Island-in-Waiting Read online

  “No problems so far,” Nicholas replied. “The only criticism I would make

  As the conversation became technical Neil sat down on the sofa beside me. “Don’t be put off by Vivian’s assessment of the island. It’s really a very pleasant little place.”

  “I feel rather sorry for her,” I said slowly. “She seems frustrated somehow.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid that’s the root of it. The tragedy is that it's mainly on Nicholas’s behalf, and if she’d only relax he’d be quite happy here.” He tilted the glass in his hand, his eyes on the swirling liquid. “How long have you known Ray Kittering?”

  The unexpected question took me by surprise. “Ray? Three days, I suppose. Why?”

  He looked up. “But I understood – I gathered in the staffroom that you knew each other?”

  “Only because he’d called at the cottage on Sunday afternoon.”

  “That’s all it was? I wondered if perhaps he was part of the reason for your visit.”

  My emphatic disclaimer was interrupted by Vivian’s announcement that dinner was ready, but as we went through to the dining-room I was uncomfortably aware that I might have been less than honest with Neil. If the compulsive voice in my head was Ray’s, he could indeed have influenced my coming, though not in the way Neil had meant.

  The meal was excellent but although conversation flowed freely on the surface, I was conscious of the tensions just below. Nicholas’s fingers were continually crumbling the bread on his side plate and Vivian laughed too often and on too high a note. Several times I caught Neil’s eye across the table and I found my own thoughts wandering, trying to probe back into those dreams in which he had figured and wondering if I should really have the opportunity of reliving them.

  “You know, of course, that Nicholas has applied for the Downhurst vacancy?” Vivian remarked to Hugo over the dessert. “I’m sure he must be better qualified than any of the other applicants. Look at the experience he’s had: twenty years now in a succession of famous schools. It’s really heart-breaking to see someone of his ability stultifying out here. If he hadn’t come to St Olaf’s he’d have had his own school years ago.”

  “My dear, that is your own rather biased opinion,” Nicholas put in with heightened colour.

  “Not only mine, I assure you. It was nothing short of scandalous the way you were passed over in favour of Frank Harrison. After all, it was more or less understood –”

  She broke off under the force of pleading in his eyes. “I’m sorry. Please forgive that outburst. I’m afraid we’ve both been under rather a strain since the interview. Nicholas is right, of course. You don’t want to hear all our problems.”

  “By the way, Nicholas,” Neil said smoothly, “I’ve been meaning to ask if they’ve roped you in for the end-of-term play this year?” I caught the grateful glance Vivian flashed him as he turned to me. “Has Hugo told you what a fantastic mimic Nicholas is? And not just of the ‘You dirty rat’ school! No college entertainment is complete without his impersonation of the prime minister!”

  With the conversation steered on to safer topics the evening eventually tottered to a close without any more verbal pitfalls.

  “What did you think of them?” Hugo asked as we drove home through the winding dark lanes.

  “It wasn’t a very comfortable evening, was it? You had to be careful what you said.”

  “Too true. Thank heaven at least for Neil.” He put his hand briefly on Martha’s knee. “Never get as neurotic as that about me, will you, sweetheart?”

  “Not as long as you’re head of Eton before you’re forty! Will we have to ask them back? I don’t think I could stand the strain!”

  “If we do we’ll certainly put a spot of bromide in the gravy!” Hugo promised with a laugh as we turned once more into the driveway of the cottage.

  Five

  Yet when I put out my light that night, it was not the undertones and nuances of the evening which occupied my mind but Martha’s earlier suggestion that my dreams may now start to play themselves back in waking life. For a long time I tossed and turned wondering about the possible elasticity of time, and it was probably this obsessive treadmill which, when at last I fell asleep, laid me open to the merciless attack of the most terrifying dream I had yet had.

