by Anne Weale
"No, even pickled onions won't tempt me tonight," she said, with a shaky laugh.
"Well, see you tomorrow, I expect. Goodnight Lucia."
"Goodnight."
After he had left her, she lay back on the chesterfield and put her hands over her face. Once, when Janet had been upset by some minor catastrophe, she had seen Peter comfort her. He had put an arm round her, and gently rumpled her hair. "Never mind, love. It's not the end of the world."
Sitting alone in the study, and remembering that moment of tenderness, Lucia longed for someone who would comfort her like that when things went awry. She had never felt more lonely in her life.
Next morning, before she started to cook, Lucia went to Cathy's bedroom to ask if she would be at home for lunch.
"Yes, I'm not going anywhere today," her sister said, sitting up in bed. "In fact you'll be pleased to hear that I shan't be seeing Nico for a while. He's going to New York for a fortnight. So that's one weight off your mind for the time being, isn't it?" - this last on a note of sharp sarcasm.
It was indeed. But Lucia said only, "Oh, is he? Are you going to get up, or stay in bed?"
"I've nothing to do, so I may as well stay here," Cathy reached for her quilted bed-jacket. "You might bring me a cup of coffee, if you're not busy."
The day was cold, but dry. After lunch, Lucia decided to wrap up warmly, and go for a walk in the nearby park.
"Would you like to come?" she asked her sister.
Cathy looked out of the window at the sullen grey sky, and leafless trees. "Are you mad? It looks freezing out there. I'm going to stay in the warm and do my nails."
"Perhaps Roger will turn up," said Lucia. For now, in comparison with the obnoxious Nicholas Curzon, Roger seemed relatively innocuous.
Cathy shrugged. "If he does, I shan't ask him in. He was beginning to bore me before I met Nico."
Dining the following week, Cathy stayed in every evening. Lucia was not sure what to make of this unprecedented occurrence. She was glad of her sister's company, but at the same time, she had a disquieting feeling that this was the lull before the storm. Cathy made no further reference to 'Nico', as she called him, but that in itself was suspicious. And she sat about with a slight, secretive smile on her face - like someone hatching a plot, thought Lucia uneasily.
The weekend passed, and Monday came round again. On Monday evening, Cathy came home in a fretful mood.
"Why can't we have a TV like everyone else?" she demanded, over supper.
"I don't particularly want one. I'd rather read. But you can get a set - if you're prepared to pay for it," Lucia said mildly. "Can you spare a pound a week, or whatever the rental is?"
"Why should I have to pay for it? I bet you'd watch it, if we had one," Cathy said petulantly. "I don't know why you always go on as if you can hardly make ends meet. I give you six pounds a week. There's the Sanders' rent, and your own salary. We can't be all that hard up. We don't have to pay any rent."
"You forget about the rates," said Lucia, "And this year we simply must have the outside of the house painted. Goodness knows how much that will cost. There are all sorts of expenses which you never think about."
"I don't know why we go on living here. Why can't we sell it, and live in a nice modern flat? I loathe this ugly old place."
"You know I went into all that after Father died, and before we made the top floor into a flat," Lucia reminded her. "I'd like a modern place, too. But when you work it all out, we're better off staying here until one of us gets married."
"I'm surprised the worthy Bernard hasn't popped the question by now. Presumably that's what he has in mind," said Cathy mischievously.
"Don't be silly - of course it isn't. Bernard and I are just friends," Lucia said flatly.
"Well, in that case, don't you think it would be a good idea to get out and about rather more? You'll never get married if you never meet any men. Or are you still hoping that, any day now, some gorgeous male will stride into your life, and you'll take one look at each other and be happy-ever-after?" Cathy enquired derisively.
Lucia flushed. "I may be nearly twenty-four, but I don't think I need panic yet."
Nevertheless, as she sat up in bed that night, reading a book from the Public Library, her sister's jibe fretted at the back of her mind. Presently, unable to concentrate, she turned off her bedside lamp.
