A Family Concern

by Anthea Fraser

  ‘Now, Little Sister, what exactly is going on?’

  Freya shot her a startled glance, then smiled. ‘That’s what you called me when you were married to Lewis.’

  ‘It’s how I still think of you. But you haven’t answered my question. You managed to stall me when I phoned, but you’re not getting away with it this time. Something’s not right, Freya. You look like a ghost.’

  Freya sighed. ‘I suppose you heard of my dramatic collapse,’ she said resignedly. ‘I certainly chose a public enough place for it.’

  ‘But what brought it on?’

  Freya looked at the worried brown eyes, the soft, curly fringe, the wide mouth. She’d always felt closer to Sophie than to Kate, who, Freya suspected, was rapidly losing patience with her.

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘If you really want to know, I’ll tell you.’

  And she went through the sequence of events: the first dreams, their increasing frequency and explicitness, the tune in the musical box.

  ‘So Kate asked a friend of hers to look into it,’ she finished. ‘She’s a journalist or something. Anyway, she was going to see Nanny Gray yesterday. I haven’t heard how she got on, but I doubt if she’d have much luck. Nanny would never speak of that time; she couldn’t forgive Mummy for going off and leaving us.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’d want a journalist nosing through such private things.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, but Kate says Rona’s not like that, and she seemed very nice when I met her.’

  ‘You never actually see these people in your dream?’

  ‘People?’ Freya repeated sharply.

  ‘Well, there must be more than one, if you heard voices.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right. I’ve always just thought of the man, the one who was whistling and later sobbing.’

  ‘Was the other voice a man’s or a woman’s?’

  Freya shuddered. ‘I don’t know. As I said, there’s a blank in the middle, like a radio being switched off.’

  ‘Radio rather than television? You don’t see anything?’

  ‘Not that I remember.’ She forced a smile. ‘Poor Matthew’s having a terrible time. I’m quite sure he never expected this, when he asked me to move in with him!’

  ‘Can you remember your mother?’ Sophie asked curiously.

  ‘I have one or two mental pictures of her, but mostly I rely on photos in the old albums.’

  ‘Lewis said your father kept her framed portraits out for a year or more, hoping she’d come back, till Jan persuaded him to put them away.’

  Freya’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Poor Daddy. Thanks to me, the whole thing’s being raked up again.’

  ‘I heard she led him quite a dance, even before she left.’

  To Freya’s relief, their meal arrived, interrupting their train of thought, and when the waiter moved away, she started another topic of conversation. Sophie was content to follow it. She’d learned what she’d wanted to, but there seemed little she could do to help.

  Yet again, Max awaited Adele’s arrival at class with apprehension. He’d never known Wednesdays to come round so quickly, he thought grimly. The whole thing was getting ridiculous; she’d made it clear her bruises were not a subject for discussion, and had twice thwarted his attempts to help her. On the other hand, she’d seemed to imply that she’d like to meet now and then to discuss her depression, which was another kettle of fish entirely. He could just imagine Rona’s reaction to that. It was probably time to make a discreet withdrawal, revert to a purely tutor–student relationship – which, if he’d had any sense, he would have stuck to in the first place.

  She didn’t come. Nor did she phone, and she was usually punctilious about letting him know if she had to miss a class. Was this non-appearance a result of their meeting on Monday? Max tried to anchor his thoughts on the rest of his students, moving among them admiring, correcting, suggesting. What the hell was she playing at? he wondered impatiently. And then, before he could stop the thought, suppose she’s been badly hurt this time? Should he phone to check? She’d ‘fallen’ down the stairs once before; suppose she was now lying unconscious at the foot of them?

  He changed his mind about ringing her half a dozen times during the class, but when they’d all left, he made straight for the phone. It rang for a very long time before her voice said faintly, ‘Hello?’

  ‘Adele, are you all right? Why didn’t you come to the class?’

  ‘Max! I hoped you’d call.’ A little life came back into her voice.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he repeated, a little less urgently.

