Cap Flamingo

by Violet Winspear

  Rick's car headed into Maidenhead and in a while it was pulling to a standstill in front of the house in which the Scanlans lived.

  Fern said she would make a pot of tea while Rick brought in the baggage and Bryony put her sleepy son to bed. They had dined at a restaurant only a short while before, so none of them was feeling hungry.

  "This place reeks of tobacco smoke," Bryony complained as she came running downstairs. "Have you been smoking yourself to death, Rick?"

  "Near enough," he grinned.

  Fern drank her tea, then she went up to bed, carrying the small pile of letters which had accumulated during her absence. A quick glance at each envelope left her despondent, for not one of them bore her husband's deep, slashing handwriting. She left them on the bedside cabinet while she prepared for bed, then opened one at random. It turned out to be a rambling epistle from Diana, in which she persistently suggested that Fern forget her quarrel with Ross and come on home to him. 'We're all fed up,' the letter complained. 'The other afternoon Ross and Aunt Winna were having a slanging match in the den and I heard him shout at her to mind her own business or he'd stop coming to the house. . . .'

  Fern caught her bottom lip between her teeth, depressed by the thought of that quarrel. Though Ross and his aunt often argued, he wasn't in the habit of shouting at her.

  Fern sighed, thought about leaving the remainder her letters until the morning, then suddenly recognized Edwina Kingdom's handwriting on one of the envelopes Fern drew out the sheets of notepaper and saw from the date that this letter, like Diana's, had been mailed during the time she and Bryony had been cruising about the Mediterranean.

  She began to read it. Very soon her face grew pale and drawn beneath her suntan, and when she came to the end of the letter she sat for many minutes just staring into space.

  No ... it couldn't be true!

  Yet she knew that every word contained in the letter was true. Pieces of puzzle fell into place. Words spoken by Ross took on a new significance. His painful headaches and the way he looked after he recovered from one of them were ominous confirmation of the facts his aunt had laid bare.

  Facts which she only revealed because she knew Fern's true feelings for her husband.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  "Idon't care a darn about Gladys Hammond's gossip' Edwina had written. "Ionly care about what my instincts tell me, what my eyes have seen in yours when you've looked at the boy and thought yourself unobserved. I know that if he has chosen to die, you will want to be with him.'

  A tremor of deep shock and pain vibrated through Fern. Each word in Edwina's letter danced in her brain, indelibly printed there so that she had no need to refer back to its pages.

  While attending a medical conference in San Francisco, Owen Lands had lunched with a neuro-con-sultant at one of the hospitals there. They had talked shop and without mentioning any names the consultant

  had related several interesting medical histories, one of which tallied so closely with Ross Kingdom's that finally there had been no doubt left in Dr. Lands' mind that the history was Ross's.

  The man was a journalist, the consultant said. His head injury had been received out in the Middle East and a section of shell splinter had been removed at the Atkinson Morley Hospital in England. But a second, more deeply embedded splinter required a further operation and the surgeon—Axel Wright—had felt it his duty to warn his padent that this operation could leave him a permanent invalid. If on the other hand he retained the splinter he would suffer increasing head pain and eventual collapse resulting in death. Wright's patient had chosen to retain the splinter, which he called the lesser of two evils.

  Upon his return to Cap Flamingo, Dr. Lands had told Edwina all about this conversation, which he felt certain must apply to Ross. She had tackled her nephew and was deeply shocked when he admitted everything. Yes, Axel Wright had warned him of the risks which a second operation involved, and they were risks he wasn't prepared to take.

  "I'd sooner be dead than laid out on my back for the rest of my days, or tied to a damn wheelchair like some doddering grandpa," he had said. "I just couldn't take it, nor being dished out with pitying glances from people. I won't take it!"

  Fern could hear him, and see him.

  His bronze head thrown back in fierce determination; his fine body revolting in every fibre from the thought of not being able any more to mount a spirited horse, cleave strongly the blue waters of the Pacific, or chase a laughing girl through tall grass until he caught her and kissed her dizzy . . .

