Anne Weale - Until We Met

by Anne Weale

  "Just for that you can have the pleasure of crawling out of bed at half-past five to make up Bunter's early bottle," Margaret retorted crisply, but with a wink at Joanna.

  "You see?" Dick said dolefully. "She's hen-pecking me already. In another few years I'll be completely downtrodden."

  Joanna smiled at their banter, but with a curious inner pang. It was very clear that several years of marriage and the stress of coping with their first child had not yet dulled their feeling for each other. They could afford to mock their happiness because, even if there was an element of truth in their raillery, they had something which was proof against every hazard. How safe Margaret must feel, she thought rather wistfully.

  "Youre looking very serious, Joanna," Charles said suddenly, catching her out in the middle of this thought.

  "She's begun to have doubts about the certainty of wedded bliss," suggested Dick.

  Joanna laughed, but her cheeks were faintly flushed. "Of course not!" she said quickly. "I—I was envying you a little."

  Both Dick and Margaret gave a shout of laughter, but Charles's eyes narrowed and Joanna wished she had not made the admission. He probably thought she was overplaying her role and despised her for the insincerity.

  "You wait till you've seen how we live. You'll probably wonder we survive at all," Margaret prophesied cheerfully.

  At this point they were joined by Vanessa, who exchanged a few words with the Drurys before saying, "Charles, could you spare a moment? Mother would like a word with you."

  "Of course. Will you excuse me?" Slipping a hand under Vanessas elbow, he followed her out of the room.

  Both Margaret and Dick watched them leave.

  "Vanessa looks very nice tonight," Dick said, after a moment.

  "Yes, doesn't she?" A man would have accepted Margarets agreement, but Joanna knew at once that his wife did not like her cousin.

  After supper the party showed a marked devision. The older guests congregated in the morning-room to talk, while the younger visitors returned to the drawing-room where Neal had put a jazzier selection of records on the radiogram. Joanna danced with Dick Drury and then with a red-haired boy who probably wanted to jive but wasn't sure of her reaction. His deferential manner made Joanna feel that she ought to be in the morning-room with the parents and grandparents.

  About eleven o'clock there was another break for refreshments and someone began to strum on the piano, picking ou the latest "pop" song.

  "How about providing an impromptu cabaret, Joanna?" Neal suggested, suddenly appearing beside her. "Andrew's a first-rate pianist. Just name the tune and he'll play it for you."

  "Oh no — I couldn't!" Joanna said swiftly, shaking her head.

  But several people had overheard the suggestion and her refusal was drowned in a chorus of approval. "Jolly good idea!"

  "Come on, Miss Allen."

  "What's the latest hit in Paris?"

  Joanna bit her lip, furious with Neal for proposing it, and gripped by an unreasonable alarm at the thought of being forced into the limelight.

  "No, really, I don't think…" she began uncertainly.

  "Now don't pretend you're shy," Neal said, grinning.

  And before she could protest more vigorously, he had seized her hand and was leading her towards the piano.

  Realizing that, short of being markedly ungracious, there was no way out of the situation, Joanna stood, inwardly fuming, while he rapped on the lid of the piano to attract attention.

  "Ladies and gentlemen—a surprise! As you may know, our cousin Joanna is the star of a top French cabaret, and she's going to sing for us tonight."

  A murmur of interest and a patter of polite applause followed the announcement. Joanna, her mind suddenly blank, tried desperately to think of a suitable song.

  There was now an expectant silence and she was dreadfully conscious that at any moment the people in the morning-room would notice the sudden hush and come to investigate.

  "How about 'La Vie En Rose?'" the boy at the piano murmured helpfully, evidently sensing her confusion.

  Grateful for any lead, since all she could think of was a French nursery jingle, Joanna nodded and hoped that she could remember the lyric. Someone presumably Neal — had switched out all but one of the lights, and as she forced herself to relax, she was wretchedly certain that her aunt was going to be furious about this development.

