Encounters Page 41

  His expression as he saw her confirmed her suspicions.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Dane. Forgive me for not waiting in the house, but there was a great deal to do this morning. I couldn’t wait until nine to begin.’

  He inclined his head slightly. ‘When you’re ready, I’ll take you round.’

  The ladies were watching them. Helen suddenly wanted to giggle. ‘I’m ready now, thank you.’ Meekly she followed him out of the door and towards the propagation beds.

  ‘I handed in my notice this morning, Stephen.’ Helen looked up into his face and forced herself to smile. ‘I’m going to live at Leabrook. It’s all arranged.’

  He stared at her, his lean features suddenly nakedly miserable and she felt a lump come to her throat. ‘We’ve had fun you and I, Stephen, I know, but it wasn’t working, was it?’ She looked away from him, studying the menu in her hands as though her life depended on it.

  ‘And everything there has been between us? It has meant nothing to you?’ He spoke stiffly, his voice lowered as though he were afraid someone would hear.

  ‘Of course it meant something to me. It meant a great deal.’ She swallowed hard. ‘Stephen, you and I have had a lot of good times. I’m …’ She hesitated. There is something missing between us. There always has been. You know it as well as I do. I don’t know what it is, but I’ve always sensed it and I think you have too. This is the right moment to finish it. I’m going away. For good.’

  Suddenly she had a vivid picture of the last time they had gone out together. They had been to the theatre and after it had eaten in a little restaurant in Covent Garden. Then they had gone back to Stephen’s flat and, gently, he had taken her in his arms and kissed her and later they had lain together, their arms around one another, their heads side by side on the pillows and she had been happy. Almost.

  They were too tense together; too conscious of themselves. She knew that he was holding back. It was almost as if he were acting a part and she had felt a little chill of misery creep over her, an uncertainty which should not be there and she had wondered if he sensed the same in her. She did not know how to reassure him.

  The silence in the room had been broken that last time by the sound of a car drawing up in the echoing street below. She heard the doors being opened and banged, voices and then, slowly, the silence again. But it was too late. Their aloneness was broken. She had not found out what was wrong. And now she never would.

  She looked at him again now and was relieved to see that he was once more in complete control of himself. His handsome face was impassive above the stiff collar, the discreet silk tie, the dark city suit.

  ‘You’ve obviously made the decision, Helen,’ he said quietly. ‘I can see that there would be no point in trying to dissuade you.’

  She bit her lip. There would. Of course there would. If he were to shout and rant at her, or hit her and drag her out into the street, or hurl the wine bottle across the room so that it smashed against the plate glass mirror on the opposite wall and splattered the decor with the musky Lambrusco – that would dissuade her. All or any of that would dissuade her and she would know that he cared.

  She forced herself to smile. ‘No, Stephen. There is no point in trying to dissuade me,’ she said.

  She saw him only twice after that before she moved. Both times they were like business acquaintances rather than people who had once been lovers. There was no acrimony, no heat; no terrible sorrow. Just a strange, deep regret. As a parting gift he gave her a Hermès scarf and a tight, distant kiss on the cheek. ‘Let me know how you get on, Helen,’ he said. ‘I’ll always want to know.’

  And that was that.

  She piled the last of her things into the back of her car, posted her flat key through the letter box for the landlord, slammed the lower door and climbed into the car. Stephen’s scarf still in its glossy wrapping was in the glove pocket in front of her. She did not put it on.

  Philip Dane came over that evening, not long after the van which had brought her few pieces of furniture from town had pulled away up the lane. He was carrying a bottle of wine.

  ‘I thought you might like to celebrate or drown your sorrows. Now that it’s all over and there is no turning back,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow perhaps we can go out to dinner. They do a good meal at the White Swan.’

  She stared at him. Then she smiled. ‘It’s been one hell of a day,’ she said.

  ‘No regrets so far?’

  She frowned. No regrets. Not for the job or the flat or the people. Just one aching memory. Stephen. He was watching her closely. Seeing the doubt on her face. But she shook her head. ‘No regrets. None at all.’

