by Anne Mather
‘An oddity!’ Charles gave a rueful laugh. ‘My dear, you look quite beautiful, as always. And with your height and colouring, you could hardly go unnoticed.’
Shelley accepted his compliment gracefully, but she couldn’t help the feeling that not all the eyes cast in her direction were so friendly. Perhaps she should resign herself to the fact that in a community like Low Burton she was bound to arouse curiosity, she thought. And even though the severely cut beige silk suit she was wearing did little to accentuate her femininity, its distinctive lines and understated elegance were obvious to anyone who understood fashion.
Relaxing a little now that it appeared Ben was not here, Shelley accompanied Charles into the auditorium, following him down the aisle to the front row of seats. A number of people were already seated, but once again to her relief there was no sign of Marsha’s son. Charles saw her into her seat, and then excused himself to speak to an elderly man who had hailed him from across the aisle. ‘Sir Malcolm Robbins,’ he murmured, by way of an explanation, and Shelley studied the programme he had brought her while he went to speak to the local magistrate.
‘Hello, Shelley!’
The unexpected greeting brought Shelley’s head up with a start, and for a moment her heart thumped so loudly, she was sure it must be audible. ‘Why—Jennifer!’ she exclaimed, looking up into the girl’s complacent face. Her eyes darted to the woman beside her. ‘What a surprise!’
‘We saw you come in,’ said Jennifer, drawing an older woman forward, ‘This is my mother. She wanted to meet you. She’s heard so much about Mrs Seton’s famous friend.’
‘Hardly famous,’ murmured Shelley awkwardly, shaking the woman’s hand. ‘How do you do, Mrs Chater. It’s very nice to meet you.’
‘Oh, it’s my pleasure,’ exclaimed Jennifer’s mother gushingly, although, like her daughter, Shelley suspected Mrs Carter did not welcome strangers into the community. She was about fifty-five, Shelley surmised, though she looked older, and there was a certain malicious edge to her smile, as if she regarded Shelley as someone she didn’t quite approve of. ‘Jenny says you’re here to recuperate from an illness, is that right? I suppose it must be. I can’t imagine anyone from London choosing Craygill for a holiday.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ said Shelley smoothly, not prepared to let her have it all her own way. ‘I love it here already, and everyone’s been so kind to me.’
‘We saw you were with Doctor Brandeth,’ put in Jennifer slyly. ‘I suppose Mrs Seton told you he’s the most eligible bachelor around. Of your age, I mean.’
Shelley said nothing, and as if sensing her daughter had been too outspoken, Mrs Chater added, ‘I didn’t intend to be here tonight, of course. Jennifer was supposed to be coming with Ben, but there was an emergency call just before they were due to leave, and there was no one else could take it.’
Shelley expelled her breath cautiously. ‘What a shame!’
‘Yes, wasn’t it?’ Mrs Chater shrugged. ‘Still, I’m sure I’ll enjoy it. The operatic society has a very good reputation.’
Charles’ return put an end to their conversation. It was obvious he had little time for Jennifer’s mother, and after only the most perfunctory of exchanges, the two women returned to their seats.
‘That woman sets my nerves on edge,’ he commented frankly, when they were alone. ‘I’m sure she’s the reason her husband has had a heart condition for the past five years. I know that may sound harsh, but she really does make the poor man’s life a misery!’
Shelley shook her head. ‘That’s the first time I’ve met her.’
‘And the last, if you’re lucky,’ retorted Charles, with a grunt. ‘Let’s hope Jennifer doesn’t follow in her mother’s footsteps.’
Shelley managed a smile, but to her relief, the orchestra were filing into their places, and very soon the lights were lowered for the start of the performance. Yet, even when the curtain went up, and the stage was filled with the colourful costumes of the Arthurian era, Shelley found her thoughts straying. Had there really been an emergency call, or had Ben suspected he might see her here? she wondered, twisting the programme into a tight roll. And if he was avoiding her, how long could it go on before Marsha—and even Jennifer—began to suspect his motives?
