Sweet Compulsion

by Woolf, Victoria

  He winked. 'Like my own brother! And, strictly off the record, did you know that Askew's cousin is one of the sub-contractors for the project here? He's doing the electrical side, or some of it. Saxtons have a number of local contractors signed up to work on this project. That's how they got the scheme through the planning stage so easily. Half the council have some sort of interest in seeing the work go ahead.'

  Marcy was horrified. But that's corrupt!'

  He grinned easily. 'You obviously don't understand how local government works. Look, most of those on the council are either local businessmen or professionals like teachers or accountants. They're interested in politics. They join the local parties, get elected to serve a term on the council. They go on doing their usual jobs. How do you separate council business from self-interest in that case? If a contract comes up, why shouldn't they apply? There's no evidence that the contracts weren't tendered for in the usual way, quite openly. There was no direct corruption. It's all very much a nod and a wink.'

  But Mr Askew is employed by the council,' she protested.

  `I don't say Askew himself has any reason for wanting the scheme to go through. Just that his cousin has a reason.' He gazed at her. 'You need advice. The council aren't going to accept your offer. They'll wriggle out of it somehow.'

  `Advice?' she asked dubiously.

  `A solicitor,' he said.

  `I can't afford one,' she said.

  `My brother Sim will help,' Russell told her.

  He brought Sim down to the house later that afternoon. 'It will be a pleasure,' Sim told her. 'I grew up in this human desert.' He looked around the garden, at the boys, hanging upside down like two-toed sloths from the apple trees; at the little girls seated demurely in makeshift houses fashioned from orange boxes, pouring imaginary tea from broken-spouted old teapots, or dressing dollies with flowers, while the work-party continued to build their ever-more ambitious obstacle course around the garden. 'I wish I'd had a place like this to come to,' he said.

  Sim was very elegant, his dark hair silvering at the temples, his lantern-jawed face wistful. 'You like kids ?' The question was a sigh.

  Later Russell told her, `Sim's wife Lisa won't have any kids. She has her career to think of . . .' He put a hand on his hip, assumed a haughty expression and sauntered up and down looking swan-like. 'Lisa is a model. You should hear what my mother has to say about Lisa! Mum had eight kids, five boys, three girls. Two of the girls died, one of the boys. So far none of the rest of us has provided Mum with what she thinks a Jewish mother has the right to expect! You ever seen a frustrated granny? Come and meet my mother. She suffers every time she sees a pram in the street. She'll make you weep with sympathy.' He gazed at her, looking suddenly anguished and furious at the same time.

  Russell had a gift for conveying character in a few words, acting the part of the people he talked about,

  making them come alive with a gesture, a look.

  He came with Lisa one morning, showing her the child-infested garden. Lisa looked at Marcy with slanting, dark, hostile eyes and kept her at a distance.

  Russell went to see the council with Marcy. They had gathered in a high-ceilinged council room to see her. They pleaded, argued, descended to threats, but Marcy was firm.

  `They were all against me,' she said later to Russell.

  `That was only a committee,' he told her lightly. `Wait until the full council debates your offer. Then we'll see fireworks. Our editorial will come out before the meeting., The left will swing to your side—wait and see. Meanwhile, I'm trying to get the telly people interested.'

  The television cameras came down to film next day. They were there all day, but that night there was only two or three minutes of film shown. Wesley's banana grin and Marcy's vitality made an impact all the same. Letters and offers of help began to pour in—she found herself famous overnight, the house besieged by journalists.

  The council meeting was set for a date on the following week. Russell and Sim assured her that the council was deeply divided over the issue. If they accepted her offer, they would have to finance the upkeep of the house and playground for ever. If they turned her down and she sold to Saxton's, it would be unpopular with the local people, but the businessmen of the borough would be delighted.

  `You can see their dilemma.' Sim said reasonably.

  Their picketing of the Town Hall had been highly

  publicised. Russell seemed ecstatic over it, but Marcy felt unhappy. The simple issue of a place for children to play had become clouded in her mind. She hated the stares, the newspaper stories, the television cameras. She was delighted when, after an hour or two, she found herself at last alone in the garden. The children were at school. The summer holidays had not yet begun. For a while she had the house and garden to herself.

