The Silent Tide (21 page)

She sat twisting a lock of her hair, musing on his looks, his profile like that famous portrait of the young Byron. She loved his sensitive face, the way his lustrous hair sprang from his forehead, dark against his white skin, his expressive eyes, the way the corners of his moulded lips turned tenderly upward. She sometimes longed to reach out and touch those lips, to learn the shape of them with her fingers, maybe even to . . .

‘Isabel, why on earth are you still here?’ She hadn’t noticed Stephen walk out of his office. ‘Come along, I’m locking up.’

‘Golly, you made me jump.’

‘You
were
in a daydream,’ he said, pulling on his jacket. ‘Drooling over Maisie’s hero, were you? The book must be good.’

‘Our Maisie has certainly pulled it off again,’ she replied with a grin. ‘I’ve just finished the edits. I’ll send it off to her tomorrow.’

‘Good timing on my part then. What do you say to a drink to celebrate? I’m due in Chelsea for dinner at eight, but I was going for a brief sojourn over the road. Unless you have an engagement, of course?’

‘No, I’m sad to say that I was going straight home to eat a boiled egg and wash my hair.’

He’d never asked her out on her own before, but she tried to pretend it was an ordinary occurrence and took her time squaring the pages of the manuscript, pulling her notes out of the typewriter and fitting the cover on top. He helped her on with her coat.

The landlord of the Fitzroy Tavern studied her curiously as they entered, but if he wondered what this young woman might be doing in Stephen’s company he wisely kept it to himself. He was, she supposed, used to all sorts and combinations here in London’s bohemia. She loved the cosy gloom of the pub, where Stephen seemed perfectly at home, greeting one of the regulars, a man who sat alone at a table, making his drink last, writing in an exercise book.

‘A double whisky, when you’ve a moment,’ Stephen told the landlord, ‘and a gin and it for the lady.’

It was early and the place was still quiet. Stephen showed Isabel to a table by the window. Outside, the street was bathed in lamplight. The landlord brought their drinks.

‘And a pint for the gentleman, if you would.’ Stephen nodded towards the lone writer and handed the landlord a banknote. The beer was duly delivered and the writer lifted the glass to Stephen in a silent toast.

That’s kind of you,’ Isabel whispered to Stephen. ‘Do you know him?’

Stephen swallowed a large mouthful of whisky. ‘I read a story he wrote once. I’ve an idea that one day he’ll produce something to astonish us all.’

He finished his whisky and immediately ordered another. Isabel didn’t remember him drinking like this before. As though he was bolstering himself.

‘So Audrey’s finally tying the knot,’ he said. ‘You’re going to the wedding on Saturday I suppose?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Isabel felt she knew every detail of this eagerly anticipated and likely glamorous affair, which was to take place in a Surrey country parish, where the Foster family had a base. ‘Are you?’

‘Just to the church, not to the reception. My wife . . . isn’t very well at the moment.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Isabel said politely.

‘She’s gone to her mother’s in Hampshire and I really ought to visit her this weekend and see that she’s all right.’

‘I hope it’s nothing serious?’

‘Nobody quite seems able to tell me,’ he said, looking maudlin.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Isabel repeated.

‘It’s a sort of distress, I think. We had some disappointing news last year. Apparently we’re unlikely to be able to have children. It’s terrible to feel one’s responsible for another’s unhappiness.’ He set his glass down very deliberately on the table and stared into the distance.

‘That’s so sad,’ Isabel murmured, a little surprised that he’d told her something so personal.

Stephen seemed to regret it too, for he roused himself and said gruffly, ‘I hope you can keep that to yourself.’

‘Of course,’ she assured him. They were silent for a long moment.

‘So,’ he said, regarding her thoughtfully, ‘when are you next seeing Morton?’ There was something about his tone that she didn’t like. Was he laughing at her?

‘I’ve no idea,’ she replied as coolly as she could. ‘I can see you don’t approve.’

‘I wouldn’t dare say whom you should or shouldn’t see,’ he said. ‘Just that if I were your father, I’d advise you not to rush into things.’

The mention of her father immediately incensed her. ‘But you’re not,’ she retorted.

‘No, indeed I’m not. But I have seen a little more of life than you.’

She thought about this and decided it was true. ‘What do you have against Hugh?’ she asked him finally.

‘Nothing, really. I can hardly say I know the man. Forget it, please.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Look, I’m afraid I must get going,’ he said. ‘Shall I find you a taxi?’