  Fern hugged her knees against her chest, vaguely aware of having grown chilled. The house was very quiet, the rest of its occupants long since wrapped in the arms of slumber.

  Now she knew why Ross had refused to reopen his

  old romance with Laraine; he had not wished to tie hex to a man with so little time ahead of him. Now she knew why he had said at Monterey : "Thank you for these two weeks, my Gretel." He had needed those two weeks more than she had ever dreamed; their gaiety and solace had helped him to forget harsh reality for a while, and somehow Fern felt certain they were weeks no other woman could have given him, not even Laraine.

  Then all at once Fern sat up sharply in bed.

  There must be a fifty-fifty chance of that second operation succeeding, otherwise a surgeon of Axel Wright's skill would never have suggested it. There must be a chance ! And Ross must be persuaded to take it!

  Fern slept hardly a wink that night. She rose early and was very soon on the phone to London Airport. As luck would have it someone had cancelled a booking on the noon flight to New York and Fern eagerly accepted it. She could catch a plane at La Guardia for Los Angeles. Next she dialled the operator and asked for a person-to-person call to California; she gave Edwina Kingdom's phone number. There would be a short wait before her call came through and she decided to brew a pot of coffee. She turned from the telephone table and found her sister standing on the stairs, gazing at her with puzzled eyes.

  "You're going back to America after all ?" she asked.

  "Yes."

  Bryony came down the remaining stairs to her sister. They went into the lounge, where Fern told Bryony about the letter she had received from Ross's aunt.

  "Oh, the poor, silly boy, fancy bottling all that up inside him," Bryony exclaimed, when Fern finished speaking. "It's a wonder it hasn't driven him crazy."

  Fern nodded, then the phone rang in the hall and she hurried to answer it. She would have got Edwina out of bed and was fully prepared for a disgruntled tone of voice, but her one-time patient sounded ready and eager to talk.

  "My dear child, I've been expecting a call from you long before this," she boomed.

  "I've been away for several weeks, Miss Kingdom." Fern hurriedly explained about the cruise. "Your letter has upset me terribly."

  "I guessed it would, but I felt you had a right to hear all about that hare-brained decision of Ross's. I knew he had no intention of telling you himself."

  "Miss Kingdom, I'm flying to New York today. From there I shall catch a plane to Los Angeles. Is Ross still at the bungalow?"

  "No."

  "He's with you, then?"

  "No . . . listen, child! Just over a month ago Ross found out that I had written to you. Right away he packed a suitcase, closed up the bungalow and went off somewhere . . . lord knows where! We've been in touch with all his close friends, but none of them has seen him. We just don't know where he is, and you can just imagine the stew Jenifer is in. His publisher and his lawyer have instructions to mail all correspondence to my address, and even his doctor in San Francisco hasn't a clue to his whereabouts. I—it's a shocking worry, but what are we to do? He's a man of thirty-two and free to make his own decisions, and it seems he intends to brook no interference with his decision not to have that second operation."

  When Edwina had first said that Ross had gone off somewhere and could not be located, Fern had felt the floor heave beneath her feet. Then all at once, as though someone whispered the informa
tion in her ear, she knew where she would find him. She knew! And her elation rang in her voice when she said to his aunt:

  "Don't worry any more. I think I know where he is and I shall do my utmost to persuade him to go through with the operation."

  There was a short pause at the other end of the line, then Edwina said gently : "You love the boy very much, don't you, my dear?"

  "Yes."

  Just the one word, but it held all the heights and depths of Fern's love for the man who had never said at

  any time that he felt anything more than affection her.

  She bade Edwina goodbye, then she joined Bryony in the kitchen and made a gallant effort to do justice to the plate of bacon and eggs awaiting her. Bryony kept urging her to eat more, until a frown from Rick quietened his wife. When Fern had gone upstairs to pack a small suitcase, Bryony stacked dishes and told Rick it was all very well for him to say her sister should return to America, but it might interest him to learn that Fern was—well, she was having a baby, and all this worry wasn't good for anyone in her condition.

