Agonized, cold, wet, I shuffled on in the queue through the doors of the Opera House and across the foyer, regimented, obedient, hypnotized. Then I was gazing through the glass at the man in the ticket office. His gold-rimmed spectacles were slightly askew. A tiny puff of cotton wool supported one side of the frame over a red and swollen ear. He looked harassed.
‘Ah yes, the lady in blue. Miss Ferindale. One ticket in the stalls. It has been paid for. Thank you. Next.’ He pushed an envelope towards me and I took it.
I stood and looked at it. Then I looked for Leo. He had gone.
I arrived a little early and slipped into my seat while the Opera House was still half empty. The cool, clean sawdust smell from the stage hung in the air, then as the rows filled it was replaced by the scents of wet coats and expensive perfumes and people hurrying straight from work. An elderly couple side-stepped past me and settled in the seats to my right. The left-hand seat remained empty until the orchestra began to tune up. Then he came as the lights were dimming, wrapped in a heavy gaberdine raincoat. Not Leo.
The half glance I gave him told me I could sit back and relax. Obviously Leo’s nerve had failed. The stranger had not even looked in my direction. But in the first interval he smiled.
‘Leo had to go to the hospital,’ he said. ‘He said I could take you out to dinner and then I must deliver you to the flat later. I understand there is some plant you have to collect.’
The begonia.
It was a pleasant meal. The young man, a colleague of Leo’s but specializing in paediatrics, played his part as escort well. I enjoyed myself. Until the coffee came.
‘I wouldn’t have put you down as being particularly homicidal,’ he said, his hazel eyes serious. ‘Of course, psychiatry is not really my line at all, but you seem quite rational to me. Have you ever felt the urge to repeat your violence?’
‘Not very often.’ I sat forward in my chair and began to toy with the fruit knife. ‘Do I gather that Leo’s feeling nervous?’
He smiled enigmatically. ‘Cautious perhaps.’
He called the waiter and then escorted me firmly to a taxi. He did not leave my side until we were standing outside Leo’s door that had once been my door too. Then with a handshake and a stiff little bow he turned and left me.
The ceilings had been painted white. As Leo opened the door and I composed my face to greet him, I noticed the fact automatically. And I was pleased.
Nothing of my personality remained in that flat. Even my begonia, which stood ostentatiously on the table by the door, had changed. It had grown gnarled and whiskery and one of the umbrella leaves had blighted and curled up at the edges.
‘It was kind of you to water it for me.’ I might have been away for a week’s holiday.
Leo acknowledged my thanks with composure and showed me to a chair by the fire. The hearth had been opened out and the glowing coals were sending out a radiant smokeless heat. I noticed that some of my carefully stripped furniture had been repainted. Some antiques and bric-à-brac had been introduced and the Greek island look had vanished completely. It was, I had to admit, very attractive in its own way, but not, I thought, entirely Leo’s taste.
‘Are you married now?’ I asked as he handed me a coffee cup. He unscrewed the cap from a quarter bottle of brandy. I did not expect him to nod and when he did I did not expect the sharp wave of jealousy which flowed over me.
‘Do I know her?’
I was relieved to see that it wasn’t the tanned beauty who had incited me to murder. I gazed at the photograph he put in my hand. She was delicate and fair and had the gentle eyes of a dreamer very much in love.
‘Can I meet her?’ I gazed round, half expecting her to appear, but the door to the bedroom was closed. I knew suddenly that the flat was empty. Taking the glass from Leo I looked up at his face. His gaze was fixed on the photograph in my hand, and his eyes reflected exactly those of the girl.
Suppressing with difficulty the lump that persisted in rising to my throat I took a sip of brandy and set the frame down on the low table.
‘I want to make love to you, Jessica.’ He took my glass and cup away and sat down next to me, holding my hands. His eyes were sad, not searching, not demanding; just holding mine.
The bedroom was too tidy. I followed him to the bed and then stood looking down at the coverlet. There were no signs in the room of her presence. No make up, no slippers, no photographs, no lingering whisper of perfume.
