited for the steward to whisk away their soup plates and serve the roast meat. Then she said, "Have you had a great deal of experience?"
"Enough to know most of the devices by which your sex gain their ends," he said negligently.
"Really? I should have thought you'd have been too busy with business matters to make a study of us."
"I allow a certain amount of time for the lighter side of life," he said carelessly. "You'll find that Englishmen don't take women as seriously as the French do."
"No, so I've heard," Joanna said drily. "You're more interested in horses or football, I believe. No doubt that's why my mother ran off with an artist."
By the time they had finished their meal, it had begun to drizzle, so she was obliged to accompany Charles to the lounge.
"What will you have to drink?" he asked. "Gin and something?"
"I'd like a tomato juice, please, if they have it."
His lips quirked. "Oh, come now, you don't have to restrict yourself to that extent. A gin and orange is quite permissible at your age."
"Possibly, but I never drink spirits. They spoil one's skin and I can't afford to risk losing any of my assets," she said crisply.
It was raining fairly heavily when they arrived at the hotel in Dover where Charles proposed to spend the night. Waiting while he signed the register, Joanna felt tired and chilled and very much an alien.
"I wonder if I could have a meal in my room? I'd like to go to bed as soon as possible," she said, as porters carried their luggage into the lift.
"Certainly. Do whatever you wish," he said coolly. "We don't need to start out too early tomorrow. Will breakfast at eight-thirty suit you?"
Joanna nodded. She had a sudden wild impulse to rush down to the docks and catch the ferry back to Calais. But of course it was much too late to change her mind now.
Her bedroom was on the first floor and, as the lift purred to a halt, Charles said, "I'll see you at breakfast, then. If there's anything you need, just phone down to the desk. The service is pretty good here."
"Yes, I will. Thank you. Goodnight," she said quietly.
His eyes were cold, and she fancied there was a flicker of derision in them, as if he guessed her cowardice and despised her for it.
"Goodnight," he said curtly, and a moment later, the gates had closed and she was alone with her porter.
The bedroom to which he led her was comfortably appointed and agreeably warm. Spotless nylon glass-curtains shut out the dismal skyscape, and the sound of the wind was muted by the thick panes.
"Oh — I haven't any English money," Joanna exclaimed, in confusion, when the porter had set her cases on the chrome luggage rack and was hovering discreetely beside her. "I live in France, you see, and I haven't changed my francs yet."
"That's quite all right miss," he said pleasantly. "Pretty rough in the Channel today, I should think. Never mina, the forecast says sun for tomorrow."
"Oh… good." Joanna was surprised. A French porter, even in a luxury hotel, would have looked very disdainful when no tip was forthcoming.
He put her room key on the locker and left her alone. For several moments after he had gone, Joanna stood where she was, taking in her surroundings. The dark blue carpet was at least an inch deep, and there was an opulent leather- bound blotter and racks of good quality azure stationery on the walnut writing-desk. Even the waste-paper basket was an expensive-looking blue brocaded affair. But even these luxury touches could not alter the fact that the room was totally impersonal and made her feel more adrift.
However, the door between the wardrobe and the window led to a private bathroom, and after a warm shower and a brisk rubdown she felt less dispirited. In lemon pyjamas and a matching quilted housecoat, she rang down to the desk and asked for a light supper to be sent up.
She was brushing her hair and listening to the scatter of rain on the windows, when there was a light tap at the door. Thinking it was a waiter with her tray, she laid down her brush and hurried to open it. But't was Charles who stood n the corridor.
"I'm sorry if I disturbed you. I thought you would still be up," he apologized.
"I am. I'm waiting for my supper. Come in," she said, standing back.
He shook his head. "I only came to tell you that I've just put through a call to your grandmother."
"You told her you'd found me? What did she say?"
He looked at her with an expression she could not read. "She wants to speak to you."
"Now?"
"Yes. I've written down the number. It doesn't take long to get through." He handed her a slip of paper.
Joanna took it, her throat suddenly dry. "All right. I'll do it at once," she said unsteadily. "Do — do you want to listen to what I say?"
"I hardly think that will be necessary," he said. And turning, he walked away down the corridor and disappeared round a corner.
As she waited for the exchange to get the connection, Joanna found that her hands were trembling. At last, after a seemingly interminable interval, she heard the operator say, "Your number is ringing, caller."
Almost at once the distant receiver was lifted and, as clearly as if they were in adjoining rooms, she heard a voice say, "Joanna? Is that you, Joanna?"
"Yes, Mrs. Carlyon. It's Joanna speaking," she said huskily.
"Oh, my dearest child—————-" The voice quavered suddenly and broke off. There was an audible sniff and then, more steadily, the voice said. "Forgive me, my dear. So stupid of me to cry when I am so very happy. When Charles told me the news just now, I — I could hardly believe it."
Joanna swallowed. "I'm afraid it must have been a shock for you," she said in a low voice.
"Yes, it was, my dear. But such a very delightful one. You see, I was so afraid that, if we did find you, you wouldn't want to have anything to do with us. It would have been natural for you to feel full of hatred and resentment. But Charles tells me that you agreed to come at once. I'm so glad that you don't hate us, my poot child."
"No, of course I don't," Joanna said gently. "I only hope you won't be disappointed in me."
"I know we shall never be that," the voice said softly. "We're all looking forward to tomorrow. But there, I mustn't keep you chatting. Charles tells me you're very tired and are going to bed early. Sleep well, my dear, and, believe me, we welcome you most warmly. Goodnight, dear."
"Goodnight… Grandmother."
Joanna heard the click of the
receiver being put back on the rest and quietly replaced her own. For a moment she sat very still on the edge of the bed, her lips quivering. And then, as the first slow tears began to course down her cheeks, she buried her face in her hands and wept for all the loneliness and pain of her long exile.
* * *
Charles was already seated at a table by the window when Joanna entered the hotel dining-room next morning. She had slept very well in the circumstances, and had been woken by a call from the porter's desk. Refreshed and full of new confidence, she had put on a navy linen suit over a white voile blouse. The suit had a short pleated skirt and a collarless hip-band jacket with a single huge pearl button at the neck. It was very simple and youthful — but also extremely chic. So there were interested glances as she followed the head waiter between the tables.
Charles had been reading a newspaper, but he rose as soon as he saw her and tossed the paper on to a spare chair.
"Would you care to try an English breakfast, or will you stick to rolls and coffee?" he asked, as she sat down.
"Oh, 'when in Rome . . I think," Joanna said, smiling.
"Does your self-discipline include a rigid diet?" he asked, when she had chosen grapefruit in preference to cereal or porridge.
"No. Fortunately I can eat as much as I like. Please — do go on reading your paper. I know it's the custom among Englishmen."
"And what is the custom in France?" he enquired drily. "Surely that excessive gallantry has some limits?"
"I don't know. I usually have breakfast alone," Joanna said lightly. "Oh—" remembering her difficulty with the porter the night before — "I wonder if you could let me have some English money. I have only francs and I couldn't tip the porter last night."
"Certainly. I should have remembered." He took some pound notes out of his wallet and a handful of silver from his pocket and put it by her plate.
Joanna thanked him and put it in her bag. As she looked up, she caught a baleful stare from a stout matron at a near-by table.
"Something funny?" Charles asked.
Joanna concentrated on her grapefruit, trying not to laugh.
"Only that you've outraged our neighbor," she said quietly. "She obviously thinks I'm a shady character. I hope she won't complain to the management."
