Miss Columbine and Harley Quinn

by Hilton, Margery

  `Well, you didn't, and you've obviously got yourself dug in very comfortably.' Samantha's glance was missing nothing in the tastefully furnished room. 'But I didn't realise that he

  was that age. I—'

  `What do you mean? That age?'

  'I thought he'd be much older, being an acquaintance of Tim's boss, who's doddering round the sixty mark,' said Samantha impatiently. 'But now ... it's a hell of a nuisance, but I suppose I'll have to do something about it. You can't stay here.'

  `And why not?' Shelley dabbed at an eye into which an eyelash had strayed, and, depite its smarting, felt a growing sense of satisfaction. Something was bothering her cousin or she'd never have come over all conscience-stricken. The pleasant sense of power growing, Shelley added calmly, `I like it here—very much—and I've no plans to move, thank you!'

  'I see,' said Samantha after a calculating pause. 'You've told Mother, I presume.'

  Shelley's hand stayed in mid-air. 'I've written and told her—of course.' Confidence crept back into her voice. 'I had to. How could she write to me otherwise?'

  `But I don't think you've told her exactly—everything,' Samantha probed.

  Shelley was instantly wary. Of course she hadn't told Aunt Lou, but how to avoid making Samantha wise to it? Suddenly Samantha's reflection loomed up in the mirror.

  `Come off it, kid, I'd have heard by return of post if you'd gone moaning to her with a tale of woe.' There was a trace of relief in Samantha's eyes as she dropped into a chair. `Listen, Shelley, it cuts two ways, and you're perfectly aware of it, so don't sit there looking like an innocent. If Mum knew you were'living here, with a man like Quinn—'

  `I'm not living with him!'

  'I know! But just the thought of you living in the same house ... she'd throw a fit!'

  Shelley swung round on the stool and gazed at her cousin, knowing that at last Samantha was going to get to the point. Shelley had known Samma too long ...

  Samantha took a deep breath. 'You'll have to come back, anyway. What a drag! Tim's going to have to shift out —Coralie can please herself what she does—and you'd better

  get yourself moved in some time before next weekend. Then when it's all blown over we'll fix something else for you.'

  `When what's blown over?' Shelley stared. 'What on earth are you talking about?'

  `Haven't you had word? She said she was writing to you in a day or so. She's coming down for a visit ! Next week !' `Aunt Lou!'

  Samantha nodded, her mouth set.

  `And you want me to come back, as though nothing had happened, until she's gone home again, then ...' Shelley's eyes sparkled angrily, 'then I can take myself out of the way again while you and Tim set up shack again! Oh, no, nothing doing! You got yourself into this, Samma, and you can jolly well get yourself out of it. I'm staying here.

  Shelley was adamant. Samantha protested, reasoned and finally resorted to threats. 'Very well, if you're going to be so utterly childish. But you're the one who'll suffer when Mother wants to know why you left and why you're here. So when she does find out don't blame me and come crying back.'

  With this Samantha departed in a whirl of wrath spiced with Calèche, leaving Shelley staring through the mirror into her own worried eyes. Samantha's threats did not worry her in the least; Samantha had too many of her own sins to account for, she thought with self-righteous indignation, why should she have to help to cover them after Samma's cavalier treatment? All the same ...

  Thoughtfully Shelley assembled her nail kit and began to remove her lacquer. What on earth was Aunt Lou going to say? She thought guiltily of the small, uninformative paragraph added to the letter she had written home last week in which she had merely drawn Aunt Lou's attention to the new address and said airily that she'd found an utterly super new place. Oh, God, suppose Aunt Lou landed here and saw Bruno first! And asked for Mrs Quinn! And ... Shelley's heart sank; Aunt Lou was terribly old-fashioned. A darling, but the squarest of darlings. She would whisk Shelley home and there'd be no time for arguments. And what of Quinn? It was going to be absolutely awful, and if she left she'd

  never see him again ...

  Shelley gave a despairing gasp that wasn't entirely caused by the fact that she'd done all of one hand with the horrible purply stuff she'd meant to throw out. She seized a remover-soaked pad and dabbed fiercely at her nails. Whatever was Quinn thinking about her appalling behaviour tonight over Samma? Never mind about Aunt Lou's possible reaction; he'd be throwing her out long before then ...

