by Lewis Orde
The trip from Brighton back to London took almost three hours because of a signal failure that stalled the train for fifty minutes. Catarina used the delay to lecture Roland on all the mistakes she thought he had made at the race where he’d lost all six races and forty pounds. Huddled in his sheepskin coat in a corner seat of the crowded first-class compartment, Roland listened in apparent agreement, smiling, nodding his head and continually telling Catarina she was perfectly right because he knew it drove her wild when he humored her this way.
‘Got it all out of your system?’ he asked, when she paused. He looked at the other passengers, wondering if they had been eavesdropping. No – there was never a need to eavesdrop when Catarina spoke her mind. She did it too loudly and too clearly. ‘Now that you’ve had your say, let me explain the science of handicapping to you, young lady.’ That also irritated her, being called young lady. But he enjoyed irritating her, watching the dark eyes flash dangerously, just as she enjoyed trying to make him mad. ‘The only proper way to select a horse is because of its record, the kind of surface it’s running on, the jockey and trainer, and the weight it’s carrying. I would never pick a horse the way you do, just because you happen to like its name or the colors the jockey’s wearing.’ He turned to the other passengers. ‘Am I right or wrong?’
One elderly man sitting next to Catarina had the temerity to nod. The others looked away quickly as if they hadn’t been listening.
‘Really?’ Catarina demanded, rising to Roland’s bait. ‘And what did your scientific study of the records, the track conditions, the jockeys and trainers prove today? Six losers!’ Satisfied that she was right, she sat back smugly in the opposite corner seat.
Roland wasn’t about to give her the last word.
‘What makes you such an expert? You’d never even been to a racetrack until I took you.’
‘That doesn’t make me any less of an expert than you. Besides, in Argentina I grew up on a horse. I know more about them than you ever will.’ She turned to the elderly man who had nodded agreement with Roland. ‘I gave him the names of three horses I thought would win. Did he listen to me? Did he even put one halfpenny on any of them? Oh oh, he knew better. Ask him,’ she urged the man, ‘what happened to Fat Fanny.’
‘All right, so Fat Fanny managed to crawl in first,’ Roland admitted grudgingly.
‘And at what price did Fat Fanny manage to crawl in first?’
‘Thirty-three to one,’ Roland mumbled into this coat.
‘I didn’t hear you!’
‘Thirty-three to one!’ Roland fairly shouted. ‘It was a poor field, you were bloody lucky, that was all.’
‘Which is bloody well more than you were,’ she retorted, mimicking his speech. ‘But of course, you are too proud – too full of your precious masculine ego to listen to advice from a woman.’
Had such an argument been with anyone else, Roland would either have shrugged himself deeper into the sheepskin coat or stormed out of the coach, embarrassed by the scene. Instead, he secretly reveled in it. The tenderness and innocent, childlike quality which had attracted him to Catarina had masked a spirit and temper as quick and fiery as his own. When she thought she was right – which, disconcertingly for Roland, was as often as he thought he was right – God help the person who disagreed. Roland found her obstinacy, her willingness to stand up for herself, a challenge he welcomed. He had never met a woman quite like her before; they were, in his mind, a perfect match.
‘Excuse me, sir.’ Catarina softened her tone and turned to the elderly man sitting next to her. Roland had sought allies; so would she. ‘Would you take advice from a woman?’
‘If she guaranteed me a thirty-three-to-one winner I reckon I would,’ the man replied, flattered by the attractive young woman asking him. When he noticed Roland glaring at him he decided to be more neutral. ‘Of course when I go to the races I always leave my wife at home.’
‘Clever man!’ Roland applauded, turning to Catarina. ‘Did you hear that?’
‘All right, if that’s how you feel I’ll stay at home the next time. And every time. You can go and lose all your stupid money on your own. See if I care.’
Roland couldn’t help grinning when he saw the fire glazing in her eyes, the tight set of her mouth. He impulsively made a face, jamming his top teeth down onto his lower lip. Catarina suddenly burst out laughing and reached across the narrow aisle to grasp his hands, oblivious now of the other passengers. Just then, the train jerked into motion and she slid from her seat, stumbling awkwardly in the aisle and landing on top of Roland. He held onto her tightly and kissed her, unwilling to let her go even when he noticed the other passengers and their indulgent smiles. He and Catarina were young and in love; such marvels deserved an appreciative audience.
In the month since their first date they seemed to have shared a thousand arguments just like this one. Over anything and everything: about racing, about the way he ate, about the fact that he didn’t have a car when he could easily afford one. Only a week earlier, as a hint, Catarina had given him a present of a model racing car. It made no difference to her that Roland would rather be chauffeured around. She believed her man should own a car – and Roland was most definitely her man now – then they would have privacy for their intimate quarrels. Although, Catarina thought mischievously, witnesses did add spice at times, especially when she could pull them in to support her side. She knew it infuriated Roland when she turned their spats into public debates, but angering each other was fun; it made conciliation so much sweeter.