And as she lay awake in the dark, she realized that, while twenty-four was not old, it was perhaps rather late in the day to be cherishing dreams of the kind she held in her heart. For although Cathy had spoken in jest, she had come very close to the truth. Ever since she had been old enough to think about love and marriage, Lucia had believed that some day, somewhere, she would meet a man who would love and cherish her always. It was simply a matter of waiting for Fate to arrange it.
But lately, during the long, dismal months of this winter, small doubts had begun to erode her once rock- sure conviction. Now, suddenly, she wasn't sure any more. As Cathy had said, she never met any men - except other people's husbands and fiancés. Apart from her weekly outing With Bernard, the last time she had had a date was back in her training college days.
Naturally you'll deny it -but I can't help wondering if, under that strait-laced exterior, you would like to be soundly kissed by someone untrustworthy.
As Nicholas Curzon's mocking words echoed in her mind, Lucia buried her face in the pillow. "It isn't true!" she thought fiercely. "I don't envy Cathy ... I don't. If I can't have my kind of love, I'd rather have nothing at all. I'll never want those empty kisses."
*
Tuesday . . . Wednesday . . . Thursday. As another week passed swiftly by, Lucia's apprehension mounted. Soon Nicholas Curzon would return from his trip to the States - and then what? Perhaps, during his fortnight in New York, his interest in Cathy would have dissipated, she told herself hopefully.
On Friday morning, she woke up with a slightly sore throat, and vague aches in her joints. She took some aspirins, and wished it were Saturday so that she could stay at home and keep warm.
It was pouring with rain as she walked to school, and still drizzling at twenty to four. Shivering and sneezing, Lucia hurried home. She lit a fire in the study, and turned the oven on low to heat up the casserole she had prepared the previous afternoon. Then she swallowed some more aspirins, filled a hot water bottle, and went thankfully to bed.
At half past six, Cathy returned. Hoarsely, Lucia called out to her.
"No, don't come in. I think I've got 'flu," she explained, when Cathy appeared in the doorway. "Don't tell Janet, will you? She'll insist on coming down to look after me, and then she'll catch it, and so will Peter and Mark. I'll be all right. I just need a few days in bed."
By next morning, her head throbbed so that she could hardly bear to raise it. Cathy took her temperature and then, off her own bat, rang up the Maybury to say she would not be at work that day.
"Oh, you shouldn't have," Lucia said feebly, when she was told.
Cathy had also telephoned their doctor. He came round at midday, confirmed Lucia's own diagnosis, and scrawled a prescription for Cathy to take to the chemist.
"I'll look in again on Monday. You'll probably be feeling better by then. There's a lot of this about at the moment, and the worst of it is usually over in forty-eight hours," he said bracingly.
Surprisingly, because Lucia had thought she would be terrified of catching the infection, Cathy spent the whole weekend doing what she could to ease her sister's discomfort. For part of the time, Lucia was feeling too ghastly to care what was going on around her. But as the fever and the piercing headache subsided she began to be touched by the younger girl's helpfulness and sympathy.
"You have been a brick this weekend," she said gratefully when, on Sunday evening, her sister washed her face and hands for her, and gently brushed her tousled hair.
"I'm not completely useless, you know," Cathy answered offhandedly.
Then she smiled, and it seemed to Lucia that a new rap
port had sprung up between them, a more sisterly feeling than either of them had felt for a long time.
The 'flu had driven all thought of Nicholas Curzon out of Lucia's mind. But Cathy had not forgotten him. She was in her sister's room when, later that night, the telephone rang. Her indrawn breath and excited rush to the hall told Lucia all too clearly that she had been right in sensing that his absence had been no more than a hiatus in their relationship.
In her haste, Cathy left the bedroom door open: So Lucia could not avoid hearing her side of the conversation. Nor could she help a certain amusement at the way Cathy contrived to say their number without any trace of eagerness in her voice.
"Oh, Nico - you're back, are you? Did you have a good trip?" Lucia heard her say coolly.
But, presently, she asked him to hold on a moment, and came back to close the bedroom door. So her sister did not overhear the rest of what they said to each other.
