Family and Friends

by Emma Page

  In the distance he heard the soothing domestic sounds of a woman moving about a kitchen, preparing tea. A feeling of peace washed over his mind; he turned the pages idly, skimming the reports of meetings, football matches, golden weddings, half-registering the faces, known and unknown, conventionally gay or averted in shyness.

  He stopped abruptly at one face looking straight out at him with an expression of direct enquiry. His mouth opened in a swift intake of breath; at the back of his neck he felt the hairs bristle with shock. He closed his eyes for a moment against that uncompromising glance; in the pit of his stomach the muscles twisted in apprehension. The years dropped away in a single flash, around him the air seemed humid with tropic heat, alive with the calls of exotic birds. He let out a long shuddering breath.

  Turner! Captain Turner! He opened his eyes and forced his attention back to the page. Here in Milbourne, an appointment in British Foods, transferred on promotion from the London headquarters. All at once his mind threw up an image of a tall, heavily-built man pausing to glance at a shop window on the afternoon of the funeral, the face altered and matured, but the gait, the movement of the shoulders, familiar to him, touching some old, deep knowledge. So it had been Turner, sprung out of the war days, materialized here on a winter pavement, walking the Milbourne streets, likely to be encountered in the turn of a road, a halt at a crossing.

  He got to his feet, the newspaper slid to the floor. He must go, must get out of this suffocating room into cold bright air under a soaring sky. He took a couple of steps towards the door and felt vitality begin to return to him. He seized the door-knob and heard from the kitchen the sound of the tea-trolley being wheeled into the passage.

  Linda glanced up in surprise as he suddenly appeared on the threshold.

  ‘I can’t stay,’ he said abruptly. ‘I have to go.’ He became conscious of her puzzled eyes. ‘I’m afraid—’ he raised a hand in a vague gesture. No explanation presented itself to his searching brain. ‘The time–I’d no idea—’ He wheeled about, strode swiftly down the passage, reached the front door and was gone.

  For a couple of moments Linda remained where she was, motionless with astonishment. ‘Well!’ she said at last on a note of blank incomprehension. She resumed her journey, pushing the trolley into the sitting room. She sank down on to the sofa, still trying to work it out, to arrive at some answer.

  The newspaper obtruded itself on her baffled gaze; she stooped automatically and picked it up, folded the sheets, frowning down at them as if they might offer a solution.

  Last Monday’s evening paper, he had been looking at it then. The account of Emily’s accident perhaps? A face looked briefly up at her as her eyes slid over the columns, an unknown face with a level, almost accusing glance. But it meant nothing to her, her gaze flicked past it, she continued to skim the pages.

  Then she raised her shoulders and abandoned the matter. If Arnold chose to behave in that unceremonious fashion–she turned to the trolley and selected a little sponge cake decorated with pale pink icing; might as well have something to eat. She lifted the teapot and then paused, throwing back her head and laughing aloud. It seemed as if Arnold Pierson was destined to be forever offered cups of tea in her house and forever fated never to drink them.

  When Owen Yorke phoned an hour or two later she was hard at work in the shuttered shop, checking old stock in the crowded storeroom, doing her best to hold at bay the long tedium of the evening.

  ‘Dinner?’ she echoed with pleasure at his invitation, ‘I’d be delighted! What time will you be calling for me?’

  Sarah came down the stairs on her way to the kitchen. She threw a brief glance at Arnold who was standing by the hall table, talking into the phone; his face wore a closed and weary look. Zena’s at her games again, Sarah thought irritably, I suppose she fancies enough time has elapsed since the funeral to allow her to resume her puppet-play.

  ‘So many things I would like the opportunity to talk over with you,’ Zena said lightly into the receiver.

  ‘I wasn’t proposing to give myself the pleasure of talking anything over with you.’ Arnold’s free hand clenched itself into a fist. ‘Ever again.’