  "Don't be such a grandma," Rick rather mockingly replied. "Fern will worry all the more if she doesn't go to Ross. She loves the fellow, and apart from that she looks a very healthy little thing."

  "If you men knew what having a baby was like, you wouldn't talk so casually about it," Bryony retorted indignantly.

  "Oh, come here!" Rick caught his wife to him and kissed her pouting mouth. "You women are always on about the tribulations of childbirth, but you know very well it gives all of you a nice big feeling of superiority. You know you're the queen-bees while we males are the mere—"

  "Ricky Scanlan, that will be enough!" Bryony thrust a hand over his mouth as a pyjama-clad Frankie wandered into the kitchen, nuzzling his eyes with his fists and demanding orange juice.

  Fern left in a cab for the airport an hour later. Her small nephew's big, sticky kiss lingered upon her cheek, and then the cab swung round a corner and Fern could no longer see him perched on his father's shoulder, nor Bryony waving her apron like a battle pennant.

  "Goodbye, dear . . . good luck . . . we'll be thinking of you and Ross."

  The words echoed in Fern's mind. "You and Ross! You . . . ROSS!"

  The train finally wound its way out of the valley

  entrance into Monterey, and Fern gazed from the windows of the lounge-car, which had gradually emptied at the various stops since San Francisco. She saw now that those enchanting glimpses of hidden bays, old Spanish houses and clusters of palm trees were disappearing into the increasing dusk. A chain of rugged mountains stood dark and aggressive against the skyline and in a while the pace of the train began to slacken.

  They were sliding into a small station and Fern at once prepared to alight from the train. She skimmed a powder-puff across her nose and cheeks, and smiled gratefully at the negro porter who carried her suitcase to the end of the car.

  The mountains towered over the train and there was a tingling chill in the air that made Fern snuggle down into the big collar of her leopard coat as she stepped to the platform. The porter handed down her suitcase and she tipped him. He touched his cap and watched her walk towards the station-master's office, where she was knocking upon the door as the train blew its rather high-pitched whistle and chugged away into the gathering shadows.

  "Excuse me," Fern said, when the station-master's door opened and a grizzled head peered out, "but do you know of anyone who would drive me to Amijo? It's a little village about five miles from here."

  "Amijo, d'you say?" The man's eyes studied her in the light streaming out from the room behind him. "Reckon we could phone Ed Stocks. He's the local cabby."

  "I'd be awfully grateful." Fern knew the power of her smile and upon this occasion she used it unashamedly. It worked wonders, and in no time at all she was installed in a worn leather chair in the station-master's office while he rattled a party-line phone and arranged for the local cabman to come and pick her up in about fifteen minutes. She was then provided with a cup of rather strong coffee, which helped to soothe her nerves a little, for they were beginning to jump.

  "You got someone in Amijo you're visiting, ma'am?"

  her companion asked. "I reckon it's a bit of an out-the-way place for you to be going to otherwise. Ain't got but a few adobe cottages and no sort of hotel like you'd be used to."

  "They're very attractive cottages," Fern said, remembering them upon a certain afternoon in September, dreaming golden under a blue sky against backcloth of torch cypresses and towering pines. One of them had been up for sale and Ross suddenly suggested they take a look inside. So they borrowed the keys off the owner, who ran the local hotel, and enjoyed an exploration of the quaint little place.

  Ross called it a doll's house. He had been boyishly delighted with the sloping ceilings of the two bedrooms, the long room downstairs that ran right through to the garden. Fern had thought he would buy the cottage, he liked it so much, then he had shrugged his shoulders and re-locked the front door. . . .

  There her thoughts broke off, for Ed Stocks' cab was suddenly pulling into the station-yard.

  It was getting on for nine o'clock when the cab dropped her off in Amijo. Not a soul was about. It was like a ghost village as Fern made her way along the narrow, cobbled lane that led to the cottage where she was hoping to find her husband.

