“A chip off the old block,” he would say, grinning from ear to ear. “Just wot I’d “ye done. Used to wallop ‘er backside for ‘er when she was a kid, and look at “or now. She’s a real good girl, and I’m proud of ‘er. It just shows you, don’t it? Look at ‘er mother! Bad blood don’t count if you bring ‘em up right, and that’s wot I done.”
Then without warning, Clark had a heart attack, and the doctor warned him that the next attack would probably be fatal. This death sentence was too much for Clark, and he became morose and fearful. He sent a long, hysterical letter to Grace, ordering her home. She was granted seven days’ compassionate leave and found Clark in bed, almost afraid to breathe.
Grace had an inspired talent for nursing, and she immediately set about making Clark comfortable, reassuring him and fussing over him. She ran the house, did the shopping and eked out his meagre savings with careful economy.
At the end of the seven days, Clark would not hear of her returning to her Station. A request for an extension of leave was refused. Nursing orderlies were at a premium and Clark was not considered to be in any immediate danger. But he could not bear to be left on his own, and forced Grace to desert. He hid her in the house so cunningly that when the Service police called they failed to find her.
This situation terrified Grace, and when she tried to persuade Clark to let her give herself up, he forgot his illness and resorted to the razor strop again.
Unable to go out, or even show herself at the windows, Grace spent three anxious weeks with Clark, who made her do everything for him, not lifting a hand to help himself. His fear of death turned to soured bitterness, and he again vented his hatred of his wife on Grace.
Then one night, during an air raid, a bomb scored a direct hit on the house, killing Clark and blowing Grace across the street. She recovered in hospital, her ear-drums broken, and the unfriendly world in which she had lived for nineteen years shrouded in an impenetrable silence.
There had been a number of casualties in the street, and realising her position, Grace pretended she had lost her memory and did not know who she was.
She was sent to a home where she learned to lip read, while the authorities endeavoured to find out her name and her background. As soon as she was well enough and had mastered lip-reading sufficiently well, Grace ran away from the home, frightened that they would find out she was a deserter.
Hunger drove her to steal. She was arrested, tried as a first offender, put on probation while inquiries were made about her. Again she ran away, and again hunger drove her to steal. Arrested once more, she came up before a tired and irritable magistrate who promptly sent her to prison.
Released after serving her sentence, she had registered with the Deaf and Dumb Friendship League but had received no help from them, and had it not been for Ellis she would now be in prison again.
She did not allow herself to think of the future. Ellis was helpless; scarcely conscious. Her responsibility was heavy. She had to find somewhere for them to hide, a place not likely to be discovered by the police when they came to look for them.
She bent over Ellis, touched his face. His skin was dry and hot, and he muttered uneasily, moved his head away.
Carefully she went through his pockets, hoping to find out who he was. His identity card told her that his name was David Ellis and that he lived in Russell Court Mews. Apart from the identity card he had no other papers on him, and only nine shillings and sixpence in his trousers pocket.
As she handled his clothes she found they were wet; even his soiled shirt felt damp when she touched it. She stood up, frowned across the fairway while she thought. She’d have to get him out of those wet things, otherwise he’d get pneumonia. She became aware that her own skirt and coat were damp and the thought of getting ill herself alarmed her.
She would have to return to the clubhouse and get a change of clothes for them both. With difficulty she dragged the stretcher further into the wood and tied her handkerchief to a nearby tree marking the place where she left him in case there was an emergency and she had to find him again quickly.
She touched his arm. “I’m going to the clubhouse. I shan’t be long;” but he didn’t appear to understand what she said.
“I’d rather die than be caught,” he mumbled. “You’re not to send for a doctor.”
“You won’t die,” she repeated again, wishing she was as confident as she tried to sound.
She took his watch out of his wallet, saw it was a quarter to eight. She’d have to hurry, although she was pretty sure that no one would appear on the course until after nine.
