Lightning Encounter (6 page)

‘Oh, by the way,' he said, overplaying the casual touch. ‘There's something in the glove compartment that belongs to you.'

‘To me? To me?' The glove compartment was operated by a small button. She pressed it. The flap fell forward, and Darling Ugly fell into her lap.

CHAPTER FIVE

The troll doll was back in her pocket again. Now she'd got it back, things must start
coming
right again. She'd loved it, and examined it, and run her fingers through its abundance of coarse, orange hair. And then put it away, where it belonged, yet still keeping her fingers pressed against the slight bulge in her dress pocket.

‘I see you had to operate.'

‘A stitch here, a stitch there.' He flashed her a brief deprecatory smile. ‘Nothing really. I'm only sorry he's not in mint condition for your sake. Poor little chap got a bit trampled on. I almost didn't see him.'

‘I'm so pleased you did.'

First examination had revealed a line of exquisite stitches encircling the doll's right ear. She didn't know which delighted her most, the doll's safe return, or the thoughtfulness that had been sewn into every stitch.

Her head went back on the leather upholstery. It was nice to be out of the driving seat, in more than the literal sense. She hadn't made a very good job of directing her own life and, for the moment at least, she was happy to sign away her independence and let someone else take charge. And, although he aggravated her, and at times she almost hated him—not almost, did!—she was glad that someone was Ian Nicholson.

The road zigzagged and turned, it had more twists in it than a corkscrew, it frequently disappeared, but always popped up again. Karen grew sleepy watching it. She thought,
I've
been having a reaction and this is the soporific afterwards.

In all, the ride lasted no more than twenty minutes. She tried to keep her ears alert for Ian's occasional commentary, and her lids up for the scenic attractions. The road was hedged in by fields, with steep paths sloping off in all directions. A farmhouse was stencilled, artistically, against the skyline; her view of it was abruptly cut off by the meandering road and they were careering through a dark ravine of trees, a canyon of a million sounds, leaves chuckled and whispered, they were so thickly pressed together there wasn't a chink or a parting to let in the light. The road danced into the dazzle of the sun before they did, curving and leaping in rapid descent.

A number twenty-nine bus passed them, making heavy weather of lumbering up the road they had glided so effortlessly down. Karen filed this piece of information without being conscious of doing so. If she wished to keep her tentative date with Mitch, the bus was the obvious means of transport.

A house slid into view, then another, and another. This was the new and fashionable part of town. Each house was architect designed and completely unrelated to its neighbour. Wide, open lawns swept down to the road. Beyond the shops the dwellings began to lose in artistry and gain in character.
The
little brown houses, some with mullioned windows and thatched roofs, nestled in dreamy tranquillity.

The road began to do erratic things again, namely vanish into a wood of tall pines. Unlike the other times it did not reappear, and then Karen spotted the stone gates. Ian drove through them, along a short drive, and stopped before a house that was a big cousin to the little brown houses.

She was almost too tired to voice her delight. She tried, but only managed a croak, in any case she needed her energy for walking.

The door, under a triangular porch, was inches thick. It groaned open to reveal a family room, with comfortable deep brown chairs. A yellow jug, filled with flowers, made a bright splash of colour on the wide, cottage-style sill. Beyond an open archway, stairs curved away and upwards. At the top was a long passage with three doors. On each door, at eye level, was an oval plaque, for easy identification. Pipe and slippers on the first plaque, bath and shower on the second, overnight suitcase on the third.

The overnight guest room had white walls. It was simply furnished with a chest of drawers, a dressing table with a tall slim mirror, a single wardrobe, a divan bed, and a bedside table with a shelf containing an assortment of books. The wall to wall carpet was old gold, and this colour was picked up in
the
gold and white striped curtains and bedspread.

Ian pointed to the bed. ‘Into there with you. I'll bring you up a cup of tea. And then you can have a nice long sleep.'

She took off her dress and hung it in the wardrobe. It looked ridiculous and slightly forlorn hanging there on its own. She didn't remember Ian bringing up the tea, but when she awoke, a long time later, it was on the bedside table. Untouched and, she tasted, cold.

