“Well, everyone here believes it.” Anne found her head was still pounding with the music, or was it that second glass of wine? “And besides, what does it matter?”
“Matter? My good woman, it is not true! You cannot print something that is incorrect.”
“I wish you would stop calling me your good woman,” she said crossly. “And lots of people perform plays that are founded on much flimsier evidence.”
“But you are deliberately misleading the public.”
Anne sought for a response. “Nonsense” sounded far too tame. She thought about her fifth-years. What would they say?
“Bollocks.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I mean, that’s rubbish. It’s only a little carnival.”
“That does not alter the principle. It is not true.”
“Who says so?” she challenged him. “Where are your records to prove it was built by someone else?”
With a sigh of exasperation, he ran one hand through his hair. “But your premise is based on nothing more than a legend.”
“Yes, and people love legends! Look at Robin Hood, or King Arthur. You don’t see people trying to stop stories about them.” She walked over to the wall of the church, placing her hands on the stone, still warm from the sun. “Look. This is St. John’s. It is a beautiful church, we need money to restore it, and we’re trying to raise it. Is that such a bad thing?”
He came to stand beside her, looking up at the building. “But it isn’t a Templar church.”
“It could have been, once.”
“You can’t prove that.”
“And you can’t disprove it.” She stared at him, her eyes challenging.
Professor Duggan shook his head. “You are the most obstinate woman I have ever met!”
“Then you can’t have met many!”
To her surprise, he laughed. “True. Too many years stuck in the university library.” He turned and took a few steps along the path, hands buried deep in his pockets. “I’m sorry if I’ve spoiled your evening. I hope your husband won’t get the wrong idea.”
“That needn’t worry you. I’m a widow.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry.”
The simple apology shook her. She said gruffly, “That’s okay. You weren’t to know.”
“True, but—look, I really have tried to phone you—”
“Oh, I believe you.” Her anger was cooling. In fact she felt quite light-headed. She sank down on the bench at the side of the path. “And don’t worry about the dance. To be honest, I’m glad of this respite.”
He came back to sit beside her, throwing back his head to gaze up at the sky. Anne watched him. Straight nose, smooth chin-line. A boyish profile, yet he must be somewhere around fifty…
He turned his head and caught her glance. “So when are you at home?”
“Pardon?”
“This is clearly not the time to pursue the argument over the origin of St. John’s.”
“You won’t persuade me to retract. The committee is right behind me. We’re going ahead with this pageant.”
“So you prefer childish storybook lies to the truth.”
“Not at all. Besides,” she added triumphantly, “you can’t prove it’s not true, can you? Can you?”
“If I find proof, will you stop this silly charade?”
“No. Although I will happily incorporate it into the guidebook I’m writing about the church,” she said kindly. “After the pageant.” She thought he might explode at that, and smiled to herself.
“Even though I will expose you to the press?”
She laughed. “Oh, I don’t think that will worry us. We need all the publicity we can get!”
“You are playing a dangerous game, Mrs. Lindsay.”
She laughed again. The night air was making her reckless. “Dangerous, my eye! A little academic tussle!”
“Academic—!” He twisted round on the bench, one arm lying along the back of the seat. The lighted windows of the village hall reflected on his glasses and she could not see his eyes. “You think you can cross swords with me?”
“Don’t be so fanciful. I mean I will not be browbeaten by you, Professor, when you can no more prove your case than I can prove mine.”
He stood up. “Very well, we shall see just who has the last laugh. Don’t think you’ve heard the last of me.”
“Oh, I hope not,” she murmured, watching him stride away. “I’ll prove you wrong, Professor Tobias Duggan.”
She stretched luxuriously, gazing up at the moon. The encounter had left her feeling unusually happy, her nerve endings tingling with the pleasure of being alive. What had she done? She threw back her head even further until the roof of the church was within her view, the ancient lead gleaming in the moonlight.
