Home through the Dark Page 2

  “It seems some time since we’ve seen you on the stage yourself, Mr. Clements, though I know, of course, that you’re producing the play at the Playhouse. Are you intending to do less acting in the future and concentrate on producing?”

  Carl shifted on his chair, glanced openly at his watch.

  “Not at all, no. In fact I shall be appearing in a new production of Richard the Third early in December.”

  I stopped listening to the exchange, concentrating on Carl’s obvious unease. Should I perhaps ring him at the flat later, if only to let him know that I hadn’t thrown myself in the river? But there was nothing else to say. By running away I had effectively burned my boats. I had forestalled any attempt of his to put things right and my pride would not now let me make the first move towards reconciliation.

  A sudden rush of helpless tears blurred his image and by the time I had collected myself again the interviewer was smoothly bringing the program to a close. At last this horrible, traumatic day was almost over. With the unread paperback clasped like a talisman, I left the room and went swiftly up to bed.

  Chapter 2

  THE next morning, waking in an unfamiliar room I and the rushing back of full consciousness brought a renewed wave of desolation, only slightly mitigated by the sunshine that was flooding into the room. Carl would still be asleep, his hair over his face and one arm flung across my empty side of the bed.

  I swung my legs over the side of the bed, determining to clamp down on all thoughts of Carl until I had more control of myself. In any case, I told myself severely, turning the bath taps on full, my position was by no means unique and I was better placed than most. There could be few women who had both the financial independence and the complete lack of ties which had made my own immediate withdrawal feasible. There were, incredibly, a few blessings still left to be counted and not the least was that this was a new day and I could do something positive about finding somewhere to live.

  Westhampton when I ventured out a couple of hours later lightened my self-pity still further. It was a gracious, well-proportioned town of clean buildings and a leisurely, unhurried atmosphere. I made my way down the narrow High Street, peering into the windows of antique shops and little grocers still old-fashionedly redolent of roasting coffee, and eventually turned the corner which brought me out halfway down the elegant Avenue.

  On the opposite side from where I stood, grass and flower beds offered a pleasant walk and the opportunity to sit beside sparkling fountains, while the colonnaded row of buildings behind them consisted apparently of banks, solicitors’ offices, and, I hoped, estate agents’.

  I crossed the wide road, threaded my way round a fountain, and almost immediately came upon what I was looking for. The legend on the glass read “Culpepper, Simpson and Clark, Auctioneers and Estate Agents.” I pushed open the door and went in. The outer office was deserted and the two glass doors in the handsome walnut partition at the back remained firmly closed. There was a bell on the counter and I rang it, idly running my eye down the lists of properties displayed.

  Nobody came. Outside the windows the fountains played and across the road I could see the moving, brightly coloured throng of morning shoppers.

  I rang the bell again, with less hope, and it was echoed almost immediately by the sudden shrilling of the telephone on the counter beside me. Surely the joint summons would bring someone running? It takes a lot of will power to let a telephone ring unanswered, even when it is not your own, and the aftermath of yesterday’s distress had left me with a tendency to a headache. I picked up the receiver therefore, intending to say that the office appeared to be deserted, but before I could speak a low voice broke in with an undercurrent of urgency: “Are you alone?”

  Off balance, I stammered, “Er – yes, I –”

  “Then shut up and listen. I’ve not much time. It went like a dream – he never knew what hit him! Now all we need is the lolly. Bring the note as soon as you can in a plain envelope – Picardy 127. But for God’s sake don’t knock or anything till you hear the tune and know the coast’s clear. Okay? See you.”

  The phone clicked in my ear. I stood blankly holding it while the incredible phrases repeated themselves senselessly in my head. After a moment I carefully replaced the receiver and ran my hands down my skirt. Outside, a passing car hooted suddenly and my heart leaped to my throat. My original intention of leaving a message for the absent staff was hardly applicable now. In fact, if anyone learned what I had inadvertently overheard –

  Before the thought had fully formulated, I was outside in the sunshine, walking quickly up the road. A swift glance over my shoulder showed the path clear behind me. As far as I could tell, no one had seen me emerge. The lolly – note in a plain envelope – wait till you hear the tune. Shades of Harry Lime, I thought, but the parallel wasn’t as amusing as I’d supposed.

  I was still walking swiftly up the road. What would the caller do when he realized the wrong person had received his message? What could he do? There was nothing whatsoever to link me with it. If I’d spoken at all, it had been no more than a word, and who in this town could recognize my voice from that?

  “Never knew what hit him.” Was that a colloquialism or had it been meant literally? I shivered in the warm sunshine. Looking about me at this lovely town and its inhabitants going peacefully about their everyday business, the whole thing seemed ludicrous. But no more ludicrous than bombs in Oxford Street. Heaven help us, we were beginning to accept the macabre, the distorted, almost without questioning it.

  My swift progress had brought me to the end of the parade and as luck would have it, the last doorway happened to be that of another estate agent. This time I glanced cautiously inside and was reassured to see a girl sitting at a desk typing. I pushed open the door and went in.

