Mine for a Day

by Mary Burchell

  But, aware though she was of the dangers, Leila never really hesitated.

  To her relief, Aunt Hester seemed by now to have recovered a good deal of her usual forceful capability and air of independence. She was genuinely sorry to see her niece go. But the prime reason for Leila s presence had, after all, ceased to exist, and—though Aunt Hester had momentarily leant on her almost pathetically in the first shock of discovery—she was not one to require the permanent support of someone else.

  “I’m truly sorry it all ended so badly, Leila. But of course it doesn’t hit you as hard as it hits us”—she sighed—“and I hope you’ll just look on it as a nice holiday anyway.”

  “It’s been a wonderful holiday in many ways, Auntie,” Leila said, and meant it. For had she not met Simon on this visit?

  Characteristically, Aunt Hester saw to it that her niece had an excellent lunch before Peter drove her down to catch the two-thirty train, and she said good-bye to her with real affection and regret.

  Simon had come to make his good-byes earlier in the day. Of necessity it had been a distressing and slightly embarrassing occasion, so that no one had had time to notice if Leila’s leave-taking of him had been slightly self-conscious.

  “Don’t forget that you change at Barham Junction,” Peter said to her, as he handed her case into the train. “You won’t have long to wait, and the London train comes in at the same platform, so it will be quite a simple change. Otherwise I’d have driven you through.”

  “On, it’s perfectly all right. I can manage easily,” Leila assured him.

  Then the whistle blew, and she waved good-bye.

  On the short journey to Barham Junction she had time to wonder in what circumstances she and Simon would meet—whether she would have to wait for him or whether she should go out of the station in search of him—for they had not had an opportunity of settling the final details.

  She need not have worried. He was waiting on the platform for her. And when he saw her his face lit up with a smile of welcome which did strange things to Leila’s heart.

  He took her case and said: “I have the car outside.”

  And she was so happy to be walking along the platform beside him that she hardly noticed when someone called: “Hello, Leila. Leaving us?”

  Then she remembered that she was not particularly anxious to be seen with Simon, in the circumstances, and she turned her head quickly to see Miss Parker, the organist of All Saints’ Church in Durominster, looking after her with interest.

  Miss Parker should, according to original arrangements, have been wafting Simon and Rosemary down the aisle, to the strains of the “Wedding March” more or less at this time, and she opened her eyes rather wide when she saw Leila’s companion. But they were too far past for Leila to do anything but smile and nod in answer to Miss Parker’s query.

  Simon had not even noticed the encounter, After that one welcoming smile for Leila, he seemed almost grimly intent on seeing to it that they accomplished their journey in the shortest space of time.

  He installed Leila in his car and put her case in the back. And Leila supposed that even the least imaginative of men would have found that moment trying. Simon was not, she felt sure, unimaginative, and he could hardly escape the reflection that it was his bride whom he should have been handing into the car, and her honeymoon suitcase which he should have been stowing in the back.

  The knowledge of this made her feel depressed and self-conscious, and for a while they drove in silence. Then she roused herself at any rate to a mood of conventional sociability, and asked if they had a very long drive in front of them.

  Leila could not help thinking that Rosemary might have spared time for a two-hour journey to see Simon’s mother before now. But, the next moment, she reminded herself that it was perhaps just as well that Rosemary had shown so little interest in his family.

  All the same, her complicated role loomed before her now in rather frightening urgency and nearness, and her voice was faintly nervous as she said:

  “You had better tell me a little about your family, Simon. About as much as your wi—as Rosemary might reasonably know.”

  “Yes, of course.” If he noticed her quick flush over the sudden impossibility of describing herself as his wife, he showed no sign of having done so. “There are only my mother and Frances to take into our calculations. My father died about five years ago. As you will have gathered, my mother—means a lot to me. Frances and I don’t get on very well together.”

  “I see,” Leila said, when the silence which succeeded this seemed to indicate that he thought he had given her sufficient information. “Do they approve of me—Rosemary—well, I mean, your choice of wife?”

  “Approve?” He appeared to find that a peculiar and rather amusing choice of word, because he smiled faintly. “Oh, yes—of course. At least, my mother approves of anything which makes for my happiness.” Then he added, rather shortly: It isn’t necessary for Frances either to approve or disapprove of anything I do.”

  It was later than they had expected when they came to the charming house, on the very edge of the Surrey hills, where Simon’s mother lived. During the last half-hour, Leila had been struggling with a bad attack of nerves, but when they actually came in sight of the scene where she was to play out the part assigned to her, she felt herself grow calm.

  As she got out of the car—stiff after the long drive—she gathered only the most general impression of the house and its surroundings. Someone had opened the door land stood there now, a little shadowy to Leila, because she had had the sun in her eyes for the last ten minutes.

  It was as though she stepped out of the car on to a stage. And the illusion of dramatic unreality was heightened, not dispelled, by the fact that as they came forward together Simon put his arm round her, and said to whoever was standing there:

  “Hello, Frances. This is my wife.”

