Sweetheart, Sweetheart

by Bernard Taylor

  My thoughts now were interrupted as Reese put his head round the door and called to me. I laid down the outdated Sunday Times colour supplement back on the coffee table and went in to him.

  “Oh, yes, that’s fine,” he murmured with satisfaction as he examined my arm. Then, while I averted my eyes he began to remove the stitches. I could feel him snipping at them, deftly pulling them out. “I understand you’ve got a visitor,” he said, and I glanced at him and saw that his eyes were smiling.

  I shook my head. “My God, word here travels faster than Western Union.”

  “A friend of yours from America, so I understand.”

  “She­lagh, her name is. She­lagh O’Connell. Twenty-five years old, a hundred and twelve pounds, five foot five, eyes of blue.”

  “You forgot to say what kind of toothpaste she uses.”

  “Mine.”

  He grinned. He was swabbing my arm, studying the scar. I said:

  “I saw what was left of my brother’s car. It was such a mess. I never realised before just how hard he must have hit that tree. How could he have had such a crazy accident?”

  He shrugged. “What can I say? That’s what it was. What else could it have been?”

  I didn’t want to face Jean Timpson until I’d fully decided how to tackle the situation. For the moment I had no idea how to go about it.

  Standing in the hall on my return I could hear her at her work in the kitchen. I turned away from the sound, went into the living-­room where She­lagh put Girlie down and came towards me.

  “How is it . . . ?” She examined the fierce red scar for a moment, then said, “It’ll fade.” As I sat down in my armchair she added in a near-whisper:

  “Jean’s been so sweet to me while you’ve been out. Her basic trouble is her shyness. That’s all. We had quite a long chat. Poor thing—she feels so bad about that ice-cream.”

  The ice-cream . . . And suddenly the words I had found scratched in the earth took on a whole new, quite sinister connotation. Yet surely she wouldn’t go that far . . . But the thought preyed on my mind. I hardly listened as She­lagh went on talking.

  “Did you know that she’s something of a horsewoman herself?—Jean? So we have something in common. She didn’t tell me about it, though. Mrs. Stoner did . . .”

  . . . I was seeing again that thin, razor-sharp sliver of glass in She­lagh’s palm, her palm stained with her blood . . .

  “Apparently,” She­lagh went on, “Jean worked at the stables when she was younger. She left, though; her dad went up there one day and created a fuss about one of the guys who worked there . . .” She went on talking, but I was absorbed in my own thoughts. How anxious, I wondered, was Jean Timpson to have She­lagh gone? The ice-cream had come in a plastic tub with a lid that just pulled off. It would have been the easiest thing in the world for someone to have pushed in the glass, smoothed the ice-cream over again and replaced the lid . . . Did she resent She­lagh’s presence enough to do such a crazy thing? Was she capable of doing it . . . ?”

  “David,” She­lagh said, “you’re not listening to a word I’m saying.”

  “I’m listening. I’m listening already . . .” And I was still wondering how anybody could put glass into someone else’s food . . . The thought made me shudder . . . “You were talking about Jean working at the stables,” I said.

  “I’d finished with that ages ago.” She came to me, placing her hands on my shoulders. “You’re in a strange mood. What are you thinking about?”

  “Nothing important.” I shook my head.

  “Something’s up. I can read you like a book.” She moved to the piano. “You need soothing . . .” She lifted the lid and struck a loud chord. “A little music to soothe the savage beast.”

  “To soothe the savage breast.” I laughed. “It’s breast.”

  “I’d never use such a word,” she said primly, and began to play Home on the Range.

  I barely spoke to Jean Timpson as she served us at dinner. I just found it too difficult. I don’t know whether she noticed my reticence, but She­lagh certainly did. And I think she tried to make up for it.

  “Leave the washing-up,” she said to her. “We’ll do it.”

  “Oh, no . . . that’s all right.”

  “I insist,” She­lagh said. “David and I will do it. You go on home.”

  Jean Timpson turned her gaze to me, wavering, uncertain what to do. I nodded, only half looking at her.