Golf is a rich man’s game, she reasoned, and rich men don’t get up and play golf as early as this.
All the same, she hurried down the fairway, keeping a sharp look-out for any sign of life, but she saw no one, and arrived at the clubhouse a little breathless but calm.
She went in through the front door, which she had left on the latch, and made her way to the ladies’ room at the far end of the passage.
Cautiously she pushed open the door, glanced in. The room was small and dark. Around the walls were wooden lockers, and a row of wash-hand basins stood in the centre of the room. She entered, closed the door.
She stared at herself in the long mirror above the basins, pulled a little face. She looked dirty and dishevelled, her hair was knotted and hung limply each side of her white face. She stripped off her coat and blouse and ran water into a basin.
The water was cold but refreshing, and she felt better after she had rubbed her skin red with the towel she found hanging on a hook behind the door. She took a comb from her bag and did her hair, pulling at the tangle impatiently, hurting herself.
It was a hurried toilet, but she had no time to spare. She was longing for a cup of tea, and when she had finished doing her hair, she ran down the passage into the kitchen and put on the kettle.
She returned to the ladies’ room armed with a long screwdriver she had found in the kitchen. She broke open a locker, found nothing in it except a bag of clubs, broke open another. Before she found what she wanted, she had broken open more than a dozen of the lockers, and time was passing.
She feverishly slipped out of her wet skirt, put on a light tweed skirt she had found in one of the lockers. A wool sweater, a weather-proof jerkin and a dark blue beret completed her change of clothes. After further delay she found a pair of nail- studded shoes that fitted her, and then she stepped to the mirror to study the completed effect.
Yes, she looked better, almost attractive. She smiled at herself, excited with the new clothes, and with her changed appearance. She rolled up her old clothes and took them with her to the kitchen, where she found the kettle boiling.
She made tea, cut herself several slices of bread and butter, and while she was eating she collected together the remaining food she found in the refrigerator.
The tea revived her spirits, and she felt that the position wasn’t after all so desperate as she had at first thought. Perhaps the police wouldn’t come, and if they did, they might not think of looking for them on the course.
Now she would have to get Ellis some clothes, and leaving the kitchen she went along the passage to the men’s room.
This room was much bigger than the women’s room. Lockers took up nearly all the available space, and once more Grace began to attack the narrow wooden doors with her screw-driver.
She was fortunate to find a sweater and a pair of flannel trousers in the first locker, and a leather jerkin in the next. The third provided a pair of shoes she thought might fit Ellis, and also two pairs of socks.
She gathered these articles into a bundle, wished she could find an overcoat. She paused to look around the room; her heart gave a great bound, stopped beating for one agonised second, and then fluttered against her ribs so quickly she could scarcely breathe.
Sitting on a straight-backed wooden chair at the far end of the room was a young man in a canary-coloured sweater, immaculate flannel trousers, and a pale
yellow shirt. His straw-coloured hair was thick and neat and shone like honey. His rather fleshy but distinctly handsome face was heavily sunburned. In his long thick fingers he held a mashie-niblick and he looked at Grace with the most startling green eyes she had ever seen.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Grace stood staring stupidly at the young man, unable to move, like a rabbit facing a stoat.
“I don’t think the Secretary likes ladies to come into this room,” the young man said and smiled. He had a pleasant, rather charming smile but Grace was too frightened to appreciate it. “And I’m sure he’ll have a fit when he sees the damage you’re doing.”
Still she had nothing to say.
“I’m sorry to have given you such a shock,” the young man went on. He lifted the golf club, eyed its glistening steel head, turned it slowly between his fingers. “You gave me a bit of a shock, too.” He glanced swiftly at her. “I don’t remember seeing you here before. Are you a new member?”
Her one thought now was for Ellis. She had walked into a trap, but Ellis mustn’t suffer for her stupidity. What would happen to him when they took her away? she asked herself. “I’d rather die than be caught,” he had said, and she felt he had meant it. But she couldn’t let them take her away knowing that he was out there in the wood, ill, almost unconscious and alone.