  At her invitation he sat on the sofa beside her, stretching out his legs towards the fire.

  ‘You know, I thought you were going to give me the sack.’ He squinted down at her. ‘You were, weren’t you?’

  ‘It crossed my mind.’

  ‘That’s what you came down here for, wasn’t it, originally? To sell up and collect the money and go.’

  ‘I suppose it was.’

  ‘And instead you’re going to take over and make decisions above my head?’

  ‘And you don’t like that idea?’

  ‘Not one bit.’ He grinned. ‘I’ve run this place too long to have some pint-sized town girl lording it over me.’

  ‘Not so much of the pint sized!’

  He chuckled. ‘You’re not such a bad businesswoman from what I’ve seen so far. You must have been pretty good at that job in London.’

  ‘I was.’ It was her turn to smile. ‘And I’ll be good at this one too. And I’ll lord it over you if I have to.’

  ‘I realized that weeks ago.’

  ‘Philip, did my father really say I was too much of a town girl to fit in here?’ She twisted herself round so that she could see his face.

  He laughed. ‘Of course not. He said you could never resist a challenge. So I made sure I presented you with one. And you rose to the bait beautifully!’

  She and Philip worked well together, his training and skill with the plants combining with her flair for business. They recognized one another’s strengths and of necessity grew close in the lengthening hours of daylight as the spring matured into early summer and grew warm. In the evenings they would inspect the herb beds walking slowly back towards the buildings as the last of the daylight lingered. And as they walked together, sometimes their hands would touch and she would glance at him and feel the strength of his attraction reaching out towards her. When at last he kissed her by the dew-wet sundial in the formal gardens where she used to sit with her father, the action had a kind of inevitability she could not resist. She was not prepared, however, for the wistful longing which came with the kiss and the thoughts, not of Philip, his strong arms round her in the dusk, but of Stephen.

  It was weeks before she brought herself to write to Stephen and longer before she posted the letter. It was brief and defiant and though she didn’t realize it, it was a little wistful too, as she thought of Philip’s kiss which she hoped would blot out all memory, in time, of the man to whom she wrote.

  Stephen read it in the tube, wedged shoulder to shoulder in the morning rush hour, scanning her writing with the same care he usually gave the City prices. Inside, he felt sick.

  From the page came a shutter-speed glimpse of the countryside emerging into summer; of lavender beds and pots of rosemary, of the worries of small but growing mail order sales and the drying sheds. And the picture of a woman who had already changed, relaxed and grown in confidence. And at the end the casual mention of her manager. ‘Philip is marvellous. Dad was lucky to find him and so am I.’ No more.

  Stephen closed his eyes, his hand automatically reaching up for the jointed handhold above his head as the train jolted across the points. He wondered why that morning’s investment meeting had seemed to be so important – and why he’d let her go.

  At first Helen found Philip’s possessiveness refreshing. It was exciting to have someone to escort her
with such obvious pride. She relished his admiration, but always at the end of the day she hesitated and drew back.

  ‘Let me stay, Helen,’ he would murmur in her ear as they sat before the log fire, which they still lit for company in the cool of the darkness, and she would close her eyes and whisper, ‘Not tonight, Phil. Not yet.’

  It had been too easy. Too obvious. She did not trust herself. Her excitement when he came near was real, as was her intense longing for him to efface the memory of Stephen and take over her life and yet, at the same time, she began to resent him a little. He was too possessive. Twice now he had countermanded her orders in the nurseries in front of the men and had laughed at her when she tried to argue. A nice laugh, but nevertheless a laugh. The last time it happened she asked him back to the house for a coffee and they had a blazing row.

  Two days later she was in the White Swan with a couple of the men at lunchtime and she saw Philip in there with someone else; a pretty dark girl whom she had never seen before. He had his arm around her.