  ‘Yes, of course. It was just that everything seemed too much of an effort today, so after I’d taken the children to school, I went back to bed.’

  He frowned. ‘You’ve not been there all day?’

  ‘No, no. I got up about eleven, but I hadn’t the energy to go into town. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You usually let me know,’ he said accusingly.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you’d be worrying about me.’

  This was leading back to the bruises, and he’d decided not to go there again. ‘As long as nothing’s wrong,’ he said lamely. ‘See you next week, then.’

  ‘If not before,’ she said.

  Dorothy Fairfax took the express lift up to her apartment. She felt one of her headaches coming on, and intended to lie down for a while before changing for the evening.

  The top floor of the hotel was the private domain of the family, and contained a small suite of rooms for Dorothy and a larger one for Stephen and Ruth. Though there was provision for the two boys, both now lived elsewhere, Gerald round the corner in Dean’s Crescent North, and Chris, since his marriage, on a new estate up Alban Road. Chris and Sophie had, however, retained possession of his former rooms to relax in when off duty or between shifts, an advantage of which Gerald never availed himself. Admittedly his hours were more erratic and his home a mere two minutes’ walk away, but for odd breaks he retreated only as far as a small room off the kitchen. Dorothy sighed. He was a solitary and private young man who preferred to keep to himself, and she worried about him.

  If only, she thought, turning down her bed, he could find himself a nice girl and settle down. Not, of course, that it was always the fairy-tale ending. She sighed; love, or the lack of it, caused so many problems. Dear Henry had had a wandering eye in his younger days, causing her much heartache, and even Stephen and Ruth had gone through a difficult patch – though how anyone could fall out with Ruth was more than she could fathom. Then there’d been Christopher, hankering after Sophie and having that deplorable affair with the waitress. La Ronde de l’amour, she thought whimsically.

  She slipped out of her blouse and skirt and reached for her kimono, feeling some of her tension dissolve as its silken folds caressed her body. A couple of aspirins, she told herself, going to the bathroom medicine cabinet, and an hour or so’s complete rest, and she’d be fine for the evening ahead.

  But when she lay down and closed her eyes, another set of worries swarmed into her head, chief of which being the unpleasant fact that there appeared to be a thief on the premises. First, one of the guests had mislaid an expensive scarf, and then today, another reported the loss of a gold fountain pen which had, he swore, been on his bedside table. If neither object reappeared in the next day or so, Stephen would have to contact the police. Dorothy intended to tell him so over dinner. Ruth had already seen to it that the staff were being closely watched; the fact remained that fellow guests were unlikely to go into each other’s bedrooms – which were, in any case, accessible only with a key card.

  Mentally, Dorothy ran through the staff who would have the opportunity to steal. She’d known most of them for years, and could not believe they’d succumb to temptation. At the Clarendon, there was no excuse for theft; the staff were well paid, and encouraged to go either to Ruth or Mrs Bailey, the housekeeper, if they had any problems, financial or otherwise. There had always been a family atmosphere at the hotel.


  Gradually, the circling anxieties began to fade, disintegrating into a misty blur, and she drifted into sleep.

  ‘I had lunch with Freya Tarlton today,’ Sophie remarked later that evening, as the family sat at dinner. It was their practice to eat in the restaurant when the last of the guests had gone, relaxing after the day’s duties. It was the one time Gerald was able – or chose – to join them, and Dorothy always looked forward to it.

  ‘Has she got over that upset?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘Not really. She’s been having disturbed nights, and they’re trying to find the cause.’

  ‘She should try sleeping pills,’ Stephen said. ‘This is an interesting sauce, Gerald. What are its components?’

  Gerald looked up, his eyes anxious. ‘Basically redcurrant and red wine, as you’d expect, but I put a touch of ginger in, to give it a lift.’

  ‘It’s delicious, darling,’ Ruth said, and Stephen nodded approval.

  Dorothy noted her grandson’s flush of pleasure. If only Stephen wouldn’t be so hard on the boy, she thought. He blossoms when he’s given a little praise, and goodness knows, he deserves it. Gerald’s cooking was the reason the restaurant was nearly always fully booked.

