Lightning Encounter (7 page)

Ian was right. The accident had taken its toll. She didn't feel as good as she usually did. She ached inside and out, and oh it had been so nice talking to Ian, the mellowed Ian, even
though
the sweetness of it had almost ripped her in two.

Oh, why had he changed so suddenly, reverted right back to type? When she wanted more; more kindness, more soft kitten comfort.

The telephone rang. She considered not answering it. It couldn't be for her. It rang three times and then stopped. She wished she'd answered it. Five minutes elapsed, then it rang again.

‘Hello,' she said.

‘Karen, is that you?'

For a moment she wondered if Ian had a line rigged up from the garage to the house. She said: ‘Yes, it's me,' and held her breath.

A chuckle carried down the line. ‘I didn't think it was old Ian. You're staying at the house, then? I did wonder . . . are you alone?'

‘Quite alone. Who is that?'

‘Don't you know? Can't you guess?'

‘No, I can't,' she snapped. ‘Please stop teasing.'

‘Sorry, didn't mean to. It's Mitch.'

What did he mean by, ‘Are you alone?' Was he hinting at anything? Ian's manner, his calculated coolness, had triggered off a reaction in her. Her brain teemed with thoughts, making her brand ‘suspect' what might have been kindly motive, impelling her to explain: ‘It's all very correct, I assure you, so you can stop wondering. Ian—' (Should that
have
been Mr Nicholson?) ‘has engaged me as his housekeeper. Since you thought it worth while to check up on me, I'll repeat. I am alone, quite, quite alone. Ian has moved into the premises over the garage.'

‘Sweet porcupine, I'm not checking up on you. I phoned on the off chance you might be there. That's all. I swear it. And I'm certain Ian will make a praiseworthy employer. But if you want a reference, go along and see the vicar of St Mary's. He's known him almost as long as I have, and it will make the old boy feel useful.'

‘Don't be irreverent,' she reproved, still feeling raw. And, anyway, she had been taught to respect the cleric.

‘Sorry,' came the contrite reply. ‘But I don't want to talk about Ian.'

‘What did you want to talk about? If you weren't checking up on me, why did you ring? Anything special?'

‘Very special. I wanted to say goodnight.'

At the moment Howard Mitchell was a salesman. The first thing a good salesman learns to sell is himself, and though a comparative newcomer to the business, he had the qualities of a very good salesman. It has been said he could sell milk to a dairymaid, if not to a dairyman.

‘That's very sweet of you, Mitch.' Sweet, because it's what she had craved for all evening. Just a small spoonful of friendship,
lightly
flavoured with affection.

‘Not sweet. Selfish. I shall take your voice to bed with me. Did you know you have the dulcet tones of a singer. Have you ever sung, professionally I mean?'

‘No. I do sing, but only for my own pleasure.'

‘I hope some day you'll let me share that pleasure. Are you relaxed now? Not tense and all screwed up like a ball of twine any more?'

‘How did you know?'

‘I inherited the clear sight from my perspicacious grandmother. It told me there was a little girl who needed cheering up. And now . . . goodnight, little girl.'

Ian came out of the Woodpecker, one of Hamblewick's two pubs, whistling the tune the girl guitarist had been strumming. It was an evening ritual, one drink, pleasant conversation. He got on well with the locals, who had known him on and off since he was a lad. He lit a last cigarette, enjoying the peace of the unlit lane.

The cottage was in darkness. Good. She needed an early night. He wondered what Val would make of her, and what she would make of Val. He also wondered if he could sneak some papers out of the desk without waking her.

No, it was too late. If she did wake she might think someone had broken in to commit burglary. He paused where the drive split in
two,
and was just about to turn to his own quarters when the scream hit the night. His immediate thought was that someone had broken in. His key clicked into the lock and he took the stairs at two and three a time. As he thrust open the door, the landing light splashed in ahead of him, illuminating her bed, her shaking shoulders, her glazed, terror stricken eyes.

She was sitting bolt upright, sobbing and screaming, and it was like nothing he had ever heard before. He grasped her by the upper arm and said her name, over and over again, trying to release her from the turgent grip of whatever nightmarish horror possessed her.