The call lasted for about a quarter of an hour and, when Cathy came back, she made no reference to it. But there was a light in her eyes which made Lucia's spirits sink. Clearly, Nicholas Curzon had not lost interest. And Cathy's brief spell of fireside evenings was over.
On Monday morning, Cathy went to work as usual. Lucia stayed in bed until ten. Then, as her temperature was back to normal, she got up and went to the study, and put a match to the fire Cathy had laid.
At mid-morning, Janet came down with hot milk and home-made scones.
"Oh, you're up. Is that wise? Cathy said you were better, but oughtn't you to stay in bed a bit longer?" she said anxiously, when she discovered Lucia in the study.
"I'm practically well again. I expect I'll be back at school tomorrow or Wednesday."
Janet looked dubious. "I doubt if the doctor will let you go back this week. You look awfully washed out, my dear. And even this two-day 'flu leaves one very run down and depressed, you know."
It had certainly spoiled Lucia's appetite. She managed to swallow the milk, and eat one of the scones, so as not to hurt Janet's feelings. But they made her feel rather sick. The only thing she fancied was fruit and, as it was raining heavily, she could not ask her friend to go out and buy some more oranges for her.
Janet could not leave Mark alone upstairs for more than a few minutes, but she promised to pop down later. After she had gone, Lucia opened her bag, and peered at her reflection in the little mirror of her powder-case. "Washed out" was an understatement, she thought dismally. She looked as pale and pinched as if she had been laid up for weeks. A wave of post-influenza depression swept over her. Two large tears rolled down her cheeks, and dripped on her faded woolly dressing-gown.
It was at this moment, when she was on the brink of having an unrestrained howl, that someone tapped at the door. Thinking it was Janet back again, Lucia blinked away her tears and croaked, "Come in."
When Nicholas Curzon walked in, she wanted to die where she sat.
"Hello," he said with a smile. "I didn't ring the bell because I didn't want to drag you to the door. May I come in? How are you feeling today?"
And before she could collect her wits - which had never been so wildly scattered - he shut the door, dumped some parcels on the nearest chair, and began to shed his tweed overcoat.
"W-what are y-you doing here? Cathy's at work," Lucia stammered, flushing deep crimson.
"I know. I came to see you. I hear you've been laid low with 'flu. As a matter of fact, I expected to find you in bed. In which case, I was going to enlist the person upstairs to chaperone us," he added, with a bland look. He bent to the discarded parcels, and tore off their rain-spattered wrappings. "Fruit. . . books . . . and some records. You have got a record player, haven't you?"
"Cathy has one," she said dazedly.
He brought a box of downy, golden peaches to the table beside the sofa, then the books, and the shiny-sleeved records.
"I had 'flu myself before Christmas. It makes one feel very low. Is a doctor keeping an eye on you?"
"Yes . . . yes, he's coming today," she said, still bewildered. She looked at the things he had brought her. "I - I really don't know what to say."
His dark face creased with amusement. "I can guess what you're thinking. Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes."
She knew it was Latin, but not what it meant.
"It's from Virgil's Aeneid. 'I fear the Greeks, even though they offer gifts'," he translated. "Am I right? Was that what you were thinking?"
She mustered some slight self-possession. "It wasn't. It is now," she said.
He laughed, and sat down beside her. "I have no "devious motive, Miss Gresham. I came because, last time we met, I was rather unkind to you. I'm sorry. Shall we forget it?"
It was not easy to be dignified in pyjamas and an ancient dressing-gown. And the fact that Nicholas Curzon was immaculately groomed from the crisp white edges of his cuffs to his black silk socks made Lucia even more conscious of her disarray.
But she said, as composedly as possible, "I had already forgotten it, Mr. Curzon."
Obviously, he knew too much about women to believe that this statement was true. But, whereas most men would have had the grace to accept the snub, he promptly capped it by saying, with an impudent twinkle, "A masterly set- down, Miss Gresham."
By now, it was dawning on Lucia that he had, by bringing presents, placed her in an awkward position. To be pointedly hostile would make her seem rude and ungracious. Yet to allow herself to be disarmed by his offerings would be equally galling. He had her in a cleft stick, damn him.