  CHAPTER III

  “COME in,” Simon’s sister said. “You must be tired after your journey.” And she took both Leila’s hands and kissed her.

  Somehow, after what Simon had said about not getting on with his sister, Leila had expected a very different welcome. Something cool and critical. Something which might even strike a note of enmity from the start.

  But there was nothing of that in Frances’s manner. And her voice—which was curiously like Simon’s, if one made allowances for the difference in sex—sounded quite friendly.

  Keeping one of Leila’s hands in hers, she led the way into a long, pleasant room, with windows at both ends. And, now that her eyes had accustomed themselves to the more subdued light of indoors, Leila saw that Frances, like her brother, was tall and dark. There the likeness ended, however, for, while the outstanding characteristic in Simon’s case was latent strength, Frances looked rather delicate.

  She had evidently been allowing herself a quick, comprehensive inspection of Leila, in her turn, because she said at this point:

  “You aren’t at all as I expected you to be. Somehow, I’d gathered the impression that you were dark. I even thought Simon said you were.”

  “Men never seem to know the difference between medium fairness and a real brunette, do they?” Leila said with a smile. “I expect Simon described me as having brown hair. You might have allowed me the benefit of the doubt, darling, and called me dark blonde,” she added. And she looked straight at Simon as she called him “darling,” for, after all, if they were to do this thing at all, they must do it well.

  He looked very slightly startled, which caused her a certain amount of amused annoyance. What did he expect her to do? Behave as though she were Miss Leila Lorne, cousin of Miss Rosemary Lorne, who ought to have married him and hadn’t?

  Unless she were much mistaken, Frances would be the first to notice any inconsistency of that kind.

  No doubt Simon thought of that too, because he recovered himself in a moment, smiled at Leila with an affectionate air of indulgence that made her catch her breath, and said:

/>   “I don’t remember ever trying to describe you. I shouldn’t consider myself capable of doing you justice.”

  “A very neat recovery,” Leila told him, giving an admirable presentation of a happy bride teasing her new husband. And then she turned back to Frances, and asked with real concern: “How is your mother?”

  “Much the same as when Simon left. She’s tremendously looking forward to seeing you. Would you like to come up to her right away?”

  “Yes, please.” Leila’s voice was firm and confident, for she did, she realized in that moment, want very much to see Simon’s mother.

  “Is that Simon and Rosemary?”

  It gave Leila the strangest sensation to be actually named in her new identity for the first time. But it was she who answered, without hesitation:

  “Yes. May we come in?”

  And it was she, she was surprised to remember afterwards, who went first into the room, ahead of Simon and Frances, and crossed to the charming, bright-eyed woman who was lying propped up in bed.

  “Dear child! How glad I am to see you.” Mrs. Morley looked up at her with an eager, friendly curiosity which had something almost childlike about it. And again without hesitation, and as though the role came to her quite naturally, Leila bent and kissed her.

  “Oh, Simon”—Mrs. Morley turned her head to receive his kiss too—“how pretty she is! Take off your hat, dear, and sit there, on the side of the bed, where I can look at you.”

  Smiling, Leila complied.

  “I’ve just been telling her that she isn’t at all as I expected her to be,” Frances said.

  “No. She isn’t as I expected either,” Simon’s mother murmured consideringly. “I didn’t expect you to be so accessible, dear.”

  Leila was on the very point of assuring them that Rosemary was at least as accessible as herself when fortunately Mrs. Morley went on:

  “Some people can be completely charming and gay and informal, but somehow you never really reach them. Or else there is nothing in them to reach, perhaps,” she added reflectively.

  “Don’t be uncharitable. It isn’t becoming in an invalid,” Simon told her, sitting down at the other side of the bed, and smiling fondly at her.

  “I’m not an invalid!” His mother rejected the description with energy. “As soon as this wretched operation is over, I shall be as hefty as any of you.”

  They all agreed, with the emphasis and haste of the unconvinced, and Leila sensed the tragic impermanence of the happy family scene. It was necessary to say something quickly, to prevent them all following a forbidden line of thought, and so she asked, almost at random:

  “Is your doctor satisfied with things up to the present?”

  “Yes. So far as Dr. Brogner is ever satisfied, that is. He is an exacting creature,” Mrs. Morley declared.

  “What a curious name.” Leila was still manufacturing conversation. “It’s very uncommon, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. I have never come across it before. Have you?”

  “Only once,” Leila said. “That was what made me remark on it. I thought it was unique. The senior partner in the firm where I work is called Brogner, and—”

  She saw her slip the moment she had made it,, and made a desperate attempt at recovery.

  “I mean, I used to work for them,” she amended hastily.

  “Yes. Don’t you forget that I’m the only boss now,” Simon put in, with a careless, amused air which reminded her that at least she had an able ally.

  She felt so grateful to him for the rescue that she could have kissed him. She could have kissed him for other reasons, too, but they didn’t enter into the present situation. So she gave him a brilliant smile instead, and kept her head very well when Frances remarked:

  “I didn’t know you ever had a job. I thought you just lived at home with your parents and brother.”