  When Randal Saxton walked in among the bleached grass he found her hanging from a branch of one of the apple trees by one hand, trying to tie a knot in a rope with the other, her jeans-clad legs hitched around a rubber tyre for support.

  She looked down as he came to stand below her. Their eyes met obliquely through the crook of her arm.

  She saw a striking man of thirty or so, crisp dark hair faintly tinged with silver, blue eyes glinting up at her in sunlight, features sculpted in austere lines like a crusader on a tomb, until he smiled, when his eyes danced in mockery and he seemed a totally different man.

  He saw a grubby ragamuffin with a tousled, windswept mop of bright hair and a curling, triangular smile.

  Taken off guard, she unwarily let go and fell. He caught her as she did, tumbling backwards at the impact, and they rolled over on the grass. For a moment, he was quite winded.

  Then he opened his eyes. She sat up, away from him, and began to laugh.

  Behind her head the sun dazzled like a halo, turning her hair to fiery gold. Randal stared, feeling as if his eyes were stretching to their limit

  He had a curious, flashing image of a picture from an old fairy story book; his favourite when he was a boy. There had been a princess seated in a garden looking at a green frog which held a golden ball in its mouth. The princess had had golden curls and a radiant, heart-shaped face.

  `Have I crushed your ribs to smithereens ?' she asked, giggling.

  He didn't answer. He couldn't. He was afraid to speak. A breathless excitement held him in a spell, and he had to fight against an impulse which amazed and terrified him—a desire to grab her by her thin shoulders and kiss her ruthlessly.

  `Do say something,' she begged, faltering. 'You haven't really broken something, have you ?'

  He forced a smile. Somehow his lips parted and words came from his tongue. 'No, of course not. I'm just flattened a bit, that's all.'

  She laughed. 'You aren't a reporter, are you ?' looking at his extremely elegant, well-cut suit, his air of authority. 'Or from the council?'

  `Neither,' he assured her. 'My name is Randal . . . `Well, Mr Randal,' she interrupted before he had finished, 'What are you doing here ?'

  He looked at her in dumbfounded silence, then on another wild impulse, he said, 'I wondered if I could help in any way.'

  `Help ?' She smiled. 'Well, that's very kind, but there isn't much you could do at present, Mr Randal.'

  I could buy you lunch,' he said lightly.

  She looked taken aback, then grinned. 'Why should you ?'

  `Well, you could buy me one,' he said. 'After all, you did almost crush me to smithereens.'

  Marcy looked ruefully at him, turned out her empty pockets. 'I'm stony broke today. You see, my allowance is spent. I get it on the first of the month and this is right at the end.'

  `Then let me buy you lunch,' he offered. 'You must eat something.'

  `Oh, I've got some bread and some cheese,' she said cheerfully. 'You're welcome to share that.'

  `I was thinking of something more substantial,' Randal said with a smile.

  `Fish and chips ?' Her mouth curved upward. `Don't tempt me. I adore them.'

  Randal
hesitated, swallowing. He had been intending to drive her back into the West End to eat at some more customary haunt. Then his blue eyes dwelt on her denims and he grinned. 'Come along, Eve,' he said. 'Let the serpent tempt you with a plate of fish and chips.'

  He had parked his car discreetly in the Town Hall car park. They walked along Albert Street, therefore, to the fish and chip shop at the far end, where a few tables were set out in the steamy atmosphere. Plastic tablecloths, huge salt shakers and vinegar bottles, fly-blown calendars on the wall . . . Randal stared at them with dismay before he followed her slight figure inside.

  They were, as yet, the only customers, and were

  served brightly by a young woman with dark red lipstick, dark red nails and a peasant-style dress. Marcy seemed to know her. Randal paid, returning the curious, admiring smile from the young woman with a polite smile of his own. Then they carried their plates to one of the tables.

  `Fantastic,' Marcy breathed, gazing at the golden curl of fish. 'I'm ravenous !'