  I imagine something of my agitation must have communicated itself to the man sitting opposite me across the wide expanse of desk, and not unnaturally he put it down to acute anxiety to find somewhere to live. His manner became positively avuncular.

  “Now don’t worry, Miss Durrell, I’m sure we’ll find somewhere to suit you, though the amount of rent you have in mind is rather limiting. However, we’ll do our best.”

  Two hours later, my agitation had increased rather than otherwise. A succession of dreary, boxlike flats was behind us, each one a mockery of the gracious Chelsea apartment that had so recently been home. Although I had not anticipated finding anything in that class, it was impossible to imagine myself living in any of these.

  Back in the car again, Mr. Henry said tentatively, “Miss Durrell, there’s no chance of your raising the figure at all? I have in mind one particular property which I’m sure would appeal to you. It only came on the market last weekend; the owner has been sent abroad on business and wants to let it for six months. I’m sure it’s very much what you’re looking for, but I’m afraid it’s also considerably more expensive.”

  “Well, on the strength of what we’ve seen so far, I’ll obviously have to raise my sites a little.”

  “Let me at least show you the Beeches and then we can discuss the financial implications more fully.”

  Financial implications – the words had a rather forbidding ring. Thank goodness for the small legacies from my parents which careful investment had substantially increased over the years. At least I shouldn’t be in the undignified position of having to appeal to Carl for help.

  We were now leaving the depressing streets of shabby-genteel houses and moving into a much more pleasant district with wide, tree-lined roads like those I had seen yesterday with Mrs. Baillie.

  “Almost there,” Mr. Henry said rallyingly, and we turned into a handsome square, the centre of which was entirely filled with a park. “It’s over on our right now, but since it’s ‘one way,’ we have to go round three sides of the square to get there. A lovely position, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

  I was straining to look back over my shoulder but the house was screened by trees and I contented mysel
f with a glance at the houses round the other sides of the square – elegant, substantial and well cared for.

  “And here we are.”

  I looked and was lost before we’d even left the car. The Beeches was a long, low house set back only slightly from the pavement with a sweep of immaculate gravel-swept drive in front of it. There was a small wing on each side.

  “The vacant flat is the ground floor one in the right wing,” Mr. Henry murmured, respecting my silence.

  “How many flats are there altogether?”

  “Eight; two up and two down in the main part of the house, one up and one down in each of the wings.” He hesitated. “Would you like to see over it?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Even if we had come to it first, I should have fallen for the Beeches, but after the disappointment of the other flats it was doubly attractive. As we walked over the crunching gravel I looked with approval at the gaily coloured window boxes, the four gleaming front doors close together in the angle of house and wing, which corresponded to those at the far end of the building. There were small wrought-iron balconies outside the long Georgian windows.

  The door opened into a small hall and as Mr. Henry closed it behind us, the only light came from a round window in the wall opposite. Thick, emerald green carpet contrasted superbly with the white walls and woodwork. There were two doors on our left and two on the right.

  “See what you think of this!” Mr. Henry flung open the nearer right-hand door with a flourish and my gasp of delight plainly satisfied him. It revealed a beautifully proportioned room with long windows giving onto the park, furnished elegantly in Regency style with brown and gold brocaded chairs and curtains and gleaming, slender-legged tables.

  “It’s – magnificent!” I said.

  “The bedroom is the same length with the same outlook, but it’s considerably narrower. It has an extra window at the side of the house, but as you’ll have noticed in the hall, not a lot of light comes in, as the beech trees grow rather near to the house. Let me show you.”

  Willingly I followed him, equally delighted with the long narrow bedroom and its elegant furniture.

  “The bathroom and kitchen look over the gardens at the back.” They were both small, compact and completely up-to-date. It was, of course, useless even to look at anywhere else, and now that his plan had succeeded, the avuncular Mr. Henry belatedly grew cautious on my behalf.

  “I don’t want to pressure you into anything that’s beyond your means –”

  “I can manage. In any case I must find a job. I just can’t hang round here all day, and that will help. How soon can I move in?”

  “Let me see. It won’t take long. I’ll have the agreement drawn up and then it will be necessary to go through the inventory with you. How would Saturday do?”

  “Beautifully,” I said happily.

  “That’s fine, then. I hope you’ll be very happy here. We rather pride ourselves on Westhampton’s peaceful, old-world atmosphere.”

  Mrs. Baillie had said much the same thing, but I’d had a narrow escape in the car and been on the receiving end of a rather sinister phone call, and I hadn’t been here twenty-four hours yet. Pushing my mental reservations about Westhampton’s peacefulness out of my mind, I followed Mr. Henry back to the car.

  I returned to the George for lunch pleasantly elated at my good fortune, and remarked gaily to the receptionist, “I can fill in my address for you now – Flat 7, The Beeches, Park View, Westhampton!”

  A man who had been standing at the noticeboard turned sharply and stared at me intently for a moment before moving away, and at once the uneasiness I had felt after the phone call returned in full measure. It had not been very wise to blurt out my new address so blithely. Suppose after all he had seen me leave the first estate agent’s and been following me ever since? But that was surely ridiculous.