She lay for a minute trying to pull in her thoughts. Because her tidy mind was in an untidy stupor, she tried to number them, thinking that way they might make better sense. One: She had made a proper hash of things. Two: She trusted Ian Nicholson implicitly. Considering, number two was a nice thought. Three: She couldn't accept his charity. Four: For the time being she had no alternative but to accept his charity. Five: He attracted her more than any man she had ever met. Not visually, although he was worthy of a second look, but in the physical sense.

Oh, go away, thought number five. The situation, as it stood, was bad enough, without that complication.

What an idiot she'd been. If only she'd insured full comprehensive and not just third party. If only she hadn't been driving on the wrong side of the road. If only her father
hadn't
met Angela. If only . . . oh dear, she was overworking those two small words, but! If these things hadn't happened, she wouldn't be here now. And though nine-tenths of her wished to be anywhere but there, the remaining one tenth was extremely happy with the outcome.

She had a quick wash, put on her dress, and ventured downstairs. At first she thought the big room was empty, until a quiet voice said:

‘That was some sleep.'

This lovely old house must have got to work on him. He was mellowed, warmer, humbled, approachable. She blinked. ‘Yes, it was.'

He abandoned the papers he had been working on, closed the writing desk, and crossed the room to lift her chin with a careless thumb and forefinger to examine her face critically.

‘Yes, a decided improvement. Come and sit down. And talk.'

‘What about?'

‘About us. Living in the same house, until we decide what to do with you, without causing village eyebrows to stir. You know in London, in Leeds even, we could live together without causing comment. But in Hamblewick . . . ? No, it definitely isn't on.'

She sat in one of the deep brown armchairs, he perched on a low stool, his hands dangled loosely between his hunched up knees, his head was slightly on one side, deeply
considering.

‘They are nice people, all of them. Not a bigot among them, but their horizon is very narrow, and consequently they think small. And, another consideration, I don't want you to be hurt. The nicest people do tend to have gossipy tongues.'

She hadn't considered the moral aspect of the situation. Since waking up in hospital, a paralysing lassitude had possessed her, cross-graining her sense of right and wrong, depriving her of wider reasoning. What did he mean? What was he trying to tell her? That he had brought her here on impulse, but now that he'd had time to chew the matter over, he realized she couldn't stay. She said promptly:

‘Of course, I'll move out.'

Anyway, it was only a temporary situation. At best a patched roof that would soon let in the rain.

He eyed her keenly. She seemed such a small person, weighted down with such a heavy load of gloom.

‘No. There is a way you can stay put and not offend Willie Smith, the butcher, Pat Dawlish, post mistress cum grocer and confectioner, Alan and Alice Newby, newsagents, Mrs Bramwell, and uncle Tom Cobley and all.'

‘Who's Mrs Bramwell?' she enquired, her mouth copying his and turning up at the corners.

‘The old dear who does my laundry.'

‘You
certainly wouldn't want to offend her!'

‘Do you like my home?' Her eyebrows went up at the random question.

‘I do,' he said, barely giving her chance to nod. ‘I've always had a feeling for old houses, and when I inherited this one from my grandmother, I knew I had to live here. Despite the difficulties, I couldn't sell; it would be like selling a part of my childhood. I'm in the export business, by the way.' He tossed that in wryly, as if it should explain the urge that had prompted him to hang on to his country residence.

‘Have you seen the tele ad: the big thief, a past master at delegation, with that extra sense of perception vital for pulling off brilliant deals without turning a hair. Well, that's not me. I don't miss many tricks, but it's slog, drive, graft all the way. This is where I come to rest my ulcers.'

Her lips rushed from a gentle smile into a full-blown laugh. ‘You haven't got ulcers.'

‘How would you know?' he said.

‘Because it would show in your face. Tiny suffering lines. Here and there.' Her fingers traced an outline, but carefully did not touch. Heeding her brain's awakened warning. Inflammatory. Look, but don't permit contact.

‘All right, so I don't have ulcers. But I suffer. And this is my piece of accessible heaven. The place I come to untie the tension knots and cast out the conflict.'

‘And
does it?'

‘Yes. But to go back to Mrs Bramwell.'

‘The lady who does your laundry?'