  Randal gingerly started to eat and was surprised to find himself enjoying the food. 'Very good,' he said, and received a grin.

  `First time you've ever done any slumming ?' she asked him bluntly. 'Who are you, really, Mr Randal? What are you really doing down here ?'

  CHAPTER TWO

  `MORE to the point,' he said gravely, 'who are you ? Who gives you your allowance, and are you really living in that decaying mausoleum ?'

  Marcy liberally salted her chips with one of the huge shakers. Her green eyes twinkled at him over the table. 'I noted the change of subject,' she said. 'We'll get back to you later. As for my allowance, it comes from my father.' She ate a chip. 'Who is dead,' she added regretfully.

  `I'm sorry. Were you very close ?'

  She shook her head. Worse—very distant. We both meant well, which makes it sad, don't you think? That we never got closer than shouting distance, I mean? He was so old for a father, and he didn't begin to understand our generation. He wanted to love me, I'm sure of that, but there was all that between us half a century of life for him, and things had all changed so much without his ever understanding why.'

  `Your mother ?'

  She sighed again. 'The same. She was forty-three when I was born. They died in a car crash, together, last year.'

  `What other family have you got ?' Randal watched her over the table with half-closed eyes that traced the bright fall of hair from her pale forehead, the tender

  pink mouth, the surprisingly determined jawline.

  `None,' she said. The sound had a poignant ring. She was clearly aware of it, for she lifted her eyes to his face with a little shake of her shoulders, as if forcing herself out of that mood. 'As to why I'm at Campion House, I imagine you know all that—the publicity has been horribly thorough. I think the whole world knows what I eat for breakfast and where I buy my jeans. I never knew reporters could be so tenacious.'

  He laughed. 'Like bloodhounds,' he agreed. 'Impossible to shake them of once they're on the scent.'

  `Russell tells me I need them, though,' Marcy added wistfully.

  `Russell ?' He put down his knife and fork, surprised to find that he had eaten his meal to the last crisp golden chip.

  He works on the local paper. He's been very helpful to me since all this started.' Again he caught a definite echo of unspoken feeling and he watched her curiously. How vulnerable and transparent her face looked, he thought, and an unexpected surge of protective sympathy filled him.

  `You sound a little doubtful about him,' he observed.

  `Do I?' She looked taken aback, then grimaced, her nose wrinkling, in a childish, charming gesture. `Well, I am, as it happens, though I can't imagine how you guessed.' She looked at him, eyes wide. 'Are you psychic ?'

  `You have a very expressive face,' he told her. `Really ? How alarming! I've never been told that

  before, and I don't know that I like it. It makes me feel . . .' she shrugged, lifting her slender shoulders in a violent movement, 'insecure.'

  He waited a moment, then pressed her, 'Why are you doubtful about Russell?'

  `I'm not sure. I feel guilty, suspecting him . . `Of what ?'

  `That's just it—I have no reason to suspect him of anything, and even if he has been . . . well, helping me for his own ends, I have no reason to complain, because really, without his help I wouldn't have known where to begin.'

  He patiently unravelled this congested remark. `What ends do you think he has been furthering?'

  `His own career, I suppose,' she sighed. 'It's helped him to make his name known in Fleet Street, and Russell is very ambitious.'

  `It must have made him a fortune, as well,' murmured Randal. 'The story has had world coverage—you've been defying a multi-national corporation, you know. Other countries have an interest in what's been happening here.'

  Marcy glanced at him quickly, her green, eyes narrowing. 'You sound very authoritative.'

  The cool eyes surveyed her wryly. `Do I ? I've had personal experience in the field.'

  `You've come up against Saxton & Company?' Her tone held astonishment. 'How ?'

  He took his time in replying, his voice careful. 'I'll tell you all about it some time. Go on with what you were saying about this Russell. How about this advice he's been giving you? Has it always been sound?'

  Her brow wrinkled in thought. 'Yes. Yes, I think it has.' She gave him a rueful grin. 'The trouble is, I don't know. I'm really very inexperienced at this sort of thing. I don't even know what it is I don't know.'

  `Sounds complicated,' he murmured, his mouth denting humorously. But at your age that isn't so surprising.'

