Follow Thy Desire

by Anne Mather

  It didn’t help when Morgan kept her waiting almost ten minutes only to find that the restaurant was closed and the bar already full to overflowing with people wanting snacks.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Morgan as they came out into the wintry afternoon again. ‘I got held up at the bank.’

  ‘The restaurant would still have been closed,’ replied Helen tartly, and then, realising she was being shrewish, she added: ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘I suppose we could go somewhere else,’ he suggested thoughtfully, hands thrust into the pockets of his coat. ‘Or should we just—forget it?’

  Helen’s heart gave a curious lurch at his words. ‘Oh, no,’ she found herself saying desperately. ‘We can go somewhere else. We could even buy some food and have a picnic by the river…’ But as if to destroy even this nebulous suggestion, a few spots of rain blew into their faces.

  Morgan turned his face up towards the lowering skies. ‘No picnic’ he said ruefully, looking down at her again. ‘Perhaps we’d better try somewhere else.’

  Most of the popular eating places were crowded, and Helen didn’t much fancy sharing a table with a crowd of students. Morgan was beginning to look weary of the whole idea, and almost without considering the ethics of the situation, she said: ‘Let’s buy some food and take it to the flat. I was going there anyway this afternoon.’ And as her face betrayed the sudden guilt that swept over her, she added defensively: ‘You’d like to see where Barry and I are going to live, wouldn’t you?’

  Morgan hesitated, a frown creasing his brow. ‘That’s not really the point, is it?’ he asked. ‘What is Barry going to say when he finds out?’

  ‘Barry’s not my keeper,’ she retorted indignantly. ‘But if you don’t want to go—’

  ‘It’s not that,’ he muttered, and then, as if a pain had suddenly made itself unbearable, he nodded, raking back his hair with an impatient hand. ‘Why not?’ he agreed shortly. ‘How do we get there?’

  Helen almost lost her nerve, but she managed to say quite coherently: ‘My car—is parked on that lot near the river. We can go in that.’

  ‘Where is the flat?’

  ‘Gainsborough Crescent.’

  ‘Gainsborough Crescent.’ She could see him trying to place the vaguely familiar name. ‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘I know it. But my car—or rather my stepmother’s—is nearer. We can buy what we need on the way there.’

  ‘All right.’ Helen had no objections. No one in Gainsborough Crescent would recognise Mrs Fox’s yellow Volkswagen, whereas her blue Mini might incite attention.

  Morgan bought some eggs and cheese and butter, and some rolls still warm from the oven. He also added a bottle of wine to the steadily increasing load in Helen’s basket, and then they made their way to where he had left the car.

  ‘You drive,’ he said, after unloading their possessions into the back, and with a puzzled shrug of acceptance, Helen climbed behind the wheel. Morgan got in beside her, supporting his head with evident relief against the padded rest, and she gave him an anxious look before starting the engine.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Mmm,’ he nodded. ‘Just a slight headache, that’s all. I’ve got something I can take for it when we get to the flat.’

  Helen didn’t waste any more time. The Volkswagen was easy to handle, and she swung out of the parking area and into the stream of traffic with the expertise born of experience. She had been driving since she was seventeen, and even Barry had had to concede that she was good.

  It only took a matter of five minutes or so to reach Gainsborough Crescent, and she parked the car at the kerb before reaching into the back for her basket.

  Morgan’s hand closed on her arm, however, preventing her from reaching it. ‘I’ll get it,’ he said, thrusting open his door and getting out, and reluctantly she went ahead into the building.

  Gainsborough Crescent was a terrace of tall Victorian houses, most of which had been converted into flats now. Families were no longer so large as to require half a dozen bedrooms, and the rooms on the attic floor were snapped up by students wanting an economical bed-sitter.

  The flat Helen and Barry were to occupy was on the first floor. It was small—just a bedroom, a living room, a tiny kitchenette and a bathroom, but at least it was all their own. The furnishings were the prime drawback. Nearly all the furniture had done service for more years than Helen would have liked to have guessed, and she hoped it wouldn’t be too long before they could buy and furnish a house of their own.

