Endless Time

by Frances Burke

  Sybilla’s mother cut across the conversation with a shrill complaint that she had not a decent rag to her back. ‘Were it not for my whist party, I declare I should come with you, child. George is so skinflint, I scarcely dare show my face abroad; and for you my dearest child, he shows not a tittle of care, his pinching ways bidding fair to ruin your chance of forming an eligible connection. I had held such high hopes of this Christmas visit,’ she mourned.

  Looking at Antony’s cynical face, Karen thought: he’s heard it all before.

  She approved Sybilla’s quick disclaimer, and appreciated the control that allowed her to refute her mother’s obvious sponging without showing her in a poor light. Yet the shopping trip was clearly important enough for her to pursue the matter. When all three looked questioningly at Karen, she had no answer for them. Certainly her new body seemed well enough for such an arduous expedition, but the inherent social intricacies and other people’s expectations of her could bring trouble.

  Antony said impatiently, ‘Come, Caroline. Surely you can say whether or not you feel able for such an outing. Naturally I would wish you and Sybilla to do me credit, and you may call upon me for whatever sums are necessary to see you both comfortable.’

  Neither Sybilla nor her mother seemed to find any fault with this speech, with Sybilla sending him a warm look of thanks.

  Karen seethed, wishing she could throw his patronizing offer back at him. She could think of no valid reason to avoid the excursion and found herself committed to leave the house with Sybilla when they had lunched.

  Satisfied, Antony pulled the bell and sent for Miss Chloe and her nurse. Almost at once a little girl of about six entered the room, prodded from behind by an overflowing nanny figure in starched cap and apron. The child looked first at Antony, who silently indicated his aunt. With a sullen slowness the child moved across the carpet to curtsey to Lady Oriel, then, dismissed with a curt nod, sped to Sybilla for a kiss. Karen noted the fondness between them. Sybilla was clearly a favorite with the family.

  Interested, Karen waited for the child’s reaction to herself. It was disappointing. With wooden obedience she dipped and rose, then moved back to Sybilla, making her allegiance clear.

  ‘Chloe, your mama-in–law has been ill. It would be a politeness to enquire after her health,’ Sybilla gently reminded.

  The little lip stuck out mutinously.

  Sadly accepting the signs of dislike, Karen inspected her newest relative. Was a mama-in-law a stepmother, perhaps? She thought she detected a resemblance to Antony in the firm chin and straight nose; and the eyes, too large for the little pointed face, were very like his in shape and color. Pixie ears stuck out from the short, dark cap of hair, but the child’s thin body looked malnourished, although whether from lack of food or affection Karen couldn’t tell.

  Pain stabbed through her at the reminder of her own child. Adele, too, was slight and she knew all about the need for loving arms to run to.

  She wondered why this child wanted nothing to do with her. Had the obnoxious Caroline been jealous of her husband’s affections? Studying the wary little face, she realized that Chloe hated being in the room. She fidgeted and darted longing glances at the door where her nanny waited patiently. At least the nurse had a kind, if rather bovine face, thought Karen, but where did the child get her stimulation? Too young for a governess, at a guess; probably attended by servants, brought down for a daily quarter-hour with largely indifferent adults, as was the custom of the time - and miserably lonely most of her waking hours.

  Karen’s lips tightened as Chloe turned to her father, the small face anxious but ready to spring to life. He remained coolly unaware. Sybilla had withdrawn into a discussion of dress patterns with her mother, so Karen smiled and beckoned.

  ‘Chloe, would you like to come over here and tell me what you have been doing this morning?’

  Chloe scowled and pretended deafness. Only Antony noticed. His frowning glance bent on the child, who shrank back, looking with frightened eyes from her father to Karen.

  Appalled, Karen stood up, drawing attention to herself with a gasp. ‘If you will excuse me, I think I should go up and rest before lunch. I feel a little faint.’ She managed to sway on her feet.

  Sybilla ran to her, slipping an arm around her waist. ‘I shall go with you.’