“Well, Hugh of Moreton, looks like it’s me and the County Library against the learned might of Flixton University.”
Chapter Twelve
Deborah was enjoying herself. Andy was an attentive partner, and when at one point she caught Josh’s gaze, her smile was so natural, so full of infectious happiness, that he grinned back at her over Kylie’s bobbing blond head. After another energetic number, Andy led her away in search of refreshment. She accepted a glass of lager and they moved to one side.
“Why are you staring at me?” Andy took a long drink from his bottle.
“Was I?” Deborah shook her head. “Sorry. Just wondering why you were dancing with me and not any of the others.”
His answer surprised her. “Because I feel safe with you.”
“Oh?”
His slow smile dawned. “Haven’t you guessed?”
“Guessed what?”
He shook his head. “Never mind. Josh said you’re carrying a torch for some guy, so I thought you’d be the safest bet.”
“Thanks!”
“Sorry. Have I offended you?”
“No, not really. So are you staying for the weekend?”
“Yeah. We heard old Josh was settling here for a bit and decided to pay him a visit. See what he’s up to.”
“Pity it’s not in a couple of weeks’ time. He’s taking part in our pageant.”
Andy grinned at her. “Is he now? Then we might come back then too. So what’s with you and Josh?”
“Nothing.”
“You sounded a bit uptight with him just now.”
“When Kylie dragged him off? When she’s on the warpath it’s easier to just get out of the way. But I have to say I’m surprised he’s here at all, if Demelza wouldn’t come.”
“Who?”
“Demelza. The girl he lives with. He said she didn’t like parties. Do you know her?”
“Do I—? Yeah. I know her.” He gave her his slow grin. “Jealous?”
“Me? Of course not!” Her laugh sounded false even to her own ears.
There was a break in the music and Josh came up to them. “God, it’s hot in here. Where did you get the drinks?”
“Over at the bar.” Andy held out his bottle. “Have some of mine.”
Something in his attitude caught Deborah’s attention and she watched them closely. Andy gave her a wry grin. “I need the gents.” As he passed Deborah, he said softly, “Even a queen can look at a cat, love.” He moved away, strolling off the dance floor and ignoring the hungry looks of the other girls searching for partners.
“Isn’t he going to dance with anyone else?”
“I doubt it.” Josh pulled her into his arms as the slow rock number started. “He’ll go and find Steve. They’re an item. On and off, but mostly on.” He saw her frown. “Yeah. They’re gay. Does it matter?”
“No-o. I think I suspected Andy was. Only—” she sighed, “—he’s so damned attractive.”
He laughed at that. “That’s the way it goes.”
He pulled her closer and she allowed herself to enjoy the rhythm. Idly she glanced around. Anne Lindsay had disappeared, Yvonne was still hovering around the disco, while Tim Gresham was standing morosely at the bar, watching
the dancers. She noted with mild surprise that Kylie was now dancing with Spike. As the music ended, the blond wrapped herself around her partner and began to devour him in the middle of the dance floor.
Following her look, Josh grinned. “Looks like there’ll be one less body kipping on my floor tonight.”
“You mean, Kylie and Spike—”
“Very likely.” He laughed. “Shocked? Little innocent! It goes on, you know, even in Moreton-by-Fleetwater.”
Of course it did. Deborah flushed. He must think her so stupid. It was the sort of remark Bernard made constantly, the insinuation that she knew nothing. She wished she had found the courage to argue, to fight back, but although she despised her silence, she could never bring herself to answer him.
And now Josh was saying the same thing. Perhaps all men were like that. She broke away from Josh and stalked off the floor, suddenly wanting to go home.
“Hey, where are you going?” Josh followed her out of the hall.
“I’m hot, and I’m tired.” Just leave me alone! she wanted to shout at him.
Perhaps she should have refused the lager. It was definitely having an effect. She hesitated. The black shape of the church loomed in front of her, across the river. She could hide away from everyone in the churchyard, but the black shadows made her nervous. She turned towards the green.
