Bride in Flight (3 page)

She caught up a notebook and ballpoint out of her bag ... the notebook that was to have recorded points of interest on the New Zealand trip. She owed Gilbert no word of explanation ... his wife would do that. Even now, if the call had gone through, that woman would be speaking to her husband, telling him he was found out. If she failed to get him, the woman would send the police after him to the church. But she did owe Patsy and Nicola something.

She wrote: “My dears, please forgive me. I can’t marry Gilbert. You’ll know why soon enough. I haven’t time to explain. I’ve got to get away.—Christine.”

No time to write more, no time to wonder how they would take it. They were dressing. That would give her time to sneak downstairs.

She heard the front gate click.

She rushed to the window, looked out. Closed her eyes against what she saw ... her neighbor, in her wedding garments, coming in to see the bride before setting off herself for the church. That meant the way of escape was cut off.

Kirsty opened her eyes. There was only one way. Mrs. Kincaid would disappear round the gable of the house in sixty seconds. The wash-house roof was just below this window, practically flat, and the old step-ladder was always propped up in the angle where the back porch jutted out. Nothing overlooked it and it was close to the garage.

Kirsty picked up the small travel bag that was all she would have been carrying ... the rest of her luggage was already at Mascot
aerodrome
. She lifted the window silently, leaned out and deposited her bag on the roof below, climbed out, picked it up and made her way across the tiles.

In three minutes she was inside the garage. In five she was driving north.

CHAPTER TWO

THE numbness persisted, but she was glad of it, it saved her the need to think, to feel. Here she was, in thick traffic, moving up the Pacific Highway. How far was she going to go? She had no idea. It didn’t matter. She had a reasonable amount of money in her bag. She’d drive till she had to stop and put up in a motel for the night. When the nine days’ wonder was over she would return. Gilbert would be arrested for attempted bigamy. She would have to appear as a witness. He would no doubt serve a sentence and then pass out of her life for ever.

Some time, she supposed, when feeling returned, she would be grateful to that woman who had saved her from the horror of a bigamous marriage. How ghastly if it had been later, much later, that she had caught up with Gilbert. Imagine finding out a thing like that when you’d been married some time, settled in your own home, perhaps expecting a baby, a baby who would come into the world without a name!

Nothing registered much, she just kept driving, the traffic thinning out a little now. They were lovely roads, tree-shaded, high above the glorious coastline, with ultramarine seas creaming back in the salty, froth of the incomparable Australian surf, the Hawkesbury River winding through the countryside, bush to the very edge.

As she went through a small town, noon struck, twelve long, silvery, triumphant chimes. Chimes that should have begun to sound as she walked up that blue-carpeted aisle. She shut her mind to what was happening in that dim and lovely church this very moment. She dared not think about it.

At one o’clock she ate. It would be foolish not to. She would push herself over the edge of exhaustion if she didn’t. It was risky, too, driving without refuelling oneself as well as the petrol tank. Not fair to other people.

As she paid the bill her fingers touched the Teal Airways wallet in her purse. The tickets to New Zealand ... the place of her birth. Her homeland. Beneath the ticket was New Zealand money, quite a lot of it.

“Get yours in currency,” Gilbert had told her in a letter, “and I’ll take mine in travellers’ cheques. Convenient all round then.”

New Zealand ... she ought to have been there tonight. A tide of real feeling washed over her. The trip to New Zealand was to have been a tryst with the past, with that dimly remembered childhood, the link with the time when she and her mother and her father had been a family.

With no second thoughts she made up her mind. Gilbert should not rob her of that too. She would go to New Zealand. No one should stop her. She stopped, turned the car, headed back to Sydney.

She knew what to do. Avoid her own suburb, which was easy enough in a city of two and a half-millions, and spend the time in King’s Cross, that Bohemian, colorful quarter where people minded their own business. She parked the car, got out, walked the streets, doggedly killing time. When it was nearer flight-time she’d abandon the car and take a taxi to Mascot.

Later in the afternoon she had a scare. She saw one of the staff coming towards her along the street. This woman had worked at the orphanage till about a month ago and she knew very well this was Christine Macpherson’s wedding day.

Kirsty dived straight into the first doorway she saw and found herself in a hairdresser’s waiting-room. The receptionist looked at Kirsty’s beautifully groomed hair in blank amazement when she asked if they would have time to do her hair.

“We have had a cancellation. Henri is free. But what did you want done?”

Kirsty did not hesitate. “I want it off. A completely new style.”