  Always a young creature of impulse, she jumped up and ran from the room, and was downstairs, rapping on the study door before reason had time to temper the impulse.

  A somewhat surprised, 'Yes, come in,' sounded through the heavy panels and Shelley took a deep breath before she burst in. He was sitting at the desk, on which was spread a large crackly-stiff sheet that looked like some kind of plan or drawing. He swung round and gave her an enquiring glance, his brows staying slightly furrowed.

  Shelley began, then stopped. Now she was here she didn't know how to begin. 'About tonight,' she began. `I'm sorry about—about Samma, and—and--I mean the way I—when—'

  `Shelley, you're stammering again.' His mouth twitched. `Sit down and try again. You're sorry. What for?'

  `For being such a peeve. It wasn't a very nice little scene,' she said more lucidly. 'I shouldn't have involved you and—'

  `Forget it,' he interrupted. 'Is that all that's worrying you?'

  `I'd hate to think I'd caused you embarrassment,' she said uneasily.

  `Why should I be embarrassed by overhearing a slight difference of opinion between you and your cousin?'

  She made a face of repugnance. 'Men don't like that sort of thing,' she said with unconscious naïveté.

  He laughed. `Do you think family arguments are new to me?'

  `N-no, but Samma had a nerve to barge in and—and treat the occasion like—like a social visit.'

  His smile faded. After a perceptible hesitation he said

  slowly, 'Perhaps you're misjudging her. She may have discovered her conscience.'

  `Conscience!' cried Shelley disgustedly. 'She hasn't got one—she's just plain scared. Do you know what she said?'

  `No, and I don't think you should tell me,' he said mildly.

  'Oh, but I must.' Shelley looked anxious. 'At least some of it,' she amended hastily, 'because I'm not sure what's going to happen next.' Quickly she recounted the disturbing news and ended: `So you see, I might have to leave here when Aunt Lou ... And I don't want to,' she added with a pathetic little pout that was rather overdone, 'I like it here, and I like Bruno now, and ... you've been very kind.'

  `Have I, Shelley? Even though I make you stammer?' There was a hint of amusement in his eyes. Then suddenly it died and his expression took on a dark gravity. He lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of the desk, not looking at her, and she sensed that he was now disturbed. At last he said suddenly : 'I'm sorry, Shelley, this is all my fault. I shouldn't have allowed this state to become possible.'

  Her eyes widened. 'Oh, but it isn't your fault! How could it be?'

  `Because I'm old enough if not wise enough to have foreseen complications.'

  `But it shouldn't be complicated,' she said with a stubborn little shake of her head. 'You simply rented me a room. Heavens, half of London's doing the same, and it still isn't enough. It seems to be bursting at the seams. You should see Samma's place, and the boys'. And Linda's sharing a two-room place with four girls! You can't move for wet tights dripping on you.'

  'Yes, I know, it's very difficult when you're young and your salary seems as though it'll never stretch till the next week.' He sighed. 'When I think of it I feel guilty about all the room which is unused here.'

  She was silent, and he straightened, suddenly decisive. 'But to get back to you; it isn't as simple as that, I wish it was. A great deal of old tradition is dead now, but some of it dies hard. Scratch the surface and it's surprising how much basic convention remains. We
must face it; you shouldn't be living

  here and I should never have suggested you do so.'

  The sharp tilt of Shelley's head manifested her sudden dismay. 'You mean . . . I've got to go?'

  `I'm afraid so,' he said gently.

  The sigh she gave left a forlorn droop of her shoulders and resignation in her eyes. She said flatly, 'I might have known it was too good to last. Oh, well, I suppose I'd better take myself back to Samma's until Aunt Lou's been, and then . . She stopped, seeing him shaking his head.

  `No, you're not going to do things that way.' His tone held a ring of authority. 'You'll stay here until your aunt visit, then we'll arrange something.'

  `But that's the whole idea,' she protested. 'I go back to Samma's so that everything is the same as before and then—'

  `You'll write to your aunt and invite her here,' he said firmly, 'and you'll abide by her advice.'

  `But what about Samma? She'll be furious.'