  ‘Your bravery at the time of poor Emily’s accident,’ Zena said as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘I should like to congratulate you on that. Not that one would expect anything but gallantry from a man with your war record.’ Her voice took on a gay and intimate note. ‘And there’s the matter of an old acquaintance of ours. Come to live in Milbourne after all these years.’ She rather thought he knew nothing of Turner’s re-appearance, she waited for him to frame a question. When he said nothing she added, ‘Your old captain, Maurice Turner.’ She listened intently for an exclamation of dismay, for an intake of breath, but there was only silence. ‘I’m so looking forward to seeing him again,’ she said in a lively tone. ‘So much to chat about. I’m sure he’d be pleased to have news of you.’

  Without a word Arnold replaced the receiver on its rest. A single insistent thought began to beat against the edges of his mind . . . as long as Zena lives there will never be an end to inhibiting fear . . . there will never be freedom or the possibility of joy as long as she remains alive . . .

  CHAPTER 11

  In the spacious and ornately-gilded room at the Milbourne Assembly Hall, brilliant with light from crystal chandeliers, pulsing with music from the finest dance-band in the county, the Presidential Ball of the Independents’ was in full swing.

  Owen Yorke was standing near the buffet, half-listening to the slightly heated exchange taking place between the two men beside him, Dr Gethin and Detective-Inspector Venn, both long-established members of the Independents’ who knew each other so well and had had so many professional dealings over the years that a little set-to here and there could have no effect on their mutual regard. Some minor trouble now over a parking-ticket that had been slapped on Gethin’s car by an over-zealous warden new to the job.

  Owen let their conversation slip past his ears; his gaze travelled over the dancing couples, the leaders of Milbourne society and their decked-out ladies, and came to rest on his own reflection held out to him by a glittering mirror opposite. A fine figure in full evening dress, resplendent in the royal blue presidential sash; he could scarcely prevent himself from flashing a look of delighted recognition, exuberant congratulation at the successful citizen confronting him.

  He turned his head a fraction and saw the back view of his wife as she leaned over the buffet table to indicate a particular delicacy to her brother who was obediently spearing appetizing morsels on to a large plate at her command. Owen felt the fierce glow of his mood begin to waver and slacken at the sight of those ample curves only partly restrained by a shimmering gown of amethyst-coloured wild silk that had been specially made for her in his own workrooms. A little sigh escaped from his lips; he pivoted himself round a little and returned his attention to the men at his side.

  ‘Don’t give it another thought,’ Venn was saying with his customary air of wary affability. A tricky path to tread, official watch-dog, fellow clubman, professional colleague; and all directed by a temperament naturally inclined to easy-going goodwill and an instinct to avoid rather than seek for trouble. Many a time in his earlier years Venn would wake in the cheerless night and ask himself if he had chosen the right career; now he had abandoned that pointless question, comforting himself instead with the prospect of approaching retirement. One good thing about growing older was that he had been able to stop worrying about further promotion; he had reached a position in the force where he was just about competent enough to hold his own without fear of disgrace. He had wedged himself into this final niche with thankfulness, determined to remain there until the releasing day brought him his pension and a suitably-engraved silver tray.

  ‘I’ll have a word with the fellow myself,’ he said to Gethin. ‘You can forget about the parking ticket. And I’ll see you’re not bothered in future.’ He had a little notebook at home in which he now actually work
ed out from time to time the detailed count of years, months and days until the moment of liberation. Deep down in his mind he was aware that retirement would present him with another and perhaps more intractable set of problems but he always dropped a shutter over that notion, preferring to leave it in deliberate obscurity until the day when it would inexorably spring out to confront him in stark reality.

  Owen saw now with a touch of irritation that Zena was coming towards them with Neil a pace or two in the rear. She called out a gay greeting to Gethin, smiled at Venn, threw a casual glance at Owen.

  ‘You’re not going to stuff yourself with all that?’ Gethin demanded, nodding his head at her plate and then fixing Zena with an accusing eye; Zena gave him a defiant look, just sufficiently tinged with gaiety to rob it of open offence. ‘And you’ll forget your injection as well, no doubt.’ Gethin saw at once from the way her eyes jerked open that the matter had indeed totally slipped from her mind. ‘I knew it!’ he said with a kind of angry triumph. He swung round to face Owen. ‘You’ll be ringing me up in the morning, crying for help. I’ll be expected to go running here and there, picking up the pieces. Can’t you drum any sense into that wife of yours?’

