Snowfire

by Anne Mather

  She started going out then, trailing round the shops for hours, desperate for diversion. She even joined a health club, and spent long hours exhausting herself in the swimming-pool. Her leg strengthened, and, because her appetite improved, she put on a little weight. But while her body mended, her brain corroded, and she knew something had to be done to retain her sanity.

  She went back to the office the following week. Mr Halliday was endearingly pleased to see her, even if he did wonder whether she ought not to have given herself a little more time before returning to work. But her apparent eagerness, and the air of confidence she managed to convey, convinced him she knew what she was doing. And, to her relief, she discovered that at that level she could still function fairly normally.

  And, gradually, the madness had subsided. She was even able to question her feeling of devastation when Conor hadn’t so much as picked up a phone to assure himself that she’d got home safely. And he might have done. Once he’d got over his pique. It wasn’t as if she’d been wiped off the face of the earth. His protestations of undying love must have melted along with the snow.

  That the manner of her leaving had not been entirely unselfish was something she preferred not to dwell on. That Conor might have had some justification for his anger was best set aside. If her own fears of rejection had worked against her, she chose not to recognise the fact. And even when something happened to mitigate the pain, she refused to consider the consequences.

  Stephen’s death had come at a time when she was trying not to think about the future. And, selfish as it sounded, it had given her a breathing space. For a time, someone else’s needs had taken precedence, and she had submerged her own problems in theirs. But it was over now. She had to get on with her own life.

  Letting herself into her apartment, she looked about her with rueful eyes. For the past seventy-two hours she had been at Mrs Perry’s beck and call, and her neglect of this place showed. There were crumbs on the floor, and dishes in the sink, and her bed hadn’t been made in days. She had come home to sleep and little else. Even the light on the answerphone was blinking.

  Well, it would have to wait, she decided. Everything would have to wait. She needed a shower and something to eat, not necessarily in that order.

  Fifteen minutes later she came out of the bathroom with a towel tucked sarong-wise under her arms. She had washed her hair, too, and she paused in front of the dressing-table to towel it dry. As she did so, the sarong slipped away, and she was left with the disturbing reflection of her own naked body.

  Her hands stilled, and, lowering her arms to her sides, she stared at herself with troubled eyes. Was it visible yet? she wondered. She turned sideways. Yes, barely. Just the slightest thickening at her waist giving her condition away.

  Swallowing, she bent and lifted the bath towel again. Then, wrapping it tightly about her, she turned away from the mirror. Sooner or later, she was going to have to make a decision, she realised tensely. No matter how unattractive the prospect might be, the choice had to be made.

  Beyond her windows, the trees in the park were burgeoning with new life, and she stood for several minutes staring at them before her growling stomach drove her into the kitchen. She was burgeoning with new life, too, she thought ruefully, as she prepared herself a peanut butter sandwich. And, whatever happened, it was a cause for rejoicing, not regret.

  Carrying her sandwich back into the living-room, she perched on the arm of her sofa and pressed the rewind button on the answerphone. It was the dilemma of how—or if—she should tell Conor that was causing her so much heart-searching, and as she munched on her sandwich she had to acknowledge she was no closer to a decision now than she had been before Stephen’s untimely death.

  The trouble was, she had no way of knowing how he might react to the news that he was going to be a father. If, as she expected, he had got over his infatuation for her, he would certainly not welcome such daunting news. Oh, she was sure he wouldn’t abjure his responsibilities. He was an honourable man, and he would respect her wishes. But did she really want to tie him to her, on any terms? And particularly like this, the oldest trick in the book.

  In all honesty, it would be easier to keep it from him, and she guessed that after learning that Stephen had spent the night at the inn in Paget her friends would assume the child was his. She could handle it that way if she wanted.

  But, deep inside her, she had a powerful need to tell Conor the truth. That was the real dilemma. She wanted him to know she was having his baby. She wanted him to share in the wonder.