‘The very one. Well, I've approached her to come in daily, to dust and do a spot of cooking. But Horace, that's her husband, strongly objects to his wife taking on more work, which leaves me foraging for myself, and I wondered . . . seeing as you are at a loose end? Anyway, think it over for a moment. The house isn't quite as it was in my grandmother's day. Besides doing a bit of work on the interior, I had the stables converted into a garage and had an extra bedroom put in the stable loft. If you did stay to housekeep for a while, until you find your feet, I'd move in there.'

‘Couldn't I move into the stable accommodation? Then I wouldn't feel as if I was turfing you out.'

‘No, because you see I've asked Val Stainburn to come down. She'll be company for you. And besides that, Val will make an excellent chaperon.'

He sounded so serious that she found it necessary to quell an impulse to laugh, and absorbed herself in pretending to turn over his recent proposition. In fact, she was wondering what he was getting at. Did his eyes mock, or was it her imagination? He did have splendid eyes—they mocked and condemned so beautifully, that it was almost worth
engendering
his disapproval. But she mustn't let herself be mesmerised, or side-tracked by superfluous, and blatantly untrue, thoughts. Let him reserve his dark looks for someone else, someone with a back strong enough to ride them. She'd settle for, would willingly perform a backward somersault for, a grain of his approval. But this line of thought wasn't furthering her cause. What other possibilities? Was he ribbing her? Hinting that she was a child of yesterday's generation, who wouldn't feel safe unless chaperoned? And had he been so certain of her acceptance that he'd already asked this person to come down!

‘Who is Val Stainburn?' she enquired an inspired moment later.

‘A friend. Also a business colleague.' His voice was curiously toneless, giving nothing away. ‘We shall be at work for the greater part of each day. I hope you won't be lonely.'

‘I'll try not to be. Anyway, I shall have my domestic duties. Oh!' Her hand went up to her mouth, smothering the gasp. ‘I hope you didn't get the wrong impression when I said I kept house for my father. The truth is, I'm not very competent. Father said it was because I lacked concentration. I think it's just too wonderful of you, asking your friend down so that I won't feel compromised, and everything, and I promise to concentrate really hard.'

His mouth straightened out and he looked distinctly uncomfortable.

‘Look,
I do need a housekeeper, so forget all that wonderful rot. And the first thing I want you to concentrate on is getting well. You know, your recent ordeal took its toll.'

‘Yes . . .yes, I believe it did.'

His tongue was no longer saturnine, hadn't been all evening for that matter, and now, even though his face was tormented by a whiplash of unease, it was still warmly compassionate.

‘When does Miss Stainburn arrive?' she enquired.

Not only did the name signal a frown, but his tone cooled and became so remote it could have travelled via satellite.

‘Tomorrow.'

Why? Why so cold, so curt? She remembered his thoughtfulness in stitching Darling Ugly. If this was another kind of thoughtfulness, it was unnecessary. She knew, as Miss Stainburn wasn't arriving until tomorrow, they would be unaccompanied tonight; she didn't need that fact underlining, just as he didn't need to erect a stone wall, not for her benefit. Despite odd skirmishes with fate, her faith in human nature was still reasonably intact. Even her father's offhand treatment, one of the darker grey skirmishes, had not seriously diminished it. And, everything apart, she felt secure and trusting where Ian was concerned. Unless it was a deliberate measure, so that she wouldn't get
any
wrong ideas!

Oh! Could that be it! Her hand moved up again, to stem a second exclamation, and a blush shamed her cheeks. Mercifully his back was to her as he said: ‘I'll move my things into the room over the garage. Then we'll have supper.'

Supper was a constrained meal. Ian was thoughtful, and she, in humiliation, couldn't think of anything to say.

After the meal, Ian bade her goodnight. She locked the door after him. Now that she was alone she began to think, not only about the present, but the future. If only she could lift up the edge of tomorrow and take a small look. A trickle of self-pity crept in. After all, this housekeeping job could only be a stop-gap. And then what? Should she write to her father? For more money? But that must be the last resort. She didn't want to have to tell him what a foolish girl she'd been; besides, he'd prefer to spend what spare cash he had on Angela. Which wasn't much. He was going through a lean period, unless his luck had changed since her departure, and, considering, he had been as generous as he was able to be. So that left her standing on her own insubstantial, cotton-wool legs.