  Leading the way into the living room, she realised that this was the first time she had ever actually invited anyone there. Her mother had seen the flat, of course, but Barry’s parents were waiting until they returned from their honeymoon and they could have a proper flat-warming.

  Morgan closed the door behind him, glancing about him appraisingly as Helen bent to light the gas fire. The room was chilly, but the fire created a warm glow, casting enveloping shadows over the worn patches on the hide-covered couch.

  Morgan walked straight through to the kitchenette, and when she followed him she found him taking two tablets with a mouthful of water direct from the tap.

  ‘Hey,’ she exclaimed, ‘we have some glasses!’ But he shook his head and straightened, saying:

  ‘It’s okay, they’ve gone. Now—do you have a frying pan?’

  They ate in the kitchenette, seated on stools beside the breakfast bar. Morgan had grated the cheese while Helen beat up the eggs, and then while she made light, fluffy omelettes, he opened the wine. His headache seemed to have disappeared as suddenly as it had come and she was relieved, aware that ridiculous as it might seem she had been concerned about him.

  Although the wine was unchilled, it had never tasted so good and they drank the bottle between them. Helen felt quite reckless, drinking so much in the middle of the day, and she hoped that by evening the feeling of lightheadedness would have evaporated.

  Morgan insisted on washing the dishes afterwards, and Helen commented on his efficiency. ‘A man can learn to do a lot of things if he has to,’ he replied, with a wry smile, and she knew he was referring to the break-up of his marriage.

  ‘I suppose—Andrea helps,’ she commented, picking up a tea-towel to polish their glasses. ‘I mean—she’s fifteen, isn’t she? Almost grown up.’

  ‘Almost,’ he agreed, a frown drawing his brows together. ‘Yes, she does what she can. But she was ill some time ago, and she’s never really properly recovered, I’m afraid.’

  Helen stared at his profile, wondering if she dared ask what was wrong with her, and then chided herself for her inquisitiveness. It was nothing to do with her, after all, and yet everything about this man troubled and intrigued her, and it was impossible for her to remain unmoved by his statement.

  ‘Ill?’ she said now, concentrating on the glass. ‘How—ill?’

  ‘She contracted pneumonia,’ said Morgan flatly, and her murmur of dismay was barely stifled before he added: ‘You wouldn’t expect that in Africa, I suppose, would you? But in certain circumstances, it’s quite possible. It’s left her weak and—apathetic. What she needs now is care and encouragement, but God help me, I don’t have the time to give it to her.’

  Helen finished drying the glass and set it down with exaggerated precision. Then, as he had finished washing the dishes and was drying his hands, she ventured: ‘Are—aren’t there any centres where she could go? You know—to be with young people of her own age?’

  ‘Not in Nrubi, no.’

  ‘There are in Engl—’

  ‘I know that!’ He spoke harshly, and then, as if regretting his outburst, he muttered: ‘I’m sorry, but that’s one of the reasons why I came here. I thought, if I could persuade Susan to come back with me, to stay a few weeks—two, three months maybe—she might be able to help Andrea, give her back her confidence, show her that there are other people who care about her just as much as I do.’

  ‘And?’

  The word came automatically from H
elen’s lips, and Morgan looked at her as he rolled down the sleeves of his cream silk shirt. ‘No,’ he said dispassionately. ‘It wouldn’t work. I can’t take Susan back there, even if she wanted to go, which I doubt. She and Andrea would have nothing in common. I doubt if she’d even get close to her. Andrea’s too—sensitive. Susan would scare her, and besides, she’s far too much of a liability. I have enough responsibilities as it is.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘The pity of it is, I know that if I could get her to come to England, let her get to know my father, she’d be all right when—’

  He broke off abruptly at that point and strode through to the living room, and after a moment’s hesitation Helen followed him. He was standing before the fire, staring down into the flames, and she watched him for a few moments before saying awkwardly: ‘Are you cold? Shall I turn the fire up?’

  He turned then and she saw the look of strain he had worn a few minutes before had been erased. In its place was the polite mask of detachment he had worn when she first met him, and she felt curiously disappointed. Not that she wanted him to confide in her, she told herself impatiently, but the silent protestation did not quite ring true.