  What wonder? she thought now, crossly, as the rewind button clicked off, and the first recorded message was replayed. Taking another mouthful of her sandwich, she listened as a colleague from work informed her that one of her clients, presently on bail, had absconded. The man was believed to have fled to Ireland, but Olivia couldn’t summon any real irritation at the news. Ever since she had discovered she was pregnant, her focus had altered completely, and she had to force herself to consider the case with some degree of subjectivity.

  The next voice was not immediately familiar to her, and, switching off the machine, she went to get herself a can of juice from the fridge. She couldn’t drink coffee any more without feeling nauseous, and it was this as much as anything that had first alerted her to her condition. She had never actually suffered from morning sickness. But the scent of freshly brewed coffee was definitely taboo.

  She carried the can back into the living-room, and resumed her position beside the phone. Depressing the button on the recorder, she re-started the next message, tackling the ring-pull on the can as she did so. Unfortunately, the can must have been shaken, because the juice fizzed out all over the towel, and she was muttering to herself as she went to get some paper towels from the kitchen when the identity of her caller hit her. It was Mrs Drake, calling from Paget. And, although Conor’s name hadn’t been mentioned, Olivia abandoned the can and hurried back to re-wind the tape.

  ’Mrs Perry? Mrs Perry, are you there?’ Olivia caught her upper lip between her teeth as her erstwhile landlady’s voice betrayed her uncertainty. Then, ‘Oh, it’s one of those awful machines,’ she said, and for a few seconds there was silence. But, eventually, she overcame her reticence and went on, ‘Mrs Perry, this is Eva Drake calling. From the Ship. That’s the Ship Inn, in Paget,’ she added, bringing a faint smile to Olivia’s strained face. ‘You remember?’ You stayed with us a few months ago.’

  How could she forget? Olivia contained her impatience, and the woman continued, ‘I’m calling about a personal matter, Mrs Perry. I hope you won’t think I’m poking my nose in where it’s not wanted, but after I’d spoken to Connie, well …’

  She broke off again, and Olivia wanted to scream. If she wasn’t careful, the woman was going to run out of tape. And she had the feeling Mrs Drake wouldn’t ring again.

  ’You remember Connie, don’t you, Mrs Perry? She said she met you one day at the clinic. Connie Holmes, that is. Sharon’s mother.’

  Yes, yes, go on, Olivia implored silently, and to her relief she did.

  ’Of course, I didn’t tell Connie I might ring you, Mrs Perry. Even now, I’m not sure I’m doing the right thing. But your husband did say you’d known the family for a long time. And when I heard about poor Dr Brennan—–’

  Conor! What about Conor?

  ’—I thought maybe you’d want to know.’

  To know what?

  Olivia was almost beside herself with frustration now. Hurry up, Mrs Drake, she begged. What’s happened to Conor?

  ’It seems there was an—accident at the clinic,’ the woman faltered, the doubt in her voice growing stronger. Olivia was half afraid she was going to ring off without finishing the call. ‘Course, you may know this already, but when Connie said Sharon had lost patience with him, and that he was letting nobody into that house to help him, I had to do something. That’s my nature, Mrs Perry. I like to help people.’

  Thank God for that, thought Olivia weak
ly, wishing she had felt more charitably towards her while she was there. But there was still so much she hadn’t explained.

  ’Anyway,’ Mrs Drake was saying now, and it was obvious she was preparing to hang up, ‘I’ve done my duty. If—if Dr Brennan had some family, it would be different. But he doesn’t. He’s got nobody, Mrs Perry. And—I just thought that you—well, you’ll know what I mean,’ she finished, and the line went dead.

  An hour and a half later, Olivia was driving along the M20 heading for Folkestone. It was already seven o’clock, and she would have been further had it not been for the rush-hour traffic in London. Her apartment was fairly central, and getting out of the city on a Friday evening was never easy. Apart from the usual log-jam of cars that used the motorways every evening, there were the weekend trippers, heading for coast and country with a total disregard for serious travellers. To drive in London at all you had to have nerves of steel, and Olivia thought it said much for her concern for Conor that she hadn’t flinched at joining the queues.