She became aware of his presence and stopped screaming to look at him. Her mouth was still in the shape of a scream and the pupils of her eyes were wild and dilated.

‘You promised you wouldn't leave me alone . . . but you did, you did. You knew I'd be frightened . . . it hurts . . . please take it away . . . the pain . . . I can't stand the pain.'

He'd thought, for a moment, that she was awake. Now he realized she was still in the dream, the nightmare.

‘Where is the pain?' he asked.

She whimpered: ‘You know where it is.'

‘No, I don't. You must tell me.'

‘It's . . . it's . . . the pain is here.'

She drew a line from the base of her throat to the hollow between her breasts. And the
line
stayed as a livid pinkness, a burn scar that hadn't yet faded. But she hadn't been burned in the car accident. Bruised, shocked, covered in mud. But not burned.

‘I've taken the pain away,' he said. ‘It's gone.'

‘Gone,' she repeated dully. ‘Gone.'

Her body relaxed, grew languorous. He began to enjoy the fragrant nearness of her, the soft feel of the satin skin beneath his fingers, and he knew it was time to go.

CHAPTER SIX

On waking, the first thing she noticed was the butcher blue and white striped pyjama jacket folded across the foot of the bed. It had not been there last night. She buttoned it on, and listened to the creak on the stair.

‘Anyone for breakfast? Do you like boiled eggs?' His head poked round the door. ‘I've done you two.'

‘I love boiled eggs. I didn't expect waiter service.'

‘Nor will you get it,' he said. ‘After today. I don't cosset my housekeepers. I expect them to cosset me. Did you sleep well?'

‘M-m. Lovely, thank you.' She was cracking the top of her egg and smiling up at him. She knew nothing about the nightmare. He
wondered
if he should mention it, but the last few weeks had bowled her nothing but shocks and he felt that now wasn't the time to ferret and probe, not while she was vulnerable from sleep. Perhaps later, perhaps never, if it proved to be an isolated incident. What had terrified her? Marked her flesh? And had she come to accept her disfigurement, or was it a still painful subject?

‘You'd better do some personal shopping today,' he said. ‘Here's some money.'

‘It's too much,' she said, reluctant to touch the proffered notes.

‘No, it's not. You'll need a coat.'

‘It's still summer. What do I need a coat for?'

‘You'll find out. This is England, remember. Buy a couple of dresses, and a cardigan. Oh, and,'—his eyes charged past hers and chased up the wall—‘a nightgown and a pair of bedroom slippers. But you'll know what you need.' His glance seemed to be fixed on the ceiling, his mouth wore a peculiar kind of smile. ‘If there's anything left over, call at the butcher's and get three decent sized fillet steaks for supper.'

She left off examining his expression to examine the money, maintaining a mute and stony silence. Still enjoying his own private joke, he tucked it under the brown earthenware marmalade jar. ‘Buy the meat locally. I like to support local tradespeople
whenever
I can. You'll need to go farther afield for any decent clothes. I'd recommend Todbridge, that's where we had lunch yesterday. Number twenty-nine bus, on the hour. The bus stop is outside the post office. Any comments?'

‘Yes. What the heck are you smirking at?'

‘Smirking? Smirking? Who's smirking?' His lips smacked into a frown.

‘You were.' She eyed him suspiciously, but he was on guard now and showed her his saturnine countenance. She willingly abandoned the probe to ask:

‘Did your grandmother possess a sewing machine?'

‘I wouldn't know. She may have. She thriftily made up her own curtains, so it's more than a possibility. I disposed of some of her stuff, but not a sewing machine. If it's anywhere, it'll be in the attic.'

‘Mind if I root? I'm not professional enough to make a coat, but I could manage a couple of nighties, and some undies. Perhaps even a dress.'

‘You don't have to. I can let you have some more money if that isn't enough. I'm not hard up.'

‘No, but I am. And I can only accept an amount I can pay back. It must be a loan. I promise to pay back every penny.' She was immutable, mindless in her determination to pay back the loan.

‘All
right. All right.' He hadn't time to argue. ‘I must go in to work today. I'll see you this evening. And—good rooting.'

