Ivy Tree (14 page)

In the end it was easy to know what to say. I said quite simply: 'Tin sorry, Grandfather. Will you have me back?"

The hand moved, holding mine together even more tightly.

"If I said no," said Grandfather crisply, "it would be no more than you deserve." He cleared his throat violently. "We thought you were dead." "I'm sorry."

His other hand reached forward and lifted my chin. He studied my face, turning it towards the light of the window. I bit my lip and waited, not meeting his gaze. He said nothing for a long time, then, as harshly as before: "You've been unhappy. Haven't you?"

I nodded. He let me go, and at last I was able to put my forehead down on the rug, so that he couldn't see my face. He said: "So have we," and fell silent again, patting my hand. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Con's portrait, the fine mouth just moving into that smile of his, full of challenge, and something that was more than mischief; an exciting, and, yes, a dangerous face. Well, Con, it was done now, all behind me, the burned boats, the Rubicons. We were over Becher's Brook, the Canal Turn, the lot, and into the straight. Home.

Con's eyes watched. What good would it do now to lift my head and say: "Your beloved Con's betraying you. He's paying me to come and pretend I'm your grand-daughter, because he thinks you'll die soon, and he wants your money, and your place." And something in me, some little voice I'd never listened to before, added: "And once he's made certain of that, I wouldn't give twopence for your life, Grandfather, I wouldn't really..."

I stayed where I was, not speaking.

The old man said nothing. The bees had gone. A small bird flew into the roses by the open window; I heard the flirt of its wings, and the tap and swish of the twigs as it alighted. At length I lifted my head, and smiled at him. He removed his hands, and looked at me under the thrust of his brows. If there had been any sign of emotion in his face, it had been banished now.

"Get a chair." He spoke abruptly. "And sit where I can see you." I obeyed him. I chose an upright chair, and sat correctly and rather primly on it, knees and feet together, back straight, hands in lap, like a small girl about to recite her catechism. I thought I saw a glimmer of appreciation in his eyes. "Well?" he said. Without moving, he seemed all at once to sit up straighter, even to tower over me. "You've got a lot of talking to do, girl. Supposing you start."

Some men has plenty money and no brains, and some men has plenty brains and no money. Surely men with plenty money and no brains were made for men with plenty brains and no money. 

From the Notebook of the Tichborne Claimant.

"WELL?" said Lisa softly, like an echo.

She was waiting at the foot of the stairs. A shaft of sunlight through the hall window dazzled along the edge of the copper bowl of pansies. She had her back to the light, and I couldn't see her expression, but even in the one softy-uttered word I could hear some of the trembling uncertainty she had showed in the kitchen. "How did it go off?"

I had paused when I saw her waiting, and now came reluctantly down the stairs.

"All right. Far better than I'd have expected."

She gave her withdrawn, close-lipped smile. It was as if, with this quiet lying-in-wait, these careful whispers, she was deliberately putting me back where I belonged; inside a dusty little cell of conspiracy, able to share my thoughts and hopes only with herself and Con, bound to them in a reluctant but unbreakable intimacy.

She said: "I told you there was nothing to be afraid of."

"I know. But I suppose conscience makes cowards of us all."

•What?"

"Nothing. A quotation. Shakespeare."

She looked faintly resentful, as she had in the kitchen when Con and I had seemed to be moving too fast for her. Perhaps the quotation irked her, or the realisation that I hadn't come from Grandfather's room bursting with confidence; or perhaps she didn't like to be reminded that I had once had a conscience. At any rate she slammed the door of the conspirators' cell hard on me once again. "You're very literary today. You want to be careful. It isn't in character."

I smiled. "I've had plenty time to settle down and improve my mind abroad."

“Hm. He didn't—he wasn't suspicious at all?”

"No.” I spoke a little wearily. "It's exactly as you and Con

foretold. There's no reason why he should be. It never even entered his head." She pursed her lips with satisfaction. "Well, what did happen?"

My mind went back to the scene upstairs. Well, they couldn't buy everything. I said slowly: "You can have the main outlines, if you like. I told him where I'd been since I left here, and how I'd been living. You know we'd arranged to tell the simple truth about that, as much as possible."

"Did he say much about . . . the trouble? The reason why you went?"