  Neil gave the doctor a cold glance of reproof, then he put a hand under Zena’s elbow and steered her between the knots of revellers who closed instantly over their passage, mercifully obliterating them from view.

  Owen stood at a temporary loss, submerged in a feeling of guilt at the notion that he was somehow responsible for Zena’s self-indulgence, but at the same time resentment began to thrust its way up into his mind. He couldn’t trust himself to say something civil to Gethin so he said nothing, but Inspector Venn, who had averted his head from the little scene in uneasy embarrassment, now stepped forward and tried to press Gethin to take some food.

  ‘I don’t want anything,’ Gethin said with an unceremonious wave of his hand. ‘I’ll go to the bar and get a drink.’ He pushed his way through the throng without a backward look.

  Venn put a comradely hand on Owen’s arm. ‘Come on, he said in a friendly tone, ‘have something to eat. You don’t want to pay any attention to old Gethin. He’s getting past it, that’s his trouble, he ought to have retired years ago. His nerves aren’t up to it any more, he’s inclined to fly off the handle these days.’

  Owen felt a wave of gratitude begin to wash away his resentment. He took a plate and helped himself from one or two of the dishes, then he followed Venn to an empty table and sat down. After a few mouthfuls of food calm returned to him and he was able to make casual conversation with the inspector and two or three other men who paused beside them for a brief chat; by the time his plate was empty he was quite cheerful again. He let his eyes rove round the room and saw with a sudden smile of pleasure the pretty figure of Linda Fleming walking gracefully towards the buffet beside her partner, a member of the party Owen had arranged for her to join.

  Venn’s sharp eyes observed the alteration in Yorke’s mood; he turned his head and followed Owen’s gaze. He saw a good-looking, dark-haired young woman flash a smile at Yorke, raise her hand in a greeting that seemed to hold a note of intimacy, of secrecy, then her companion took her arm and they disappeared from sight.

  ‘Who was that?’ Venn asked in an idle tone, ‘I don’t think I know her.’

  Owen gave him a frank, bright glance. ‘Who?’ He looked briskly round at the crowded room as if he had no idea what Venn was talking about.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ the inspector said, lifting his fork and stabbing at a morsel on his plate.

  Several yards away, at the other side of the room, Zena sat at a table with her brother and his wife. She was sipping at a tall glass, her eyes never ceasing to wander round the room while at the same time she kept up an animated conversation with Ruth about the merits of the new car her sister-in-law had driven proudly home on the previous day.

  ‘I can’t say I ever cared for small cars myself. Not enough leg-room. But I dare say it will do well enough for getting you to work and for running Jane here and there.’ She sent a little needling glance at her brother. ‘I take it you’ve solved your difficulty with money then?’ She smiled gaily. ‘You’ll have to be careful, being in the housing department, people might say you’re taking bribes–or cooking the books.’ She raised her glass and took a long drink.

  ‘I don’t think that’s very funny.’ Neil gave Zena an angry look.

  ‘I don’t know that it was meant to be all that funny,’ she said serenely. ‘A man in your position, you must be aware how people talk in a place the size of Milbourne.’

  ‘Difficulty about money?’ Ruth tilted her head back and looked at Neil with a slight frown. ‘Surely it wasn’t anything serious?’ But apparently it had been serious enough for him to go running round to discuss it with Zena. ‘I thought you said—’

  ‘Whatever I said, this is hardly the time or place to discuss it.’ He drew a deep breath, relaxed his shoulders, forced himself to smile. ‘Anyway, there is no difficulty, I thought I’d made that clear.’

  ‘I’m delighted to hear it.’ Zena took another drink from her glass. ‘I imagine Ruth’s promotion has done a lot to help. Must be a load off a man’s mind to be able to count on a good income from his wife.’

  ‘Look here.’ Neil’s eyebrows came together; his voice rose. ‘You know perfectly well I’m not the kind of man—’

  ‘Oh, there’s Maurice Turner!’ Zena waved a hand. ‘He must come and join us. Oh good, he’s seen me, he’s coming over.’ She turned to Ruth. ‘How do you get on with your new boss? I suppose Neil’s told you he’s an old friend of mine?’

