Souls Dryft Page 23

  Now he changed the subject. "So you’re done with the bath now then?" Pushing back his chair, he stood and turned away. "I hope you cleaned off the scum line."

  "I never leave a—"

  "I merely point out these little faults so you can improve," he drawled nonchalantly, walking to the stairs.

  "As we’re on the subject of each other’s faults," I shouted, "you use a clean towel every day."

  "That’s a fault? It’s called hygiene."

  "It’s called obsessive compulsive disorder."

  Shaking his head, he started up the stairs. I shouted after him, "If you think I’m washing towels six times a week for you, buster, think again!"

  He paused and turned to look down at me, resting his hand on the banister. "Did I ask you to?"

  "No, but…" I scowled. "If that’s what you’re developing this relationship for…don’t bother! I told you – I’m done with men!"

  "And I’m done with fighting."

  But I wasn’t – that was the trouble. It was easier to fight him, for then I had a reason to keep him at a safe arm’s length. If I let him close, who knew what might happen? Look at my history with men, for heaven’s sake. He’d already broken an arm and a nose.

  "I was here first, Downing," I exclaimed. "So you’re not doing me any favors, letting me stay. Let’s just get that straight."

  He sighed deeply. "Would you pass me my phone?"

  Frustrated, I grabbed it and threw it at him. Hard.

  One handed, he tried to catch it and failed.

  The cell phone, unlike me, didn’t bounce.

  It was amazing how many little pieces of plastic that thing broke into. "Gosh," I muttered. "That was pretty flimsy."

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  For a long moment, he simply stared at me from the shadowy staircase. I backed slowly toward the door. He took one step down and then another.

  "You’d better go and get your bath before…"

  He continued down the stairs.

  "And remember not to get your cast wet," I added.

  He wasn’t stopping.

  "Don’t come any closer," I warned, reaching behind me for the door handle. "I’ll scream."

  His lips parted in a slow, devious grin.

  "I’m warning you," I cried.

  He took the last few steps in one leap. I ran for my life, out into the sun-streaked yard, forgetting I was barefoot, wearing only a bathrobe.

  Richard stumbled behind me, cautious of that treacherous step.

  Squealing like an escaped piglet, I ran toward the gates, but when I heard the rusty squeak of metal turning, I knew he had the garden hose. He couldn’t be bothered running after me, of course; he relied on lazy methods of vengeance.

  I screamed, "Don’t you dare!"

  He turned it full on and an arc of water shot out over the yard. Desperate, I pulled on the gates, but the water hit me square in the back and it was ice cold.

  "Come back here and face your punishment, Scrapper," he shouted, squirting me with water as I dodged back and forth, trying in vain to escape. In seconds I was soaked, slipping about on the cobbles. Grabbing the old bucket, I ran for the water trough. If that was the way he wanted to play…

  Laughing, he kept the water trained on me, but I knew – any minute now – it would stop. The water would just cut off, as was its habit. Sure enough the water burped, sputtered and stopped. He saw me filling the bucket in the trough and promptly became solemn and stern again. "Okay. That’s enough. Stop now."

  I ran at him with the bucket and he dodged sideways under the honeysuckle. I chased him around the garden, water lapping at the edge of the bucket.

  "What’s the matter, Downing? If you can dish it out, you ought to be able to take it."

  Now, of course, he protested that his arm hurt. I had him backed against the wall and he held his cast before him like a shield, reminding me that he wasn’t supposed to get it wet. I paused, foolishly feeling sympathy, and he took advantage of the moment, knocking the underside of the bucket with his free hand, swinging it toward me.

  His eyes were full of cheeky insolence. I considered which part of his body to injure next, but he suddenly made a grab for me and then his lips were on the side of my neck. "Now you’re all wet, again, Scrapper," he whispered; his breath warm on my skin. "You ought to get this off before you catch another cold." So much for a broken arm! It didn’t appear to hurt him too much now as he tried to untie the belt of my bathrobe.

  "Stop," I yelled, fighting to remain at least part way decent.

  "What’s wrong?" he teased, sliding his good arm under my robe. "I’m the one you always accuse of being buttoned up. You’re the blithe spirit. You don’t need these material trappings!"