  It was a measure of comfort to find that the boy named Andrew was indeed a very good pianist, and as he played an introduction, Joanna got a grip on herself and ignored the battery of eyes upon her. The song had long passed its peak of popularity, but it had a pretty lilting melody and she sang it in Franch, very softly and simply. If they expected the standardized gyrations of a third-rate torch singer, they would be disappointed.

  At the end there was a burst of clapping. Joanna bowed, smiled her thanks to Andrew, and stepped quickly away from the piano. But on all sides people were urging her to sing something else, and a moment later, the youngsters nearest the piano began to make room for their hostess and elders to join them. With sinking spirits, Joanna saw Charles shepherding her grandmother towards her.

  "Oh, do sing again, my dear," Mrs. Carlyon said delightedly. "We only realized what was happening a few moments ago, so we missed most of that pretty French song."

  Joanna looked briefly at Charles and saw a faintly ironical gleam in his eyes. He was probably enjoying her discomfiture, she thought furiously. Just behind him, her aunt was forcing a thin smile, but her nostrils were taut with annoyance.

  Something about that false smile set Joanna's temper simmering. There were times when her father's impetuous blood ran hot and fast in her — and this was one of them! Why should she worry so much about what these people thought of her? With the exception of her grandmother, and perhaps Cathy and Neal, none of them meant a thing to her. So why fall over backwards to make a good impression ?

  Turning to Andrew, she said, "If I try something new, can you follow me in?"

  "I'll try."

  "Fine!" She faced her audience. "It's a little difficult without music, but we'll do our best," she said, smiling.

  "This song is a new one and it hasn't crossed the Channel yet, so I'm afraid I'll have to sing in French again."

  The song was really a completely innocuous ballad about spring-time and youthful romance — but no one without a good command of French would have guessed this. Deliberately, Joanna sang it in a manner calculated to give quite another impression. Lounging indolently against the piano, her eyelids drooping, she purred her way through the lyric in what was actually a flagrant parody of the most synthetic type of chanteuse. Had Gustave Hugo been present, he would have roared with laughter.

  Perhaps, if she had not glanced at Mrs. Durrant again, Joanna might not have carried the burlesque as far as she did. But the sight of her aunt looking so acutely distasteful only spurred her on. Launching into the second verse, she noticed a jolly-looking old man who was sitting not far from the piano, and perched herself on his knee. Fortunately he was as jocular as he looked, and seemed rather pleased to have been singled out. At any rate, he chuckled delightedly while she sang to him, and gave her an enthusiastic squeeze round the waist before she moved away.

  Avoiding Neal, who would obviously have been delighted to co-operate, Joanna saw Vanessa and Charles on the other side of the room. Vanessa was looking as appalled as her mother, but Charles seemed rather amused. This was unexpected and, perverse as it might be, Joanna felt disappointed. She knew he had too much control to show open displeasure, but she had certainly hoped to kindle a retaliatory glint. Perhaps he'd show some reaction if she brought him into the act.

  There was a bowl of roses on top of the piano. She snapped off a bud and, still vamping outrageously, swayed over Charles. With a provocative smile, she brushed the flower lightly down his cheek, then slipped the stem through his buttonhole.

  Someone—probably Neal—gave a shout of laughter, and there was a stifled giggle fr
om one of the girls. But Charles didn't bat an eyelid. What he did do was to catch hold of Joanna's wrist as she was about to withdraw her hand, and although it probably looked the lightest of clasps to the onlookers, his fingers were actually as steely as a manacle.

  For an instant, Joanna was tempted to call his bluff and pull away. But as if he read the thought, he increased the pressure of his thumb inside her wrist. Furious, but determined not to show it, she was obliged to finish the song with her hand still captive. And it wasn't easy to look up into his face and croon words of love when she felt like kicking his shins.

  At last the song was over, and there was another burst of applause. Whether or not it had been recognized as such, the burlesque had gone down very well.

  "Having fun?" Charles murmured, in an undertone, as he released her wrist to join in the clapping.