  `Yes, Grandfather,' she said demurely, the bottle-green eyes smiling teasingly at him through those incredible lashes, and he laughed back at her.

  `You,' he said softly, 'are a very impudent child,' and knew that her age was something he suddenly resented. Pushing the thought away, because Randal had the ability to concentrate with great tenacity when he wished to do so, he asked, 'Is Russell your chief source of support?'

  `Russell and his brother Sim,' she nodded. `Tell me about Sim,' he invited.

  `While I do,' she said cheerfully, apparently not in

  the least surprised by his catechism, 'do you think we could have another cup of tea? I'm parched.'

  He turned to ask for one, but she hissed, 'You'll have to go up and get it. This is strictly self-service.'

  Wryly, Randal went up to the counter and returned, slightly flushed, a little taken aback by the ardent glance of the girl who served him. Marcy watched as he carefully placed the cups on the table, her lips curved in an amused smile.

  `Sharon really fancies you, doesn't she ?' she enquired lightly.

  `Is that her name ?' Randal asked faintly irritably. `She's certainly uninhibited.'

  Marcy grinned. 'What did she say to you?' She had watched a faint tide of red creep up his neck as Sharon gazed at him.

  `She said you were too young for me, and I would find her more satisfactory,' he said, quite deliberately, his blue eyes watching for signs of embarrassment.

  Marcy giggled. 'From what I've heard about her, I've no doubt she understates the case,' she said, her eyes dancing.

  `You're quite the most peculiar girl I've ever met,' he said with a look of incredulity. 'I think you must have missed her point,'

  `I doubt it,' Marcy said cheerfully. 'She's quite nice under all that stuff she slaps on her face, but she calls everything by its proper name. In this district, they do, you know. The language I've heard would have made my mother's hair curl.'

  `It doesn't bother you ?' A frown crossed his face, making him suddenly as austere as a carved statue.

  `No,' she said calmly. 'The people here have a warmth and honesty I respect. That's what I'm fighting for.'

  `Which brings us back to Sim,' he said, sipping his tea.

  `He's a solicitor,' said Marcy. 'It was his idea to get a preservation order on the house. He roped in the local conservation group—t
hey were as keen as mustard, because, frankly, there isn't much around here worth conserving. Even the air is polluted.'

  `Have you ever considered the case from the other side ?' he asked quietly.

  `I've heard it,' she said flatly. 'Endlessly, from a

  long string of hired trouble-shooters from Saxtons. I suppose you're one of them, Mr Randal ?'

  Their eyes held over the table. His face was expressionless, the cold blue eyes surveying her in sudden assessment, as if they were duellists about to commence fighting.

  `In a way,' he admitted, sharply observing her every fleeting expression.

  She nodded, apparently unsurprised. 'I didn't think you'd just wandered in by chance,' she said coolly. She drained her cup and stood up. 'Thanks very much for the fish and chips—I enjoyed them. Tell your bosses the answer stays the same.' A gleam in the green eyes caught his breath. 'I'm not to be seduced even by fish and chips with their best looking executive.'

  He rose, an odd smile on his hard mouth. 'Do you think I am?' he asked softly. 'I assure you, that was not why I came.'

  But you haven't told me why you came,' she pointed out, shrugging her thin shoulders. 'I have to put my own construction on your arrival.' She moved out of the fish shop and he followed her.

  `Will you have dinner with me tonight ?' he asked as they stood on the windswept, dusty pavement.

  `What? Eat like that twice in one day? I'll get fat,' she retorted lightly.

  `I was thinking of somewhere a little more . . .' His blue glance wandered distastefully over the neighbourhood, the corrugated fences, the peeling paint-work on the shops, the scraps of paper littering the

  road. 'Romantic . . .' he ended, turning back to look at her.

  Her brows lifted derisively. 'Romantic, Mr Randal? My God, is seduction on the agenda, after all ?' The marmalade curls shook with amusement. 'You tempt me, but no, I'm afraid the strain would be too much for me and I would end up laughing myself sick. When Saxtons want something, they try every avenue, don't they ?'