  I was dimly aware of the grass moving around us, curling up over my feet, gaining strength from me. From us.

  Somehow he dragged me closer, although I suppose I put up very little resistance, and then our lips met. I thought my heart had stopped, but then it began to beat again. With an echo. I sank into his strength, giving in, giving up. His lips were warm, firm, hungry. How long had we waited for this?

  "Will," I gasped.

  "What?" He leaned back, one arm around my waist. "Will what?"

  I was flustered. "Nothing."

  His eyes widened. "That’s the name of the man in your book, isn’t it?" Now he grinned, licentious and also considerably exultant. "I’m your fantasy."

  So he had been reading it, when I specifically told him not to. "Don’t talk rot."

  He nodded slowly, tongue bulging in his cheek.

  "Stop it," I said, flustered. "Stop looking at me like that. Stop it. I’ve left the kettle on, and it will boil any minute. Let me go, Richard Shiny Shoes Downing."

  He whispered, "Last one into the house has to clean the bath."

  Before the sentence was done, he was off and I followed, swinging the bucket. As we ran around the other side of the house, back out into the yard, the sun dipped behind a brief cloud.

  She stepped out of the silvery light in her flowery summer dress, holding onto her straw hat and lifting her smoky sunglasses to get a better look at me in all my wet, bedraggled, barefoot, semi-undressed splendor.

  "Dickie! What have you been up to?"

  We came to an abrupt halt, like naughty children about to be reprimanded, and I dropped the empty bucket so that it rolled, clattering across the yard.

  She gave an odd, unconvincing laugh. "You look like a prizefighter, darling!" and then she tottered over to plant a kiss on his cheek. "I would have been here sooner if this place was better marked. The Satnav kept taking me in circles, saying there was no such place."

  I should have known someone would come and find him eventually. But…Dickie? Dickie? If I were a dog, my bristles would be raised. Who the Hell was she? I hadn’t written her into this story, so where did she come from?

  Richard said, "Grace, this is Kate, a friend." At the word "friend" she turned to him and her eyes darkened. I knew, by then, how he held things close to his chest and he wouldn’t want to confess she was anything more than that. Besides, at his age, the word "girlfriend" would sound ridiculous. "Kate, this is…Grace." No further explanation, just that, as if I was infamous.

  Her frost-laden, grey eyes were already on high alert. "Oh. Hi." The lack of enthusiasm was enough to wilt the geraniums on the windowsill. "Poor Dickie," she cooed, returning her attention to him. "You must have been wretched, stuck here like this in the middle of nowhere. But now I’m here to rescue you."

  I put on my best manners to welcome her properly. "Won’t you come in?" I exclaimed, sounding just like my mother.

  * * * *

  "So you’re the one staying in this pokey old house," she purred.

  "In my house. Yes, that would be me."

  "I don’t know how you can stay, all alone, in a creepy old place like this," she gushed.

  But I haven’t been alone, have I?

  "I kept trying to phone him and couldn�
��t get through," she added, eyeing my wet bathrobe. Good thing she didn’t dust me for his fingerprints, or she’d get a nasty shock.

  Gathering the collar in one hand, as primly as any wanton hussy could manage, I asked her, "How did you know Richard was here?"

  "He didn’t show up for my mother’s barbecue last Sunday, so I knew something was wrong," she replied in a pained, world-weary tone. "I called around and his office told me he’d come out here to look the place over. They hadn’t heard from him since." Now she examined her glossy fingernails and looked again, with barely constrained disgust, at my chipped teacups. She hadn’t taken a sip.

  "Would you like a biscuit?" I asked politely. "They’re home made."

  "Good God, no. Tons of calories, I expect."

  "Yes. I used to worry about things like that."

  She gave a pinched smiled. "I suppose when you get to a certain age it doesn’t matter anymore."

  So we sat in the kitchen, politely disliking one another, waiting for Richard to come down with his suitcase.

  "Why would you bother doing all this work on the place, if it’s going to be knocked down anyway?" she asked, crossing her long legs.

  I smiled. "It’s not going to be knocked down." My dear, you’ve been misinformed.