"If you mean the baby, he never mentioned it until I did. I simply told him I'd been mistaken, and that I'd found out my mistake after I'd gone abroad. And of course I never wrote to tell him so, since I'd no idea that Con had told him about it, and that he'd been worrying. That was all. He was so relieved, and ... oh, well, skip that. I was quite right, you know, Lisa. It would have been unforgivable to tell him anything else. As it is, we can forget all that part of the story. I don't suppose he'll refer to it again."

"And Con?" Her voice had lifted perceptibly.

"I tried to make it clear that, whatever had happened in the past, nothing in the world would persuade me to—well, to take up with Con again." I saw the look in her face, and added smoothly: "That, of course, was to protect Con and myself. It was quite possible, you know, that Grandfather was nursing some hopes of a reconciliation. I had to insist that there could never be anything between Con and myself except—" I hesitated "—you might call it armed neutrality."

"I see. Yes, that would have been—" she stopped. That conspirator's look again. "I'm sure you're right. There was nothing more? Nothing about the—the future?"

"Nothing at all."

She looked about her. "Well, you can't say much more just now, that's obvious. He'll be coming down soon. Later tonight, when we're alone, you can tell me all that was said."

"Make my report? No," I said gently.

Her mouth opened, with as much surprise as if I had struck her. "What d'you mean? You surely don't think that you can—"

"You probably wouldn't understand what I mean. But let's put it like this. I've a difficult role to play, and the only way to play it is to be it, to live in it, breathe it, think it, try to dream it. In other words, not to have to keep stepping out or Annabel's skin to remember that I'm just someone pretending to be Annabel. I can't act this thing in a series of little scenes, Lisa, with commentaries to you and Con in the intervals. If there's anything vital, or if I should want your help, believe me, I won't hesitate to come to you. But the biggest help you can both give me is simply to forget all that's happened in the last three weeks, and think of me, if you can, just as Annabel, come back to take my accustomed place in my own home. If you keep asking me questions, jerking me back out of my part into the part of Mary Grey, impostor. . . . Well, then, Lisa, some day I may get my parts mixed up, and go wrong. And I could go very wrong indeed, very easily." I paused, and added, lightly enough: "Well, there it is. Forget Mary Grey. Forget she ever existed. Believe me, I'm right. This is the only way to take it,"

She said doubtfully: "Well, yes, but..."

I laughed. "Oh, Lisa, stop looking at me as if you were Frankenstein, and the monster had just got away from you f I'm only talking common sense! And you've only to remember that Con and I are mutually committed, even to the extent of signing those deadly little 'confessions' for each other to keep, just in case. I've no doubt Con keeps mine next to his skin, day and night Call it remote control if you like, but it's there!

Even if Annabel Winslow is home again, at least you know that she's got to bat on Con's side this time I"

"I—well, yes, of course? Forgive me, I didn't really doubt you, but this afternoon has been disconcerting, to say the least You ... you're so very good at this. I've been the one to be nervous."

"I assure you, I'm quaking inside! It's all right I won't double-cross you, you know, Lisa, even if I dared."

"Dared?"

I didn't answer, and after a moment her eyes dropped. "Well, that's that, then. And you're quite right I'll try and do as you say, and forget it all, unless there's anything urgent. But it certainly doesn't look as if you're going to need much help, my dear. If you got away with that—" A movement of her head towards the upper landing completed the sentence for her.

"Well, I did. Now let's forget it. Did you say something about tea?"

"I was just going to make it," "Do you want any help?" "Not on your first day home."

"Then I think I'll go upstairs for a little. Am I in my old room." She smiled. "Yes. D'you mind using the nursery bathroom? You’ll be sharing it with Julie."

"Of course not. Does she know about me?"

"Yes. She rang up last night, to say she'd be here on Wednesday, and Mr. Winslow told her about you. That's all I know."

"Wednesday ..." I paused with a foot on the lowest stair. "Ah well, that gives us two more days. Oh, Lisa, I forgot, my cases—"

"Con brought them in just now, and took them up."

"Oh? It was good of him to get them so quickly. I'll see you at tea, then. Where d'you have it?"

"When I'm alone, in the kitchen as often as not. But for today, the drawing-room. Your grandfather'll be down, I expect. Did he say?"