It was about a quarter-past ten when the curtain came down, and the audience began to leave. An emergency exit had been opened by the orchestra stalls and, as they were on the front row of the auditorium, Shelley and Charles were among the first to emerge into the cool evening air. It was not dark. The clouds that had hung around all day had now dispersed to leave the sky clear and starlit, and only the pools in the gutters revealed it had been raining earlier.
‘Not a bad performance,’ remarked Charles, guiding Shelley round to the front of the theatre so that they could cross to the market square, where he had left his car.
‘It was very good,’ said Shelley, hoping she didn’t sound patronising. ‘And what a lovely evening! You’d hardly believe how miserable it was this—this—’
Her voice broke off abruptly at the sight of the man propped indolently against the bonnet of a dark red sports car. Parked by the entrance, he was evidently waiting for his fiancée and her mother to emerge, and Shelley’s knees felt weak as she forced herself to walk with Charles towards him.
‘Why—Ben!’ said her companion, his greeting successfully covering Shelley’s faltering words. ‘We were talking to Jennifer and her mother before the show—or, at least, Shelley was. I hear you had an emergency call just as you were leaving. Hard luck! You missed a very pleasant evening.’
‘I’m sure I did.’ Ben straightened from his lounging position and thrust his hands into the pockets of his leather jerkin. He was all in black, and the sombre colour suited him, accentuating the lightness of his hair and the darker pigment of his skin. ‘Hello, Shelley. Have you had a pleasant evening, too?’
‘Very pleasant,’ replied Shelley tensely, wondering if it was her imagination that was making his eyes look more deep set than usual. He looked tired, she thought anxiously, but that was probably because he’d had a long day. It couldn’t be easy, being on call at all hours of the day and night. ‘H-have you been working hard? We—that is, your mother and I—never seem to see you these days.’
Ben met her tentative gaze without expression, and she felt chilled. It was as if she was looking at a stranger, and while she kept telling herself that this was what she had wanted, she couldn’t deny that his cold indifference was like a knife turning in her stomach.
‘One of my colleagues has been on holiday,’ he said now, in answer to her question, and Charles, listening to their exchange, could have no idea of what was going through her mind. ‘And as Jennifer’s father is ill, I haven’t had a lot of free time.’
‘You should have got a locum in,’ declared Charles at once, and Ben switched his attention to him.
‘As a matter of fact, Joe Armitage’s son qualifies in a couple of weeks,’ he replied evenly. ‘The younger son; Dennis. He’s going to join the practice for a month or two, to see if he likes it.’
‘Well, that will certainly take the pressure off you,’ responded Charles, nodding. He smiled. ‘We’d better be off. Shelley’s shivering, and I don’t want to be accused of creating my own patients.’
Ben offered a perfunctory smile, and Shelley, whose trembling had nothing to do with being cold, gave him a despairing look. ‘You will try and come and see your mother soon, won’t you?’ she asked, wishing she could speak to him alone, and his lashes dipped.
‘She understands,’ he said, in a clipped voice, looking beyond her, and glancing over her shoulder, Shelley saw Jennifer and her mother approaching.
‘Let’s go,’ said Charles, not wishing to get involved with Mrs Chater again, and Shelley had to accompany him.
‘Goodnight, Ben,’ she called, as they set off across the square, but she didn’t think he heard her as he went to meet his fiancée.
* * *
Shelley parked her car in the municipal carpark, and bought the necessary ticket to display in the window. Then, after locking the vehicle, she walked back into the square, busy now with the bustling stalls of the open-air market.
It was Monday and exactly four days since she accompanied Charles to the Friday evening performance of Camelot. She had not seen him since, even though he had made an abortive attempt to invite her to dinner on Saturday evening, and she knew Marsha thought she was foolish for refusing his invitation.
‘He’ll begin to think you’re playing hard to get,’ her friend had asserted impatiently. ‘There are other available females in Craygill and Low Burton—’
‘Not least, yourself,’ put in Shelley drily.
‘—and I get the feeling Charles is beginning to regret his isolation,’ finished Marsha imperturbably. ‘It hasn’t been easy for him since his mother passed away.’
‘She died after his wife, I assume,’ said Shelley, feeling obliged to say something, and Marsha nodded.