  Nanny surged into the room and gathered up her charge, and Karen saw them go with relief. She noticed Antony’s intent gaze on her. What had she done now? Had he seen through her effort to protect Chloe? Well, what of it? He had no business bringing such a look to a child’s eyes. He was her father, for gosh sakes! You’d think he would show her some kindness. Had he perhaps disliked his first wife, and consequently, her child also? Was Chloe, in fact, his child? She wished she knew more of the family set-up. It was like inching her way through a minefield. The idea of peace and quiet upstairs, alone, began to appeal.

  Meeting Lady Oriel’s basilisk stare with a sweet smile of farewell, she allowed herself to be helped from the room.

  Antony turned aside in the entrance hall, remarking that he had an evening engagement and would not be in to dinner.

  ‘I shall not lunch at home, so may I wish you both a pleasant shopping expedition, ladies?’ He opened the door of his bookroom and stepped back hurriedly, almost knocked down by a dog rushing through.

  The spaniel headed straight for the stairs, and Karen, falling upon her with delighted doggy yelps. She backed off and found herself half-lying on the stair, her face being thoroughly licked.

  ‘Hey! You’re lovely, but you’re ruining my dress. Get off, you great mutt.’ Laughingly she fended the animal while trying to rise.

  Sybilla and Antony stood stunned. Eventually Antony pulled himself together and dragged the dog back firmly by the collar. His face still expressed blank astonishment as, with his free hand, he helped Karen to her feet.

  Brushing her muddied skirt, she said cheerfully, ‘That was quite a welcome. What’s his name?’

  She couldn’t miss the changed quality of the silence. Looking at Sybilla she saw amazement and something very like fear in her face. Antony’s expression could not be defined.

  He said slowly, ‘His name is Feathers. You have known him for twelve months under circumstances of mutual animosity.’

  While she tried to think of something to say, he added, ‘Can you tell me what happened on this very spot not a month since?’

  She just looked at him.

  ‘No? Then I shall refresh your memory. In some manner Feathers contrived to give offence and you struck him with your crop. He retaliated by biting you on the calf, a wound that required stitching, as I recall.’

  Without warning he released the dog, bent and raised the hem of her gown knee high, at the same time whipping down her left stocking. His hands were hard and bruising on her calf. She looked at the marks where broken flesh had healed.

  Sybilla gasped. ‘Oh, dear Heaven! She has lost her memory! Oh, Caro.’

  But Karen’s attention was on Antony. His eyes bored into her, lasers that stripped down her mind, determined to get at the truth.

  ‘Memory loss would explain many things. It does not account for Feathers’ extraordinary change in attitude. What has happened to you, Caroline?’

  ‘I told you. I’m not Caroline. I’m Karen Courtney, and I don’t belong in this century…’

  ‘Stop it!’ His hand flashed up, catching her jaw in a pincer grip. ‘No more lies. I want the truth from you. You were warned, and I will wait no longer for your explanation.’

  Fury burned in the gray-green eyes. He was dangerous, and she couldn’t satisfy him because he would never accept the truth. Karen tore his hand from her jaw and ran.

  The unexpectedness of her flight gave her a lead. She was at the front door before he moved. Behind her she heard Sybilla cry out and then a heavy thud and a curse. Risking a backward glance she saw Antony stretched full length and Feathers tugging at his coat.

  She flew down the steps and
across the pavement. The crescent garden opposite seemed vaguely familiar, but she did not pause in her headlong dash across the square. There she halted briefly. The buildings looked like an elaborate stage set – for a play by Sheridan, perhaps, or even the lighter side of Dickens. An elegant sweep of pale stone terraces, a railed-in park, smart equipages going by. Was it all a big charade, after all? Was she running into the wings, about to get a glimpse behind the scenery?

  The beginning of hope gave her an extra spurt of energy. Deaf to the shouts and running footsteps behind, she picked up her skirts and plunged ahead into the maze of old London.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Monday, December 3

  The room was small and cozy and dimly lit, the curtains drawn over windows closed against the din of a London street. There was little furniture. A desk with an empty chair behind it, a bulky adjustable lounge seat, another chair a few feet away, occupied by a figure in silhouette against the lamp. The contrived neutrality had a restful effect. The only spot of color was provided by a painting on the wall above the desk. Its magnetic qualities sucked in and swallowed the viewer, forcing him into another dimension of rifts and cloud canyons, of light beyond the normal spectrum – a place of peace, immediately recognizable yet curiously foreign.