"Yes. He—he wants to show me round the place himself after tea." The brown eyes held mine just a moment longer than was necessary.

"Of course," said Lisa, abandoning comment with what looked like an effort, "he would want to do that. Naturally. Well-I’ll see you later."

I turned and went back upstairs. I could see her watching me as, unhesitatingly, I took the left-hand passage past the head of the gallery.

"Yours is the second door" ... It was a pleasant room, with a long latticed window like Grandfather's, and the same Albertine rose nodding outside it. There was a wide window-seat, covered with chintz in a pretty, Persian-looking pattern of birds and flowers and trellis-work, done in deliberately-faded colours. The same chintz appeared for curtains and bedspread. The furniture was plain deal, white-painted; originally it would speak of 'nursery*, but now a new coat of paint made it merely cottagey and very charming. The floor was of polished boards with a couple of rugs, and the walls and ceiling were plain ivory-white. Con had dumped my baggage on the floor near the foot of the bed. He had also thoughtfully brought up my handbag, which I must have left in the kitchen, and this lay on the bed. I wasn't prepared to cope with unpacking yet. I picked up the handbag and carried it across to the window-seat, I sat down, opened the bag, and took out my cigarettes.

As I shook one loose from the pack, I glanced at the door. There was a key in the lock. So far, so good. I had a feeling that I was going to need frequent doses of privacy to recover from the rounds of a game which, though so far it had proved a walk over, might well get stickier as time went on. I put the cigarette in my mouth, and felt in the little mirror-pocket in my bag where I had carried a flat book of matches. It wasn't there. My fingers met merely a slip of paper. Surely, I thought, irritably, I had had one? I had been smoking in the bus coming from Newcastle ... I pulled the bag wider to look for it. I saw it immediately, then, a little scarlet book labelled Cafe" Kasbah” tucked deep in the pocket on the other side of my bag, where I kept bills and shopping-lists and oddments of that sort. I lit the cigarette slowly, and sat contemplating the bag, open on my lap. Now that I had noticed it, there were other signs. The top had come loose on one of my lipsticks; the few papers that I carried were shuffled hastily back into their places as I didn't think I had put them; the slip of paper where I had scribbled down the Whitescar telephone number, which had been among the other papers, was pushed into the mirror-department where normally the matches were kept. Whoever had scrabbled hastily through my handbag, had taken few pains to cover his tracks.

Con? Lisa? I grinned to myself. What was it they called this kind of thing? Counter-espionage? That, I was sure, was how it would rank in Lisa's mind. Whatever you called it, it was surely a little late, now, for them to be checking on my bona-fides.

I went quickly through what was there. The telephone number; it was natural enough that I should have scribbled that down; numbers change in eight years. A bus time-table, acquired that day on my way here. The receipt for my lodgings near the Haymarket, also received that morning. That was all right; it was addressed to "Miss A, Winslow".

Then I hesitated, with it in my hand. Was it all right, after all? It was admittedly unlikely that Grandfather would ever see it, or check on it if he did, but both Con and Lisa had visited me there. It was better out of the way. I crumpled the paper up, and threw it into the empty fireplace. I would burn it before I went downstairs.

I turned over the other papers. A few shopping chits; a couple of used bus tickets; a folded paper of pale green . . .

I picked it out from among the others, and unfolded it. "Passenger Motor Vehicle Permit. . . Mary Grey

..." and the address near Montreal. There it lay, clear as a curse, the Canadian car permit; the owner's licence that you carry daily, yearly, and never even see, except when the time comes round to renew it... Well, I thought, as I crumpled it in my hand, Con and Lisa must realise what an easy mistake this had been to make. I wondered, not without amusement, how on earth they would manage to warn me about it, without having to confess that they had searched my belongings. At least they could not also have searched my cases; the key hung on a chain round my neck, and there it was going to stay... From somewhere outside I heard Lisa calling, and Con's voice in reply. I heard him cross the yard towards the house. There was a low-voiced colloquy, then he went back towards the buildings. I got up, and set a match to the crumpled bill in the fireplace, then carefully fed the car permit into the flames. I picked up the poker, and stirred the burned fragments of paper till they flaked and fell away to nothing, through the bars of the grate. Then I went back to the sunny window, picked up my half-smoked cigarette, and sat for some minutes longer, trying to relax.