When he had gone she looked at the money as if it was something that might bite. She had to take it, she couldn't go about looking like Eve; but it was abhorrent to her to borrow. Although it was disloyal of her to think it, her adored father was a man of flexible principles, and even he wouldn't borrow. He was quite illogical on the subject. He would steal, accept a gift, or do without, but he wouldn't borrow. To do something he wouldn't stoop to, made her seem less of a person. She hadn't minded accepting the gift of clothes from Ian, she didn't mind eating his food. But she did mind picking up that money.

She thought it might be dusty grubbing about in the attic, and shrank from going up there in her one and only dress. She wondered if she could fix it with her conscience to ‘steal' one of Ian's old shirts.

The master bedroom was about four times the size of hers. Three windows paced one wall, giving it an unsurpassed vista of trees in soldierly ranks, marching in dark, menacing majesty towards a rough heather clad fell that rose out of the blackness and the gloom in a series of humps to a skyline softened with cloud.

The view was such that it dominated all conscious thought, and she felt her breath
catch
imperceptibly in her throat and wished she had her father's skill with a brush and pallette. She had his eye and his off-beat appreciation of beauty, but not his clever fingers. The sharply contrasting contours, too vivid for some tastes, stirred her senses and for a moment she was haunted by the strange loveliness, possessed almost by other spirits who in earthly form had clung to this window and enjoyed the merging of the obvious prettiness of pinky mauves, violets and greens, and thrilled at, and perhaps experienced a chilling feeling of disquiet by, the enveloping darkness and pagan density of the woodland.

It was almost an anti-climax to turn away and examine the room. It was so normal and ordinary; huge wardrobe units filled the deep chimney alcoves and a pastoral scene, idyllic and timeless and pleasing to the eye, adorned the white wall. It was a simple watercolour. Karen liked it. It did not inspire her to depths of feeling, and she did not know if she liked it because of, or in spite of this. She was still searching, finding out about herself through the medium of art appreciation.

The candlewick bedspread was cornflower blue, several old-fashioned hooky rugs in variegated shades of blue, from cornflower to deep wedgewood, set off the mellow beauty of the waxed, elm floor.

Investigation showed that Ian had emptied one unit of furniture completely, obviously to
make
room for his guest's clothes. Would Miss Stainburn like this room? As she rested her elbows on the sill would she be filled with reckless exhilaration? Or would she back away from the pressing nearness of the trees? What kind of a person was she?

Karen moved to the other unit of furniture. The mahogany gleamed blood-red as the heavy door swung back to reveal a tie rack and several drawers. His shirts were in the third drawer down. She found a checked one in peacock-blue and green. Perfect for her purpose. She was just about to take her spoils and go when she spotted the photograph of a petite girl sandwiched between two tall men. The girl was not pretty, not obviously pretty, but Karen sensed an elusive something ready to penetrate the elfin features and wide apart eyes. The men were also unsmiling. It was the Ian she knew best, saturnine and half in profile. The other man was staring blankly at the camera, as if waiting for someone to say ‘cheese' before troubling to fix his features. Perhaps that was why she didn't immediately realize it was Mitch. She knew Mitch's face best in smile, perhaps because she didn't want to remember him looking bleak and slaughtered. It didn't look a very old photo, the corners weren't curled and it wasn't sepia with age, so that meant the breach between them couldn't be very old either. Had they quarrelled over the girl? And was Valerie
Stainburn
small, with elfin features?

The sewing machine was in the darkest corner of the attic. She disturbed a spinning spider to brush it reasonably free of dust, and then carried it gingerly down to the living room, where she soon had it wheezing into action. She experimented on her new acquisition, Ian's shirt, slicing off the tail and hemming it round, shortening the sleeves and generally adapting it to her requirements. Presto, she had a knock-about shirt dress.

She would have changed back into her green dress, but she left herself short of time. As it was she had to leg it to the bus stop. It was market day in Todbridge and Karen was fascinated by the huddle of open stalls. She found one selling material and bought two dress lengths, a multi-coloured print and a matt cream that handled beautifully and would lend itself to dressing up. At another stall she bought knitting wool in a pretty russet shade, needles and a cardigan pattern, selected because of its uncomplicated stitch.