  I found myself alone on a hillside in the mist and as always, though I couldn’t see it, was aware of the nearness of the sea. Out in the greyness a foghorn sounded mournfully. Where was he? Dear God, what had happened? I started to run, but the long skirt wrapped itself round my legs and I stumbled to a halt. Why had he left me alone? I wanted to call his name, but there was now an ominous listening quality about the stillness, an eerie sensation of not being quite alone after all. In this white blindness someone could be within a few feet of me, waiting for a sound to betray my whereabouts. My eyes strained desperately to penetrate the mist and, as I stared, the drifting whiteness over to my right swirled unaccountably in some eddy of air, thinning to disclose the blurred outline of a man. Slowly he turned his head in my direction and a scream welled up in my throat ...

  Drenched in sweat I lay rigid in Hugo’s little guest-room. No use, now, telling myself it was only a dream. It was a ‘special’ dream, after all, and it seemed these might have a way of coming true. What was more I knew instinctively that despite the long skirt this dream did not lie comfortably in a recurring past but ahead of me, in a future which drew nearer with every tick of my bedside clock. Had I been dreaming of events leading up to my own death? Perhaps that was the reason for bringing me to the island.

  It was a long time before I was able to unflex my hands, to force my stiff body to relax, and eventually, as dawn was breaking, to sleep.

  I woke a second time that Wednesday morning to the sound of Hugo’s car leaving for college, and spent the next few hours trying to persuade Martha to ignore my pallor and the dark circles under my eyes.

  “I had a bad night, that’s all,” I kept assuring her, and though she probably guessed that bad nights were synonymous with dreams, she didn’t press me any further.

  “I wish I didn’t have a class this afternoon,” she said worriedly over lunch. “I don’t like leaving you, but I suppose you don’t want to come with me?”

  “Not today Martha, but I’m all right, really.”

  And to prove the fact to myself I decided to devote my attention to preparing an elaborate meal for dinner, which would leave me no room for morbid imaginings. We had brought a chicken home from Ramsey the previous day and a quick reconnaissance of the store cupboard showed me that, surprisingly, all the basic ingredients of Ballotine de Poularde were to hand. Feeling better already, I tied an apron round my waist and embarked on the delicate task of boning the chicken without cutting through the skin.

  I’m not sure at what stage I realized Ray was coming. At first I tried to dismiss my quickened breathing and the unaccountable heat of my body, but when the tap came on the kitchen window and I looked up to see him standing there, it was certainly no surprise. Wiping my hands on the apron I went to let him in.

  “Good day to you, Miss Winter.”

  “Hello, Ray.” I stood passive, accepting because I had no choice the powerful waves which pulsated over me. After a moment I said with an effort, “Would you like to come in?”

  He smiled slightly. “Indeed I would. There’s not much to be gained from standing on your doorstep! It’s a cup of tea I’m after,” he added, following me inside. “I’ve a free period and it occurred to me you’d brew a better pot than Phyllis Lathom. It wouldn’t surprise me if she concocted hers in the chemistry lab!”

  His manner was natural and friendly and could not account for the panic that was beginning to build up inside me. Soon, because I could not help myself, I would have to go to him.

  “I’ll put the kettle on,” I said carefully, rinsing my hands at the sink. I could feel his eyes on me and the hair on my scalp moved in an age-old reaction to fear. He had stopped talking and in my agitation I cou
ld think of no way to break the mounting silence. I took out the cups and saucers which clattered together in my shaking hands and poured the boiling water into the teapot and all the time, as I moved about the room, his eyes followed me. When at last he did speak I actually jumped.

  “I phoned you last night. There was no reply.”

  “We went to the Quayles for dinner.”

  “Then you’ve my sympathy. If ever a couple were guaranteed to put the dampers on an evening, it’s themselves. And was Neil Sheppard there as usual?”

  “He was.”

  “As I thought. Old Vivian has quite a hankering for him. Might well be mutual, for all she’s older than he is. There’s more to her than that mewling Pam Beecham, and from her angle wouldn’t any man be an improvement on her scared rabbit of a husband, and him preferring little boys anyway.”