  Joanna stepped back to the piano, bowed, thanked Andrew for his accompaniment, and firmly declined to give an encore.

  By midnight, most of the older guests had left and Monica Durrant had escorted her mother to bed. However, Mrs. Carlyon had left instructions that the younger people were to go on dancing as long as they liked, and it was after one before the party began to break up.

  "Like a breather?" Neal asked, when his sister had gone into the hall to see off the last couple.

  Joanna nodded. Charles was talking to Cathy, who had been allowed to stay up so late as an end-of-term celebration. Joanna hoped that by going outside with Neal she could avoid another encounter with him.

  "Enjoy yourself?" her cousin asked, as they strolled across the lawn.

  She nodded. But she hadn't enjoyed it at all, and now that it was over, she felt oddly tired and overstrung. The first faint prick of a headache was beginning to tighten her temples.

  Neal tucked her hand through his arm. "You certainly made a hit with the Brigadier. The poor old boy probably hasn't had his arm round a pretty girl since the Boer War," he said, chuckling. "I wished you had picked on me instead of Charles," he added, squeezing her arm against his side.

  "It was entirely your fault that I had to sing in the first place," Joanna said, yawning.

  "You didn't really mind, did you? You can't possibly be shy if you do it for a living."

  "I'm supposed to be on holiday at the moment."

  "Well, I wouldn't have landed you in for it if I'd thought you were genuinely reluctant," he said anxiously. "But it did give the party no end of a lift, you know. People will be talking about it for weeks."

  "That I don't doubt," Joanna said drily.

  "Oh, look here — you aren't in a fret because Ma didn't care for it, are you? That's just silly. I aclnut she looked pretty frosty — and Van was obviously livid when you latched on to Charles — but why worry about them? Gran was tickled pink, and so was everyone else."

  "Don't you like your mother, Neal?" Joanna asked curiously.

  "Not much," he admitted bluntly.

  "But that's dreadful. It's… it's unnatural!" she protested.

  "I don't see why," he said carelessly. "Just because someone's your parent, it doesn't follow that you're bound to hit if off with them. If married couples can get on each other's nerves — and they chose to live together, remember — why not parents and offspring? Frankly, Ma maddens me. She makes such a fetish of appearances — doing and saying the right thing, conforming to what is or isn't 'done'."

  "But you must have some affection for her."

  "No, I haven't," he said flatly. "Cathy is the only one I've cared about since Dad died. Van's too like Ma."

  Joanna was horrified. Even though she had no liking for Mrs. Durrant herself, it seemed terrible for Neal to lack any fondness for her. She had read somewhere that although, in a normal family, affection was fairly equal between all the members, there was always a special bond between sons and mothers and fathers and daughters.

  "Tell me about your father," she said gently.

  "Dad? Oh, he was first-rate," Neal answered swiftly. "I suppose that's why I can't stick Ma," he added, with a shrug. "She pretty well finished him off."

  "What on earth do you mean by that?"

  "That's what it amounted to," Neal went on coldly. "She didn't swipe him with the coal shovel — nothing so vulgarly emotional. She just nagged him to death, which is a hell of a lot worse, if you ask me. Lord knows why she married him. He wasn't really up to her precious standards. Maybe he was the only chap who asked her. Anyway, once they were hitched, she started moulding him. You know what they say about every successful man having a woman behind him — well, that was Ma's idea. The trouble was that Dad's wasn't cut out for her kind of success. He did his best, but it was never quite good enough. So first he got ulcers and, finally, coronary thrombosis." His voice was suddenly husky, and he cleared his throat. "I don't know why I'm boring you with all this," he said, more lightly. "I didn't bring you out here to brood!"

  Joanna thought it wise to follow the cue. "Why did you bring me out?" she asked, with a smile. Poor Neal, she thought inwardly. It was obvious that he had adored his father and, if Mrs. Durrant's insistent ambitions had been a contributory factor in her husband's death, it was no wonder that her son felt bitter and disillusioned.