  `Samma will have to arrange her own affairs. She's quite capable of that, you are not.'

  Despite her sadness Shelley could not help smiling. 'You sound just like a very stern parent.'

  `Parent!' He sent a despairing glance heavenward. 'Shelley, I don't know whether to adopt you—or marry you!'

  She gasped, then saw he was laughing, and said with a catch in her voice: 'But I'm not an orphan. At least, not now. I've got Aunt Lou.'

  `That's merely a finer technical definition. I wasn't thinking of a homeless orphan, or a penniless one.'

  `Then what kind of orphan were you thinking of?' she asked curiously, intrigued by his strange remark about adopting her, or marrying her. It seemed such an odd joke to make. In fact, her mouth quivered, it was the unfunniest thing she'd ever had said to her. 'There's only one kind of orphan,' she said unsteadily, 'the kind who is left without anyone or anything.'

  `Yes, I know,' he said with sudden gentleness. 'I think we'd better close the subject of orphans. Now don't worry any more. I want you to write to Aunt Lou, and I want to

  meet her. Understand,' the sternness had come back into his voice, 'there's to be no pretence or deception about your being here?' She nodded, and he went on: 'As far as finding you a flatlet is concerned you can leave that to me. Understood?'

  Again she nodded, and he said briskly, 'Any more problems to be disposed of?'

  There didn't seem anything else to say. Slowly she shook her head, saw clearly that his expression said the conversation was over, and murmured a sad goodnight.

  It wasn't until she was back in her room that she realised she hadn't even said 'Thank you'.

  The letter from Aunt Lou came the following morning. It contained a number of very direct questions concerning Samma, Shelley herself, Shelley's present place of residence and why she was there and conveyed a great deal of determination to have answers to those questions. Altogether, the letter did nothing to revive Shelley's depressed spirit, and as for answering it ... She wrote as short a reply as she dared, dutifully extending Quinn's invitation, saying nothing about Samma and telling Aunt Lou she would explain everything when she saw her.

  And that was that !

  She had no doubt that Quinn would keep his promise. If he said he would fix her somewhere to stay, he would. She could only hope he would remember her budget and act accordingly. Maybe it would be with someone he knew, she thought hopefully, someone he visited occasionally so that she might see him again. Oh, it was going to be unbearable if she didn't; it was going to be unbearable in any case, but it ... it didn't even bear thinking about.

  Shelley moped all day Monday, making so many mistakes she hardly dared make the request for time off when she eventually remembered what was nagging at her subconscious. Luckily, one of the secretaries who was down for the Saturday rota desperately wanted her Saturday free for a heavy date that had materialised unexpectedly and Shelley was able to exchange her day off. Certainly, judging by the expression

  of Miss 'Acid'—the supervisor of the typing pool—Shelley's request would not otherwise have been granted.

  The blackness of the day was not over, though, Quinn was not home that evening, and after phoning Pamela and fixing on Wednesday for the shopping spree Shelley had to leave the message with Bruno.

  At least it was something to look forward to, she thought sadly, except it would bring her departure two days nearer. Anyway, Quinn had probably forgotten about the luncheon idea.

  Tuesday wasn't a much better day. She wasn't sorry when Linda, with guilty apologies, cried off the cinema evening; somehow, spending the evening at home held far greater invitation ... She mooned round the kitchen with the airy pretence of having nothing better to do and extracted another instalment of Bruno's colourful life story, spiced with such snippets of information about Quinn that the discreet Bruno would let slip. She now knew that Quinn was an architect of some repute in a world of which Shelley knew nothing, that he could command his own fee, that his mother was 'a very nice lady' and he had looked after her `real proper' since the death of his father. She also discovered the reason for Bruno's faithful devotion. Some years previously the tide of fortune had turned against Bruno. He'd been framed in a rigged match after refusing to accept a bribe, been suspended, drifted through a series of jobs as strong-arm man and chucker-out at various shady haunts, got involved with a pack of dubious characters of London's underworld and finally, after a prison sentence for 'aiding and abetting' had fetched up drunk and destitute under the wheels of Quinn's car.