  I decided that a drink before lunch might steady my jumping nerves and turned into the cocktail lounge. The man from the hall was seated at the bar and I felt his eyes watching me in the mirror as I made my way over to one of the tables against the wall. I gave my order to the hovering waiter and then looked defiantly across to meet the mirrored eyes. After a moment he looked away. He didn’t seem unduly sinister after all, I reflected. He was immaculately dressed, with dark sleek hair and a thin clever face. Fleetingly I wondered if he could have been the driver of the Fiat. If so and it was outside in the car-park, I could rely on Jack to take action on my behalf, but it would hardly explain his apparent interest, since he would be as unlikely to recognize me from our last brief encounter as I would him.

  My drink came and as I signed for it, my attention was caught by the somewhat precipitate arrival of a small, shabby man who paused just inside the doorway looking nervous and completely out of place in the comfortable opulence of the room. A moment later, to my intense surprise, he hurried over to the man at the bar and began to talk earnestly to him. Two less likely companions would have been hard to find, the one so smooth and polished, the other so frayed and down at heel. Curiouser and curiouser.

  My imagination was probably getting out of hand. I finished my drink and went through for lunch, illogically relieved when they did not appear and when I glanced into the bar on leaving the dining room, it was empty except for the waiter wiping over the tables.

  The afternoon stretched blankly ahead. I moved over to the noticeboard hoping it might give times of local cinema performances, but my attention was caught instead by a small notice which read:

  Westhampton Little Theatre presents An Inspector Calls by J. B. Priestley. Thurs., 6th Sept. – Sat., 15th Sept. Doors open 7 P.M. Curtain rises 7.30. Matinee performances on Saturdays at 2.30.

  “Where is the Little Theatre?” I asked the girl at the desk.

  “Phoenix Street, Miss Durrell, the other side of town.”

  “How do I get there? I think I’ll go and see if they’ve any seats left for this evening.”

  “I could phone through for you, but I doubt if they’ll be –”

  “No, thank you, I’d rather go myself. I’ve nothing to do this afternoon.” And I didn’t want to stay in the hotel in case I encountered the dark-eyed man again.

  Armed with her directions, I set out, glad to have a destination in mind but cynically amused at the irresistible lure that the theatre – any theatre – still had for me. After Carl, it should have been the last place I’d make for, but my love for it went back further than my love for him. Even as a small child the cadence and rhythm of words had held me spellbound and after reading English with drama at university I had gone on to teach it at the exclusive Langland School for Girls. And there I might still happily have been had I not by chance met one of my fellow students who had opted for the stage and landed a small part in a West End production. She pressed a ticket on me and invited me backstage afterwards, and it was there, at an informal dressing-room party, that I had met Carl.

  Carl had always resented what he referred to as my “scholastic background” and even in the early days there had been a note in his voice that wasn’t wholly teasing when he referred, as he frequently did, to his “clever wife.” Naturally, there had never been any question of my continuing to teach. “My God!” he’d protested in simulated horror. “Do you think I’d let it be known that I’m married to a schoolmarm?” In the total commitment of overwhelming love I had given it up without question, but now, for the first time, I was aware of buried resentment. It seemed unlikely that I could find a teaching job here in Westhampton without the rigmarole of writing to Langland for references, and in any case the autumn term had already begun.

  By this time I had reached Phoenix Street, but a quick look up and down revealed no theatre that I could see. A woman was coming along trundling a basket on wheels and I stopped her to check my directions.

  “Yes, that’s right, it’s down that little alley over there. See the notice?” And now that it was pointed out to me, I did in fact see the notice with the red arrow.
Ruefully I thanked her and crossed the road. The word “theatre” was so firmly bound up in my mind with Carl and his lordly surroundings that it had not occurred to me that the one I was now seeking might be an inconspicuous little building “down the alley.”

  Even as I made my way over the uneven cobbles, I could see no sign of anything remotely resembling a theatre as I knew it. The approach was more that of some kind of warehouse – which, as it later turned out, was what the Little Theatre had once been. I turned into a mews-type courtyard surrounded on three sides by buildings, and on my immediate left a notice, once more repeating “Westhampton Little Theatre” to reassure its persevering clients, pointed directly up a steep flight of stairs.

  Since the door at the bottom stood open, I went hesitantly up them. The walls on either side were hung with photographs of the company in previous productions: Joanna Lacy as Hedda Gabler, Laurence Grey and Leonard Beaufoy in a scene from Julius Caesar. A corridor ran across the top of the stairs, turning a corner almost immediately on the right and to the left widening into a foyer. But although there was a small bar at the far end, now firmly shuttered, and a box-office window alongside it, the place seemed deserted. I should, of course, have realized that the box office was unlikely to be open at three o’clock in the afternoon and let the hotel receptionist phone through for me later as she had no doubt been about to suggest.

  I had actually turned to go when the sound of whistling reached me from behind the closed doors leading to the auditorium. Instinctively I moved towards them, and was stretching out a hand to push them open when they swung suddenly towards me and a man in jeans and T-shirt, still whistling, came quickly through them, halting abruptly at the sight of me.