Miss Columbine and Harley Quinn

by Hilton, Margery

Her heart quailed. What was happening to them? How could she put things right? But it wasn't her fault! And it wasn't his, she reminded herself. They hadn't exactly quarrelled, but this was worse than any quarrel. Wild thoughts of trying to set things right again rushed through her head. Of saying she was sorry, of appealing to him, of asking him to forget the whole miserable business, of reminding him of his own words— you'll get over this end of the world feeling. He was still Quinn, who could be gay, serious, teasing, gentle, mocking and ironic, patient yet firm ... he couldn't change in the space of a few hours. Unless ... maybe he was fed up with being patient, maybe he had changed ... maybe he didn't even know what the end of the world feeling was like. And he had once loved Myra Delane. Had?

  The crazy impulse to seize his hands and try to bring him back to her died as suddenly as it had come. There were too many people around, people who }coked as though they'd never experienced a moment of unhappiness, judging by their gamut of smiles, from dreamy curved half grins to the bellows of the big blubbery man going towards the pool.

  Suddenly she felt alone and not a little afraid.

  The film company had selected a site some twenty kilometres from Lindos. When Shelley and Quinn eventually arrived a great deal of people and equipment had been assembled, but very little seemed to be happening. Several members of the company had spread themselves on the beach, several had taken to the sea, a harassed-looking young man was thumbing through a clipboard of papers with which the breeze was already sporting, a conference was going on beside a large, metallic silver van from which two more men were unloading innumerable canvas chairs, and a small, worried woman was being harangued by a small, fragile blonde girl whose almost silver white tresses and sultry mouth were instantly familiar.

  'Yes, it's Tamina herself—the one and only,' said Myra, strolling across to greet them. Her voice dropped to an undertone. 'As usual, she's going to be difficult.'

  'She's so tiny when you see her in reality,' Shelley said, curiosity taking over for a moment. 'What's the film about?'

  Myra shrugged. 'It's another of these sex epics. Tamina plays a sort of junior, beachcombing Delilah. She has three men—a youth, a, young man, and a middle-aged one, and she wrecks all their lives. Not terribly original but Nicander Norval will make it with his photography. He's superb.'

  She gazed over the beach and said, 'There's Gino. Come on, Shelley, and I'll introduce you.' She led the way down the shallow slope to the sand and looked down at the lithe young Adonis sprawled indolently on a brilliant orange and black beach robe.

  'Gino! Wake up.'

  'I am awake.' The gaze of dark eyes travelled appreciatively up Myra's slim limbs and rested mischievously on her face while a slender supple hand prepared to follow. Myra stepped back out of reach and he sat up, laughing, then saw Shelley and his smile faded. 'Myra! Are you disabling your rivals now? Peccato !

  It was quite clear that Gino's charm was not an illusion of celluloid, and that feminine companionship acted on it in much the same way as the sun acted on a budding flower. He

  explained to Shelley how only the actual beach shots would be filmed on the island, and certain exteriors in Lindos itself; the interiors and the rest of the scenes would be constructed and filmed in the studio and then edited and put into sequence.

  Quinn contributed little to the conversation, and when Myra suggested a swim he hesitated only briefly, then went off to one of the portable dressing rooms to change.

  Despite Gino's engaging companionship Shelley could not drag her attention from the two figures in the sparkling sea. She could hear Myra's laughter, almost detect its note of the superb self-assurance she possessed. What was she saying to him? What was he saying to her? Was the old attraction being reborn? It mattered little that two others of the company had joined them, the questions still tortured Shelley and there was no comfort in Gino's sudden teasing exclamation:

  `I believe you are jealous.'

  At her gasp his smile faded. `Gia! But I would not have believed it. I think you are also—come si dice?'—his hand gestured, then his fingers made small triumphant snapping sounds—`you are afraid! But why? You are the bride; she is only the old love.'

  `Yes,' said Shelley flatly, sensing a Latin preoccupation with intrigue and reluctant to embark on a discussion. She glanced along the beach. `What are they going to do today? Nothing seems to be happening.'