When the train reached Victoria Station in London, Catarina couldn’t resist one final scene, one extra memory from the day’s outing. She turned to the elderly man once again. ‘Sir, how dare you disagree with my friend by saying you would listen to your wife – even for a big winner?’ Then she grabbed Roland’s hand and jumped onto the platform, laughing happily. Inside the compartment, the elderly man looked at his fellow passengers and touched a finger to his head. All the young people were crazy these days. The war had done it.
Catarina was still laughing when she and Roland reached the Menendez home next to the embassy. ‘Wait in the drawing room. I’ll be ready in a few minutes.’ Before Roland could protest that there was no need for her to change, she ran from the room, closing the door and leaving him alone. He lit a cigarette and dropped down into a leather wing chair, studying a painting of Ambassador Menendez that hung on the wall above the fireplace. Next time he would let Catarina choose the horses, and then he could start the argument on the way home.
The drawing room door opened and Roland swung around, expecting to see Catarina again. Instead, Ambassador Menendez filled the doorway. ‘Good evening, sir.’ Roland stood up and dropped the cigarette into an ashtray. ‘How are you?’
‘Very well, thank you, Mr Eagles.’ Menendez entered the room and closed the door, standing with his back to the fireplace, hands clasped behind him. ‘Where are you taking my daughter this evening?’
‘We’re going to a play, sir.’ Roland looked from the ambassador to the painting and back again. The artist had injected a warm humanity into the man’s florid face; none of that warmth was evident now. ‘Olivier in Richard III at the Old Vic.’
Menendez nodded. ‘Catarina mentioned that you went to the races in Brighton this afternoon.’
So she was still at it, continuing the performance she had started on the train. ‘Did she also mention that if I had listened to her advice I would have come back with my pockets bulging with money?’
Menendez appeared not to hear the question. He gazed coldly at Roland, frowning, the bushy eyebrows drawn together to form a shallow vee. ‘Mr Eagles, when I decided that my daughter should complete her education in England, I did not intend for that education to include a course on handicapping horses. Do I make myself clear?’
Roland’s amusement faded as the reason for Menendez’s appearance became uncomfortably clear. ‘You don’t approve of my taking Catarina?’
‘I en
tirely disapprove. Racetracks are populated by riff-raff. My daughter does not need to be exposed to such elements.’
Roland’s voice took on an abrupt edge. ‘Am I included in that description, sir?’
A bleak, humorless smile spread slowly across his face. ‘Only if you wish to include yourself.’ Menendez was never able to make up his mind about Roland, and this disturbed him deeply. From that first moment he had seen Catarina dancing with Roland at Claridge’s, Menendez had been concerned. He was sure that Roland had not been included on Catarina’s dance card; somehow he had bluffed or forced his way upon the girl. Then the roses the following morning. And that inane Shakespearean message . . . now these regular meetings, with Catarina so obviously captivated.
Roland was elegant, charming, apparently well off, although Catarina refused to divulge much information about him to her parents. But there existed about him a sharpness which worried the ambassador, the fine cutting edge of a confident adventurer. Or a fortune hunter. Menendez sensed these qualities and feared his daughter was swimming in water far too deep for her own safety. She was too young, too inexperienced with people to know whether a man wanted her or the money she represented. ‘I would appreciate it, Mr Eagles, if you would see less of my daughter. Your constant companionship of late is interfering with her studies.’
Roland glanced down at the floor, uncertain what to say. Should he defend himself by stating that Catarina’s desires were most important to him – what she wanted, not what the ambassador wanted? Or should he try to salve a father’s anxiety, no matter how ill-placed he felt it was, by appearing to heed Menendez’s wish?
‘After your visit to the theater tonight,’ Menendez continued, taking Roland’s silence for agreement, ‘your less frequent visits to my home would be most welcome.’
Roland was saved from saying anything when the door opened. Catarina entered the drawing room, looking fresh and new in a tailored beige dress, a lightweight coat slung over her arm. When she saw her father with Roland she stopped, unsure; the room was filled with a tension she didn’t understand.
‘You look lovely,’ Roland greeted her, eager to dispel the fear he could see in her face. ‘All ready?’
‘Yes.’ Her eyes flicked from Roland to her father. ‘Is there something wrong?’
Menendez turned from Roland and looked at his daughter. His frosty expression disappeared instantly. ‘Enjoy your evening, my dear. Your mother and I will wait up for you.’
Catarina kissed her father. Roland wished him good night, then led Catarina from the house. The moment they reached the street, Catarina asked again what was wrong.
‘Your father’s very unhappy about me taking you to the races. He didn’t like the way I exposed you to all the riffraff.’
‘Oh, so that was what your big meeting was all about.’ Catarina seemed relieved that it was so trivial. ‘By tomorrow he will have forgotten all about it.’
Roland waved for a passing taxi. ‘I don’t think so. He’s unhappy about me seeing you altogether, told me I was interfering with your studies, and that my less frequent calls on you would be most welcome.’
‘He’s never said anything like that to me.’ She climbed into the taxi, waited for Roland to settle down beside her. ‘If my father doesn’t like me seeing you, he should speak to me about it.’
‘Maybe he doesn’t want to argue with you. You’re his only daughter, remember?’
‘So he tries to stay out of it by trying to make you stop seeing me. Did you agree with him?’
