She had been lost in a longing to have shared those moments with Ewart. She knew he too would have been deeply moved by the sculpture.
She stood at the bedroom window of her cottage at Southdean and remembered their enchanted carriage ride through the gardens of Cascine. How could he have kissed her with passion, held her closely with warmth and tenderness, then behave with such indifferent callousness?
With a sigh, Reah closed the window. Summer was over. She would forget Ewart as a distasteful memory.
Her flint-walled cottage was the end one of a terrace of four facing the village green of Southdean. The village nestled in a dip in the Downs and the sea was only a hill away.
Stanford Lawrence had bought the cottage long before he retired from the Royal Navy. It had been Reah’s holiday home during her years at boarding school, then home for both once she left school.
Now the cottage seemed empty. Reah filled the air with music and the rooms with paintings, collages, bleached driftwood from the beach, pebbles polished to glossy blackness. She tended the garden with limited enthusiasm, not yet able to feel the point of growing things. The front garden was tiny, with steps leading down onto the road; the back garden walled.
“Reah Lawrence?”
Reah held the telephone receiver against her shoulder in disbelief. It was the last voice she expected to hear. She took a deep breath to calm her clamouring pulse and returned the receiver to her ear.
“Yes. Hello, Ewart,” she said, surprised to find that her voice was steady.
“Are you well?”
“Yes, thank you.”
There was a pause. Reah wondered why he was calling; surely not out of concern for her health? The last words they had exchanged had been devastatingly final.
“Are you back to college yet?” His voice sounded guarded.
“No. Ewart, I’ve a lot to do. Is this call important?”
Reah did not want to talk to him. Just hearing his voice was opening the half-healed wounds, bringing back memories she wanted to forget.
“Of course it’s important. Important for you. I don’t make social calls. You should know that.”
She slid down onto an old, flowered-covered chair, slinging her legs over the upholstered arm. She curled her arm overhead and shut her eyes.
“Reah? Are you still there?”
“Only marginally. If this conversation does not improve in content, I may well fall asleep.”
She heard the deep familiar chuckle and her heart contracted. How could she ever forget that sound? Then he became brisk and business-like as if he had never kissed her, never held her closely in his arms.
“I’m having early planning conferences with my producer,” he said. “My play is now in the scene planning stage. I’ve the actual dialogue to write. I’ve been thinking about the little sketches you made of life in Florence. Some of them were quite delightful,” he added quickly.
“We might be able to use them as linking material. Your sketch, then fade it into the actual building, statue or person. Then in reverse, say a shot of a fresco freezing into your simple sketch. What do you think of the idea?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know? We’d like to have a look at your sketches. Could you bring them up to London?”
Reah’s thoughts spun into confusion. Once she would have been delirious at the thought of her sketches being used in a television play, but now there were other aspects to consider. She wanted to keep out of Ewart’s life; she did not want to see him again. She could not bear the thought of being anywhere near him…she might touch that cropped hair…his muscular leanness reminding her that he could melt her resistance.
“Reah—have you dropped off?”
“I can’t come to London. It’s out of the question.”
“Nonsense. There are plenty of trains from Eastbourne. Can you come on Friday? We’ll have lunch somewhere.”
“I’m too busy. I’ll post them.”
“That won’t work. I need you to tell me the exact location of the sketches. The producer will be sending a camera crew to Florence, and he won’t want to waste time.”
“No, I’m really sorry. It’s not possible.”
She heard him exclaim with annoyance.
“Don’t you want to see your sketches on television and your name in the credits? Miss Hardcastle would be proud of you. Think of your pupils…you’d score with them.”
“My students have different priorities,” said Reah. “Television exposure doesn’t rate too high.”
“There’s a £200,000 budget for my play,” Ewart went on, ignoring her remark. “There will be enough in the kitty to pay for your sketches. You could put central heating into your cottage. No more feudal fires.”
“How do you know about my central heating?” she asked, dismayed. Did he know everything about her?
“You talk in your sleep.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“There’s a certain artless ingenuity about your sketches that is a perfect contrast to the magnificence of the subjects,” he went on with devastating honesty.
“Childish, you mean.”
“I didn’t say that. You said it. No, not childish, Reah; you are debasing your own innocent talent. Stop being so proud and stubborn. Surely your work comes before personal feelings?”
Reah was torn. She was tempted by the possibility of selling her sketches. It would be a purely business meeting.
“All right,” she said. “But no lunch.”
“Would you care to conduct our business on the station platform? I daresay we could find a porter’s trolley to sit on,” he mocked drily.
“Don’t you have an office?”
“Oh yes, of course. All playwrights work in an office. I must get one. And a receptionist to make appointments. Perhaps you’d prefer to come to my flat?”
“No, thank you,” said Reah hastily. “I’ll leave you to arrange a venue.”
“Good. Friday then, at noon.”
“Yes, Friday.”
Reah was pleased about the sketches. She knew that they were not perfect, but that, it seemed, was why he wanted them. It was a crazy world.
She sat on the front door step of her cottage, huddled into a fleecy sweater and corduroy slacks.