“Deborah!” Josh came running after her. “Hey, what’ve I said?”
She marched on, while he fell into step beside her. Well, just what had he done? Accused her of being innocent. As Bernard had done. She had liked it at first, thought it a term of endearment, but she’d learned that he despised her for her naïve country ways, and thought he could have her as his housekeeper while he was out shagging every other girl in town! Her anger flared. Deep in her heart she knew she was being unreasonable, that it wasn’t really aimed at Josh, but he was there, and she had an overwhelming need to be angry with someone.
“You and your friends, coming here and sneering at our quaint country ways!”
“But we’re not!”
“Thinking you’re so much better than us!”
“Debs, you’ve got this all wrong.”
They crossed the green and walked the length of the High Street and still Deborah’s pace didn’t slacken. Josh made no attempt to stop her, merely matching her steps. They crossed the Eastgate Bridge, the river glinting in the moonlight.
“Debs, listen to me. Really—we came tonight just to help out the numbers. I brought the lads along so they could see the village and meet some of my friends—and I’ve made a few since I’ve been here.”
“Yeah, like Kylie!” She strode across the street towards the Yew Tree.
“Deborah, don’t be stupid. She’s a kid.”
They reached the restaurant. Deborah stopped. “That didn’t stop you making up to her, did it?”
“Look, I’m no saint, and if the kid wants to flirt on the dance floor, that’s okay with me.”
“Oh, I bet it is. And how many more girls have you got around town while poor Demelza sits at home waiting for you?”
“Dem—!” Josh stared at her, then he put back his head and laughed. “Oh, Deborah, you treasure!”
She stared at him, but before she could demand to know what he meant, the big outer door of the restaurant opened and her father looked out.
“Ah, there you are, Deborah.” He stepped outside, looking strangely ill at ease. “You’ve got a visitor waiting for you.” He stood aside as a figure in a sharply cut pale suit followed him on to the forecourt.
“Bernard!”
Chapter Thirteen
“Hello, Deborah.”
She swallowed hard and stared at the young man in front of her. His fair hair glinted in the light from the doorway, and his blue eyes swept past her to rest enquiringly on her companion.
“This—this is Josh. He—he was kind enough to walk me home.”
“How quaint.” Bernard murmured the words so quietly only Deborah heard them, but he gave Josh a quick smile and a nod of acknowledgement. Deborah watched as Bernard summed up Josh in one quick look, decided he was unworthy of any more attention and turned back to her. He moved forward to kiss her but Deborah turned her head, taking his lips on her cheek.
“Well, well.” Stan Kemerton hovered anxiously, uncomfortable outside his kitchen fastness. “Shall we go in?”
Deborah tried to think clearly, but her brain seemed to have turned to porridge. She looked round at Josh standing behind her, but he shook his head and stepped back. “Thanks, but I’ve an early start in the morning. I’d better get back.”
“Oh. Okay.” Her anger towards him had gone. She didn’t want him to leave like this but she couldn’t find the right words for the situation—and Bernard was waiting for her at the door. Silently Josh turned and walked away, and she was left to follow her father into the little restaurant.
“Everything’s ready for the morning, so we can go to the upstairs sitting room. You two go ahead—I’ll just lock up.”
At the door Deborah paused. “Where’s Mum?”
“She’s gone on to bed, love.”
“Oh. I’ll just call in and say good-night to her.” She snatched at the excuse, unwilling to be alone with Bernard. She crept into her parents’ bedroom but her mother was already asleep, propped up on her plump pillows, her pink cheeks and pale skin almost doll-like in the dim glow of the night-light. She sat down beside the bed. Her heart swelled with love for the woman lying in the bed, remembering all the good times they had shared, but since the heart attack her mother had lost a lot of her sparkle. She tired easily and could no longer help in running the busy restaurant.
I did the right thing, coming home.