‘No, thanks, I’ll get the bus.’

They parted at Oxford Street and she watched him stumble off to hail a taxi.

As the bus rattled its way north, she puzzled over their conversation. Under his confident, engaging manner, there was much to suggest that Stephen McKinnon was a deeply unhappy man.

‘Tell me about the marriage,’ Berec begged as he stirred sugar into his coffee. He and Isabel were sitting in their favourite café in Percy Street one lunchtime the following week. ‘Audrey, was she
radiant,
as you English like to say?’

‘Very radiant, Berec,’ Isabel told him. ‘Such a beautiful dress. And the flowers, they came from the Fosters’ garden. Narcissi, spring lilies, the scent was simply glorious.’

‘And the poor Honorable Anthony?’

‘Not poor at all. He looked very pleased with himself. But I don’t know how he’s going to manage those relations of Audrey’s. There are so many of them.’

‘Married alive, is he? Poor man indeed.’

Isabel laughed. She had travelled down with Vivienne’s party on the train, and they’d both enjoyed the day, but it was an unusually lavish affair for the times and she was somewhat wistful that she would never be able to have a wedding like that. Not that, at the moment, she had marriage in prospect at all, she checked herself. She sighed. The office had seemed very quiet today with Audrey away and the excitement over.

‘You know, Isabel, I hardly see you these days,’ Berec was complaining. ‘And Gregor and Karin, they’re asking for you.’

‘How are they both?’ Isabel asked. ‘I should like to see them soon.’

‘They wish me to bring you to supper one evening. Karin has been suffering from her old trouble, the rheumatic fever, you know, but her spirits are improved, I think. Especially since Gregor has found a job as porter at a hospital, which is very good news.’

What a comedown from being a doctor this must be. But at least it would mean regular money.

‘And you, you are enjoying yourself ?’ Berec asked her. She could not mistake the twinkle in his eye and smiled back mischievously.

‘Oh, Berec, yes. I must thank you a thousand times for getting me this job.’

He waved the gratitude away as though it were a fly. ‘You know I didn’t mean the job, but never mind. I saw right from the start that it would suit you.’

‘You did, didn’t you? It was very clever of you.’

‘I wanted to help you, so bright and impetuous you were, arriving like that at your aunt’s. I liked that. You’d run away from home to find your fortune. Like in the fairy stories.’

‘And you were my fairy godmother.’

The twinkly eyes creased up in laughter. ‘Your fairy godfather. That’s right. Penelope was the godmother, I think.’

‘I suppose she was in a way. I haven’t seen her for a long time. Have you?’

‘Not very much, no.’

‘I will, I must do.’ She felt a mixture of guilt and reluctance about this. Guilt because she knew she owed Penelope the courtesy of a visit, and reluctance because Penelope, though generous in Isabel’s hour of desperate need, had not adopted the role of affectionate aunt. Reginald Dickson, her aunt’s amour, had been discouraging of that. She noted that despite him being McKinnon & Holt’s new backer, she hadn’t ever seen Reginald. He didn’t interfere as Redmayne Symmonds used to do, but seemed entirely happy for Stephen to conduct all business as he deemed best.

‘I suppose Penelope is still with Reginald,’ she thought to ask now.

‘Yes,’ Berec said shortly. ‘I wish I could say I warm to the fellow.’

‘He is a cold fish,’ Isabel agreed. ‘Do you think she’ll marry him?’

‘Not while he’s married to someone else,’ Berec said, crushing his cigarette butt into a small ashtray. ‘And even then, I don’t know. I remember her telling me one marriage was enough for a lifetime. And Reginald, I believe he likes things exactly as they are.’

‘I would hate that,’ Isabel said wonderingly. ‘If I loved somebody, I would want to be with them all the time.’

Berec began searching for coins in his wallet and she couldn’t see his expression. ‘It is right that you think like that, Isabel,’ he said, ‘and I wish above all that you find happiness, but please remember it is not possible for everybody. For some, love is on the ration, for others it is denied altogether. Never allow your own good fortune to blind you to this.’

‘You sound so serious, Berec,’ she said, hesitant. Indeed it was the most serious thing Berec had ever said to her, and for a moment she couldn’t think how to respond. Had something happened to him? Her thoughts flew to Myra, but she had long learned not to ask about Myra; the question appeared to disconcert Berec and she respected his privacy. She’d once wondered if he loved Penelope, but had concluded that if he ever had, he did so no longer. He only ever spoke of her with gratitude and the warmth of friendship.