  “Yes, you go on home. We can do it.” I suddenly wanted her gone; I wanted never to see her again.

  “Oh, well, if you’re sure . . .”

  “Quite.”

  Her eyes flicked directly to mine from a moment, then moved aside again. “Well . . . thank you . . . I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon . . .”

  Minutes later, after she had gone, She­lagh said:

  “What was all that for?”

  “All what?”

  “With her—Jean. You sounded so sharp. Almost angry. Didn’t you see the way she looked at you? Is there something wrong?”

  “. . . No. It’s just been a long day . . .” I got up from the table. “Come on. Let’s get the dishes done.”

  As she washed the china I methodically dried and stacked it. All the time I was making a positive effort to be cheerful, not to give away any hint that there was anything on my mind. But I couldn’t stop the thoughts from creeping in. Tomorrow, I had determined, I’d see Jean Timpson and make some excuse so as not to have her back again.

  “That’s about it . . .” She­lagh shook water from her hands. “I’ll just get the ash-trays.” She went out of the room, I dried the last plate then recapped the washing-up liquid and replaced it on the shelf over the sink. As I drew back my hand my fingers brushed the jar of hand-cream and it fell with a dull crash onto the tiles.

  I was crouching over the mess of thick white cream and shattered glass when She­lagh came back into the room. “What happened?” she asked.

  “I owe you for a new jar of hand-cream.” I could hear the stiffness in my voice.

  “Oh, well, never mind.”

  Taking an old newspaper I got the mess onto it, then wadded up the paper and threw it into the trash can. As I wiped the floor clean I could feel my heart racing. I looked up at her and she turned in that same moment and saw my face.

  “David . . . what’s the matter?”

  “Is something the matter?” I forced a smile. “Nothing’s the matter.”

  Nothing’s the matter, I had told her. And I saw her again as she had been that morning, taking the lid off the jar, shoving her fingers into the cream. Had I not broken it she’d be doing the same thing just seconds from now.

  Nothing’s the matter, I had said. I wouldn’t tell her that along with all that mess of cream and broken glass I had found two double-edged razor-blades.

  17

  “Are you sure you feel well enough to go riding today?” I asked She­lagh over breakfast. She had awakened again in the night, crying out, clutching at me, and it had been some time before she could be persuaded to go back to sleep.

  “Really, darling,” she said to me now, “I feel perfectly fine. And I’ll feel better still having a good long ride over the hills. Be marvellous.” She paused. “Why don’t you come with me?”

  “Riding?”

  “Yes. It wouldn’t make any difference.” She meant my leg. “They could find you some quiet old nag who’s on the point of going to the knacker’s yard; one who couldn’t manage more than a slow trot.”

  “No . . . really . . .”

  She put a teaspoon of honey into her mouth, then offered some to me. I shook my head.

  “It’ll set you up,” she said.

  “No . . . it’s too sweet . . .” And I immediately thought of the ice-cream. I had told Jean Timpson that I never ate ice-cream. There was never a chance that that sliver of glass could have got into my mouth . . .

  “Now what’s wrong?” She­lagh asked.

  I stared at her for a
second, then said:

  “Marry me, She­lagh.” I loved her. I wanted to keep her safe. Safe. “Please marry me.”

  “I was wondering,” she said, returning my gaze, “when you were going to bring that up again. I’ve been giving it some thought.”

  “Oh . . . ?”

  “I’ve realised that most of the trouble before was a failure on my part. I just didn’t understand what was going on. All your—moods and—depressions. See, I understand it now. All that stuff with you and Colin—why you were like you were all that time. You know . . .” she gave a little, slow nod, “you’re much stronger than I thought. Oh, I know you’re upset still, and confused—but you have a certain—strength about you. Yes . . . I see you differently now.”

  “So what are you saying . . . ?”

  “I’m saying, yes, let’s get married, dummy.” She grinned. “If you still want to.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She laughed. We leaned across the table to one another, kissed, and I could taste the lingering tang of honey on her mouth. A breeze from the open window brushed her hair against her face. The window flapped against the frame and I got up to secure it. She came over to me.