  Chris said, ‘I don’t agree about the sleeping pills, Dad. She’s too young to get into that habit.’

  Stephen shrugged. ‘If she has trouble getting off, it would see her over the problem.’

  ‘It’s not that she can’t get to sleep,’ Sophie told them. ‘She keeps having nightmares.’

  ‘Shouldn’t eat cheese before bed,’ suggested Chris with a grin.

  ‘You may laugh, but they were serious enough in the past for her to be taken to a psychiatrist.’

  ‘Overreaction, wouldn’t you say?’ Stephen commented.

  Sophie gave up. ‘You’re an unsympathetic lot, but I was sorry for her. She looked really washed out.’

  ‘The dreams will pass, dear,’ Dorothy said comfortingly. ‘These things run their course, and then they’re done.’

  But Sophie, remembering the fear in Freya’s voice when she spoke of them, was not so sure.

  Friday afternoon, and Max, up in his studio, was engaged in transforming his sketches and photographs into a water-colour of Guild Street, en fête with its Christmas lights. He’d decided when embarking on the calendar that rather than maintaining a uniform style he would use different mediums and methods as each subject suggested. Guild Street he was executing in an Impressionist manner – lights fragmenting on the pavements – and he was hoping to experiment with cubism in a woodland scene for April. It would be a challenge, but he looked forward to trying his hand. If it came off, it could be very effective.

  The sound of the doorbell clarioned through the house, and he swore under his breath. Having just begun his colour-wash, he certainly did not want interruptions. With bad grace, and determined to dispatch whoever it was as soon as possible, he clattered down the stairs and went to open the door, staring in total disbelief at Adele smiling on the step.

  ‘Hello, Max,’ she said. ‘May I come in?’

  Annoyance, surprise and common politeness battled for supremacy. ‘It’s not very convenient at the moment, Adele. I’m just in the middle of—’

  ‘I won’t stay long, I promise, but I need to see you.’

  ‘You could have seen me on Wednesday,’ he said shortly.

  ‘I did explain about that.’

  Not, as he remembered it, very satisfactorily.

  ‘Please,’ she said again, as he still hesitated, and with a sigh, he stood to one side to let her in.

  ‘It’s just that I’m feeling down, and need someone to talk to,’ she said, making her way, uninvited, into the sitting room.

  ‘How about your husband?’ he asked bluntly, and she flushed.

  ‘He’s at work.’

  ‘So am I, and I—’

  ‘Please, Max, don’t be cross with me. For one thing, I wanted to apologize about Wednesday.’

  ‘You’ve already done that.’

  She looked down at her twisting hands. ‘Could I possibly have a cup of tea?’

  ‘Adele,’ he exclaimed in exasperation, ‘my colour-wash is drying as we speak. If I don’t get back to it at once, I’ll have to start all over again.’

  ‘Just a quick one? Please? I always feel so much better after talking to you.’

  ‘I don’t do counselling, you know,’ he said ungraciously, but he turned and reluctantly made his way to the kitchen, aware that she was following him. If she intended to make a habit of dropping in, he thought, he’d have to nip it in the bud straight away. The scent she was wearing filled his nostrils, warm and heady, and he was aware of discomfort. God, how could he get rid of her?

  He purposely kept his back to her while he made the tea, and when he turned to put the mugs on the table, saw that she’d taken off her coat. So much for a brief stay. She didn’t, he thought resentfully, look particularly depressed. In fact, her face was flushed and her eyes, before she lowered them, had been bright and sparkling. All in all, the young woman in front of him bore surprisingly little resemblance to the cowed and pale creature he was used to seeing.

  ‘Sugar?’ he asked abruptly.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  With bad grace, he set a packet on the table, and watched as she spooned some into her mug.

  She glanced up at him under her lashes. ‘Aren’t you going to sit down?’

  He shook his head. ‘I really must get back to work, or the whole canvas will need redoing.’

  She hung her head. ‘I’ve spoiled everything. I always do.’