  `They are discussing the sunset sequence, then they will rehearse it and film it.'

  `But it won't be sunset for hours yet.'

  Gino smiled. `They must make sure everything is ready first and perfect, because they will have only a limited time when the light and the setting sun is right. It is a very important scene,' he added, `a love scene in the water. Nicander Norval will not settle for a simulated scene in the studio.'

  `What if anything goes wrong?' she asked, trying not to watch Quinn.

  `They will retake tomorrow, and the next night—every night if necessary, until Norval is satisfied.'

  There was a small silence, then Gino apparently lost interest in the subject. He touched the folds of Shelley's sling and said: 'It is still painful?'

  'No, not now.' She had no inclination to discuss the bane of her present existence. 'It's a nuisance.'

  `How did it happen?'

  She was weary now of this question, but she told him, in flat terse phrases, and he shook his head sympathetically. Then a gleam of mischief entered his dark eyes. He said softly : 'In future you must not rush downstairs. After all, a bride should never rush downstairs. Upstairs, perhaps, but down—never!'

  She had to smile, albeit unwillingly. 'Gino, you're outrageous.'

  'So they tell me. But they have not yet started to rush away from me—downstairs or anywhere else,' he said smugly.

  She did laugh then, and he exclaimed: 'There! I have made you laugh. Now cheer up and remember that tomorrow you will be away. You will be back with your lover in that cold dark homeland of yours and the old love will still be here. So! Bene!'

  Would it be as easy as that? And for how long? Shelley wished she could banish her doubts about Myra Delane and let common-sense prevail. So they had run into her; for one day. But what of it? Even if she did reappear on the London scene? If Quinn was still crazy about her he would still have been pursuing her, he wouldn't have married another girl, would he? But what if Myra should suddenly decide it would be fun to crook her finger and beckon again, bolster her pride by assessing the strength of her power over him ...

  Her perception heightened acutely by fear, Shelley was alert the rest of that uneasy day for the signs she dreaded, but by the evening she was forced to admit that there wasn't a single factor she could pinpoint as conclusive to her suspicion.

  Myra was gay, charming and seemingly impartial in her attitude to Quinn, Gino and the other male members of the film crowd who played and socialised in her coterie. During a luxurious and rather noisy luncheon, during the afternoon

  and the evening hours spent at the villa Gino had rented, Myra took care to see that Shelley was drawn firmly into the inner circle. When a peremptory order went out to clear the beach because Tamina threw a fit of temperament and refused to rehearse until everyone except the cameraman and Norval had left Myra hastened to explain that this was a normal procedure at which no one took notice or offence. All in all, it could have been a fascinating and interesting insight into a world of which Shelley knew nothing, if only she had not been beset by doubts and her own uncertainties.

  It was after midnight when they got back to their hotel. She wandered to the mirror and stared at herself, knowing that this was the moment to start making her peace with Quinn but unsure where to begin. He had lapsed into silence once they were alone,, and now, behind her own' reflection, she saw him sitting on his bed unloading the film from the camera.

  She said tentatively : 'They should be good if they come out'

  `Yes,' he did not look up, 'they should. And there's no reason why they shouldn't come ou
t.' He wrapped the spool in the thick silver foil and got up to tuck it beside the other films in the pocket of his suitcase. He closed the case and straightened. 'At least you'll have one ace to stick in your snapshot album and boast of to your girl-friends : I don't suppose they've been photographed in Gino Mariello's arms.'

  `Oh!' Shelley had forgotten that moment, and the mischievous Gino drawing her close and grinning down into her startled face at the precise moment the shutter clicked. She said uncertainly, `Did—did you mind?'

  `Mind?' Quinn gave her a direct look. 'Why should I? It was part of the fun'

  'Yes ... I just wondered. I mean, with you mentioning it and—'

  He smiled slightly. `If the famous Gino had made an impression I doubt if I'd have worried. I trust you; it's as simple as that.'

  With calm precise movements he was taking clothes out of the wardrobe and beginning a methodical, unhurried packing. His tone unchanged, he said, 'You'd better make a start, Shelley, we won't have much time in the morning.'