  But the awful memories of her accident were now behind her, thank goodness. These past months of physical activity had helped enormously. She still dragged her left leg a little, particularly if she was tired, but even the scars were fading now that she was gaining weight.

  It was ironic, really, she thought. She had been going through one of the most traumatic periods of her life, and she had put weight on. Thank heavens for small mercies, she mused, running a possessive hand over the slight swelling beneath her waistband. This baby had saved her life. Perhaps it would save Conor’s, too.

  But such thoughts were futile. She had no real idea what was wrong with Conor. Mrs Drake had said there had been an accident at the clinic, but that could mean anything. And had the fact that Sharon had rejected him had anything to do with it?

  Her brain buzzed with possibilities, and for once she wished she had a car-phone. She had tried to ring Mrs Drake for more details before she left the apartment, but the line was engaged. And she had been so desperate to get on her way that she had given up trying.

  At least she wasn’t feeling sleepy. The shower she’d had earlier had refreshed her, and hearing what Mrs Drake had had to say had proved a powerful stimulant. Now, responding to the urgency building inside her, she pressed her foot harder on the accelerator.

  But luck was with her. She cruised past the turn-offs for Maidstone and Ashford without even dropping below seventy. It was only when she left the motorway that she was compelled to lower her speed, and she managed to contain her impatience all the way to Paget.

  Thankfully, it was still light as she drove along the coast road. And, glancing at the sun sinking in the west, she reflected what an eventful day it had proved. First Stephen’s funeral, and that pathetic little encounter with the Darcys; then her own ambivalence over telling Conor about the baby, Mrs Drake’s message, and the anxiety that had sent her dashing here—and it wasn’t over yet.

  She hesitated when she reached the harbour, wondering if she ought to speak to Mrs Drake before driving up to Conor’s house. But the car park at the inn was full, and the prospect of going into the pub and encountering so many curious eyes deterred her. She would thank Mrs Drake for her call—but later. Probably when she returned to request a room for the night, she considered ruefully. Until she had spoken to Conor, she had no idea how he would react to seeing her again.

  She seemed to reach Gull Rise very quickly, and she realised that now she was here she was no longer so convinced of the wisdom of what she was doing. Indeed, it seemed almost presumptuous to believe that she might succeed where others had failed. After all, Conor had nothing to thank her for, and he could quite legitimately refuse to speak to her.

  She brought the car to a halt in front of the house. Although the drive was empty, she didn’t have the nerve to park there, and she sat for several moments just looking up at the windows. The curtains in Conor’s bedroom were drawn, and she wondered if that meant he had already retired for the night. Perhaps they hadn’t been opened, she mused, remembering the state of her own bedroom. If what Mrs Drake had said was true, it seemed unlikely that he would regard making his bed as a high priority.

  She gnawed on her lower lip, mentally rehearsing how she was going to explain her arrival. ‘Oh, hello, Conor! Long time no see!’ No, that was no good. She frowned. ‘Hi! I was in the neighbourhood, and I just thought I’d look you up!’ That was no good either. All right, then. ‘Hello, Conor. Guess what? You’re going to be a father!’ God, no!

  She sighed. So what was she going to say? How could she explain her appearance without involving Mrs Drake? He would never believe she had been actually pondering the advisability of coming here of her own free will. It was too convenient. Too coincidental.

  If she’d been secretly hoping that Conor might see the car and come to investigate, she was disappointed. Even though it was a good five minutes since she had turned off the engine, the house remained as anonymous as ever. In fact, if Mrs Drake hadn’t said that he was holed up in the house, she’d have assumed he was away. Thank heavens for Mrs Drake, she thought uneasily, not at all sure she really meant it. What if Conor sent her away? What would she do then?

  Pushing open her door, she put such thoughts to the back of her mind. They were defeatist, and negative. She was not going to consider what might, or might not, happen. Not until she had spoken to Conor and gauged his mood.