  She didn’t say anything and very soon she was able to leave. The misery and jealousy she felt surprised her. Could she really be in love with him after all? He was fun and attractive and there was no doubt she was very strongly drawn to him, but this was not what it had felt like before.

  But had she been in love with Stephen?

  For several days she scarcely spoke to Philip as they met in the sheds or in the office over the account books or as she walked slowly down the lines of staging in the greenhouses, watching the seedlings turning to sturdy plants beneath his care. Then she knew she had to say something.

  He looked down at her gravely as she approached him in the sunny privacy of the box hedges. Then he smiled. ‘When you first came here, Helen, you said you had no regrets. That wasn’t quite true, was it?’

  She stared down at the grass. ‘It was true, Phil. It’s just I need longer than I thought, that’s all. There’s been so much to adjust to – so much that is different. Don’t hurry me, please. Give me a little space.’

  He shrugged. ‘I’ll give you space, Helen. However much you need. But don’t take too much time, if you can help it.’ He touched her gently with his finger. Then he turned away.

  She watched him go without moving. Suddenly she felt like crying.

  The next day it rained, and the day after. The stream gurgled and creamed an angry red brown and the trees scattered their leaves into the rushing flood waters. With a shiver Helen turned her back on the scene and closed the door. She had just seen Philip drive away for a weekend she might have gone on too, the tyres of his car throwing muddy spray into the air. She felt bleak.

  Summer though it might be, she lit the fire to cheer herself and knelt before it, feeding it wet, spluttering twigs and she almost did not bother to go to the door when she heard the knock.

  It was Stephen.

  They stared at each other in silence, her initial incredulous joy at seeing him damped almost instantly by their mutual hesitation. His reserve, his tight, careful restraint as he kissed her forehead and followed her into the sitting room were unchanged from the last time she had seen him. He did not fit at Leabrook. He never would.

  They talked. They even laughed. They ate together and drank the wine he had brought with him. But something still held them apart and at last she slipped onto her knees on the hearth rug to feed the fire with logs and stare miserably into the flames.

  He watched the shadows leaping on her hair. It was softer, more natural than he had ever seen it; prettier. She looked good without make-up, dressed in her old jeans. She seemed relaxed. Happy.

  They talked some more and she began to sense a change in him. Puzzled she watched his face, yearning to reach out and touch the taut lines which ran from nose to mouth. Outside the rain battered the windows and they heard a gust of wind in the chimney and for a moment she thought of Philip.

  ‘I’ll show you to your room, Stephen,’ she said at last and he did not argue. On the landing he took her hands for a moment and held them in his. Then he turned from her and closed the door behind him.

  She lay awake a long time, thinking about him in the dark.

  It was dawn when she was wakened by the distant sound of shouting. She lay staring at the ceiling, listening to the endless rain still beating down outside, then alerted by a sudden unexplained tremor of fear she got up and ran to the window. In the faint light she could see the stream spilling over its banks into the garden and car park, glittering across the lower fields. In the distance she could see several men working in the mud, piling sandbags, trying desperately to hold the water back from the greenhouses and the terraces. Frozen with horror she stared. One man was directing the others and with a moment’s anguish she thought it was her father, his boots, his tattered raincoat, even his old hat which had still hung downstairs in the hall. Then she realized that it was Stephen.

  Throwing on her clothes she ran downstairs, grabbing her own boots, her own raincoat and running outside into the rain.

  He had heard the urgent shouts of the men while she had slept, it seemed and had let himself out into the dawn, sizing up the situation and taking charge, in Philip’s absence, of the rescue operations. The taut lines had vanished from his face. The restraint had gone. Suddenly she could see the man behind the image she had always known.

  By mid-day the level of the water began to fall back. It had come to within an inch of the top of the bank near the greenhouses.

  Philip returned at half past twelve, leaping from his Land-Rover and running across the bridge to the shop. Helen smiled at him wearily. ‘It’s going down, Phil. We seem to have escaped the worst of it.’