  "But Dickie always gets his own way in the end." She looked around at our dirty breakfast plates and the smears on the window. "Although I don’t know why anyone would want this place. It’s not even on the map. There’s nothing out here."

  I thought I might be tempted to throw her across the room, just like his phone. Friend, eh? She was much too young and vapid for him. She had an oval face with sharp, classical features. Nothing to write home about. What he saw in her, I couldn’t imagine – oh, except for the long legs up to her eyebrows. She wasn’t likely to challenge him and make his life difficult. Dickie would always get his own way with her – just as she said. Turning away to wash up the cups, I glanced at her feet and sniffed dismissively. Her toenails were glossy pink, her legs that brick-shade of fake spray-on tan. High maintenance, I thought scornfully. That dress, while masquerading as some simple little "what, this old thing?" probably cost more than I spent on groceries in six months. Well, I suppose if she had nothing better to spend her money on…

  It was official; I’d turned into my own mother.

  They left half an hour later; Richard in the passenger seat of her car, his face back to the usual grim mask. She waved merrily to me. "Toodle-ooh." And they roared away down the lane. He was here one minute and gone the next. I always knew I couldn’t keep him, didn’t I? But the loneliness was sudden and shocking. Less than an hour ago we were laughing.

  I closed the gate and stood a while, looking out into the lane, where another woman once stood, peering in. I could almost see her hands clasped around the bars. The breeze carried a light giggle through the long grass where her footsteps ran by. I heard the gasping breath of a man in pursuit. The gate rattled and shook when they fell together against it, their sighs at one with the cooing doves, their kiss an anxious flutter of wings.

  Behind me a window creaked slowly open and I knew they were being watched. I would have warned them, if I could, but they didn’t see me, anymore than they saw Suzannah spying on them. They were oblivious to all else but each other.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  I decided to go to my sister’s party after all. Somehow I had to keep rolling forward with real life, before I disappeared forever into my book.

  "Couldn’t make it on time?" Clive snatched the gift out of my hands, tossing it in the rough direction of the hall table. "It was a surprise party, you know. The idea is to be here, before the guest of honor."

  "I came on the train. It was late." And then, because he was my future brother-in-law and I was making an effort, I said, "sorry," as if I had any control over the train schedule.

  He leaned his head back, eyes gleaming nastily. "That’s an interesting outfit. Amazing what you can get from thrift stores and jumble sales."

  Our pleasantries over, I went into the living room to find Marian. As usual, she was enjoying her role as centre of attention – a natural. "I’m so glad you came," she cried, flinging her arms around me, only to drawback almost instantly. "What have you been up to?" Her green eyes were delicately appalled under perfect, clump-free mascara, as she grabbed my rough hands and turned them over.

  "Happy Birthday," I replied breezily, "The big Three-O."

  She groaned. "I know! Can you believe it? I’m ancient." Belatedly remembering I was three years older, she gave my shoulder a conciliatory squeeze and, as if I needed help with my walking frame, started me in the direction of the kitchen with a gentle shove. "Poor Grace. Get something to eat. Clive had it catered, you know."

  Already, I felt the life’s blood draining out of me as the walls of Clive’s over-decorated, mock-Tudor, suburban rabbit hutch closed in. It was an L-shaped room – perfect for entertaining, Marian would say in her estate agent voice — and I heard my mother holding court in the short end of the ‘L’, so I hastily ducked into the kitchen. My father had his back to the living room, a pint in one hand. When I saw who he was talking to, I thought I was dreaming.

  I held up one hand in a dopey half-wave. He squinted, amused, and then gave a similarly phony wave with the fingers poking out of his cast. I hadn’t seen him for several days, since he left in the care of his leggy blonde. I kept expecting a letter, ordering me to vacate the house, but nothing happened. Maybe he had more important things to do. Maybe he was a man who kept to his word.

  Two kids tore by and, in haste to avoid being trampled, I slipped on a dropped cherry tomato, twisted my ankle and knocked the phone off the wall. Everyone turned to look, and I heard someone mutter that I must be drunk already, as if I was notorious for it. Richard helped get the phone back on the wall. My ankle throbbing, I took his arm and limped across the kitchen.

