Flood Tide

by Stella Whitelaw

  Ewart linked his arms loosely round her waist. She arched away from him but he was like a rock.

  “I didn’t know it was as bad as that, Reah. My agent had no instructions to bully you.”

  “Your agent?”

  “Yes. I wasn’t writing to you. It was my agent. I have an agent who sells my work, gets work for me. I asked him to get the rights from Stanford Lawrence’s son—Leslie Lawrence.” He paused thinking back to the actual moment. “I remember saying something like I wanted to do the play at all costs, but I meant at all costs to myself. I had so much on my plate, but I would do it even if it meant giving up something else, working day and night. He must have taken it to mean to get the rights at all costs. Perhaps that’s why he was so insistent.”

  He touched her chin with the merest thread of a caress. Reah felt the burden of hatred roll of her shoulders. She believed him.

  “What about the phone call in the middle of the night?” she faltered, but the anger had gone out of her voice.

  “My agent told me that you were refusing to answer our letters. I was desperate. So I telephoned. Unfortunately I was in New York and forgot it was after midnight. I seem to remember you hung up on me.” He chuckled.

  “You bet I did. I didn’t want to speak to you. And I never wanted to mention the subject again. That’s why I never told you who my father was,” said Reah, her eyes bright with tears. “This afternoon on the cliff, I had a k-kind of message. The sea was glittering and it was like Morse code…I thought about how I had lost my father and…and…”

  “No more,” he said gently, rocking her in his arms. “How very hard this had been for you. To bear alone. But you’re not alone any more. I am here.”

  He was touching her face with infinite tenderness, tracing the high line of her cheek bone, down to the soft trembling curves of her mouth. Reah felt herself yearning for his touch. He was bringing her alive.

  “Your father was one of the bravest men of his time. Take comfort from that; strength, determination, will-power. All his qualities.”

  She nodded. “He was on the North Atlantic run at the beginning of the war, an escort destroyer on convoy duty. He survived all that. Then the lonely long-haul sailing with so much danger every day. And he dies in a sudden squall off Shoreham. It doesn’t seem possible that he should live through so much then perish in some freak weather.”

  He heard the racking pain in her voice. It was unanswerable.

  “I don’t know the right words,” he said. “I don’t think they exist. But from what I’ve read about your father, I’m sure that a sudden squall was a preferable end to months in hospital or the inactivity of an old people’s home.”

  “It was a new sailing boat,” Reah went on. “It was a new design and he called it Reah. His enthusiasm for the boat was like an extension of loving me. I feel responsible…” Her voice trailed away.

  He pulled her roughly to him, his hands thrust through her hair, his cheek against her head. She could feel his body iron hard against her softer, yielding flesh.

  “Reah, Reah. You must start living. Your thoughts are dominated by the past. Life is what’s important. Life like this.”

  His voice was husky as his mouth came down on her lips, till her neck ached with the pressure. She was living for his touch, returning his ardent kisses; her body hungered for him. All her old anger turned into a melting desire.

  His fingers traced the fine line of her jaw, down her neck to the small hollow of her throat. He was bringing her alive with a gentleness that belied all the toughness of the man she once hated.

  Ewart put his arms under her knees and lifted her up into his arms. She felt her heart beating suffocatingly.

  “I don’t think I can carry you up those narrow stairs,” he said against her hair. “But that couch looks like heaven.”

  He laid her gently on the cushions, twining his arms round her and turning her face so that he could reach her lips. She wanted him so dreadfully; all sense had left her. She could no longer think coherently. All she wanted was to be loved and loved by Ewart, even if it was only this once.

  “Love me, love me…” she murmured wildly.

  She felt him push her away. There was air between them where before their bodies had been so close.

  He brushed her forehead with his cheek, lightly, softly.

  “Not yet, little one,” he said. “That was just a taste of things to come. I promise you.” He looked deeply into her eyes as he repeated those words. “I promise you, Reah. One day I will love you as no man has ever loved a woman.”