  After a hesitation she decided she had better comply. A new dexterity had gradually come to her left hand and if the quality of her case-packing didn't exactly match the paragon skill of Eleanor Quinn's at least she'd got everything in with reasonable tidy compactness. She surveyed it with unconscious pride and Quinn, who had completed his own task a good ten minutes previously, remarked: 'You'll be ambidextrous by the time this little episode is over.'

  be the one and only gain I've made then,' she said flatly, 'and I'd sacrifice it with pleasure, believe me, in exchange for the losses. No, I can manage it myself,' determined to be independent, she closed the lid and prepared to move the case to where his stood in the corner, 'there's only my overnight stuff to go in in the morn—oh—! Damn!'

  The locks had not engaged properly and Shelley glared furiously at the ruination of her laborious work as the lid flew open and the contents shot out on the floor. She swore again and dropped to her knees, almost in tears as she stuffed the clothes back into the case, heedless now that they would soon resemble dusters. 'I'm sure I closed it properly, and the damned thing—'

  `Take it easy.' Sighing, he knelt beside her and shouldered her aside. 'You can't shove things back like that, girl, and flying into a rage won't help.'

  'It's all very well for you,' she cried, watching him haul out her things as fast as she threw them back in. 'Your packing's done, and you've got two hands.'

  `So have you, my girl, and remember what I once told you : spilt milk isn't worth weeping over and you've given a hearty swear, so calm down.'

  His control proved too much to take. 'I can't!' she stormed. 'Oh, why can't I ever do anything right?'

  `In a moment or so I'll tell you—and one of these days you'll find out for yourself—sad to say,' he added somewhat enigmatically. 'Now for heaven's sake ...' he glanced up at her, 'don't go all emotional again.'

  There was a note of warning in his tone and she subsided,

  despair coming in a cold wave. What did he expect of her? An angel would have been tempted to slam the pearly gates if it felt as sorely tried as she did, she thought irreverently.

  Retreating into silence, she left him to get on with it and made sketchy preparations for bed. When he came back from the shower she was sitting on the edge of her bed winding up her watch which she'd managed to remove without dropping it more than twice and almost enjoying feeling sorry for herself.

  He moved to the dressing table, passed a hand absently over his hair, and drew open two of the small drawers before he saw what he sought was lying amid a small assortment of oddments on the glass top. The metallic sheen of the fountain pen in his hand, he came across the room and sat down at her side, hesitated without speaking, then got up abruptly and shook his head. 'The wrong side—you won't be able to read it.'

  Shelley forgot her mixed-up emotions and betrayed puzzlement as he sat down again, this time on her left, and reached across her to the injured arm. 'Turn round a little,' he instructed, `and rest it on my knee.'

  Wild thoughts that he was going to take the plaster off entered her head and she gave a startled exclamation. 'What —what are you—?'

  'Just a little writing. It's time I autographed this—this monstrosity. Now keep still. Legibility is essential.'

  Shelley kept very still. He was very close to her, his dark head bent by her shoulder, his arm pressing against her breast as he wrote. Wrote far, far more than any signature—it seemed more like the beginning of a book !—and a strange lightness began to creep into her heart. She held her breath, trying to glimpse the blue writing forming on the now grubby white surface of the cast, but his head and his hand were in the way and she heaved a sigh of exasperation which was nevertheless anticipatory.

  At last he straightened and capped the pen, and checked his handiwork before he said dryly : 'Read, mark and inwardly digest'

  Shelley blinked, frowned and looked up. 'It's in French.'

  `Yes, French.'

  He did not seem inclined to enlighten her, and she read slowly : patience—et—longueur—de—temps! Font—'

  `Schoolgirl French!' He closed his eyes despairingly.

  The feeling of lightness was beginning to grow wings. She said happily. 'It's your handwriting ... Patience and a longer time—I've got that far ! Font—plus--que— But font means melting ! Doesn't it?'

  His mouth quivered and the old humour peeped through his grave composure. 'It doesn't! Roughly translated it means: Time and patience achieve more than strength and rage.'