  Her heart was thumping in her chest. Suddenly she felt rather exhausted, which wasn't surprising, for she had been consistently travelling since she had left England. There had been her flight to New York, a rather bumpy one owing to bad weather conditions. Then another to San Francisco, and finally that long train journey into Monterey.

  She shifted her suitcase to her left hand and nervously wondered if she had made a mistake. If she had come all this way only to find the cottage was still locked and up for sale . . . but as she approached it she saw curtains at the windows of that long sitting-room . . . lights beyond the curtains. She entered the porchway, then found herself unable to press the doorbell for several moments. She could only rest against the wall and fight

  for composure. A stranger might yet open the door, and the thought was unbearable when she longed in every fibre to see Ross again, to hear him speak. At last she summoned up her courage and pressed the bell. Its peal was loud and demanding . . . and she felt so very humble, so nervous and fragile. The door opened.

  Fern stood face to face with her husband, and the incredulity of his expression was such that she had to smile, though very shakily.

  "Yes, it's me," she said. "M-may I come in?"

  "Of course." He stood back and she walked past him into the cottage. Her throat was tightly constricted. She had known in her heart that he wouldn't be pleased to see her, but, dear God, how it hurt that he wasn't!

  She walked into his sitting-room. Logs roared in the cobble-stone fireplace and she drowned for a moment in the aroma and smoke of his cheroots.

  "Why did you come, Fern?" he said behind her. "Why couldn't you leave well alone?"

  She put down her suitcase and turned to look at him. His face was so thin, so shadowed, tearing her heart with pain. "Oh, Ross," she exclaimed, "why didn't you tell me how ill you really were? I had a right to know."

  "You had no rights," he harshly argued.

  She flinched as though he had struck her. She wore his wedding ring, carried his child, and it was unfair of him to say such a thing to her.

  "I'm your wife, Ross."

  "My dear girl, our marriage was a farce from start to finish. We were just two people who got involved in a scandalous situation, so we took the polite way out. Such a marriage gave neither of us any rights."

  He closed the sitting-room door behind him, then carelessly invited her to remove her coat.

  "I must say you tracked me down very neatly," he drawled. "Would you like a cup of coffee, or maybe a drink?"

  "I-I'll have a sherry, please."

  She was trembling, and after she had taken off her

  coa
t she knelt in front of the fire and extended her hands to the cheery blaze. When Ross handed her drink down to her, their eyes met. "I suppose I owe this unexpected visit to Aunt Winna's letter?" he said. She nodded.

  "It was damned officious of her to write to you. She knew I didn't want you dragging back here to America to join in a hopeless fight to get me to change my mind about that operation. I came here because I thought I'd be safe from well-meaning crusaders. It didn't occur to me that you'd remember this place."

  "Of course I remembered it." She spoke into her drink. "I remember every moment of our marriage."

  She heard him move sharply, as though with impatience. Then he said : "It's all over, you know. I stipulated right at the start of our marriage that it would only last a few months. I—I'm sorry I didn't keep quite to the bargain we made, but our holiday together at Jenny's lodge was a lighthearted affair that you'll soon forget."

  She knelt there for a long moment like a small figure carved in stone, staring into the fire. Then a shudder ran through her from head to foot and the next moment she was a huddled, weeping heap on the rug, a slim, silver-haired, broken figure at "the slippered feet of her husband.

  Ross had borne much in the weeks they had been apart, but this he couldn't bear.

  A deep groan escaped him and there was no more harshness in his face as he knelt and gathered Fern into his arms. "My lovely girl, my baby," he whispered brokenly, "you mustn't cry like this. Sweetheart, you'll hurt yourself." He rocked her against his heart in an agony of distress, feeling the sobs that racked her. He stroked her soft hair and her tears were on both their faces.

  When her storm of weeping finally began to subside, he gently wiped her eyes with a big handkerchief. "I'm a brute," he said.

  She shook her head. "I—I understand how you feel. I'm butting in and you're naturally resentful."