  Chapter Eight

  Supper was pleasant. Both Reah and Ewart were relieved from making a commitment they were not yet ready to make.

  Afterwards Ewart insisted that he saw her sketches.

  “I’ve already prepared the treatment,” he said. “That’s planning the number of scenes. Every time there’s a change of location, it means a new scene number, even if the shot is only a few seconds long.”

  Reah felt a thrill of excitement. “And you plan to use my sketches to link the scenes?”

  “I want a build up of tension leading to the disaster of the flood. Your little sketches stop the action, ask a question, make a statement, giving the viewer glimpses of what’s at stake.”

  “Have you started the writing?”

  He shook his head. “It was hopeless. Pneumatic drills, hammering, the phone. I had to get away. I need a few weeks alone, to work like fury, to write it all in one concentrated effort.”

  He left early, giving Reah a friendly kiss on the cheek as if those moments of passion had never been. She watched him walk away as she had so many times.

  She collected up the remainder of her sketches from the floor and put them away. Ewart had taken what he wanted. A cheque would arrive through the post. She would have her central heating before the winter came.

  Her head was beginning to ache. She knew it was tension. She had never expected to see Ewart again; now he would be living almost on her doorstep.

  Suddenly she remembered the package of Ewart’s clothes, laundered, pressed and ready for return. She ran to the cottage door and called into the dark.

  “Ewart, Ewart, come back.”

  But he was already out of earshot.

  That night she could not sleep, remembering Ewart’s warm body against her and his passionate kisses. She waited for morning to come, knowing that work was the only way to erase him from her mind.

  The Autumn term started and Reah went back to college.

  “Are you all right, Reah?” Miss Hardcastle’s broken wrist was still in plaster, cradled in a sling made from a folded silk scarf. She was carrying an awkward pile of registers under her good arm.

  “Let me take those,” said Reah. “Where to?”

  “My office. How do you like your new classes?”

  “Fine. Quite a mixed bunch this year but I’m sure they’ll soon shape up. And I want to try out some new ideas—if you don’t mind, Miss Hardcastle?”

  “You know I don’t interfere with your department. As long as you are not planning a series of murals on the conference hall walls.”

  “What a good idea,” said Reah with a twinkle. “I hadn’t thought of that.

  Southdean through the Ages—something like that?”

  “I think it might take some explaining to the governors.”

  It was dusk before Reah left college and was able to take the package of Ewart’s clothes down to the coastguard’s cottage. She walked along the Cuckmere river path, the wild fowl and migrating birds flocking for the night on the islands. The sea was pounding the shingle beach, the ozone fresh and invigorating.

  She would hand him the package and the cheque to cover her debts, then retreat quickly. He would not want to be disturbed.

  As she climbed the stony path to the red brick and stone cottage, she was unprepared for what she was about to see.

  Outside the cottage, parked on the rough road, was the gleaming maroon Alfa Romeo,
the car belonging to the Contessa Bianca Bernini.

  Reah stumbled, clutching the parcel to her breast. Her heart was thudding violently. The Contessa had followed Ewart. They were together now.

  Reah ran the last few yards, her head spinning, her vision blurred, feeling the way along the uneven path to the trellised porch. She put the package on the doorstep and fled.

  She did not know how she got back to Southdean, tears scalding her eyes, her thoughts wild and disturbed. She had been a fool. The famous Ewart Morgan had just felt sorry for her.

  The Alfa Romeo was the seventh wonder in the village for days. Reah got heartily sick of hearing about it.

  Everyone was talking about that “furrin car and that television chap”. It did not look as if Ewart was doing much work.

  Miss Hardcastle suspected that Reah had found more to her liking in Florence than its art treasures.

  “I’m going to have a party,” said Miss Hardcastle, as if she had been planning it for days, whereas she had just thought of it. “A thank-you to the people who have been so kind to me since I broke my wrist. There’s the ambulance men and that nice young doctor; the nurses at the hospital; the caretaker and his wife. You, of course. You were a tower of strength that afternoon. And there’s Ewart Morgan; he’s almost a neighbour now.”

