CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The blackbird was still singing its heart out in proximity to the window, which was open to billow the curtain, and the scents of an English country garden mingled with the fragrance of beeswax. Karen retrieved the cushion from the floor. It was the beeswax which gave it its lovely shine. Ian had told her his grandmother had used it to preserve and beautify, and one day when time rested heavily on her hands, she had set to with polishing rags and a vast reserve of energy and determination.

‘What did you say?’ she gasped, clutching the cushion to her breast as if it would ward off something that was ghastly and unbelievable.

‘I asked,’ repeated Val, hugging her slender knees and looking totally unconcerned, ‘if I knew you. Do you live locally, I mean?’

‘I live here,’ she said, resolving to stay calm. Whatever happened she must not lose her head.

‘Of course you do now,’ said Val, her voice incorporating a chuckle.

‘It just occurred to me you might come from hereabouts. Ian is such a stickler for drawing his labour-force from local inhabitants. Oh dear! does that sound terribly condescending. I didn’t meant it to. Not when you’ve been such a brick and dropped whatever you were doing to come and chaperon me. Isn’t that an old-fashioned word?’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘But then, this is an old-fashioned village. Perhaps Ian was right. Perhaps we should have got married straight away. Gran would have understood. She wouldn’t have wanted us to mourn. But, I don’t know, it didn’t seem right. Do you think it would have been right, Miss—?’

‘My name is Karen.’

‘Of course, how remiss of me to forget.’ She paused, to let the significance of her words sink in. ‘But you haven’t answered my question?’

‘That’s because I can’t.’

‘You think it’s a matter for the heart to decide?’

‘What Karen felt like saying was, I think you’re shamming. I’m ninety-nine per cent sure you’re shamming. But she said: ‘Why Val? Why are you doing this to me?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ The eyes were guileless, yet Karen had to press on. ‘Is it because of what you saw and heard this morning at the kitchen door? Or because I took your place in the act with Mitch?’

‘Mitch?’ queried the girl looking convincingly puzzled.

Karen’s heart quailed. Desperately she said: ‘Howard Mitchell. You must remember him.’

‘Oh yes!’ acknowledged Val brightly, and Karen began to breathe freely again until she added: ‘Ian’s always talking about him. He’s promised to bring him home, one day soon, to introduce us.’

‘No!’ shrieked Karen, and before she could stop herself she leapt forward, grasped Val by the shoulders and shook her in sheer exasperation. ‘You will tell me the truth. You will, d’you hear?’

‘You’re hurting me,’ protested Val. Immediately Karen’s hands dropped away, but the impression of her fingers remained on the white flesh. Val stared at the marks and a look of triumph leapt to her eye. ‘You attacked me. I shall tell Ian and then he will send you away.’

‘That’s what you want, isn’t it?’ said Karen shakily, before fleeing from the room. Her legs were trembling so much she couldn’t manage the stairs. She sat for a moment, hidden by the bend, and she heard Val lift up the telephone receiver and dial a number. It wasn’t a miracle of deduction to assume she was telephoning Ian. What a tale she would have to tell, thought Karen, dragging herself up the stairs and out of earshot.

After a while she heard Val go into her own room. Karen went downstairs and busied herself preparing a meal while waiting for Ian to come home. She thought, the moment he comes in I shall know whose side he’s on. But she didn’t. She couldn’t tell anything from his face. Apparently he could tell a lot from hers.

‘Something’s happened?’ He covered the distance between them in long urgent strides and took her cold hands in his. ‘What is it, Karen?’

It didn’t occur to her that he should have known what it was. She said: ‘Val is pretending to have a memory lapse. She has gone back to the time shortly after your grandmother’s death.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘That she is pretending, or that she has gone back in time? No matter, the answer is yes on both accounts. I lost my temper and tried to shake the truth out of her. But you’ll know all about that.’

‘How will I know?’

‘Because Val phoned you. I heard her dial the number and begin to speak.’

‘That’s hardly conclusive. But we’ll leave that for the moment. Why would Val pretend to have a memory lapse?’

‘Because she eavesdropped on us this morning in the kitchen.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I saw her shadow flit away.’

‘You didn’t mention it.’

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I didn’t think it was important.’ He pondered for a moment. ‘Why didn’t I see anything?’

‘Because the bacon fat splashed on your hand and that occupied your attention. But why are you asking me all these questions?’ she said pulling her hands out of his. He didn’t reply straight away, and then he harked back to an old theme. ‘You don’t like Val very much, do you?’