And there were no signs there either of the time I had shared Leo’s bed. It was a different place now. The rugs were changed, the pictures were different except for one. Glancing at Leo I felt myself smile just once. He had kept the hand-coloured print I had bought him of two goldfinches clinging to a head of thistledown.
‘Why didn’t you move?’ I asked at last.
‘I liked it here,’ he replied.
His fingers fumbled as he unbuttoned my dress and as he slipped the material back across my shoulders I saw him stare and hesitate and frown.
‘God, Jess. I must have had too much to drink.’ His hands dropped to his sides and with a defeated little shrug he sat abruptly on the bed.
I stood before him for a moment and then, wriggling back into my dress I began to rebutton it. Perhaps he, like me, had had a vision of another, more recent love. I had been Leo’s for so long, but my months with someone else had effaced the memory of Leo’s hands and Leo’s kisses. It was as though a stranger sat before me.
I brought his glass of brandy and my own from the drawing room and sat beside him on the bed.
‘I’ve been married too, Leo. My husband is dead.’
His eyes filled with tears and I knew then for certain that he had lost her. I did not ask any questions and after a while we rose and went back to the fire. The bedroom door was closed behind us.
We talked of many things. Of our lives and careers, of old friends and memories, even of the trial and the horrors that surrounded it. On my third brandy I found myself giggling over the solemnity of the judge. He had turned out to be the grandfather of the dental student who had helped us with the beautiful ceramic tiles we found for the bathroom.
As the fire grew cold and the red, glowing coals faded to clinker I found the silences between us growing longer. I was too tired to move. My head began to roll on my shoulder and when Leo gently took away my glass and covered me with a rug I made no protest. I was content to be there.
The kitchen I found was almost unchanged from five years before. Leo had always been a keen cook. Evidently his wife had not challenged him on that ground. I found the coffee beans in the same place; the grinder was an updated model. I cooked his eggs and put the rolls in the oven while he shaved and in the fragrance of the cooking breakfast felt myself five years younger.
Looking for the butter I found two bottles of her nail enamel in the bottom of the fridge. When Leo wasn’t looking I slipped them down behind a dresser drawer. It was better that he try to forget.
He drove me home on his way to the hospital, with my begonia, my spaghetti jar and my Requiem neatly stacked in a cardboard box on my knee. I would rather have left them.
‘Will you come again, Jess, one day?’ His smile was sad but genuine.
‘I’d like to Leo. I’d like to very much.’ He drew up outside my flat and sat for a moment gazing wordlessly through the windscreen. Then he got out and came to my side of the car.
Helping me out he pinched my cheek suddenly. ‘I forgot all about the need to hide my knives. You must have lulled me into a sense of security.’
As I carried the box of treasures up to my flat I was feeling happier than I had for many months. And I had left another hostage to fortune behind me. In an envelope on the mantelpiece in Leo’s flat I had put a five pound note and a message, ‘Thanks for the loan’, and my phone number.
The Touch of Gold
Pushing open the door the boy peered cautiously round it. The room was empty. On the bed, his uncle’s suitcase lay with its lid thrown b
ack, some clothes spilling over onto the patchwork counterpane. The curtains had been drawn against the brilliant afternoon sun and the room was a twilit cavern, scented with spice and pomade. He could hear the desperate rustling as a butterfly beat its wings, trapped somewhere between the curtains and the broiling glass.
Glancing back over his shoulder to make sure the passage was empty the boy tiptoed into the room. Lifting aside the heavy material he pushed open the casement. The frail wings beat against his cupped palms for a moment then the creature was gone out into the sun, leaving a dusting of gold on his fingers. He pulled the window to and slipped back through the curtains, holding his breath.
Full of curiosity, he looked round in the gloom. On the chest of drawers lay silver-backed hairbrushes, keys, pencils and a jar of some sort of cream. He unscrewed the lid and sniffed, wrinkling up his nose.