  ‘I’m not cold,’ he said now, with a slight smile. ‘Are you ready to leave?’

  ‘To leave?’ Helen glanced behind her. ‘I—well, I had intended to do some housework this afternoon. To leave—to leave the flat ready for when we get back from—from Majorca.’

  ‘From your honeymoon,’ agreed Morgan dryly. ‘I see.’ He paused. ‘But how will you get back to town?’

  ‘I can catch a bus,’ declared Helen shortly, realising she sounded offhanded and despising herself for it. But she had hoped he would offer to wait for her, which in itself was a stupid thing to expect.

  ‘All right.’

  Morgan reached for his coat from the back of the couch where he had thrown it before having lunch, and Helen stood by tensely while he pulled it on. Then, checking the knot of his tie, he walked towards the door.

  ‘Thanks for lunch,’ he said, and she forced a faint smile.

  ‘Thank you,’ she countered, wrapping her arms protectively about herself, and he made a dismissing movement of his shoulders.

  ‘Do I tell Barry I’ve been here or not?’

  Helen shrugged. ‘Please yourself.’ She pressed her lips together for a moment to prevent them from trembling. ‘I don’t suppose it matters.’

  Morgan stared at her for a long disturbing moment, and then with an exclamation, he wrenched open the door. ‘I’ll keep it to myself,’ he declared harshly, and the door slammed heavily behind him.

  Helen’s hands went towards the panels after he had gone, fingers spreading against the dark wood as if to repel the feelings that swelled inside her. Then, withdrawing her hands again, she pressed them tightly together, forefingers resting against her parted lips. It took several minutes to get herself in control again, before she turned to face the room behind her with the tight ball of suppressed emotion in her throat almost choking her.

  She was getting married on Saturday, she kept telling herself over and over again. This was to be her new home. In less than three days, she would be Mrs Carson, Mrs Barry Carson, and here she was, allowing herself to indulge in futile fantasies about his own stepbrother. A married man, moreover, who had never at any time given her reason to suppose that he found her attractive, too. All he had said was that he liked talking to her—talking to her, nothing else. But nothing could alter the fact that she was attracted to him, which seemed totally disloyal to the man who was to be her husband.

  Yet as the immediacy of the situation passed, and practical issues reasserted themselves, she began to put things into perspective. What was happening to her was not so unusual, after all, she told herself reassuringly. It was natural that in these final few days before the wedding she should have second thoughts about giving up her freedom. It was probably quite common for girls to imagine themselves attracted to some other man, particularly if the other man was hard and tanned, and disturbingly alien to her way of life. Why, even Susan had said what an attractive man he was, and she was his sister. Even so, it took her a long time to summon any enthusiasm to do the dusting and vacuuming she had planned, and when she left the flat it was with a feeling of escape…

  CHAPTER THREE

  BY Thursday evening Helen was congratulating herself on her common sense. What had happened the previous afternoon had been the culmination of a build-up of tension, a natural escape valve which had opened and allowed all the pent-up emotions she was feeling to break loose. Now she was herself again, her emotions were no longer in any danger of exploding, and she could face the future with increased confidence.

  She dressed for her parents’ dinner party with extra care. She wanted to look good, for Barry’s sake, she thought affectionately, sliding half a dozen gold bangles on to her wrist. She had chosen to wear silk harem trousers in a particularly attractive bronze shade, teaming them with a buttoned shirt that almost exactly matched her hair. The colours gave her an all-over golden look, and the unbuttoned neckline of the shirt exposed a smooth length of creamy throat and the faintest shadow between her breasts. Round her neck was suspended a gold amulet which her father had brought back from North Africa after the war. It was Egyptian in origin, and the light caught the lettering that circled its coinlike design.

  Jennifer pulled a face when Helen joined her parents downstairs, but her whistle of derision merely hid a mild sisterly jealousy. Mr Raynor smiled his approval, and her mother contented herself with saying: ‘You do look nice, dear, but don’t you think you ought to wear a sweater? It’s an awfully cold evening.’