  `Oh.' She regarded him with eyes which made no secret of her joy that the miserable little interlude now seemed to be forgotten. 'Is this the first lesson?'

  `It is, Shelley Quinn, and see that you remember it.'

  She looked down at the blue writing. 'You haven't signed it.'

  `I'll sign the last one,' he touched her cheek and stood up, `not before.'

  There was the instant desire to respond to the small gesture of affection, and then something stayed the impulse and she made no move as he walked back to the dressing table and put the pen down. She gave a soft sigh: 'don't start going all emotional again.' If he wanted to play it cool she had no choice but to comply. But ... her fingers smoothed over the quotation on the hard clumsy surface and she tried to find comfort between the lines. For the moment this had to be enough, but for how long ...?

  The first harbinger of winter was in the cold boisterous wind that chilled the sun-acclimatised travellers disembarking at London Airport. Depressing grey clouds hung sullenly in the sky and it was difficult to credit that a few short hours ago they had breakfasted within sight of a golden beach where even at that early hour the first blithe spirits were entering the water.

  But the house overlooking the park was warm and cosy and welcoming. Bruno's cheerful grin seemed fixed permanently in place as Shelley and Quinn brought the inevitable

  trail of holiday debris into the immaculate home. He had a colossal lunch ready and a neat compilation of the happenings at number eight during Quinn's absence.

  `And how did it go?' he asked at last. 'You look a fair treat, I must say. Couldn't you 'ave brought a bit of sunshine back with you?'

  `We've brought you a bottle of it,' laughed Shelley. `Oh, it was heavenly. The sun brilliant and the skies blue, and the sea—' she gestured happily.

  `Wet,' said Quinn tersely. He glanced at the collection of mail that had accumulated and sorted through it, then noticed Shelley's eager gaze. 'You can have the lot,' he said dryly, 'there're at least five bills and the rest looks like work. Here's your share—and you can open the joint ones.'

  He passed them over and she pounced on them, knowing a secret delight at seeing `Mr and Mrs H. Quinn' in black and white on the envelopes. It was strange, but the sight of them had the effect of making her realise that she was really married and mistress of her own home. It was a wonderful if sobering thought, and she said without thinking: 'It's the second page.

  `Second page of what?' Quinn asked.
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br />   'Marriage,' she said rather shyly. 'Remember? You said the honeymoon was only the first page'

  `Did I?' Quinn seemed a little vague, and she could not help feeling a flash of disappointment. She tried to suppress it, reflecting that women were always more sentimental than men about these things and she would have to get used to the idea of everyday living being resumed. Work and business and the duller routine of mundane essentials had to go on regardless. But she had not reckoned on them being so quite so regardless.

  They spent the rest of that day settling in, and the following day they lunched out, shopped and did a show, but late in the evening Quinn broke the news.

  `I'm afraid I'm going to have to be away from home quite a lot during the next two or three weeks. These new commissions are still in the initial stages and there's a great deal of discussion entailed. So,' he looked at her downcast face

  and shrugged ruefully, 'I'll be commuting between the west country and the north, and fitting in my normal work where I can. It usually happens this way : everything at once, then a quiet spell.'

  `I suppose you have to have long conferences with Councils and they haggle about cost depending on whether their party is in favour,' she said thoughtfully.

  `Something like that. There's never enough money to go round, and always arguments over the allocation, which the poor architect has to take into consideration before he can do his part.' He paused. 'What are you going to do with yourself all day now?'

  For a moment she looked blank, still contemplating the prospect of his being away for these unforeseen indefinite spells, then she forced a smile. 'Housekeeping, of course. I have to learn how to organise and run a house, and look after you.'

  He looked amused. 'You won't be able to do much looking after me until you've got rid of that'—with a nodded reminder she did not need—`and Bruno is quite capable of running things the way he's always done.' Quinn hesitated. `You're not going to push poor old Bruno's nose out of joint, I hope.'

  `Of course not !' she looked horrified, 'but I don't intend to let him think I'm going to be a lazy wife, or—or toffee-nosed.'