There was no one else in the clubhouse except this man. If she could trick him into letting her go then everything might still be all right, but how was she to do it? He seemed harmless enough; puzzled, rather interested, but harmless. It would be useless to try to run away. He would be able to run much faster than she, and he looked powerful. Even the desperate idea of knocking him over the head went through her mind, but she knew it was no use trying that sort of thing with a man like this.
“No,” she said, “I’m not a member.”
“I thought not,” the young man said. “I believe you’ve got hold of Whitworth’s trousers. Of all the members of this dreary club Whitworth is the most fussy. Of course, you wouldn’t know that, but you shouldn’t really take them. He’ll never let us hear the end of it. Wouldn’t it be a good idea if you put them back?”
“I want them,” she said sullenly; a desperate, obstinate expression coming into her eyes.
“But so does poor Whitworth,” the young man returned, smiling. “Without his trousers he’d be demoralised.” He eyed her over thoughtfully. “And I do believe you have on Chrissy Taylor’s skirt. My dear girl, haven’t you any tact? Chrissy will be furious. She’s the type who threatens people with a horsewhip.” He laid down the club and stood up. “I must say this is all rather intriguing. I suppose you won’t introduce yourself?”
Grace backed away, said nothing.
“I wish you wouldn’t be afraid of me,” the young man went on. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m absolutely harmless. I suppose you’re in trouble. You know, it’s rather a silly idea to pinch other people’s clothes. They don’t like it, and there’s always the police.” He smiled encouragingly. “I don’t like the police myself, but they’re bound to be called in if you do anything foolish.” Although he was standing now, and looked very tall (Grace thought he must be a couple of inches over six foot), he was careful to make no move towards her. He looked at the leather jerkin, the trousers and sweater and the pair of shoes she held in her hands. “Have you a companion?” he asked casually, but his green eyes were now alert, He leaned forward to pick up the club again.
She didn’t say anything.
There was a long pause while he seemed to be thinking what he had best do. Grace watched him, ready to run if he came near her, her heart thumping, sick terror making thought impossible.
“I suppose you have,” he said at last, answering his own question. “Where is he?”
“There’s no one,” Grace said stubbornly. “I want to sell them.”
“Then be a good girl and put them back. I’ll give you some money if you’re so hard up. Now do be sensible and put them back.”
She stared at him, scarcely believing that she had read the correct words as his lips formed them.
“Go on, put them back,” he urged. “You have no idea what a fuss there’ll be if you don’t. I’ll give you the money. There’s no point in getting into trouble with the police.”
She wanted to give up the clothes, but remembering Ellis’s wet suit, she knew she must keep them. He had to have a change or he’d get pneumonia, she told herself.
“Leave me alone,” she said wildly. “I’m not doing you any harm. Why can’t you mind your own business?”
The young man frowned, pursed his lips. His face reddened and he looked embarrassed.
“Well, I suppose you’re right. Quite frankly, I don’t care what you do. I’m not public-spirited. I don’t care much what happens to other people’s property, nor my own for that matter, but for your sake I’d advise you to put that stuff back.” He eyed her, then abruptly shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, well, please yourself. I’m not going to interfere. You mustn’t underestimate the police. They’re bound to catch you in the end, you know.” He took out a bunch of keys from his trousers pocket, fitted one into the locker near him, opened it, took from it a bag of clubs. “Well, I’m off,” he went on. “If I were you, I’d leave that stuff and be off, too.” He slung the bag over his shoulder, moved towards her.
Grace backed away but he made no attempt to get nearer to her than it took him to reach the door.
“The Secretary comes at nine o’clock,” he said as he opened the door. “I’d be off before then. If they ask me about this I won’t know anything. Do you understand?” He looked at her, smiled “Good-bye’. He went out of the locker room and closed the door behind him.