  He gave a grim smile. ‘If we have then we’re the exception. There’s been bad flooding down the valley. I came back as soon as I heard, but the road is impassable in places. I had to go round –’ He broke off suddenly, staring out of the window. ‘Who’s that?’

  Helen did not have to look. ‘Stephen Spencer. A friend of mine from London. He arrived at just the right moment.’

  Philip gave her a sharp glance. Then he was striding out of the door. Helen stared at the ground. The sunlight had broken through the clouds suddenly and struck blinding reflections from the wet ground where he had been standing.

  His coat over the back of the old chair, the sleeves of his guernsey rolled up to the elbow, Stephen was sketching a map of the property at the work bench among the trowels and dibbers and the old pots of twisted thyme when Helen brought in the tray of coffee and sandwiches. Philip, with a couple of the men, was peering over his shoulder.

  ‘Raise the bank here, and here,’ he was saying, the pencil stump clutched between the mud-caked fingers, ‘and take a bit out of the corner here, to allow for a faster water flow and you’ll be safe in future. See?’ He glanced up at Philip, who nodded thoughtfully.

  Helen slid the tray in front of them. ‘Since when have you been an expert on water engineering?’ she asked softly.

  It was Philip who answered, glancing up at her with the wistfulness of a man who knows he has already lost. ‘I’ll bet he has talents you never even suspected,’ he said.

  Helen laughed. ‘I’m beginning to think he has,’ she agreed. She held his gaze for a moment and then she looked away, blushing. It was obvious he knew and, somehow, she thought he understood.

  It was Stephen who walked with her that evening as the sun set in a blaze of stormy red.

  He did not speak. For a while he watched with her the bats flitting out of the darkness, then he turned and took her in his arms. There was no hesitation this time; no reserve as he brought his face close to hers. For a long time they were silent, clinging to each other, in the dark. Then softly he spoke.

  ‘I was a fool in London,’ he said, ‘and I almost didn’t find out in time.’

  Party Games

  ‘I often think,’ someone was saying in the strident tone of a person who wishes their opinions to be heard, ‘that James is a perfect fool to continue hav
ing these parties. They are so deathly boring.’

  With pre-judged malice the owner of the voice leaned across and tapped her – it had to be a her – cigarette on the arm of one of James’s more beautiful bronze nudes. The ash fragmented into the crook of the curved elbow and lay dusty.

  Had she not seen me, this malicious woman, or was she deliberately trying to provoke me into defending my brother? Perhaps she didn’t care, or more likely, didn’t know me. Why should she?

  ‘Meet my beautiful sister, Laura,’ James had said to the first few guests to arrive. They had looked, smiled, accepted their drinks – and turned away. Soon James had grown bored with introducing me. I was obviously no ace to palm before this glittering troupe. As they moved slowly round his studio, delicately touching this, ostensibly averting their eyes from that, James turned to watch them, anxious, frowning behind the eyes, although his outward manner too was arrogant.

  ‘For God’s sake put some fig leaves on some of those figures, James,’ I had said at dinner, still confident then, still excited.

  He laughed and ruffled my hair. ‘This is London, sweetheart; you don’t have to pretend men don’t have balls here.’

  I blushed. I was mortified, angry and embarrassed. Was I then so provincial?

  The studio was hot and crowded now and smelt of perfume and, strangely from the so glitteringly arrayed, of sweat. Smoke and drink fumes mingled and spiralled towards the high skylight windows. The gentle murmur of conversation had grown to a steady roar as story competed with story, joke capped joke.

  ‘Smile, Laura; who’s going to want to talk to you if you look so miserable all the time?’ I could hear my mother’s words echoing down through the years. She had said that to me sometime at nearly every children’s party I had attended. And she would have said it at every teenage party too had she not then been left at home.

  Her advice made no difference. Other people seem to acquire some strange charisma at parties which I cannot find. Parties leave me cold, claustrophobic and embarrassed, both for myself and for those I see around me. I am too detached and with the best will in the world, even with a serious attempt to get drunk, cannot lose that detachment.