The Japanese maple in her little garden was losing its rich summer colour. Reah loved the autumn too. And winter…blustery afternoon walks along the Seven Sisters trail with her father. Now there would be no one to talk to and she would have to walk alone.
Before she went to London, Reah had promised to show her sketches to Miss Hardcastle. It was nice going back to college: the gardeners tidying the grounds, the caretaker and his wife up ladders cleaning the windows.
Miss Hardcastle was also up a ladder, hanging new curtains. She looked pleased to have an interruption.
“Come in, Reah. I’m glad I’m going to see these sketches before Ewart Morgan takes his pick. Aren’t you thrilled? It’s exciting news. I knew you’d have a lovely time in Florence.”
“It’s a beautiful city,” said Reah. “But I can’t say that Ewart Morgan’s presence was exactly a bonus.”
“My dear, you’re being sharp again,” said Miss Hardcastle with a twinkle.
“I kept meeting him. He seemed to think his mission in life was keeping an eye on me.”
“I wonder why,” said Miss Hardcastle vaguely. “What time is your train? I don’t want you to miss it.”
“We’ve plenty of time. Shall I make some coffee?”
“Lovely. You’re looking very nice for your trip to town.”
Reah was wearing a black velvet suit and an antique lace blouse that she had found in the Lanes at Brighton. It was Victorian with a high ruffled neck, a work of art with fine tucks and tiny embroidery. She had piled up her hair very severely so that the gaunt line of her cheeks was accentuated.
“You’ve lost weight,” Miss Hardcastle went on. “That’s not so good.”
&nb
sp; “I haven’t worn this suit since my father’s funeral,” said Reah.
“Your father would have been proud of you,” said Miss Hardcastle. “Think of that instead. Your work on television.” She adjusted her half-moon spectacles and peered at the sketches. She could see why Ewart Morgan wanted them for his play. They were good. They had something…a kind of vulnerability that could only have come from the artist herself.
She glanced at Reah obliquely. There was something different about her. The eyes had changed…the golden speckles in the hazel colour had deepened, were more glowing. Something had happened to make her grow up.
“These sketches really are very good,” said Miss Hardcastle.
“I want you to have one,” said Reah.
“Of course I’d love one, but you’ve already given me the gloves, my dear. I’ll wait until Ewart has had his pick.”
“No. Take one now. The play doesn’t matter.”
“Reah, you must be sensible. The best must be for the play.” She had a sudden suspicion. “Are they all here?”
“Yes,” said Reah. “They’re all there, except one sketch which I’ve kept for myself. It’s of the head of David. It’s…rather special.”
At last Reah stood up to repack her portfolio.
“I must go,” she said reluctantly.
“Off you go. Give my regards to Ewart Morgan and find out when his play will be on television. I wouldn’t miss it for a ransom.”
“I don’t think he’s written it yet. These things take a long time,” said Reah with a wan smile.
Reah had no time to waste. She was cutting it fine for the train to London.
As she went out of the side door into the quadrangle, she heard a short, sharp cry, an anguished cry of real pain.
Reah raced back up the stairs and pushed open the door. Miss Hardcastle was lying on the floor in an unnaturally twisted position, the ladder and curtains on top of her. Her face was ashen with pain.
“Go get your train…” Miss Hardcastle gasped. “I’ll be all right. Your train, girl…”
“What train?” said Reah calmly.
Three hours later Miss Hardcastle was tucked up in bed in Eastbourne General Hospital, her left wrist in plaster, and under observation for possible concussion. Reah had gone with her and stayed until she was settled comfortably.
She did not know where to contact Ewart to explain. His telephone was ex-directory. She did not know the name of his producer.
Miss Hardcastle was upset that she should have missed her appointment.
“If he’s really interested, he’ll get in touch,” said Reah. But she knew that he wouldn’t. Ewart was too proud to ask her again.
It was almost with a sense of relief that Reah let herself into her cottage that evening. How differently she had imagined this return from seeing Ewart. She hung away her velvet suit and changed into jeans and a jersey.
The day before term started Reah went for a long tramp along the top of the Seven Sisters towards Beachy Head. She took the National Trust trail along the Cuckmere estuary towards the white virginal sister called Haven Brown, using the natural steps in the rising path to keep a grip on the steep turf.
Below the waves had cut a platform into the shingle, and littered the shore with a debris of gulls feathers, nets and driftwood. Sea kale and the yellow horned poppy grew along the cliff path, the tiny red bartsia underfoot like moss. Stonechats and yellowhammers darted about for insects among the long coarse grass and scrub on the top of the cliff.
Reah stopped and turned at the top of the climb, to catch her breath and to take in the glorious view across the estuary. The River Cuckmere flowed through the salt marshes which were covered at most high tides; the lake and bird islands were peaceful sanctuaries surrounded by rolling hills and fields.
A dominant south-westerly was blowing at the top of the cliff, whipping Reah’s hair across her face, billowing out her anorak like a balloon. It was not cold, but exhilaratingly fresh and blustery.
Reah could just make out the medieval earthen bank built to prevent flooding, the protective moat for the birds, and more recently the concrete anti-tank blocks from World War II.