  The lamp had been angled away from this disturbing picture. The two people occupying the room concentrated on each other.

  Tom Levy usually felt keyed up at this point with a new patient. He’d grown used to the fact, and not only masked it, but made sure his technique and attitudes remained unaffected. The thought of stepping into the unknown labyrinth of another person’s mind never failed to fill him with awe. He never knew quite what to expect.

  Valerie Winterhouse had shown promise of being more than a simple case of nervous debilitation, while failing to fit any other of the classifications of neurosis so freely used by professionals and public alike. She puzzled him. Something in her reached out strongly to him. He very much wanted to help her.

  For Tom, psychological counseling was more than a profession and livelihood. It had become a commitment to others, one he had made seven years ago upon graduation. He knew his life would be devoted to helping people understand themselves and their potential; and with insight into their needs he would take a stronger grasp on his own.

  In the soft glow of his desk lamp he studied the woman occupying the recliner. Lines of strain had smoothed from her face, leaving it peaceful. Her rather large shapely hands lay in her lap, heavy with precious rings. Diamond ear studs glistened in the fall of soft blonde hair. A surprising streak of pure white ran from each temple, hinting at a good ten years more than the face showed. Her lips were parted and her jaw relaxed as she breathed lightly and slowly. She was a long way under.

  ‘Valerie, do you hear me? If you hear me, raise one finger.’

  He waited. Slowly the index finger of her right hand quivered and lifted very slightly.

  ‘Thank you. You may lower the finger.’

  Again he waited while she complied. She was a good subject for hypnosis. The intelligent, nervy ones always were. He hoped with all his heart that he could help her.

  Other, more conventional methods had been ruled out from the start. Valerie had undergone several years of analysis in the States and, in her own words, she had now ‘had it up to here’. The end result seemed to have been a frightening slide into anger and depression as she refused to accept the help offered.

  He didn’t think she’d been honest with him. The amount of self-knowledge that must have come out of those years could not be denied, unless there was some overriding need to cancel it out. At least this way, with the hypnotic technique she had never permitted anyone else to try, he might be able to bypass her ever-vigilant ego and get to the real Valerie. God knew, she needed help of some kind.

  ‘Valerie, you know that everything I say to you is true. You can trust me implicitly. You are in safe hands. Just let yourself go, relax totally. I am going to count down from twenty, and as I count I want you to see yourself walking down a flight of stone steps into a beautiful garden. It’s warm and sunny, and as you move downward you will find yourself enveloped in the sights and sounds and smells of the garden. It's your garden, your sanctuary. When I have counted to zero you will be standing on the grass amongst the flowers. You will be totally at peace, deeply relaxed. Deeply relaxed. I’m going to start counting.’

  His voice, always deep toned, had taken on a soothing quality, enveloping the woman in a stream that carried her down through the layers of her mind to the profound pool of the sub-conscious. There he came to her as a friend, a confessor.

  ‘Valerie, why are you unhappy? What’s happening in your life to upset you?’

  Her breath rose and fell evenly, but a frown ridged the smooth forehead. When she spoke it was barely above a whisper.

  ‘Why does everyone hate me? I’ve never done anyone harm.’

  ‘Why do you feel that everyone hates you?’ Tom watched the trembling eyelids that indicated agitation.

  ‘They always have.’

  ‘When you were very young?’

  Valerie’s lips tightened. ‘My mother hated me. She never wanted a child. She even died to get away from me. All my husbands hated me, too.’

  Tom didn’t smile. The childish assertions came from a deep emotional level, and for Valerie they were truths.

  He waited a moment then said, ‘Hatred can be composed of many other emotions. You can’t hate someone without a strong connection. You say your husbands hated you. Did you love them?’