  “Oh, no. I was for a—a short while in a solicitor’s office,” Leila explained, feeling that, since she had unfortunately made half a statement on this point, the rest of it might as well be accurate.

  No one commented further on this, and Mrs. Morley enquired, with not entirely concealed eagerness:

  “How long can you stay?”

  “As long as you like,” replied Leila promptly and recklessly.

  “Oh, my dear child”—Simon’s mother gave a pleased but protesting laugh—“you can’t postpone your honeymoon indefinitely. I’m not so unreasonable as to expect that, you know. You haven’t actually cancelled any of the arrangements, I hope, Simon?” And she glanced enquiringly at her son.

  “We’ve postponed them indefinitely,” Simon assured her, with composure. “We decided we should enjoy the whole thing better later, when we felt less worried. Didn’t we, darling?” He appealed to Leila.

  “Yes,” Leila agreed rather faintly, and saw why it had been something of a shock to Simon when she had used that term to him.

  “You’re good, kind children.” Mrs. Morley glanced from one to the other and, though she smiled, Leila saw that she was moved. “But you won’t have to wait so very long. Dr. Brogner has made all the arrangements for me to go into the nursing-home on Monday. He is coming in some time this evening, Simon, so you will be able to have a word with him then.”

  They stayed only ten minutes longer with Mrs. Morley, who obviously tired easily. And then Simon went downstairs on affairs of his own, and Frances said to Leila:

  “I’ll show you your room.”

  As they went along the wide, sun-filled corridor together, she continued:

  “I’ve given you and Simon the room my parents used to have. It’s a nice big one, with a dressing-room attached, and has quite the best view in the house.”

  “Oh—thank you—very much,” stammered Leila, unappreciative of views at this moment, because the full force of her equivocal position was just coming home to her.

  It was stupid of her, she felt, not to have thought about the practical difficulties of the situation before. She had merely assumed that Simon would be able to see they didn’t arise.

  “We’ll have to explain to Frances,” she thought rather angrily. “It was ridiculous to suppose we could carry this thing through without her knowing.”

  There was nothing to do at the moment but praise the room—which was certainly a very delightful one—and assure Frances that she had everything she could want, and would come down again as soon as she had freshened up.

  The last thing Frances said before she left the room was:

  “I think your going-away outfit is charming.”

  Then Leila was left alone and, not unnaturally, the first thing she did was to regard her reflection in the glass, and decide that the smoke-grey two-piece which she had intended to wear at Rosemary’s wedding did, indeed, serve very well as a “going-away” outfit.

  Presently, when she was ready to go downstairs once more, she went to the window and looked out.

  It was true that the window provided a very beautiful view of the Surrey hills. But—which interested Leila much more—it also provided a good view of Simon strolling in the garden below.

  She stood there for several minutes, watching him, with something between loving concern and exasperation in her glance. She was slightly frightened now at what she had taken on, and she wished Simon were not so much wrapped up in his own concerns that he showed no worry for her problems. Not just her problems as the substitute for Rosemary. But as Leila, whom he had probably hardly ever noticed as an individual.

  She had just reached this rather sobering conclusion when he looked up and saw his bride looking down at him from the window—“aren’t you coming down to me? I’ve been quite long enough without you.”

  She knew, in her heart, that this must be a piece of playacting for the benefit of Frances—or anyone else—who might be watching. But at that moment she felt like Juliet looking from the balcony upon her Romeo. And when she said, softly and eagerly, “I’m coming,” her voice was not pitched for any possible audience, but simp
ly for Simon himself.

  The excitement and magic of that moment stayed with her, even as she ran downstairs to join him. And it was by a sort of instinct, more than any reasoning, that she found her way out of a side-door into the garden.

  He was standing there on the small terrace, waiting for her. And when she came to him, he drew her arm through his and said: “You’ve managed wonderfully up to now.”

  “Have I?” She laughed, happy in the feel of his arm against hers, happy in his friendly approval, and happiest of all because he seemed just now to be enjoying playing his part.

  They strolled round the garden together, and presently she said gently:

  “I think your mother is a darling. I’m glad we did this.”

  “Thank you, my dear.” Perhaps he thought it better not to drop into the habit of calling her “Leila” again. “I’m glad we did, too. And I hope you know how grateful I am to you.”

  “There isn’t any question of gratitude,” she began eagerly.

  But he stopped her with a slight pressure of his arm on hers. “Oh, yes there is. What sort of hole should I have been in now, if you hadn’t come to my rescue?”

  She didn’t answer immediately, partly because she was savouring the sweetness of his expressed gratitude, and partly because she felt it necessary—though a pity at this delightful moment—to draw his attention to the different kind of “hole” in which they now found themselves.

  “Simon,” she said at last, “I’m afraid we are going to have to let Frances into this, after all—”

  “Indeed we are not!” he assured her, good-tempered but emphatic.

  “But I hardly see how we can keep her out of it, for purely—practical reasons, if nothing else. She has the domestic arrangements of the household in her hands, and she’s not unnaturally given us a double bedroom,” Leila told him a little dryly.