There was a pause. She fiddled with the tassels on the cord of her robe, and tried to appear unaware that he was taking in every detail from her carelessly-brushed hair and unpowdered nose to the scuffed velvet toes of her bedroom slippers.
It was really unpardonable of him to catch her in this state, she thought furiously. He must have known she would be looking and feeling a mess. Or perhaps the women of his milieu could afford to look elegant even when they were ill. They probably lay about in ravishing negligees, with every eyelash in place, and their hair tucked inside pretty, frilly boudoir caps. Cathy had one to hide her rollers. But Lucia could never set her own hair successfully, and it was her one extravagance to go to the hairdresser every Friday, after school. As the 'flu had made her miss last week's visit, her short fair hair had long since lost all style, and was curling in every direction.
When the pause had lasted much too long, and still she could think of nothing to say, she looked at the five or six books he had brought her. The one at the top of the pile was a collection of colour plates of Greece which she had seen and coveted in a bookshop some weeks earlier.
As she opened it at the title page, she saw, written on the fly-leaf - "To darling Nico, with love from Francesca."
"Do you often go to Greece, Mr. Curzon?" she asked, wondering who was Francesca.
"I'm hoping to spend Easter there." He leaned towards her, and turned the pages until he found the one he wanted - a picture of a small harbour, with fishing caiques moored at the quay, and a blue sea glittering in the sun. "A holiday there would do you good," he said, his face close to hers. "In summer it would be too hot. But in April the climate is perfect."
"Yes, I daresay it is," she said stiffly. She did not like being so near to him. It made her want to edge away.
To her relief, he rose to his feet. "I must go now. I have a luncheon appointment. No, don't get up." His mouth quirked slightly at the corners. "I've disturbed you enough as it is. I can see myself out. Goodbye."
And before she had time to phrase an aloof but civil expression of thanks, he had picked up his coat, and was gone.
A few minutes later, Janet reappeared. "Was that the doctor I heard? What did he—" She spotted the peaches and broke off. "Goodness, what luscious peaches I Who brought them? Not Bernard Fisher?"
Lucia explained.
"Well!" said Janet, wide-eyed. "What's the idea, do you suppose?" She grinned. "Don't say he's after you now?"
"Oh, Janet, how c
an you laugh?" Lucia said crossly. "You wouldn't be amused if the wretched man had caught you looking like this."
"No, I suppose I wouldn't. Though you don't look as bad as all that." Janet paused. "I had the impression that he was rather a nasty piece of work. But whatever his morals may be, he is attractive, I gather?"
"Attractive? What do you mean?"
"Well, if he wasn't attractive, you wouldn't have cared what you looked like."
This remark made Lucia so annoyed that, for the first time since they had known each other, she looked at her friend with real anger.
"That had absolutely nothing to do with it. I couldn't care less what he thinks of me. I just don't like being barged in on by strangers, that's all."
Janet saw that she was genuinely upset by the man's unexpected visit, and made haste to change the subject.
"No, of course not," she answered soothingly. "Now, what about lunch? Could you fancy a nice poached egg?"
At four, the doctor looked in. He sounded Lucia's chest and back, and asked questions about her health before the attack of 'flu. Finally, he enquired how much she weighed.
When she told him, he said, "Hm... it might be a good idea to try and put on a few pounds. I fancy you were rather run down before this bug got hold of you. Made any plans for your holiday yet?"
She shook her head. "When can I go back to school, Doctor?"
"Not this week," he said firmly. "And if I were you, as soon as the term breaks up, I should try to get away for a bit. The weather should be better by then. A few days at the coast would do you a world of good. You teachers are lucky, you know. You may be run ragged in term time, but at least you get good long holidays."
After his visit, Lucia went back to bed. Although she had done nothing all day, she felt as exhausted as if she had been on her feet since breakfast time.
She was sleeping when her sister came home, and did not wake up until eight o'clock in the evening. "Oh ... I thought you'd be out tonight," she said, when she found she was back.
"No, I shan't go out until you're fit again. Where did the peaches come from?" Cathy enquired.