‘Would I want to stop seeing a woman who can pick thirty-three-to-one winners?’ He grasped her hand, holding it between his own.
‘Is that the only reason?’
‘I also happen to be in love with you, which is why I think we should find a way around him for now. This doesn’t seem a good time to antagonize him.’
‘I’ve made a lot of friends at school,’ Catarina offered. ‘I’m sure they would lie convincingly for me.’
Roland wasn’t sure whether he liked the idea or not; he wasn’t even sure that he relished the prospect of Catarina taking on her father in this manner; it could drive a split into a family if he persisted. Christ – he didn’t want to do that . . . ‘If we did that and your father happened to learn the truth, he’d be flaming mad.’
‘How could he learn the truth? By seeing us together?’ Catarina seemed more concerned about losing Roland than she was about enraging her father. ‘I’m certain my parents would never visit racetracks or nightclubs, though my brother might.’
‘Some double standard, eh?’ Roland laughed. ‘Your father turns his head at what Juan does but objects when you do the same thing. I wonder if somewhere there’s a girl’s father telling Juan exactly what your father just told me.’
‘I wouldn’t doubt it for a moment. Juan wouldn’t listen. And neither will we.’
‘Catarina, the last thing I want to see you do is fall out with your family . . .’
She gazed at him, concern in her eyes, uncertain about the change that had come over him. ‘I won’t fall out with them, Roland. My father will get over this. I’ll persuade him.’
‘How?’
‘First, I’ll get my mother on my side. With two women against him he’ll be helpless.’
Faced with Catarina’s determination, Roland could do nothing but smile. ‘Okay, we’ll use your friends as alibis until you can bring your father around.’
‘I would be willing, tonight, to use Olivier for an alibi, Roland. Throw away the tickets. Let us go to your house instead.’
Roland didn’t need any second bidding. He rapped on the glass partition and gave the driver the change in directions.
When they entered the flat Catarina looked around with impatient curiosity, wandering from room to room with Roland trailing behind. She stood in the center of the second bedroom, slowly turning around. ‘This will make a wonderful nursery – once you get rid of all this garbage.’ With a flourish she indicated the desk and chair, the cabinet, the piles of paper that seemed to be everywhere.
Roland watched with amusement. ‘That, young lady, is not garbage. You’re standing in my office away from my office.’
She picked up a piece of paper from one of the piles. ‘Dear Sir, this is to confirm your order – boring!’
‘Boring pays the bills around here. And put it back where you found it,’ he said as Catarina let the piece of paper drop from her hand. He’d spent hours sorting through orders and correspondence he’d brought home from the factory. Now that he didn’t stay so late anymore, he had to work at home, often putting in two or three hours at night after returning from seeing Catarina; perhaps it was the price of becoming successful and falling in love simultaneously.
‘And what is this?, Catarina plucked a sheet of paper from another stack, scanned the words. Her eyes opened wide as she read it. ‘A strike?’
Roland took the piece of paper from her hand. It was a copy of a memorandum he had just sent to Simon Aronson, who had missed the previous day’s sales meeting. ‘One of our suppliers – a company by the name of Carters – has got labor problems at the minute. We get our heat-resistant plastic products from them, handles for irons and kettles. If Carters is struck, our people are threatening to black all their products, which will put us right up the creek.’
‘When will you know whether they’ll go on strike?’
‘Management and union are talking right now. Management has offered so much and the union’s demanding more. It could happen next week, the week after. I’m just hoping it doesn’t happen at all.’ Roland realized this was the first time he had ever spoken seriously about his business with Catarina. He had always kept it out of their conversations, not wanting to dull a single minute of their time together. But Catarina seemed interested in his business concerns . . . A lot of bridges were being crossed tonight.
‘Can your people go on strike like this, just because others have?’
‘They can, but they’d better not. It
’s one thing for them to strike against me because I’m a lousy employer. But striking because of something that’s happening elsewhere is a situation I won’t tolerate.’
‘What will you do?’
‘Sack the bloody lot,’ he answered immediately. ‘That’s what I’ve suggested in the memo to Simon.’
She looked at the piece of paper again. ‘Who is Simon?’
‘My partner. He’s a banker who put up most of the money. He also owns the newspaper Sally Roberts works on.’
‘And how is Sally Roberts?’ Catarina came closer, held his hands.
‘Fine, the last time I spoke to her.’
‘Do you not see her?’
‘Not since your father’s banquet. Surely you’re not jealous of Sally?’
Catarina released his hands and turned away. She was jealous of Sally, jealous of any woman Roland knew.
‘I still say this will make a wonderful nursery.’
‘Only for a baby who wants to learn office procedure,’ Roland answered, smiling at the way she had changed subjects.
‘Roland, for a family you must make sacrifices. All this will have to go.’
‘For a family I’d be willing to make a thousand sacrifices.’
She took his hand again and led him from the second bedroom to the master bedroom. A few seconds passed while she stood in the doorway, surveying the neatly made bed, the plumped-up pillows and comforter, the freshly laundered sheets. The chest of drawers and bedside tables were free of dust; the nap of the carpet stood up where a vacuum cleaner had been to work. ‘You keep your home spotless.’