  “When?” she said.

  “Well, let’s find out.” My smile sounded in my voice. “I’ll phone the nearest register office.”

  Half-an-hour later we were heading for Millingford, a little town about five or six miles away. For the second time I patted my pocket, checking that my birth certificate and passport were safe; I probably wouldn’t need both but the registrar had said that I must furnish the necessary documents so I was playing safe.

  “You’ve got your passport, all right?” I asked She­lagh.

  “Yes, I’ve got it. And just to be sure, I’ve also brought my driver’s licence, my Blue Cross Insurance card, my Social Security card and my Mickey Mouse Club badge.”

  She was playing safe too.

  “Good girl,” I said. “So we’re all set.”

  “All set.”

  When our arrangements were made we were all set for Saturday morning at eleven. My smile kept coming back.

  Returning to the cottage, She­lagh changed into her blue jeans and a light-coloured shirt. “I thought you had to wear jodhpurs and all that stuff,” I said.

  “Mrs. Stoner’s got some gear she said she’ll lend me.” She slung her canvas bag over her shoulder.

  “I’ll walk with you down the hill,” I said. “I want to call in and see Jean Timpson.”

  “Are you going to tell her?”

  “Oh—about us, you mean . . .”

  “Of course. What else is there?”

  The thought of Saturday, our wedding-day, filled me with happiness, but the thought of an imminent encounter with Jean Timpson filled me with dread. I knew what I wanted to say, but wasn’t sure how I’d get it said. Still, it had to be done.

  We left the house and walked down the hill together. When we got to where the road bent round towards the village she kissed me on the cheek, said, “See you soon,” and went on her way. I watched her for a while then turned into the lane that led to Timpson’s house.

  There were several houses along the lane and at first I had no idea which one was theirs. But then I saw Jean’s old blue pram parked in a garden and I let myself in at the front gate and walked up the narrow path with the neat flower beds on either side. At the front door I steeled myself then let fall the heavy doorknocker. The door was opened by the old man.

  “I saw you coming up the path,” he said, ushering me in. “I’m afraid you’ve missed Jean. She won’t be back for a while.”

  I felt a great feeling of relief at his words—a temporary reprieve. Foolish, though—I was only having the unpleasantness delayed.

  He gestured to the table where I saw the remains of ham, cheese and bread laid out. “I’m just finishing off me dinner afore I get back up to the farm . . .” He paused. “I’ve just made some tea if you’d like a cup.”

  Thank you, I told him, but I couldn’t stay long—and remained standing there, in silence, while the tension I had built up lessened, to lie simmering just below the surface.

  “You want to leave any message?” he asked.

  I grasped the chance, coward to the last. “Yes, thank you. I’ll leave her a note if you don’t mind.”

  He nodded towards an old desk in the corner. “You’ll find paper and stuff there.” He sat down before his interrupted meal. “If you’ll excuse me I’ll get on . . .” I nodded, “Of course,” and moved eagerly to the desk.

  I was so glad of the cop-out he had given me. And I hated myself for being glad. But even as I took up the pen I was able to tell myself that I was only doing the logical, sensible thing. The only thing.

  On a small, cheap-papered writing-pad I wrote, after a few moments’ thought:

  Dear Jean,

  Now that my arm is quite better again and I am quite able to look after myself—and also since She­lagh will be staying with me until we return to New York I have to tell you that there is really no further need for you to spend your time helping us as you have so kindly been doing. I am enclosing a little money which will reimburse you for anything you have spent on our behalf and also pay you for your generous help.

  Many thanks.

  I read it over. It was so badly done, so crudely done. But it got the message across. I signed my name to it, hovered another second over its curtness and then put it in an envelope together with more than enough money to cover anything I might owe her. Then on the front of the envelope I wrote her name.

