Wild Melody (14 page)

meaning of response.

'I think you'd better go,' she told Jeremy, a slight betraying quiver creeping

into her voice. 'Sally will be home any moment and . . .'

'I know.' Jeremy seemed mollified. 'Scottish propriety. You haven't changed

as much as you think, sweetheart.'

He took her hand and pressed a kiss lingeringly into her palm.
'Au revoir,'
he

murmured. 'We'll meet again soon.'

When he had gone, Catriona sat down on the battered sofa and tried to

assemble her thoughts into some kind of coherence. She had blamed Jeremy

for being fickle, but was she, in fact, any better? Once, being in his arms had

been her whole world. Now she was appalled at her own indifference to his

caresses. I wanted him once, she thought bewilderedly, but did I even know

what wanting was?

She could not believe what had happened to her in so short a time. She had

thought her relationship with Jeremy had been a perfect thing. Now she was

forced to recognise that its completeness had been a dream that could not

withstand daylight's harsh reality.

She realised too that if things had been different, she might in all innocence

have married Jeremy and lived a contented life, oblivious of the sharp sweet

agony of physical passion as Jason had made her know it.

She buried her face in her hands, biting savagely at her lip, telling herself

she would have been better off without that knowledge. Beyond that she

refused to think.

And now, it seemed, whether she wanted or not, Jeremy was back in her life,

and she was at a loss to know what to do about it. It would be wrong, she

thought, to encourage him and perhaps cause him to break with Helen when

she was so uncertain about the possibility of any future relationship between

them. She would have to see Jeremy again, but on her terms this time, not

his, and make this clear to him.

She got up rather drearily and went to the kitchen alcove to prepare-the

evening meal, telling herself that fatigue and hunger were what ailed her and

all would seem better in the morning.

But as she sliced onions and tomatoes for the sauce, her thoughts were still

elsewhere until a sharp pain across her thumb unpleasantly recalled her

attention. Gingerly she ran the cold tap over the cut, wincing. This was

another item to the account of the Lords, she thought stormily. It was an

appropriate name for them—Lords of Creation as they no doubt thought

themselves.

She threw the knife into the sink with a clatter.

'Damn them both,' she said tensely. 'I—I wish I'd never met them—either of

them.'

But as she pressed her hand fiercely to her mouth, it was not her own blood

but the warm, sensual pleasure of Jason's mouth that she seemed to taste.

NEARING the end of her first week at the centre, Catriona felt a certain

satisfied weariness. The office was now in apple-pie order, and she and

Andrew had begun to rough out a scheme for detailing and filing the

eventual case histories.

She had undergone her first battle with the baulky old duplicator and

emerged slightly ahead and, which was best, she had begun to get to know

some of the centre's residents.

Now, when she went into the kitchen or any of the other rooms they used,

there were guardedly friendly greetings and one or two of the younger

women asked her name and where she came from.

'That's a pretty name,' said Mrs Lamb, an exhausted- looking woman in her

early thirties whose husband had left her penniless with three young

children. 'I read a book called that once. At school it was,' she added hastily,

as if apologising for any kind of superiority.

'I had a holiday in Scotland once, with Mum and Dad,' Linda chimed in.

'Smashing it was. Didn't half rain, though.'

Catriona looked at her with a slight pang, recalling that 'Mum and Dad' were

both dead and that Linda, who had a small baby, was trying to cope as an

unmarried mother and had recently been turned out of her room in a lodging

house because the baby cried and annoyed the other tenants.

It was difficult, she thought, to do as Jean had advised her several times and

remain as impersonal as she could. Jean and Andrew seemed to manage it so

well—that sympathy without sentiment, kindness without patronage, yet

they had both assured her that they were often full of uncertainties about the

actual practical help they were being to the people who used the centre.

As she went back to the office, she noticed the door was standing open and

she could hear voices. She peeped round the door and saw Andrew looking

unnaturally neat and tidy in clerical collar and stock with a sports jacket

instead of his usual disreputable sweater, standing rather defensively in

front of his table.

'Oh, Catriona.' There was a faint note of relief in his voice as he greeted her.

'Mrs Henderson is here. Could you arrange for some coffee for her and . .

'No coffee for me, thank you.' Mrs Henderson, a thin, upright figure in an

ice blue jersey suit, raised her hand. Her shrewd, rather chilly eyes studied

Catriona. 'So this is the new secretary. She looks rather young. Is she

capable?'

Catriona felt as if everything about her from the way she wore her hair to the

length of her skirt had been assessed by the rather indomitable person

confronting her. She was relieved to hear Andrew reply, 'Extremely,' in a

rather dry tone.

'Well, that's a blessing. Come in, young woman. I presume you have work

to do.' Mrs Henderson turned back to Andrew. 'I'm afraid I have some bad

news for you, Mr Milner.' She delved into a capacious snakeskin handbag

and produced a bulging envelope.

Catriona, glancing at Andrew, saw his face stiffen as if he had just received

a blow.

Mrs Henderson handed him the envelope. 'You'll get an official letter from

the secretary to the Trust, of course, but I thought as I was in the

neighbourhood I would let you know at once. The Trust cannot afford the

sort of financial outlay this type of conversion would require.' She paused,

and said in a slightly gentler tone, 'I am really sorry, Mr Milner. I know your

heart was set on this, but in the present economic climate . . .' She sighed and

shook her head.