The woman twinkled, “And here am I, trying to grow mine and being impatient about it! Tell me, once I grow it, am I likely to want it off again?”

Kirsty managed a laugh. “Very likely. I don’t like the weight of it. I like to shake it in the wind.”

“Yet you’ve perfect features for either a roll or a Grecian knot. So oval, so regular. Well, if you must!”

Henri, a genuine Frenchman, said the same. But when he was convinced she meant it, he co-operated, studying her face in the mirror.

It took him more than an hour. He was an artist. Kirsty hardly recognized herself. She thanked him, crammed the cap on, emerged into the hot streets where, outside the pubs, men in shirt-sleeves were standing drinking.

She passed the El Alamein Memorial Fountain, its silver drops causing an illusion of coolness, watched children feeding the pigeons, got into her car, drove it to another long-term parking-place so it would not yet cause comment, and walked to a taxi-rank.

As she entered the airport she saw the newspaper placard: “Bridegroom left at altar. Mysterious disappearance of bride.” She passed on with scarcely a check to the baggage counter ... but something was wrong. It ought to have read: “Bridegroom attempts bigamy” or “Arrested at the Altar.” Even “Bride Flees when she learns bridegroom is already married.”

What did it mean?

She worked out an answer, standing in the queue. Possibly that was the early edition and all wasn’t known yet. The police wouldn’t make a definite statement, she supposed. It would be “alleged attempted bigamy.” The papers had to be careful too, afraid of libel. No doubt a thing had to be proved, and till Miriam Brownfield reached here with her marriage lines, they would be cautious.

She took the papers out of her bag with fingers that shook. They were made out—naturally—in the name she had thought would be hers by now, Kirsten Brownfield. She hoped the clerk had riot yet read the paper, or that if he had, her name had not registered. Or the name of the jilted bridegroom.

Evidently it hadn’t.

She knew exactly what she was going to say, had known it from the time when, sitting by the fountain, she had unobtrusively slipped on that hateful wedding ring.

“My husband was detained at the last possible moment. He hopes to follow later. We weren’t able to let you know and we won’t expect any refund.”

Her heart was racing like a trip-hammer.

He said: “By Jove ... just a moment.” He turned to a fellow-clerk, and said something else. He’s waiting on the offchance that there might be a last-minute cancellation. One in a thousand or less, I told him. He’s been called home because of illness.”

The next moment Kirsty had moved into the glass-fronted room for embarkation. It was as simple as that. Not that she would really feel safe till they were airborne.

She watched the officials arranging duty-free purchase of travellers, set up on a table on the tarmac, people returning to New Zealand with binoculars, cameras, watches, compacts, pens ... lucky, lucky people who were winging home accompanied by memories of a luxury holiday. They surged around her, comfortable-looking spinsters and widows who had had the time of their lives on a conducted tour, families with browned children clustered about them, talking non-stop, driving their parents mad.

Suddenly a young couple came in, pursued to the very door by a laughing, excited group, the two of them brushing confetti from their shoulders, looking pinkly embarrassed.

A pain that was even physical tore through Kirsty. She turned away sharply, stared out at the silver wings against the cobalt sky.

Then, mercifully, she was through the door and crossing the tarmac, no one questioned her, no one knowing that here was the missing bride. In a dream she boarded the aircraft, was shown to her seat, her luggage disposed for her.

Just as the engines were revving up a man dropped into the seat beside her.

“Good evening,” he said.

Kirsty managed a greeting, turned again to the window, thought of something, turned back, said, “Have you anyone you’d like to wave to? I haven’t, so you can take the window seat if you wish.”

He shook his head. “No, I’m going home. I’m a Kiwi.”

She smiled faintly. “So am I Only I haven’t seen New Zealand for sixteen years.”

His eyes glanced over her. “You must have been very young.”

“Yes. Only seven. But I remember it ... a little.”

“Quite a thrill for you. Holiday?”

“No. For good.”

Kirsty blinked. What had she said? Yet suddenly she knew it was true. She would stay. What was there to come back for? Even if she had to appear as a witness she would come back.

“We’re off,” said the man.

They were. They were taxiing across the huge airport.

She had escaped. It was over.

The next moment there was a roaring in Kirsty’s ears, a surging that grew worse. They must be airborne. She swallowed frantically. They told you to do that these days instead of chewing barley-sugar. It was the sudden rise in altitude that made you feel like this ... yet she’d travelled by these before, across to Perth, yet never felt like this.

Then she realized that it wasn’t the altitude, it was stress, the build-up since early morning, the relief of knowing she had got away.