‘Oh, yes. Alicia’s been dead for more than ten years, but old Mrs Brandeth only died last July.’
Shelley had been suitably sympathetic, but Marsha either couldn’t—or wouldn’t—accept that she had no real interest in the widowed doctor. She was convinced Shelley’s attitude had to do with her unhappy relationship with Mike Berlitz, and no matter how often Shelley denied it, Marsha still believed she was afraid of getting hurt again.
If only it was that simple, Shelley reflected, not for the first time, aware that getting hurt was not something one could always avoid. Given that alternative, she would not now be here in Low Burton, fretting over the fact that Ben had still made no attempt to see his mother, or contemplating the wisdom of approaching him on his own ground.
Wandering aimlessly among the market stalls, she tried to rehearse what she would say if she did see him. Phrases like: Is it fair to punish your mother for something I did? and What do you think your mother would say if she knew why you were behaving like this? sounded hollow indeed, when taken out of context, and although she couldn’t remember that day by the stream without revulsion, she could hardly pretend she had been a wholly unwilling participant.
She had found Ben’s address in the ‘phone book the previous afternoon. When it became obvious that he was not going to accept the invitation to tea his mother had offered, Shelley had known she had to do something, and this morning she had fabricated a wish to visit the open market at Low Burton. She guessed Marsha would not want to accompany her. After a weekend of laziness, she sensed the other woman was eager to return to her studio, and Shelley was glad she had her own transport to make her friend’s participation superfluous.
Marsha had felt obliged to offer to go with her, but Shelley had easily overcome her misgivings. ‘I do know the way,’ she declared firmly, smiling at the relief in the other woman’s face. ‘And I shall enjoy just poking about on my own. Is there anything I can get you?’
The only thing Marsha could think of was a bottle of linseed oil, which Shelley suspected had been manufactured for her benefit. But she had promised to do her best, and seeing a do-it-yourself store close by, she decided to dispose of that chore first.
‘Do you happen to know where I might find Ditchburn Lane.’ she enquired of the shop assistant, as she paid for the bottle of oil, and the girl frowned.
‘It’s about five minutes walk from here,’ she said, eyeing Shelley with evident curiosity. ‘It’s just round the corner from the Catholic church—that’s St Winifred’s, at the end of Farrgate.’ She paused. ‘Do you know where Farrgate is?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
Shelley offered the girl an appealing smile and, as if taking pity on her, the young woman came out from behind her counter and went to the door of the shop.
‘That’s Farrgate, over there,’ she said, pointing across the square. ‘The one with Hobsons, the chemist’s, on the corner. Just go down the hill a little way and you’ll see the church. Ditchburn Lane is just beyond it.’
‘Thank you.’
Shelley was grateful, but although she sensed the girl would have liked to know why she was making her enquiries, she managed to avoid an explanation. With a gesture of farewell, she walked away, feeling the girl’s eyes on her as she hopefully melted into the crowd.
Farrgate sloped away towards the river, and St Winifred’s church was some one hundred yards down on the right. Unlike the market square, there were few people about, and Shelley felt rather conspicuous as she passed the tree-sheltered wall of the churchyard. Her long-legged stride was quite distinctive, and although her open-necked shirt and matching tie-waisted white pants had looked quite conservative before she set off, she realised now that a darker colour would have been more appropriate. Even her hair, wound into a tight knot on top of her head, gave her an air of hauteur she had not anticipated, and she was half inclined to abandon her quest before Ben’s neighbours became curious about who she was.
The lane where Ben’s house was situated was a pretty, tree-lined avenue, edged by narrow town houses and cottages. Gardens, as full of colour as any she had seen, were reached through white-painted gates, and paved paths gave access to the dwellings. A striped tabby cat was sunning itself outside one of the cottages, and a dog rushed to the gate of another garden barking furiously. Shelley could have done without the unheralded attention, and she smiled a little ruefully at the old man who came to see what was going on.