  "What are you doing at my sister’s party?" I demanded.

  "I had to come here and keep an eye on you, didn’t I? Wouldn’t want you to lure some other poor innocent man into your web and trap him in the house."

  "You could have left any time, Dickie."

  "I think you bewitched me. You’re a bad influence. My willpower is in tatters around you." He paused awkwardly, as if he knew he said too much. "How’s the house?"

  "Still standing."

  "And you?"

  "The same."

  What I wanted to say was "Come back." I couldn’t of course. Words, words, words. Impossible to say. Much easier to write.

  I was suddenly aware of lights going out around me, one by one. I could smell…wet dog, damp earth… sweet lavender, rubbing between my fingertips, woodsy crushed apples and…sea salt on a worn linen shirt. She was taking me with her again and each time it was easier to slip through that window, as if the boundary barely existed anymore.

  Then I heard Clive announcing, like a circus ringmaster, "Guess who’s here," and I was dragged back to this world again.

  "Hello, Grace." Jack Willingham, father of my dead child, stood under the kitchen arch, clutching a plate piled high with food, already. "Long time no see. How’ve you been?"

  The kitchen tiles seemed to fold and bend under my feet. Behind him, Clive grinned broadly. "I’ll leave you two to catch up." And he swiftly disappeared again.

  "Hi, Jack." Somehow I got the words out. "How’s Scotland? I thought you’d still be there."

  "Just visiting family for a few weeks," he said. "What have you been up to?" He looked over my head at Richard, waiting for an introduction I felt no inclination to give. Jack moved closer, sure of himself and his place in my life. With that customary ego-centric optimism, he expected to pick up exactly where we left off. Perhaps he thought I’d learned my lesson – that I couldn’t live without him.

  Richard’s eyes were on their guard, that shy streak of good humor hidden away again. It must be a shock to him, finding I did actually have other men in my life. Like a woodlouse pock
ed with a stick, he curled up and presented his hard little shell to the world. We weren’t so different after all, he and I.

  My father greeted me with his customary peck on the cheek. "Got over that cold did you?"

  "Yes, Dad."

  "Richard was telling me how much work you’ve done at the house," he continued, burbling away to fill the awkward silence. "It’s coming along very well he said."

  I could only shrug.

  "Grace inherited a house from my uncle," he explained to Jack. "She’s doing a wonderful job tidying the place up, even though we were all against it at first. Oh, this is Richard. I don’t suppose you’ve met."

  Richard put out his hand, but Jack had a plate and a glass of beer so it went unshaken. Thankfully, I was rescued by my mother, who hurried over to lecture me about drinking too much. Apparently, news of my encounter with the cherry tomato had spread like wildfire, reaching her in the short end of the ‘L’ within just a few minutes of my stumble. I was the talk of the party already.

  "Good Gracious! You look dreadful. Is that what you’re wearing?"

  I wasn’t sure what she expected me to say. It wasn’t a new dress, but I thought it looked okay.

  "Are those your shoes?" she added, finally taking it all in.

  Once again, it was surely a rhetorical question. They were indeed shoes and, what’s more, they were on my feet, strongly suggesting they were mine.

  Drawing me aside, she demanded, "What’s going on?" She was so agitated, her perm trembled. "Jack asked you to marry him before Christmas? Is that true? Mind your language, Grace, please and don’t roll your eyes at me. I can’t think why you turned him down," she added angrily. "If you married him you wouldn’t be in this silly mess. You wouldn’t be living out of a suitcase like a gypsy. Jack’s got his feet on the ground."

  Whereas I had my head in the clouds.

  "And what have you done to Richard?" she demanded. "It looks like he’s been beaten up."

  I just couldn’t resist it. "Yes, but the sex was great."

  She was horrified and indignant – mostly the latter. "I don’t know what’s come over you." Finally she left me with one more boost to my confidence. "For Heaven’s Sake, get a manicure. And you’ve got paint in your hair. Don’t you ever look in a mirror?" Then, for once, she stopped. "I’m sorry, Grace, but really, I wish you’d make an effort. I only say these things for your own good. Once you start letting yourself go, it’s a slippery slope."