  Perhaps, he thought guiltily, her untroubled appearance was her public face, masking the bleakness she felt inside. Come to think of it, how could she help feeling bleak, when her husband abused her?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he lied gently, ‘that wasn’t what I meant.’

  ‘I came,’ she said in a low voice, still not looking at him, ‘because when you phoned, I thought you were worried about me.’

  ‘I was. But you don’t seem to want me to help you.’

  ‘Of course I do, but not in that way. I – thought you cared about me.’

  ‘What I care about is your welfare. You refuse to discuss—’

  She jumped up, and he thought for a moment she was going to run away, as she had twice before. But to his stupefaction she came swiftly towards him and, reaching up, put her arms round his neck and pulled his face down to hers. Before he could collect himself and move back, her pointed little tongue had darted into his mouth, and as her small body pressed against his, an agonizing shaft of desire, as unexpected as it was unwelcome, shot through him.

  Furious and obscurely ashamed, he caught hold of her arms and tore them away – possibly adding to her bruises in the process – and they stood staring at each other, both of them struggling for breath.

  He was the first to find his voice. ‘For God’s sake, Adele!’ he said forcefully. ‘No!’

  ‘Admit it, Max!’ she panted, her fingers reaching for the buttons of his shirt. ‘You do care about me, you know you do! Make love to me! No one will know! I want you so much, and I know you want me. You always have – that’s why I came.’

  He pulled her fingers away, shaking his head violently. ‘You’ve got it all wrong. I was worried about you, yes, because of the bruises on your arms—’

  ‘You were fooling yourself – admit it! You’ve been fighting against it, and I have too, till I suddenly thought, “What’s the point?” After all, you don’t live properly with your wife, do you? And this place is ideal; we could meet here regularly, and as nobody would know, we’d be hurting no one.’

  ‘Listen to me, Adele! You’re wrong – quite wrong. I love my wife, and I’ve never thought of you in that way, I swear it. I was concerned about your welfare, that’s all.’

  She searched his face for a minute, then the fire seemed to go out of her, and in an instant she was again the pale, defeated little mouse who had first aroused
his protective instincts. More fool him, he thought bitterly. Rona had been right all along.

  ‘You’re rejecting me, then?’ she whispered.

  ‘I’m simply putting you straight. This need never be referred to again. Now, go home like a good girl; it’ll soon be time to collect the children.’

  The great, swimming eyes came up briefly to meet his. Then she turned, shrugged quickly into her coat, and hurried out of the room and, a minute later, the house. Max put his hands flat on the kitchen table and leaned on them, staring down at the surface, aware that his heart was still thumping and that sweat was coursing down his body. My God! he thought, and then again, My God!

  He straightened, more shaken than he cared to admit, went to the sink, and sluiced cold water over his face. Adele! he thought wonderingly; fragile, timid Adele! Who would have thought it?

  One thing was for sure, he told himself, towelling his face dry. This was very definitely something he wouldn’t be telling Rona.

  Eleven

  That afternoon, Barnie phoned to approve the last two articles on parent searches, one of them Coralie’s.

  ‘So that brings the series to an end,’ he concluded. ‘Well done, I think they’ve come over well, and they’ve been sufficiently different to hold the readers’ interest.’

  ‘Fine; if there are no queries, I can return the photos and papers I borrowed.’

  ‘Still thinking of doing something on long-term businesses?’

  ‘I’m bearing it in mind, certainly, but I’m a bit sidetracked at the moment.’

  ‘Useful copy?’

  She smiled. ‘Sorry, no. Not for publication.’

  ‘Pity! Well, remember I’m always ready to hear your ideas. In the meantime, I believe we’re seeing you and Max on the seventeenth?’

  ‘Yes, we’re looking forward to it.’

  Coralie had mentioned that she worked at an estate agent’s in Windsor Way, and, anxious to clear her desk, Rona decided to return the envelope and albums to her there. She’d no wish to drive out to Shellswick again, and it would constitute a good walk for Gus as well as herself.