Deborah waited as long as she dared, but eventually she had to go to the sitting room. Bernard was there alone and Deborah thought wryly that her father was deliberately keeping out of the way, giving them time alone together. She was surprised to find how little she wanted to be alone with Bernard.
He didn’t get up when she came in. “So what’s all this about, Debs? You’ve been here for over a month now. Don’t you think I’ve been punished enough?”
“I’m not punishing you.”
“Oh, come on. You didn’t like it because I showed some other girl a bit of attention—”
“You were sleeping with her!”
He shrugged. “Okay, so I got carried away. But it’s over, as you’d know if you’d answered my phone calls. There’s no need to carry on with this.”
She gripped the back of a chair. He’d lied to her so often, she knew that if she returned, it would happen again, and again, but the temptation to believe him was so great she had to dig her fingers into the chair cushion to stop herself from giving in. She said slowly, “You don’t understand. I’m not coming back.”
He gave her the boyish grin that used to make her heart flip. Oddly enough it had no effect this time. He merely looked smug.
“You’re not serious. Look, I’ve spoken to the other partners. Your job’s still open if you want it.”
“No, thank you.”
“Come on, Debs, you know you’re a damned good facilities manager, you’re not going to waste your life serving fry-ups in a café!”
“Not forever, perhaps, but for now it suits me fine.”
Stan Kemerton’s footsteps could be heard on the stairs, and the older man coughed loudly before he entered. “Well, here we are then. Now, how about a cup of tea?”
“No thanks, Dad. I think I’ll go to bed.” She glanced at Bernard. “I suppose you’ll have to stay the night—has Dad made up the bed for you in the spare room?” Her father looked so embarrassed she almost laughed out loud. “Don’t worry. It won’t take me a minute.”
When she returned, the two men were discussing football over a glass of whisky—more accurately, her father was speculating about the start of the new season. Bernard merely looked bored.
“Bed’s made,” she said brightly. “You’ll show
Bernard the way, won’t you, Dad? I’ll see you both in the morning.”
Deborah lay awake in her bed, listening to every creak in the old house. She wondered if Bernard would come to her room and didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved when he didn’t show up. She knew she had been right to leave him, but she wasn’t sure how hard she would fight if he attempted to make love to her. She missed his company, his physical presence in her bed, the feel of his hands running over her body. She shifted uncomfortably and rolled over, casting around in her mind for a distraction. It came in the image of Josh, pinning her to the wall with her bicycle and kissing her gently. Another wave of desire made her shudder.
“Oh, stop it!” She thumped her pillow. “You’re turning into a nymphomaniac, Deborah Kemerton!”
She left her room the next morning tired and heavy-eyed. Bernard was enjoying a hearty breakfast and she went off to make herself useful in the kitchen rather than sit alone with him. She didn’t want to face his arguments, which always made her feel uncomfortable and guilty, as if she was in the wrong. She wished she could be strong enough to tell him to get lost, and to tell him with conviction. That was her problem, Deborah admitted. Whenever they’d disagreed about anything, Bernard had talked her round in the past, and now he didn’t believe she was serious.
“Deborah, Bernard is going now, dear.” Her mother walked into the kitchen, leaning heavily on her stick. “You’d better see him off. He thinks you’ve been avoiding him.”
“I have, Mum,” she muttered, but she dutifully wiped her hands and went out to the car with Bernard.
“You could come back with me now, if you wanted to.” He threw his overnight case into the back of his sporty little hatchback.
“I told you, I’m not coming back.”
He turned to look at her. She felt the familiar anxiety—what would he find to criticise, was her skirt too short, her jumper the wrong colour—and gave herself a mental shake. What was she worrying for? It didn’t matter anymore what he thought of her.
“You’re getting quite forceful, Debs. I’m impressed.”
Was that admiration in his look? She frowned. “I’m not trying to impress you.”
Casting Samson Page 10