She gasped: ‘That’s got nothing to do with it. Are you suggesting I’m inventing it?’

‘That isn’t the word I’d choose. Val didn’t telephone me,’ he said levelly. ‘This is the first I’ve heard of it.’

‘Then who did she phone?’ puzzled Karen in dismay. ‘What further mischief is she plotting?’

He said tonelessly: ‘Is she in her room? I’ll go up and have a word with her.’

When he came back down, a good twenty minutes later, he said: ‘I admit she seems unwilling to talk about things, but I’d say it’s a natural reluctance, not a memory lapse.’

Karen stared in stricken disbelief. It was a full minute before she thought to urge: ‘Phone the hospital. They’d know. They’d see through her straight away.’

He said, giving his words a good deal of thought: ‘If there’s anything to see through. Would you ask me to put her through the whole harrowing ordeal again, on a mere hunch?’ When he saw how unhappy she looked he added: ‘I might at that, but the one who knows her inside out is on holiday.’

‘Damn! I’d forgotten that. Will you still go to Paris?’

‘Sweetheart.’ His arms reached out to her and held her in a bear hug.

‘Of course I must go to Paris. Admit you could have done some conclusion jumping about the eavesdropping . . . and the phone call.’

She opened her mouth to protest, then remembered she had jumped to a conclusion about the telephone call. ‘Please Ian, don’t go to Paris. Call it a hunch or what you like, but I know something is going to happen to drive us apart if you go to Paris tomorrow.’

He frowned. ‘I must go. But if it will please you, I’ll telescope three days’ work into one and catch the first available flight back. I’ll even book a telephone call for tomorrow evening at nine-o’clock to make certain you’re all right.’ With that Karen had to be satisfied.

Next morning Val seemed perfectly recovered, and Karen wondered uneasily if she could have imagined it. Then she thought crossly, of course I didn’t. All the time she watched Val, trying to gauge what was going on in her mind. Twice she caught her laughing surreptitiously and this increased the agony of waiting. Finally, when she thought she could bear the suspense no longer, Val said she was going out for the day.

‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ said Karen.

That met with a puckish smile. ‘Because of my memory lapse? We both know I invented that.’

Mystified Karen asked: ‘Why? It doesn’t make sense.’

‘Have patience,’ said Val. ‘It will.’

‘I don’t know what you are going to do, or why you are going to do it,’ said Karen wearily. ‘You can’t want Ian. You don’t love him.’

Val walked over to the window and stared at the trees. ‘I hate this view,’ she said aggressively. ‘I wish the Forestry Commission would chop the trees down. No, I don’t love Ian. But I still want him. He makes me feel cherished and protected.’

‘That’s not enough, Val.’

‘It is for me. I’ve known love, remember. It swallows you whole, like the trees out there. Perhaps you like being swallowed whole?’

‘Perhaps I do at that. I like going for walks in the wood. I want Ian to love me. Please don’t spoil it for me.’

In replying, Val touched on a tender spot. ‘How do you know there’s anything to spoil? Can you say he loves you on the strength of a kiss or two?’

‘No.’ In his own words, it’s possible to want to make love to a person without being in love with them. He’d said that just before taking her in his arms.

‘Ian hates Mitch,’ said Val. ‘He wasn’t very pleased with you for teaming up with him.’

‘He told you about that?’

‘Everything.’

That’s a fabrication, thought Karen. He didn’t tell you. I can sense you know all about it, so somebody must have told you. But not Ian. But there’s no other interested party, save for perhaps, Mitch.

‘Doesn’t it scare you what would happen if you repeated the indiscretion?’ probed Val silkily.

‘Not really. Because I’ve no intention of getting involved with Mitch again.’

‘How definite you sound,’ mocked Val. ‘Let’s hope your determination doesn’t come unstuck.’ The undertone of a threat made Karen’s finger-tips curl, and she was glad when Val did go out. ‘Don’t expect me back much before breakfast time,’ she called out. Karen didn’t know if she meant it or not; moreover she was beyond caring.

After that time dragged interminably. Karen kept looking at the clock, willing the hands to rush to nine, which was the time Ian had promised to phone her from Paris. Perhaps when she heard his voice she would feel comforted, more secure.