  “Ewart? Why Ewart?” Reah interrupted. “He didn’t do anything to help.”

  “Only indirectly. After all, if he hadn’t invited you to London that day, you would not have called in here first with your sketches. I might have lain undiscovered for hours.”

  Reah felt prompted to say rubbish, but the look on Miss Hardcastle’s face forbade it.

  “Besides, he sent me lovely flowers when he heard about my accident,” Miss Hardcastle went on, with a twinkle in her eye. “I was very touched. What do you think about next Friday evening? Would that be a good time?”

  “He won’t come,” said Reah. “He’s writing his play. And he’s got a visitor.”

  “He can’t write all the time. He must take the odd hour off to recharge his resources.”

  “He’s recharging his resources all right,” said Reah in an aside.

  “I’ll write the invitations this afternoon. Would you be able to take his invitation after school?”

  Reah saw no way out. Miss Hardcastle would be offended if she did not turn up at the party. It would be ungracious not to do this small errand.

  After school Reah cycled down the rough lane to the coastguard cottages, the wheels juddering over the stony ground. She propped her bike against a bank and ran up the short path to the door. It opened and Ewart stood in the doorway.

  “I thought a juggernaut was approaching, or a Berman tank,” he said.

  He was in his shirt-sleeves. His hair was tousled and a five o’clock shadow darkened his grim jaw.

  “Where have you been?” he asked, catching her wrist. “I haven’t seen you for days.”

  “You’re supposed to be working,” said Reah.

  “I am working. That’s why I wanted you to call. I’ve no time to cook or eat. At least you could make me coffee.”

  “What a nerve,” said Reah. “Get your lady-friend to feed you. I’m sure she makes superb lasagne.”

  “Get in and fix some coffee,” he said, propelling her inside. “And don’t touch any paper. I know where everything is and I want it to stay that way.”

  The inside of the cottage was a sea of paper. Sheets of typing lay on every available surface. An armchair was drawn up to the fire with a rug thrown over it. He had not even been to bed.

  Reah put the invitation on the mantelpiece standing it against the clock. Spray spotted the windows facing the Channel and a loose sash cord rapped on the shutters.

  “Don’t forget to open it,” she said. “Miss Hardcastle would be hurt if you didn’t answer.”

  His eyes strayed to his typewriter. His work was already pulling him back.

  “Okay,” she sighed. “I’m a fool. I’ll make you some coffee.”

  Reah disappeared into the kitchen to clear up the chaos. It took a while till everything was to her satisfaction. It was dark now; the sound of waves crashing on the shingle below was loud and fearsome. She would not like to live so near to the cliffs.

  She made sandwiches and coffee then realised that the clatter from his typewriter had stopped. He had fallen asleep across the machine, his head cradled on folded arms. His face was turned towards her in the shadow, eyelashes like dark fans on his cheeks.

  “Ewart…Ewart,” she spoke softly into his ear.

  “Mmn?”

  “Stand up and come with me.” She put her arms round his waist and hauled him into a standing position. She held him against her, panting a little with the exertion.

  “This way,” she said in a schoolmarmish voice. “Come along now. Walk.”

  She hauled him across the room. He collapsed into the armchair almost taking Reah with him. She prised herself out of his arms and straightened up. He was sound asleep, sprawled over the chair, his head thrown back so that the dark hair of his chest showed at his unbuttoned shirt.

  Ewart’s face settled deeper into sleep, the tension disappearing. She eased off his sneakers and put his feet up onto a low stool. She fixed the old-fashioned fire guard in front of the glowing coals, hoping the room would keep warm for a few hours.

  She made a cheque out to Ewart Morgan, leaving the amount blank, and put it with the invitation, propped against the clock. Now she did not owe him anything.

  A terrible ache swelled inside her. She longed to have him sleep in her arms, his body folded against her, his head on her breast.

  She touched his hair gently. It was soft as she had known it would be. She moved the fringe out of his eyes, then, trembling, she bent and kissed him. All her love for him came into being and was recognised in that one sweet kiss on his sleeping face. She touched the tiny mole at the corner of his eye, then left.