  She shut the car and locked it, aware that she was taking her time, delaying the moment when she had to walk up the drive and ring the bell. But eventually she had to approach the door, and as she mounted the steps she thought how much easier they were for her to climb now. Three months had made an enormous difference. Not least in her feelings about herself.

  There was no sound when she pressed the button, but it was a large house, and she couldn’t remember whether she used to be able to hear the bell or not. However, after several abortive attempts, she resorted to knocking, bruising her knuckles against the panels without achieving any more success.

  ’Damn,’ she said aloud, glancing around. Could Conor really not hear her? Or wasn’t he answering the door to anyone?

  She could see into the drawing-room through the wide bay, but there was no sign of life. In fact, the room had a definite air of neglect, and the anxiety that had tormented her all the way from London increased its grip. Where was Conor? Why didn’t he answer the door?

  The last resort was shouting through the letter-box, and, hoping that the one or two tenants still working in their gardens wouldn’t come to investigate, she did just that. But, although she called his name and identified herself, the result was the same. The house remained unnervingly silent, and her anxiety gave way to an ominous feeling of foreboding.

  She sighed. What now? She had to do something. She had to get into the house. But the idea of seeking official assistance to achieve her ends was simply not practical. It wasn’t as if she was a relative or anything. The police would probably tell her to go away and mind her own business.

  But she couldn’t do that. In spite of a growing conviction that Conor wouldn’t want to see her, she couldn’t go away without assuring herself that he was all right. If only she knew what had happened. If only she knew the sequence of events. The only person who might be able to tell her was Sharon herself, and she didn’t even know where she lived.

  Of course, Mrs Drake would know Sharon’s address. Mrs Drake probably knew more than she had said. But Mrs Drake wasn’t here. And if there was nothing wrong Conor wouldn’t thank her for being a scaremonger.

  So, she had to find some way of getting into the house herself. She could always break a window, she mused recklessly, while the practical side of her nature threw up its hands at her audacity. But not at the front, she appended. Besides, these windows were too big.

  A footpath ran between the wall of the house and the garage, and, walking along it, Olivia found herself in the back garden. There was a crumbling post, covered in honeysuckle, clin
ging to the rear wall of the garage, and she remembered that in Sally’s day there had been a latticed gate here to keep the infant Conor from straying out on to the road. The gate was gone now, but the garden was amazingly familiar, and she paused for a moment as a whole host of memories surged over her. But then the reason she was here swept them away, and she turned her attention to the back of the house.

  And, as she did so, another memory surfaced. Years ago, long before the Brennans had taken possession of the house, there had been a coke boiler in the cellar. In those days, the fuel had been delivered in sacks, and tipped, by means of a trapdoor, into the cellar. Of course, the boiler had been defunct before the Brennans moved in, and Keith had cleaned out the cellar, and used it for storage purposes. But the trapdoor must still be there.

  And it was. Hidden beneath a trough of flowering shrubs, it was securely padlocked, as always, but surely offering her best chance of getting into the house. She knew the cellar. She and Conor had played there. And the door into the house had never been locked.

  Breaking the padlock presented the most immediate problem, but a rummage among a pile of plant pots and canes turned up a metal tube, which looked as if it had once been part of the bicycle Conor used to ride. No wonder thieves had such a cosy time of it, she reflected, as the padlock broke at the third attempt. A little local knowledge, and the rest was easy.

  The trapdoor was stiff, but it opened, and Olivia found herself gazing down at an old step-ladder, which someone had left propped against the trapdoor. ‘Bingo,’ she breathed, getting to her feet and starting down it. She didn’t want to give herself time to have second thoughts.

  The cellar was still a store-room. Olivia was glad of the light from the open trapdoor, as she stumbled over old rolled-up carpets and abandoned suitcases. Keith’s wine-rack was still there, though the bottles she could see were of a more modern vintage. And there was Sally’s old sewing-machine, and the tailor’s dummy, which briefly gave her quite a shock.