  “All right?” the old man asked with his ingenuous smile. I nodded, yes, and he held out his hand and I put the envelope into it. “Depend on it,” he said, “she’ll get it as soon as she comes in.” He put the envelope beside him on the table.

  I thanked him, took a step away, preparing my departure. I couldn’t cope with the warmth in his face. “Give me a few more days,” he said, “and I’ll be through at the farm and be able to come up and give you a hand.”

  I thanked him again. I felt such a hypocrite. In half-an-hour he’d find out I’d just fired his daughter. I could only hope that he’d take the letter at its face value.

  “You’re the one who ought to be thanked,” he said. I looked at him in surprise and he nodded his short-cropped head. “It’s meant a lot to our Jean, being able to come up and see you; to have somebody else to look after apart from me. It’s good for her too, to be with younger people, and to feel . . .” he paused, “. . . needed.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say. I stood there with one hand reaching up to the doorhandle.

  “She’s been telling me about your young lady. She­lagh, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “She sounds—well—a very nice young lady.”

  For no reason at all, I said, “She’s gone off riding.”

  He nodded again, smiled, and turned, gazing from the window. “I’m glad Jean goes up to see you. She needs friends, people she can trust. The folks in the village—they’re no good to her.” He twitched at the sleeve of his shirt. “Some people won’t let up on the past, that’s their trouble. Won’t let a body forget. Even some of the folks she’s known all her life. Funny how people can change. And it hurts. Of course it do. It’s because they don’t understand. She don’t say nothing, but you can see it hurts . . .

  “I expect,” he added, turning to me, “you’ve heard about it. You’d be bound to in this place.”

  I wanted to say, I’m a stranger here; people haven’t told me very much about anything . . . but I just shrugged, noncommittal.

  “Oh, ah, no doubt.” He shook his head. “They think they know the truth, and that’s as far as they want to go.” He sighed, looked away again. “That’s why she left here in the first place. I knew what talk would do to her. That’s why she stayed in Marshton Ridge long after she—after she lost her babby. That took a good bit of gettin’ over, that did, I don’t mind tellin’ you. Some women take
it specially hard, something like that. But she began to pick up, in time. And then when she got the job there—with those well-off people—well, she started to do just fine.” He paused, looked at me earnestly. “I’m only telling you all this because—well, to get it straight, sort of. Like I said, you’ve been kind to her. She likes you. She trusts you. So it’s as well you know the truth about how it was with the boy—rather than believe what you might hear elsewhere.”

  Not understanding, I said, “Yes . . .”

  “I don’t know why that should have to happen,” he went on. “Four years she looked after him without a speck of trouble. And then it was all over in seconds. Well, there was talk then. You couldn’t get away from it.” His mouth looked resigned; it matched the sadness in his voice. Surprisingly there was no trace of bitterness there. “She suffered,” he said. “There was no living with her, my sister said, and that’s a fact. You could see what was going to happen. A couple of years later on, when she came back to me, she was all right, but—but different . . .” He looked into my eyes, as if trying to make me understand. “Quieter. She was—deeper inside herself. More . . . private.” He gave an ironic smile. “They do say as time heals all wounds, but meself, I ain’t so sure.”

  Silence went by, marked off in seconds by the solemn tick of the grandfather clock. Into the quiet he said, his smile growing warmer:

  “You wouldn’t believe the difference it made when your brother came here and married Miss Helen. And once he was here, well, the other one, he didn’t hang around very long—and Jean was glad about that. She suddenly got an interest in life again. And she was that excited about the baby coming. You can imagine how she felt when it all—ended, but . . . well, anyway, now you’re here, with your young lady—even if it is only for the summer. And I can see the change in her. She’s getting more like her old self every day.”

  I couldn’t see straight for my convoluted thoughts and emotions. Was I wrong about her? I thought of her melancholy, shy face topped with the bow of coloured ribbon. I pictured her coming home, finding the note I had left for her. She needs friends, he had said, people she can trust. And she trusted me. I remembered how she had told me of the time when Colin had sent her away. Here was I, doing exactly the same thing, but less courageously.