It was still only ten minutes to six. To make the time pass more quickly she decided to take a short walk. Hurriedly she changed her dress, as she was closing the wardrobe door, she realized the Mandy costume was missing. She looked again to make certain, and then checked the contents of her drawers although she was reasonably certain she had hung it in the wardrobe. Was Val a thief as well as an eavesdropper, because of course she was the only person who could have taken it? And what would she want with it?

It gave her something else to puzzle over as she plunged down her favourite woodland path. Above the towering pines, jagged chinks of blue indicated it was still day. Tiny feathered bodies flittered between the spiky green branches and entertained her with a song as sweet as a choir of angels, punctuated now and then by the screeching call of a jay. A red squirrel looked at her for a moment with bright, inquiring eyes, before streaking up a tree and out of sight, his bushy tail catching fire in the westering rays of the sun.

She skirted a path fairly near the edge of the wood, as the paths all looked notoriously alike and she had no wish to get lost and risk missing Ian’s phone call. She was filled with peace and tranquillity, her problems shrunk to perspective; when she spoke to Ian her voice wouldn’t have an edge to it. She hazarded she had walked far enough, time to turn back.

She didn’t know quite how it happened, one moment she was swinging along with free, easy strides, and the next her foot hooked itself round the root of a tree and she lay winded on the ground. As she moved, a pain stabbed her ankle and she had a horrible vision of having to limp slowly back, and thought what a good job it was she had plenty of time.

Then she saw it, something white and still tucked in the undergrowth. If she hadn’t fallen she wouldn’t have spotted it. With gentle hands she lifted it out. It was the prettiest mallard, glistening white with patches of velvety black.

‘What are you doing here, you beautiful boy?’ she whispered, searching her mind for explanation. Overhead, telegraph wires were partially hidden by the trees. It seemed likely that in the failing light he had flown into them. Luckily the undergrowth had broken his fall. Holding him she felt the flutter of his heart and knew he was only stunned, but the pose of utter helplessness filled her with quick compassion.

‘You poor thing,’ she murmured softly. Perhaps not so helpless at that because he cocked open one eye and gave her a saucy look as if to say: I’m all right now. You’ll look after me.

‘I will. I will,’ she said. Unmindful of her aching ankle, she began the long trek down to the river, carrying her warm bundle. Once or twice the duck jerked convulsively, as if he was in pain. He seemed to know he was in caring hands because he gave her a trusting look before firmly closing his eyes. She decided to make a detour by way of St Mary’s Church. The vicar was usually pottering about at this time of day, and with his knowledge of wildlife he would know if the duck was really hurt. Because she knew she couldn’t abandon him until she was certain he could fend for himself.

But as she approached the strip of bank proceeding the church, the duck decided he’d been passive long enough. His head went back, his bill opened, and with a series of squawks he spread his wings and took off, keeling her over in surprise. Yet delighting her with the picture he made as he circled twice before sweeping off into the sunset. She watched until he was a speck against a skyline speared with gold, orange and red.

Still she did not move. The clock in the church tower began to strike. She counted, one, two, three. It couldn’t be all that late. Four, five, six. And yet she had the feeling her worst fear was about to be confirmed. Seven, eight, she couldn’t have missed Ian’s telephone call, she couldn’t. But as the ninth chivvying stroke sounded, she knew that she had.

She came very near to sinking down on the ground and weeping tears of frustration. To wait all day for this moment and then let it slip through her fingers. Her first big mistake had been in caring for the duck. But she hadn’t known it would come to no harm. In any case the damage was done and all the crying in the world wouldn’t put the clock back.

She thought, as she plodded a few weary paces on an ankle that was beginning to puff up and had started to ache abominably, that she spent too large a proportion of her life moaning about the inflexibility of time.

Her ankle was paining her so badly, she wondered if she would make it home and actually toyed with the idea of retracing her steps and slipping into the church to rest for a while. Perhaps the vicar would take pity on her and drive her home. Ah, the vicar! She’d met him on several occasions and found him to be a jovial type with a keen, one might say dedicated, interest in his fellow man. He would want to talk, which was bad enough as she didn’t feel in the mood for polite chit-chat. But worse, she knew her face wasn’t a study in tranquillity; she was nervy and on edge again, and being the kindly soul he was he’d want to know why. She couldn’t tell him why because she didn’t know the answer to that herself, and she couldn’t fob him off with vague untruths. Not the vicar, that would be too irreverent. She decided to brave it home as best she could, which was her second big mistake of the day. If she had turned back to the church the vicar would have been in a position to provide her with an alibi. But then, she didn’t know she might be called upon to account for her time.