He hesitated before touching the suitcase. Then quietly and efficiently he went through it, searching the pockets, looking beneath every folded garment. He didn’t know what he hoped to find. Some sweets perhaps or interesting photographs.
His eyes rounded in amazement when he found the sovereign. He held it for a moment, hesitated, then slipped it into the pocket of his shorts.
It was hard to remember to walk quietly, to shut his uncle’s door, to stroll off casually towards he stairs. His gym shoes squeaked on the linoleum. He could hear his mother clanging saucepans in the kitchen and his uncle’s drawling tones coming from the front of the house somewhere. Perhaps he had cornered one of the choirboys on their way to practice and was boring him with one of his interminable stories. His father would be in the study writing his sermon.
Stealthily he made his way out into the garden, his hand cupped protectively over his shorts’ pocket. Sitting in the long grass behind the beech hedge he at last looked properly at the gold coin. He had never seen one before, never held one. He gazed at it and turned it over in his palm.
Then suddenly the awful realization came upon him that he had stolen it. He was a thief. In spite of the sultry heat he grew cold. His hand began to shake and unthinkingly he hurled the thing from him. It fell somewhere in the grass.
Hiding his head in his hands he sat for a long time, thinking. He knew what he must do. He must return the coin to its place in his uncle’s suitcase. No one would know it had been taken. Only God.
The boy looked heavenwards and fearfully, fervently, hoped that God was busy somewhere else this afternoon. There had certainly been occasions when He had missed other misdemeanours, after all.
On hands and knees in the long feathery grass he began to search for the sovereign.
Peering between the cool green stems he covered every inch of the ground near him. Then methodically he crawled in circles further and further away from the small patch of flattened turf which showed where he had been sitting. His anxious eyes flitted over stones and a piece of amber glass, a ladybird and finally, miraculously, a glint of gold. It turned out to be a butterfly; perhaps it was the same butterfly. His head ached. His shoulders ached. Trickles of perspiration ran down his back and his shirt clung to him. His nose itched from the grass seed and his eyes watered as he forced them ever closer in the green twilight between his hands. The shadow of the hedge lengthened over him. It formed a darkness so black he doubted that he would ever see again.
Blindly, exhausted, he climbed to his feet. It was no good, he would never find it. Tears trickled down his cheeks leaving clean trails in the dust beneath his eyes. Then he spotted the gold piece shining in a patch of dappled sunlight ten feet from him.
He clutched it to him and ran as fast as he could for the house. The shadows of the tall yew trees in the churchyard had already engulfed the small vicarage: it was as dark as night in the hall and he almost collided with his father who was emerging from his study.
Up the stairs two at a time he ran and listened for a moment, his heart thumping, at his uncle’s door. All was silent. Turning the handle he pushed his way into the room and looked round.
The suitcase, closed, stood on the floor by the dressing table. The hairbrushes and things had disappeared. Everything seemed to have been packed away. Hesitating, he wondered what to do. He could hide the coin in the room and hope people would think it had got lost. But his conscience told him otherwise. He must put it back. Silently he pulled the heavy case flat on the floor and tried the catches. They were unlocked. Relieved, he threw back the lid and slipped the sovereign back into the pocket where he found it. It was hard to reshut the case. He struggled to push the clothes down and to strain the lid back into position. The more he tried, the more untidy the contents seemed to become.
He sat on it, but his slight weight was not enough. He was so intent on his efforts that he almost missed the sound of heavy footsteps in the hall. Heart in mouth he left the case and fled to the heavy curtains, slipping through them as the door opened and his father and his uncle came in.
‘I have something for the boy.’ His uncle’s voice had an affable confident boom which had always endeared him to the nephew. ‘I’m sorry not to have seen him at all. Explain why I couldn’t stay, there’s a good chap.’
The boy heard the puzzled exclamation as his uncle saw the open case and unhappily he pictured his angry face. But no further comment was made. He heard a faint scrabbling and then his uncle spoke again, slightly breathless. ‘Here we are. A sovereign for him. I know he’d like it.’