Ben’s house was the last house in the lane, the end of a row of terraced townhouses. It had a white gate, like the others, and geranium-filled window boxes, and an iron-trimmed front door in its narrow façade. The door was closed, and the place looked deserted, and Shelley’s heart sank. She had hoped Ben might have returned home after taking surgery at the clinic, a schedule Marsha had been more than willing to explain when Shelley innocently asked about his movements. But it didn’t look as if today he had kept to his usual arrangements. Surely either the Land-Rover or the Porsche would have been in sight, if he had been at home? And was there any point in knocking when it could only draw attention to herself?
‘Are you looking for the vet?’ enquired a curious voice behind her, and turning, Shelley found a girl of about seven looking up at her.
‘I—well, yes,’ she acknowledged reluctantly, arguing that a child of her age was unlikely to gossip. ‘Is he at home?’
‘Nope.’ The little girl stuck her hands into the pockets of her shorts. ‘He’s not come back yet. Do you want to wait in my house?’
‘Oh—no.’ Shelley shook her head quickly, accompanying her refusal with a smile, so that the child should not be offended. ‘It—it wasn’t important,’ she assured her firmly. ‘I’ll speak to him some other time. Thank you for your help. It’s saved me some time.’
‘Do you have a pet that’s sick?’ persisted the little girl, and Shelley gave a rueful laugh. So much for avoiding complications, she reflected drily. It was obvious her inquisitor was as shrewd as anyone else.
‘Er—not exactly,’ she answered now, glancing apprehensively about her, but when she would have said goodbye, the little girl spoke again.
‘Our budgie was sick last week,’ she said. ‘My Mummy thought he was going to die. But Mr Seton came to see him, and he said it wasn’t a boy budgie at all. It was a girl. And do you know, she laid an egg!’
Shelley shook her head. ‘Good heavens!’
‘I know. Grandad said it must have been broody. Our chickens get broody sometimes. Would you like to see them?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ Shelley made a determined effort to extricate herself. ‘Look—I’ve got to go. Thanks again. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye—oh!’ The little girl’s face creased into a smile of satisfaction. ‘Here’s Mr Seton now. Isn’t that lucky?’
Shelley took a deep breath before turning to see the Land-Rover approaching fast. Her companion waved in delight, but Shelley was no longer so certain that she was doing the right thing. What if Ben refused to s
peak to her? What if her intervention merely widened the gulf between them? Her heart was beating erratically and her palms felt moist, and by the time the Land-Rover drew to a halt and Ben opened his door and got out, she was in such a state, she could hardly say a word.
‘You’ve got a visitor, Mr Seton,’ said the little girl, full of her own importance, and Ben gave her a fleeting smile.
‘So I see, Linda,’ he responded, raising his eyes to Shelley. ‘This is a surprise. Is my mother with you?’
‘No.’ She moistened her lips and tightened her fingers around the bottle of linseed oil. ‘I—came on my own.’ She met his cool gaze squarely. ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’
Ben hesitated long enough for Shelley to know that without Linda’s inquisitive eyes upon them, he might well have refused. ‘Of course,’ he said now, stepping past her to unlatch the gate. ‘I don’t have very long, but if you’d like to see the house, you’re welcome to do so.’
Shelley bit back the defensive retort that sprang to her lips and preceded him up the path, glancing back at the child who watched them from the path. ‘Your neighbour’s child?’ she enquired, just to be polite, and Ben nodded his acquiescence as he unlocked the heavy front door.
He stood back to allow her to precede him into the hall, and the heated male scent of his body was unmistakable. Although he was only wearing a cream cotton shirt and mud-coloured Levis, he had evidently been sweating, but Shelley did not find the faintly acrid smell of his skin unpleasant. On the contrary, she was immediately aware of how attractive he looked, and of how smooth and virile his flesh had felt beneath her fingers.
He closed the door behind them, and then led the way along a narrow hall and into a room at the back of the house. Shelley saw it was a comfortably furnished living room, with a couple of tapestry-covered armchairs, and a matching sofa with wooden arms. The room overlooked the garden at the back of the house, only a part of which had been cultivated. Beyond a small lawn, the flower garden ran riot, and through the shrubbery, Shelley could see the unmistakable gleam of water.