‘I did not mean to frighten you,’ he said. ‘Especially when I see that you are so happy.’ His eyes were dancing with mischief, and she felt her face grow hot. ‘No, I am not intruding,’ he added hastily. ‘But I can see you don’t have much time for your old friend Berec now.’

‘Berec, don’t be silly, I always have time for you. And you must let me pay today, really I’m the one with the job, remember. Here, take this.’ She pushed a note towards him.

‘Ah, and I was going to ask you for a book from the office. I can’t do that if you pay for me.’

‘Yes, of course you can. Was it the Russian poet? Stephen hopes you’ll review to meet you beautiful the co that somewhere. If you come back to the office now, I’ll give you a copy.’

Later that afternoon, she remembered their conversation about Penelope and, on impulse, tried to telephone her. There was nobody at home.

‘I’ve bought a car.’ Hugh’s voice down the telephone was triumphant.

‘We’ve got a crossed line,’ Isabel said. A woman’s voice kept shrilling, ‘Hello, hello, Bernard?’ Then came a click and silence. ‘Are you still there, Hugh?’ Isabel asked. ‘For a moment I thought you said you’d bought a car.’

‘I did, and I have. Will you come for a drive, Sunday? I can pick you up around ten.’

‘Yes,’ she said at once, ‘I’d love that.’ When he’d rung off she stood for a while in a transport of excitement. She was going out with him for a whole day! Did this mean their relationship was becoming serious? Perhaps she was reading too much into it. Oh blow, if only she was more sophisticated, like Audrey. Audrey would know how to handle things. She sighed and went off to look out something she might wear. The old gold dress with the sweet round collar, perhaps. Audrey had complimented her on that.

Sunday was blustery, and puffs of greyish cloud charged through a misty sky. She hoped the rain would hold off. The car was a dear, small and painted red, with a detachable roof. It was far from new but it spelled freedom, and once they were through the suburbs and picking up speed, its creaks and vibrations were hardly noticeable above the roar of the engine. Hugh drove fast, but well, and the quaint Surrey villages whipped by. They stopped for an early lunch in a pub in Haslemere, then went on again, reaching Brighton mid-afternoon. He parked the car by the seafront.

Isabel paddled in a freezing sea whilst Hugh, who declined even to remove his shoes, loitered on the stony beach. After she’d dried her feet on his handkerchief they visited the pier, where half a dozen children licking ice creams were watching a desultory Punch and Judy. The spectacle became more interesting when it was heckled by a posse of youths and the puppeteer shambled out of the tent and shouted at them to go away. ‘Old ’itler should ’ave seen to the likes of you,’ he cried, shaking his fist in a way that bested his efforts with Punch.

Hugh laughed and steered Isabel away. They strolled to the end of the pier and stood for a while watching seagulls circle and dive in the wake of a pleasure boat crossing the bay.

‘Why do they do that?’ Isabel asked. Her heart ached with the sense of his closeness.

‘People throw food, I suppose, or perhaps the propeller turns up fish for them. They’re scavengers, aren’t they? They live off us, that’s why they prosper.’

She thought the birds looked graceful at a distance, but harsh and malevolent up close. A sharp wind had blown up; she shivered and wrapped her coat more tightly around her. ‘You’re cold,’ he said, taking her arm. ‘I’m sorry. Let’s get some tea.’

They walked back down the pier and found the last free table in the fug of a crowded café where the waitress brought tea and buttered toast and they sat quietly listening to the conversations around them. Once, Hugh smiled at something an old woman said, took out a small notebook and wrote in it, then put it away without a word. He seemed to be brooding on some matter that might have nothing to do with Isabel or the café or the moment, she couldn’t tell. Sometimes he would disappear inside himself, or so she fancied. She found herself starting to panic. Perhaps she didn’t matter to him particularly. Perhaps she’d read him wrongly, after all.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked after a time, feeling a little ignored.

‘What? Yes, of course,’ he replied rather shortly. ‘Sorry, I was thinking.’

‘I noticed,’ she said, trying not to show her hurt. ‘I was worried I’d upset you.’

‘My dear girl.’ He reached out and grasped her hand, interlacing his fingers with hers. ‘You mustn’t think that. How could you possibly upset me?’ His expression was so tender she could hardly speak.