  It was dark and blowy outside. She turned her bike into the tip of the wind and started to push it home. Her mind was in shattering confusion, knowing that she loved him.

  There might never be another day. She scarcely recognised landmarks she had known since a girl.

  Miss Hardcastle’s party created a minor clothes problem for Reah. Cocktail parties, even rural ones, were not the normal social scene in Southdean.

  Reah was almost resorting to a flying visit to the shops at Eastbourne when she remembered a length of flame-coloured tapestry she had bought to make new curtains for the sitting room and to re-cover the chairs.

  The night before the party Reah sacrificed the chairs and made herself a full, gathered skirt from the material.

  With her antique blouse, narrow gold belt and strappy bronze sandals, it was a flamboyant outfit.

  “This is such fun,” said Miss Hardcastle, who was wearing her prize-giving royal blue silk. “I can’t think why I haven’t done it before.”

  “Because you haven’t broken a wrist before,” said Reah.

  “Well, I shan’t wait until I break a leg to have another party. Perhaps there’ll be an engagement to celebrate, or something,” she added with a sly look.

  It had grown into a big party. Cook had produced trays of canapés, cheese and curry dips with raw vegetables for dipping, and a mouthwatering selection of tiny éclairs, rum babas and meringues.

  Reah was over by the window, talking to a school governor when Ewart arrived. She knew without turning that he was in the room.

  His eyes were raking over her. The gold leather belt showed off her slimness and she knew that her small breasts, now rising more rapidly, were too clearly defined against the fine lawn of the blouse.

  Suddenly he was at her side. She did not have to look.

  “Will you excuse us,” he said politely to Reah’s companion. “I have an urgent matter to discuss with Miss Lawrence.” He took her arm and Reah saw, with a moment of chilling apprehension, that Ewart was not in a party mood.

  She had nev
er seen him so angry, yet cold at the same time. His eyes were dark and menacing.

  “What the devil do you mean by this?” Her blank cheque was crushed in his hand.

  “It’s the money I owe y-you,” she stumbled over the words.

  “Every time I think we are beginning to get along you go and do some damned fool thing to spoil it.”

  “Me?” said Reah, indignantly, her wits returning. “I didn’t force myself into your room that night in Florence. I don’t remember tearing off your shirt or holding you down on the bed. That’s the kind of behaviour that spoils a relationship. Paying back owed money is hardly anti-social.”

  Miss Hardcastle appeared with two glasses of sherry.

  “This is a party, not an arena,” she said lightly. “If you want to fight, go out into the quadrangle.”

  Ewart was immediately contrite.

  “I’m so sorry, Miss Hardcastle, but there’s something about this obstinate young woman that sets my teeth on edge.”

  “And I find television celebrities quite impossible to talk to rationally,” said Reah, sipping the sherry quickly to calm her jangling nerves.

  “Then I suggest, Reah, that you go and talk to that nice young doctor from the hospital. Ewart, there are a couple of nurses longing to meet you. They seem to know all your plays.”

  Miss Hardcastle moved on, hoping she had defused the situation. It was possible that neither of them could see what was plainly obvious to her.

  “Nice-looking nurses,” said Ewart. “Feminine and womanly. I can’t bear skinny women, all bones and brains, ready to argue about everything.”

  “Drop a few names, and they’ll be swooning at your feet. I’m sure you know how. I shall enjoy meeting the doctor. People with worthwhile jobs interest me. Stringing together a few words of one syllable is hardly work.”

  Ewart was incensed. Reah knew she had gone too far again, but it gave her a heady surge of triumph. She wanted to hurt him.

  He turned on his heel, helped himself to an asparagus canapé and spent the rest of the party being extremely charming to everyone except Reah. He said not another word to her.

  Reah stayed behind to help clear up when the guests had gone. She did not notice Ewart leaving. Miss Hardcastle drifted around, feeling a little high on three glasses of sherry and the euphoria of a successful party.