The boy, red-faced and unhappy pressed himself further back behind the curtain. With a slight click the window swung gently open as it had for the captive butterfly. He clutched wildly for a moment at the heavy material as he felt his balance go, then he fell, with a frightened shout, towards the scented flowerbeds in the garden below.
The Helpless Heart
Mark was standing in the warm evening sunlight gazing up at the front of the house. Watching him a little anxiously from behind her billowing curtains Susannah saw him hesitate for a moment before raising his hand to push the door then, walking slowly like a man in a dream, he disappeared out of her sight into the shadows below her window.
She was waiting for him at the top of the stairs when he reappeared in the hall and she stood quite silent until, glancing up, he saw her framed against the landing window. At once the preoccupied expression on his face vanished and she breathed a quiet sigh of relief; the magic was still there. He ran up two at a time and kissed her on the forehead and then held her at arm’s length to see her better. On tiptoe she came only to his shoulder.
He followed her into her room. It was pretty and pastel-shaded, he saw looking round, feminine like her; the walls were hung with prints of flowers, festoons of blossom filled the vases on the table and bookcase and the shaggy rug was littered with her sewing. The flat was cool in the breeze from the open window.
Quietly she took his hand. ‘I am glad you came, Mark,’ she said softly.
Had she met him only two days before? It had been at a party which had been held in the big conference room at the offices where he worked. Long tables laid out with food and drink had been dragged across the length of the room and she scrutinized them anxiously from her corner. She had been feeling nervous about the party all day because she had supervised the catering and seen that all was ready; now it was up to the contract waitresses to cope for the rest of the evening. She eyed them critically; they looked smart and competent. She took a deep breath and pushed her fair hair back from her forehead. She knew she looked all right; she knew the food was good; so why was she worrying?
They began to arrive: the businessmen, the reps, the cool supercilious secretaries and at last, surreptitiously still rubbing little bits of wallpaper paste from beneath his finger nails, Mark. She didn’t know why she noticed that one man amongst so many others. Perhaps because he too looked a little ill at ease. She watched him walk to the bar and collect a drink. Then he carried it into a corner and, sipping repeatedly, began to observe.
Susannah had known no one there at all except
the managing director who had given her the job. He smiled at her distantly and bowed. She smiled back a little wryly, tempted to thumb her nose at so much pompous authority but not daring. It was then she caught Mark’s eye and knew that he had read her mind. Glancing down she smiled, a little embarrassed.
He came over. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ he asked easily.
‘I’m afraid so,’ she said.
‘Are you with the company? I haven’t seen you before.’ Mark could not take his eyes from her face and a flutter of excited unease arose somewhere below her ribs. She took another sip from her glass. ‘Actually I’m the cook. Freelance. I arranged the food for the party.’
He didn’t seem to be listening.
‘I expect you work here?’ she tried again, wanting to see him smile. They were jostled suddenly by a surge of loud-talking men and Mark slopped his drink a little on the skirt of her dress.
‘I’m sorry.’ He was jerked from his reverie abruptly. ‘Here, let me.’ He produced a handkerchief and dabbed her skirt. ‘I’m Mark by the way,’ he said glancing up at her, obliquely, almost on his knees at her feet.
‘I’m Susannah,’ she said, and he smiled.
For the rest of the evening they talked and laughed, inseparable; companionable; feeling as if they had known one another for years and he, realizing at last who she was, complimented her on her cooking, doing more than justice to his share as they talked.
Then the crowds began to thin. ‘Do you have to stay behind to clear up?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘Not this time, no. I’m coming back in the morning to see to things.’
‘But it’s Sunday tomorrow.’ he objected.
‘I know. I don’t mind.’
‘In that case, can I give you a lift home?’
She would have liked so much to say yes, but she had a car. She felt panicky suddenly. She hadn’t even known his surname, then.