  ‘No, he didn’t mention it,’ Ruth said in an easy tone. She leaned forward and picked up her beaded bag; she opened it and began to search about inside it.

  ‘You must have known him in London of course,’ Zena said lightly. ‘Was he your boss there? Did you know him well?’ Neil moved his head and gave Ruth an intent look. A silence fell over the table; it seemed a tiny island in the eddying currents of talk and laughter. ‘Did you know Maurice well?’ Zena persisted.

  ‘Oh, there it is,’ Ruth said with triumph, fishing up a lipstick from her bag. ‘I thought I must have left it at home.’ She removed the gilt top, took out a powder compact, flipped it open to look into the mirror while she delicately touched up her lips. When she had finished she snapped the compact shut. ‘I’m sorry, Zena–you were saying?’

  But before Zena had time to frame her question again Turner was beside them, smiling genially down at the trio. Zena looked up at him with a lively expression.

  ‘Are you enjoying yourself? I suppose you’re meeting a lot of old friends and acquaintances.’

  ‘One or two,’ Turner said easily. ‘Can’t always recognize old faces after a number of years. People change a good deal.’ And none of them as much as Zena Yorke, he added in his mind. He had met her in the receiving line at the beginning of the evening, she had proclaimed her identity with instant friendliness. It had been as much as he could do not to betray his deep sense of shock when this total stranger revealed herself as the ravishing Zena Underwood of his bachelor days. He looked at her now with fascinated scrutiny, striving to see in that bulging figure, the fleshy contours of that over-made-up face, the lovely girl who had sat beside him in his sports car.

  ‘You know my sister-in-law of course,’ Zena said. ‘And this is her husband, my brother Neil. I don’t suppose you remember him.’

  Turner gave Ruth a formal little nod, leaned over and held out his hand to Neil. ‘I do vaguely remember that Zena had a young brother,’ he said with a smile. ‘But I don’t believe we ever met.’

  ‘No, I don’t think we did, I was still at school in those days.’ Neil’s fingers touched Turner’s in the briefest grasp, his eyes looked intently up into Turner’s face. Maurice, he thought, casting fiercely into the depths of memory, was that the name Ruth had spoken over the dinner table a year ago? M . . .M . . . ? Or had it been an R? He stood up suddenl
y and pushed back his chair. ‘If you’ll excuse us now–’ he laid a hand on Ruth’s arm–‘come and dance.’ He felt a sharp sense of humiliation at his own absurd need to establish a proprietary claim; he threw Turner a cool look. ‘I’m sure you’ll have a lot to talk about with Zena.’

  Ruth got to her feet, half glad to escape and half resentful of the peremptory way Neil had touched her arm. As she moved out on to the dance floor she saw with irritation that Anthea Gibbs was sitting a yard or two away, focusing her undisguised attention on the four of them. Anthea’s face was pale and her eyes had a watery look; as their glances met she turned away and took a handkerchief from her bag, her shoulders shook in a violent sneeze.

  Behind her Ruth could hear Zena’s friendly tones. ‘Do sit down, Maurice,’ she was saying. ‘I believe you worked with Ruth in London. Were you in the same department?’

  Ruth took Neil’s hand and drew him out into the dancing throng. Over Neil’s shoulder she caught sight of Owen circling gaily to the music with a very pretty young woman with a fine pale skin and soft hazel eyes. ‘Owen seems to be enjoying himself,’ she said lightly. ‘Who’s that he’s dancing with?’

  Neil turned his head without much interest. ‘I don’t know, I’ve never seen her before.’ Surely there was something rather strained and brittle about Ruth’s manner, she had an air of catching at any random topic as if to distract his attention from some other unwelcome subject.

  ‘She’s very good-looking,’ Ruth said with animation. And the same thought presented itself forcefully to Zena a few yards away. She broke off in the middle of saying something to Turner, she sat silently for a few moments, watching her husband, her fingers tapping the table. Turner followed her gaze.

  ‘That’s a pretty girl Owen’s partnering. I was introduced to her earlier on, I had a couple of dances with her.’