Grace stood motionless, not believing that he had gone further than the other side of the door. She felt a desperate sense of frustration not to be able to hear his receding footsteps. She waited, clutching the bundle of clothes, her heart slowly resuming its normal beat.
Then she saw him again through the window. He was strolling towards the first tee, one hand in his pocket, a faintly bored, disinterested expression on his face.
She watched him select a ball, tee up, and then draw a wooden club from the bag.
He stepped up to the ball, touched the ground behind it with the club, then swung. It was an effortless performance; the club head striking the ball squarely. The ball flew away, curving slightly to the left, then straightening. Grace watched the little white sphere, sharply outlined against the blue sky. It seemed to go on and on, until it dipped sharply, fell to the ground, ran some distance before it stopped in the middle of the fairway, a few yards from the green.
The young man dropped his driver into the bag and strode after the ball. He didn’t look back at the clubhouse, and walked in the opposite direction to the wood in which she had left Ellis. She didn’t move until he had reached the green, chipped up to the pin and sunk the ball with a short curly putt.
Then as he walked down a dip to the second tee, she rushed blindly from the room, seized the bundle of food she had left on the kitchen table, and ran to the door.
A moment or so later she was pounding down the fairway in the direction of the wood. She had not run more than twenty yards before she caught sight of her white handkerchief tied to the tree. She wondered if the young man had noticed it (thought that he must have), and if he had guessed what it meant.
She was so worried and frightened that she had ruined their chances of escape that she did not puzzle over the young man’s strange behaviour. At the moment it was enough to have a respite, to have got out of a seemingly hopeless position so easily.
She reached the wood, dumped the bundles on the grass, ran to Ellis.
He looked up at her with blank eyes.
“It’s all right,” she said breathlessly. “I have got you some clothes. How do you feel?”
His lips formed words that she could not read. He was speaking to her in German, his mind wandering.
She
stared at his moving lips, bewildered.
“I don’t understand,” she said, kneeling beside him. “What is it you’re trying to say?”
He frowned, closed his eyes, lay there limp, motionless.
She was aware of the passing time. A glance at his watch told her it was now nearly half-past eight. She must hurry. If she couldn’t find a hiding place in half an hour they would be caught.
She rose quickly to her feet, untied the handkerchief, and giving Ellis one more worried glance, walked into the wood, The trees grew close, and brambles, ferns and shrubs afforded plenty of cover. The undergrowth was so thick that she was forced to keep to the well-worn path leading into the wood.
She walked for several minutes before she came upon a clearing. Here she paused, looking round. Two big tree trunks lay side by side, their roots withered and rotting, their branches dead. She immediately saw the possibilities of a hiding place here, and ran over to the trees, excited and a little breathless.
There was a space of about four feet between the trees, and it was already covered by a tangle of branches. Kneeling down, she peered up to the narrow tunnel formed by the trunks and roofed by the undergrowth. It seemed fairly roomy, and with some hesitation she began to worm her way inside. It was dirty; dry leaves, bits of broken twigs fell on her back as she crawled forward, but it was dry. Working with her bare hands, she began to enlarge the tunnel, gathering up the dry leaves, breaking off the rotten branches. She knew that this was the best hiding place she would find in the time she had available. Later she would make other plans, but for her immediate purpose it was good enough.
She crawled out into the sunlight again, stood up and dusted herself down. She was dirty again, but the jerkin and skirt were not like her own cheap clothes, and most of the dust brushed off.
She returned to Ellis and began to drag the stretcher along the narrow path leading to the clearing.
It was again a desperate struggle, but she kept on, sometimes falling, but getting up again, refusing to be beaten. Finally, not quite knowing how she had done it, she reached the clearing. She collapsed on the ground and sobbed with relief; the muscles in her arms and legs aching, her bones feeling as if they had been pulled from their sockets. It took her several minutes to screw up enough strength to complete her task, but she did manage to drag the stretcher into the tunnel before collapsing again.
Trusted Like The Fox Page 7