She must not faint, she mustn’t. She musn’t draw any undue attention to herself. No. If she did they might put back with her, back to face the barrage of reporters, the questions, the curiosity, she must summon every bit of will-power to resist it.

She turned her head to the window, hoping to avoid attracting the attention of her seat-mate.

The next moment a voice which was neither Australian nor English but something between said: “It would be interesting to know just how much a child of seven could remember of New Zealand, returning after sixteen years. Where did you live in New Zealand? South or North Islands?”

“South Island,” said Kirsty Macpherson. “Dunedin,” and slumped over against the stranger.

It was a complete blackout, but only a momentary one, because the next minute she was out of it and aware that he had pushed her back against the seat and was leaning forward as if to screen her from the three people in the seat across the aisle.

He had her hand, his face close to hers. “Hey, what’s the matter? Altitude bothering you? I’ll get the hostess to bring you something.”

She shook her head. “No, please don’t. Just let me get over this and don’t say a word. It’s nothing. I wouldn’t like anyone to think I was ill and turn back. I’ll be all right. I won’t be a bother.”

He smiled. She thought vaguely it was a nice smile. “I won’t think that. I’m only sorry you’re feeling like this. Are you sure you aren’t ill?”

She shook her head again. “No ... it’s only stress really. Perhaps delayed shock. I’ll be right. Truly.”

“Sure?”

“Yes ... in a moment you can get me some orange juice. But I want no fuss.” She managed a grin. She realized he was still holding her hand, warm and comforting. How stupid to want to be warm on a night like this.

She drew in a deep breath, let it out, suddenly felt normal.

He noticed it, said, “You mentioned delayed shock. Would it help to talk about it? I mean I don’t mind—we’re only ships that pass in the night. Sometimes it helps.” She was fighting for normality. “I do appreciate that. But no—I don’t want to break down.”

He nodded. “I can understand that. It’s a bit too public. I get it... you’ve recently had a loss, a grievous loss, and you’re going for a change of scene to help you. Is that it?”

She clutched at that gratefully. “Yes, that just about sums it up. Sorry you haven’t a brighter travelling companion. But never mind, I’ve got control again. It was just the relief of getting away. I’ll—I’ll just read and not bother you.”

“As a matter of fact, I’ve worries of my own. Would you mind if I unloaded them? I’m trying to think my way through them. It might help to talk.”

She looked at him with gratitude. He was probably quite a psychologist and knew it. would do her good to listen to someone else’s cares. The sound of the human voice alone would help her. Keep those other thoughts at bay.

“What’s your particular trouble?” she asked.

Before he answered her he called the hostess and got them two glasses of orange juice. Kirsty immediately felt better.

“My sister has been taken ill—well, she had a fall, broke her hip and is to be in hospital ages. She has three children, nine, seven, and two, and her husband is in England till the middle of the year nearly. I’ve been away some time myself, Canada and Australia. Fortunately my time was near enough finished not to matter. I’m rushing home to the kids. Lucky for me someone cancelled their seat at the last moment—oh!”

Kitty glanced up inquiringly. “What’s the matter?”

She thought the brown face had flushed slightly.

“I—it’s just dawned on me. Look, I’m sorry, I’m a clumsy oaf. I said I was lucky. Was it someone who should have been travelling with you?”

Kirsty swallowed. “Yes, but—”

“I can’t tell you how sorry. I am. This loss ...” his eyes went to her left hand with its patently new wedding ring on it. “Was it your husband? And should he have been with you?”

Panic returned to grip Kirsty. He had an unopened paper tucked into the magazine pocket on the back of the seat in front of him. She dared not say too much. He would open that soon, read the headlines, add two and two.

Better by far to make it appear the bereavement he thought it was. It wouldn’t matter. In less than four hours they would touch down in New Zealand and their ways would part.

So she said vaguely, “Don’t apologize, please. You said it in ignorance. It doesn’t matter.”

“It does, though. I hate to hurt anyone, even unwittingly. And I do realize that your—loss—must have occurred very soon after your wedding, which makes it all the sadder.”

His eyes were on that blatantly new wedding ring, that utterly hateful wedding ring that she had to wear till she got off this plane and disappeared into the obscurity of a new country.

She said, “Let’s say no more about it. I’m—I’m on the way to making a new life for myself. I’d rather hear about you.”

“All right.” He patted her arm in a wordless gesture of sympathy that almost made her break down. She had a feeling that bereavement might have been easier to bear.