  The flatties was on the job like clockwork, all set to nab me again.' Bruno tapped the ice tray and the cubes clattered into the sink like small transparent bullets. He refilled it with fresh water and dried the underside before he slipped it back into the freezing compartment of the big fridge. 'They'd have shoved me back in the cooler if it 'adn't bin for Mr Quinn. No, he runs me along to 'ospital and listens to me tale o' woe. The bleedin' beer must 'ave loosened me tongue

  that night, 'cos next mornin', when they'd sobered me up, one o' them smarmy do-gooders comes along to show me the door and gives me this card and tells me to behave myself when I sees the gentleman.' Bruno paused and wiped a reminiscent hand over his flattened pugilist's mouth. 'Dunno yet why he bothered—I ain't no oil paintin'—but I thought I might as well come along and thank 'im for his pains, and I've bin 'ere ever since.

  'I can just imagine it all.' Shelley leaned on the spotless expanse of yellow formica and dabbled a finger among the melting ice cubes. 'He's a rather wonderful person.'

  `He gets folks that way—there's no one like him.' Bruno shouldered her aside gently and removed an offensive tea-leaf that had the temerity to lurk in the gleaming sink. 'Specially the ladies,' he added with a sidelong glance that missed nothing of the intentness under the slight heightening of her colour. 'There's bin more than a few of 'em with that look in their eye, but that's as far as it gets. Mr Quinn won't marry now, not after ...' He paused, his head cocked in a listening attitude.

  `After what?' she asked with unguarded eagerness.

  `Got you as well, 'asn't he?' Bruno's sad-ugly features creased in a split grin. 'You're too young, little'un, for that lark. The guy wouldn't play with little girls like you, if you don't mind my saying so, miss. You look for a kid your own age, and—'

  The sound of the car door slamming cut short Bruno's candid homily and he moved with alacrity.

  `I'll put the kettle on,' she called eagerly as he switched on the outside lantern and went out to garage the car.

  But he had not heard her, and almost immediately Quinn's brisk steps sounded across the courtyard. Unbidden, a moment of panic possessed her and she almost fled. But the other force was the more compelling, overriding the sudden fear that already he had news of a flatlet or bedsitter. Maybe he would tell her jubilantly that she could move in straight away...

  She reached the doorway a second before he approached from along the passage.

  'We were just going to have some coffee,' she said, safe in the knowledge that
Bruno was out of earshot. 'Would you like some?'

  He paused, refusal in his face. 'It's not long since I dined.' He moved, then checked, and she wondered if he had noticed her disappointment. 'Well—yes,' he said rather abruptly, 'some coffee would be very welcome, it might chase that very dry discussion I've just had with old Brisson. I'll just get rid of these'—he gestured to the roll of plans under one arm and the dark leather briefcase—'while you get it ready.'

  Some ten minutes later Bruno came back after completing his tender nightly administrations to the lordly Bentley and found his 'Guy' and Shelley informally ensconced in the kitchen, drinking their coffee to the lyrical accompaniment from the radio which was set in a wall panel alongside the electric clock.

  Shelley did not even hear Bruno enter and get out his own blue and white striped mug and fill it from the jug of coffee on the hotplate. She was oblivious to everything except the tall, urbanely teasing man who could set light to the stars in her eyes so that they shone more brightly than ever before.

  Bruno watched her for a moment, then nodded to the coffee jug and cleared his throat impatiently. Cripes, he was getting soft—or old! But there was something about that little kid ...

  CHAPTER V

  'I'm going to have it and to hell with the expense,' said Pamela. 'Anyway, whose side are you on?'

  `Yours, of course.' Shelley clutched her own purchases and edged into the only corner free of outflung arms and young bodies wriggling in and out of various articles of gear. She watched Pamela and shook her head. liked the blue and green Banlon one you had on before. That blonde girl's trying it on now'

  `No, it wasn't me.' Pamela turned and postured in front of the mirror, obviously reluctant to remove the dress she was wearing. It was a tunic style, of a silky material with a soft, suede-like texture and very feminine, despite its straight slim lines. Her long black hair flowed down over the big collar that fell away casually from a deep slit neckline slashed almost to the waist. White suede thonging laced it to the throat and made a vivid contrast to the scarlet of the dress. There was no doubt that the colour suited Pamela's own vivacious colouring and she took a step back. 'Yes, this is it.'