Reah turned to continue her climb. Above her a figure was coming over the brow from the other direction. It was like an instant replay. She had seen it all before. Now it was the steps cut into the cliff path that he took so confidently and with such vigour.
His fringed hair was blowing in all directions. He wore a brown leather jerkin and roll necked jersey. His hands were deep in his pockets, thoughts miles away.
Reah’s heart quickened. It betrayed her every time she saw him. Feeling swept through her body, stabbing her with wild longing.
“Mr. Morgan,” she said. “What a coincidence.”
“Coincidence?” He looked at her vaguely, as if barely able to recognise who she was.
“Yes, coincidence. What a coincidence meeting you here.”
“Not really,” he said, looking at the view over her shoulder. “I live here.”
“No, you don’t. You live in London. You’ve got a flat. I remember you telling me.”
“My dear girl, I ought to know where I live and at present I live over there.”
He took her arm in a forceful manner and turned her in the direction of the farthest side of the mouth of the river. Two small houses perched on the lower cliff edge. One day there would be a rock fall and the cottages would go. They had already lost their gardens to the sea.
“The old coastguard cottages?”
“I’ve rented the empty one for a few months. I need somewhere quiet to write my play but near enough to London if there’s a meeting. My flat is being redecorated and they are modernising the lift. I couldn’t wait to get away. I moved in yesterday.”
“But why here?”
“I turned the car due south and drove. This suits me. I can get to London easily.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll get all the peace and quiet you need down here,” said Reah, making as if to continue her walk.
“Hold on, Reah,” he said, catching her arm. “Don’t you want to say anything else?”
Reah looked at him blankly.
“Don’t you owe me an apology? I waited a whole hour.”
“I’m sorry,” said Reah. “I couldn’t telephone you. Miss Hardcastle broke her wrist and I had to stay with her.”
“Of course.”
He dropped her arm and jogged a few yards down the path. Reah hesitated. Alarm bells were ringing in her head, and she had the feeling that if she let him go, she would regret it for the rest of her life.
“Is that all you’ve got to say?”
“I’m not a school teacher. I didn’t ask for a four page essay on why you didn’t turn up. I write plays that have to be forty-nine minutes and thirty seconds long. I thought your explanation was adequate.”
He came level with her, eyes narrowed against the glare of the sea; she could not tell the expression.
“Where’s your hat?” he asked.
The question took Reah totally by surprise. He remembered her old Trilby, guessed why she wore it. How could he understand the depth of her grief when he had himself added to her distress? They had to clear the air between them. It was time he knew who she was.
She studied his face intently, trying to see answers in his dark eyes, the tiny mole, the sensitive mouth, the blowing hair.
“I suppose you’ve no food if you’ve just moved in.”
“No. Shopping was next on my list.”
“I can offer an omelet and green salad.”
“A gastronomic delight,” he said with a gleam. “I’ll get a bottle of wine from the pub.”
It was a strange feeling showing Ewart into the cottage, knowing that it would mean a confrontation. Now he would understand her anger. He looked round the comfortable room approvingly, then his gaze was riveted to the row of silver cups and photographs of her father. He walked straight to them.
“Stanford Lawrence
,” he breathed.
There was a colour photograph of Captain Lawrence in naval uniform, his cap tucked under one arm, his red hair streaked with grey, eyes fearless and penetratingly honest. Reah’s eyes.
“Your father was Stanford Lawrence, the lone yachtsman?” He could not keep the astonishment and awe out of his voice.
“Yes, you’ve heard of him, haven’t you?”
“Of course, who hasn’t? Why didn’t you tell me, Reah? Stanford Lawrence…what a man. So Leslie Lawrence is your brother?”
“No,” said Reah, with an inexpressible feeling of sadness. “Leslie Lawrence is not my brother. I don’t have a brother. I’m Lesley Lawrence. My father christened me for the son he never had. Reah is my middle name and everyone calls me Reah. The newspapers got it wrong, but there was no point in correcting their story. My father was dead. What did it matter whether he had a son or a daughter?”
Ewart groaned, his hand to his forehead. “My God, no wonder you hate me. I understand now. I could never fathom why you disliked me so much. I know I’ve got a wicked sarcastic streak, but what had I done? We would be getting on well, then suddenly it was like a curtain coming down. You just shut off from me, and there was no way of getting through to you. It was driving me mad. I can only say that I’m sorry. Can you forgive me?”
“No, I can’t,” Reah cried with a rush of indignation. “I can’t forgive that way you hounded me, day and night, all those letters and phone calls. How could you be so callous? My father had only been dead a few days and you were already offering me money for his story.”
He caught her hand in a tight grip. “I know it must seem heartless to you, Reah, but truly time was important. I had admired your father for years. His war record, those long voyages alone, the time he drifted for days 4,000 miles from Cape Town without any provisions…I wanted to write about him. I didn’t want anyone else to get there before me and get the rights to his story.”
Reah’s anger spilled over. “He wasn’t a story,” she shouted. “He was a person, a man! You don’t sell a person. You don’t sell your dead father. How could you, when I was so distraught, so upset? All I got was letter after letter, insisting that I should do this, or do that.”
Flood Tide Page 9