  ‘Not in here, it isn’t,’ interposed her husband mildly. ‘Stop fussing. She looks beautiful. I’m proud of her.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’ Helen flashed him a smile as the sound of a car turning into their drive came to her ears, and with a twinge of trepidation she realised their guests had arrived.

  Jennifer went to open the door, wearing a long dress for once in deference to the occasion. Helen could hear her calling a welcome to Mr and Mrs Fox, and as her parents moved out into the hall to greet their visitors, she dutifully followed after. There was nothing to be alarmed about, she told herself severely. Barry was here now, and he would see that she had no time to worry about anyone else.

  But when the Foxes came into the hall, Barry was not with them, and seeing Helen’s anxious face, Mrs Fox exclaimed immediately:

  ‘Now don’t get upset, Helen. Barry’s not coming. He’s been off colour all day, a head cold, I think, and I’ve insisted that he stays home tonight to make sure he’s fully recovered for Saturday.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Mr Fox added his reassurance to his wife’s. ‘Morgan’s had a look at him and he says it’s nothing serious.’

  ‘I—I see.’ Suddenly the evening loomed ahead fraught with uncertainty. ‘Well, if you’re sure…’

  ‘He’ll ring you tomorrow,’ said Mrs Fox comfortingly, patting her arm, and as she did so, Morgan came in through the open door.

  Tonight he was wearing a dark grey lounge suit, that looked almost black in the subdued lighting of the hall, but it was evidently new and fitted much better than his other suit had done. It threw his light hair into stark relief, complementing the darkness of his tan.

  ‘I locked the car,’ he said to his father, tossing the keys in his hand, and then turned to Helen’s parents, greeting them with ease and friendliness. To Helen he addressed the politest of smiles, complimenting her on her appearance with characteristic detachment.

  Mr Raynor closed the front door, and Mrs Raynor led the way into the sitting room. While their parents exchanged small talk about the weather and helped themselves to a drink, Jennifer took the opportunity to ask Morgan when he was going back to Osweba.

  ‘In about ten days, I guess,’ he replied good-humouredly. ‘I promised Andrea I’d be back before her birthday, and that’s in just under a month’s time.’
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br />   ‘How old is she?’

  Jennifer was not troubled with shyness, and he smiled. ‘Fifteen,’ he answered. ‘Fifteen years old.’

  ‘So she’s fourteen now. Like me.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘I’ll be fifteen in April. Where does Andrea go to school?’

  ‘She doesn’t,’ replied Morgan ruefully, and Mrs Raynor turned to reprove her younger daughter for asking so many questions.

  ‘Things are done differently in Africa,’ she said, giving Jennifer a quelling look, and Jennifer muttered that she wished she lived in Africa if that was the case.

  ‘You’d find life very boring, I’m afraid,’ said Morgan, accepting a Scotch and soda from Mr Raynor. ‘No clubs or discothèques, very little television and practically no cinemas.’

  ‘What do you do, then?’ asked Jennifer, aghast, and Helen nuged her in the ribs and told her to mind her own business.

  ‘I don’t mind telling her,’ said Morgan, his eyes meeting Helen’s with faint mockery. ‘We swim, and play tennis. And we read a lot. And occasionally we go into Charlottesville and have dinner at the Yachting Club.’

  ‘Do you have a yacht?’ exclaimed Jennifer, in awe, but Morgan shook his head.

  ‘No. But I have use of one when I need it. I have a very good friend in the government who lends me his from time to time.’

  Helen looked down into the Martini her father had handed her. It didn’t sound a boring life to her. On the contrary, she thought how satisfying it must be, living quite a simple life, using his skills as a doctor to treat people of a different creed and culture. She wondered why he wanted to bring Andrea back to England. She would miss the kind of life she was used to, and no doubt she would miss her father, unless he planned to come back to England to live, too. Her heart missed a beat. What would she do if Morgan came to live in York again? If he moved into Banklands with his father and stepmother now that Barry was getting married and moving away? There was no reason why he shouldn’t, if that was what he wanted, but the prospect of finding him there when she visited her in-laws filled her with a ridiculous sense of dread.