  ‘I despised them. They were weak. They married me for what I had, not what I am. Yes, in the end I hated them all.’

  ‘Tell me then, Valerie – do you love yourself?’

  ‘No!’ The loosened fingers tightened in her lap. Her long nails gouged the skin unmercifully. ‘I loathe myself! I’m a failure. Everything I touch goes wrong, no matter how hard I try.’

  ‘Why are you a failure?’

  ‘Because nothing I’ve done in my whole lifetime has been important or worthwhile. I’m a parasite.’

  ‘You are being very hard on yourself. Everyone has a spark of goodness, or divinity, if you like. In what way are you a parasite?’

  ‘I live off the wealth accumulated by my father. I’ve never done a solitary thing I didn’t want to do. Whatever came along, I’ve always thought – what’s in it for me? That’s total selfishness, isn’t it? Well, isn’t it?’ Her voice had risen and Tom quieted her, waiting until her fingers unknotted and she breathed evenly again.

  ‘Tell me why you came to London. Were you running away?’

  ‘What’s the use of running? You can’t escape yourself. I know. I’ve tried until I was damn near crazy. Maybe I am crazy. There are these voices. And I see people that aren’t there. I see weird pictures of places that couldn’t possibly exist. They’re hounding me. I can’t go to bed sober for fear of them and I can’t face the world in the morning without a slug to get me going. I’m scared I’m losing my mind!’

  ‘Listen to me, Valerie. You are not crazy. You’re tired and confused and frightened. Sometimes this makes you feel you’re out of control, but you’re not crazy.’ He could feel her anger pouring out in great waves, laced with fear. No wonder she felt out of control. Her lack of self-esteem fuelled both emotions, stoking her up until she had such a head of steam she feared either a complete blowout or derailment into madness. Either way she was headed for disaster.

  He noted her movements of distress. Her breathing rate had increased and she plucked at the neck of her dress.

  ‘Tell me what’s worrying you, Valerie?’

  ‘It’s like my dreams. I can’t get any air. I’m smothering.’ Her hands went to her face and she seemed to claw at something covering her mouth and nose. ‘Help me!’ Her body arched away from the chair. Her face filled with blood. A thick congested scream tore from her throat.

  Tom’s hands were on hers, holding gently but firmly. His voice was
louder, stronger, but still calm and smooth, swamping her fears with layers of reassurance, removing her from whatever pathway she wandered.

  He felt her begin to relax. He was getting through. When he felt she had calmed sufficiently he released her and sat back, still maintaining the flow connecting them on this deep level. Her color had returned to normal and she half smiled at something she saw. Hopefully she’d returned to the garden he had conjured for her.

  He began to search her memory, taking her back to the days of early womanhood, through high school and its traumas, back to the pony-worshiping days of childhood, all the time searching for clues to her own self-hatred.

  Her reaction to a stay in hospital at an early age looked promising, but eventually turned into a red herring. Philosophical about the lack of success in that area, he began suggesting to Valerie that she was growing older now and returning to her real, present age. As they progressed through the upward stages a small part of his mind went off duty. He looked at the clock, calculating the likelihood of leaving on time to meet Phil for a drink. He was looking forward to seeing him again and hearing what direction his work had taken over the past two years. Valerie had done enough this session. He thought she’d progressed in that she’d given him her trust, and next time he could probe a little deeper.

  A choked cry brought him back to total concentration. His patient’s hands were at her throat again in a protective gesture, and her face had changed immeasurably. He was looking at a different woman. The features had lengthened and darkened in some way. He had a queer feeling that beneath the closed lids her eyes were no longer blue, but dark, and wickedly knowing. Worse, he felt that contact between them had been broken. Valerie had gone off to a place where he couldn’t follow and help her.

  ‘Valerie! Where are you? Tell me what’s happening to you.’ She didn’t respond. He tried to regain control in every way he knew, gently authoritative, questioning, calming. Nothing he said reached her. With a shock he realized that her closed eyes had every appearance of looking straight through him at something only she could see. He even glanced over his shoulder to check.