Catriona, stricken, knew what Andrew must be feeling. He had obtained a

number of estimates for converting the entire top floor of the centre which

was at present unused and a maze of small attic rooms of varying shapes into

flatlets where homeless families could be accommodated together, instead

of being split up into separate male and female sleeping units as they had to

be at present. Andrew felt strongly that it was degrading for husbands and

wives to be separated in this way, and one of Catriona's earliest tasks had

been to type a long and reasoned report supporting the conversion scheme

for the Trustees.

She bit her lip, knowing what high hopes he had had that the plan might be

adopted.

There was a long silence, eventually broken by Mrs Henderson.

'We don't always see eye to eye, Mr Milner,' she said. 'I've never made any

secret of the fact that I'm not totally in favour of the centre and its purpose,

but I intend to do my best for it for my late husband's sake. The trouble is

that the sum of money set aside originally for the Trust, though perfectly

adequate at the time, has been eaten away by inflation. The situation is

extremely disturbing, and I think the time has come when we must look

round for some alternative means of financing the centre if it is to continue

in its present form. Perhaps you would give the matter some thought.

Otherwise . . .' She gave a deep sigh and shook her head slightly. 'Well, I

must be going. I'm already late for my next appointment. Goodbye, Mr

Milner. Goodbye, young woman.'

From the window, they saw her walk down the path to the car where the

driver was waiting to help her in. The door slammed, the engine started and

she was gone.

'Short and sweet.' Andrew's voice was ironic, a defence to conceal his true

feelings, Catriona thought. 'Well, she turned our coffee down, but I think I

could do with a cup.'

'I'll see to it,' she said immediately.

In the kitchen, Jean greeted her with a troubled smile.

'Was that Mrs Henderson's car just now? That usually means trouble.'

'I'm afraid it does,' Catriona sighed. 'Andrew got the thumbs down over the

attic conversion.'

'Oh, no!' Jean stared at her. 'But it's so badly needed.'

'I know, but there simply isn't the money.' Catriona paused. 'Mfs Henderson

was dropping hints too—about the future of the centre. She seems to feel it's

uncertain without outside funds. Is there any way of getting more money—

apart from the Trust, I mean?'

'Who knows?' Jean sat down at the kitchen table, her shoulders drooping

defeatedly. 'We've certainly never had any luck in the past. Andrew has

constantly applied to other charitable foundations, but the answer has

always been that they're fully stretched themselves.' She sighed. 'The

begging letters go out, but very little cash comes in. The main trouble in the

past has been that Mrs Henderson would never allow any fund-raising to go

on. She's always been— well, dog-in-the-manger about permitting help

from outsiders. This was her late husband's pet project and it had to remain

firmly under the wing of the Henderson Trust, so now in many ways I feel

we've missed the boat.'

'I feel sure she's changed her mind now,' Catriona said slowly.

'Oh, I'm sure too,' Jean said drily. 'But is it in time to save the centre? It's so

dreadful to think that Andrew's worked all this time maybe for nothing. He's

tried so hard and all he's had in return are disappointments and

rejections—and from people who are supposed to be on his side,' she

concluded with a fierceness that surprised Catriona.

'I'm sure it's not too late,' she said. 'Perhaps we can launch an appeal... do

something at least.'

'Hmm.' Jean sounded unconvinced. 'But we're not one of the big fashionable

charities, Catriona, that can afford to spend money to get money. We

haven't funds to splash out on the sort of publicity we'd need. Besides, we'd

be like the Babes in the Wood in that sort of set-up. All we really know

about is looking after people.'

'But there are often charity appeals on television,' Catriona began, but Jean

cut in.

'I daresay, but I don't think our appeal is wide enough for that sort of

coverage. Anyway, who do we know in the television world?' She got up.

'Was it the milk you came for? I'll take it if you like.' She gave Catriona a

forced version of her usual sunny smile and went out of the kitchen.

Catriona remained at the table, lost in thought. She had plenty to occupy her

mind. Firstly, from the way Jean had spoken it was obvious that her feeling

for Andrew went far deeper than merely that of one colleague for another.

She wondered if Andrew was aware of the fact and hoped very much that he

was. Even on a relatively brief acquaintance she was sine they would be

ideally suited to each other, and she hoped everything would work out for

them. But, on the face of it, things did not look too hopeful. They were

probably the type of couple who needed time to let their feelings grow and

develop, and their relationship might well be affected if there was

increasing worry over the future of the centre or if it, in fact, were to close

down.

Catriona sighed and got up, intending to return to the office and get on with

her interrupted work, but the realisation that Jean would be there with

Andrew gave her pause. That could be a situation where three would most

definitely be a crowd, she decided wryly. Instead, she wandered into the big

communal sitting room, usually empty at this time of the day, and went over

to one of the long windows. She needed time to think, to try and come to

terms with the idea that had forced itself into her reluctant brain, prompted

by one of Jean's parting remarks. She caught sight of a movement out of the

corner of her eye and, turning, realised the room wasn't deserted after all.

The girl Mitch, her guitar clutched defensively across her, was sitting on a

low stool in the corner. Catriona had seen her a number of times during her

week at the centre and had always spoken to her without receiving the

slightest of responses. For a moment she was tempted to ignore her and have

her think in peace, but she knew it would be wrong to waste an opportunity

to try and get through to the girl.

'I play the guitar,' she remarked casually. 'And I sing. Do you sing, Mitch?'

She glanced across and was rewarded by the slightest shake of the head.