  They had passed out of the shelter of the thick yew hedge that bordered one side of the lawn, and a breeze rustled the leaves of the beech tree.

  "I say, you must be cold. Slip this on," Neal said concernedly. And before she could object, he had stripped off his dinner jacket and draped it round her shoulders.

  "What about you ?" she protested. "That dress shirt is no warmer than my frock."

  "Ah, but I'm a rugged male," he answered, grinning.

  There was the sound of a car starting up at the front of the house.

  "That must be Charles going off. I wonder if Van has managed to bring him up to scratch?" Neal speculated. "I have an idea that she and Ma were expecting tonight to be the night."

  Joanna didn't comment. "We'd better go in and get some sleep," she suggested, turning back towards the house.

  The lights in the drawing-room had been switched off and this side of the house was in darkness. But there was enough moonlight for them to see their way.

  "Hope Van hasn't locked the french doors or we shall have to scale the ivy," Neal remarked. But as they neared the terrace they could see that the doors were still wide open.

  At the foot of the terrace steps, Neal caught her hand and made her stop short.

  "What is it?" she whispered, lowering her tone because Mrs. Carlyon's bedroom was above the drawing-room and normal voices might carry on the quiet night air and disturb her.

  Neal moved closer and slid an arm round her waist. "Look, just because we're not a very united family, I don't want you to think I'm completely cold-blooded," he murmured. "The best parties usually wind up with a little dalliance, you know."

  Joanna stifled a laugh. "Oh, Neal — you're hopeless! Why didn't you dally with that pretty little blonde in white? She looked as if she'd welcome it."

  "Because I'd rather dally with you." His arm tightened, his other hand tipping up her chin.

  Afterwards, Joanna wasn't sure whether she would have let him kiss her or not. It would have been comforting to have been held close for a moment or two, and she knew Neal wasn't serious. Like herself, he wanted a little affection.

  As it happened, the decision was taken out of her hands by the sudden flare of a lighter from a shadowed corner of the terrace. In the few seconds that the flame stayed alight, they became aware that a man was sitting in one of the garden chairs.

  Neal muttered something under his breath. Aloud, he said casually,

  "Oh, hello, Charles. I thought everyone had gone."

  "So it would appear," Charles replied shortly. He got up from his seat ana came forward into the moonlight.

  "Where's Vanessa?" Neal asked.

  "She went to bed."

  There was a pause. "Well… I suppose we'd better hit the hay too," Neal said, at length. "Is the f
ront door locked? Are you leaving this way?"

  "That's right. But there's no need for you to wait. Joanna can bolt the windows when she comes up. I want a word with her," Charles explained, without expression.

  "Oh… oh, I see." Neal obviously didn't see, but was not inclined to query the arrangement. "Well… goodnight, Joanna," he said lamely.

  A second later he had dissappeared into the house, and she was alone with Charles.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  FOR several moments after Neal had left them, neither of them moved or spoke. Absurdly, Joanna found that she was trembling with apprehension.

  Suddenly, realizing that she was still wearing Neal's coat, she started up die terrace steps. "Neal's forgotten his jacket," she said hurriedly.

  Charles stepped directly in front of her. "He won't need it in bed," he said mildly. "Let's go inside. It's chilly now, and Grandmother's windows are open."

  Joanna hesitated. She wasn't sure whether it was better to stay outside where she couldn't see the expression on his face, or to go in and have lamplight revealing too much of her reactions. But it was getting cold in the open, so she moved ahead of him into the darkness of the drawing- room.

  Charles drew the glass-paned doors together, lit one lamp and tipped ash in a glass tray.

  "Would you like a nightcap?" he asked.

  Joanna shook her head. "Look, I'm really rather sleepy. Can't this wait till the morning?" she said edgily.

  Charles gave her a quizzical look. "You are getting adjusted quickly. In Paris, the night would still be young."

  "We aren't in Paris."

  "Do you wish we were?" he enquired, pouring himself a small whisky from a cut glass decanter.