  I gasped. “Ray, you can’t go round saying things like that! If anyone heard you –”

  “What would they do, now? Nothing, I’m telling you. They daren’t. There’s not one of them hasn’t some nasty little secret he’d rather keep hidden.” He glanced at my closed face. “But I didn’t come here to talk about the Quayles, nor, to be truthful, for a cup of tea. You know why I came, don’t you, Chloe?”

  I shook my head speechlessly.

  “You know I can’t keep away from you, any more than you can from me.”

  A pulse was beating in my throat and my hands were ice cold. This was the moment I’d longed for on Sunday afternoon, when Hugo had hurriedly ushered Ray from the house. Now inexplicably I was dreading it and I knew that this time there would be no postponement. Ray had risen to his feet and was standing across the table, waiting. He made no move towards me but to my helpless terror I found I was moving slowly and inexorably towards him. I had almost reached him by the time that I was able to force myself to stop, having to push back against an almost physical force which was propelling me forward. His eyes burned into mine and his face was glistening with sweat. He gave a breathless little laugh and reached for me avidly, his open mouth closing over mine. I stiffened, holding myself as far from him as I could, appalled that by walking round the table to meet him I had virtually invited the embrace.

  After a moment I succeeded in wrenching my head away and his lips moved to my throat and the open neckline of my dress, hot and frighteningly insistent. In escalating panic I pushed against his chest with both hands and at last he raised his head and looked at me. He was breathing quickly and there was an ugly expression in his eyes.

  “What’s the matter? It’s no use playing the ice maiden with me, my girl. You wanted that as much as I did.”

  “No!” I shook my head desperately. “No, Ray, please –”

  “Then why did you come to me? You like to blow hot and cold, is that it? Egg someone on and then give him the deep freeze?”

  “No,” I said again.

  His mouth twisted. “Don’t fight me, Chloe. It won’t do any good.”

  The kitchen clock ticked unconcernedly into the suddenly threatening silence and I said on a high note of relief, “Your free period’s nearly over. You’d better go.”

  He glanced impatiently at his watch. “When can I see you, then? We’ll keep Saturday for the sightseeing, but –”

  I said quickly, “Ray, I really think perhaps –”

  “Hell, I’ll have to go. We’ll fix something at college tomorrow.”

  “I shan’t be there.”

  “You will, my sweet, believe me.”

  “But it’s not one of Martha’s days.”

  He lifted a hand to caress my cheek, his smile fading as I ducked away. “Goodbye, then, Chloe. For now.”

  When he had gone I sank tremblingly on to the chair and put my hands to my face. On the table the untouched teapot still steamed. What in the name of heaven had happened to me? He was right, I had after all gone to him voluntarily-

  No! I raised my head. Not voluntarily. Numbly I thought back to my first meeting with Ray and how, after initially ruling out any physical attraction towards him, I had almost been overwhelmed by it. Could the sensation have been deliberately imposed on me, overriding my own will? It was a terrifying thought but I of all people had reason not to underestimate the power of suggestion. This afternoon it had swamped me again, but if he had relaxed his mental hold in the moment of physical contact, all my natural reserve would have come flooding back.

  I drew a deep breath. If these hypotheses had any grain of truth in them, Hugo had been right to warn me about Ray, though he could have had no inkling how dangerous our liaison could be. ‘Don’t fight me,’ Ray had said. ‘It won’t do any good. ’

  Hugo and Martha were full of praise for the chicken that evening, “especially,” Hugo commented, “since we were on starvation rations at lunch time. The girl who does the staff lunch has gone down with ’flu and so has her husband. Everything was chaotic – we had to make do with cheese and biscuits, if you please!”

  “No wonder you’re hungry,” I remarked, refilling the plate he held out. “I didn’t realize you have outside caterers.”

  “Only for our lunch. The boys go back to their houses but for some reason lunches aren’t provided in Staff House during the week. In any case the non-resident members don’t want to trail home at midday, so I suppose it was considered easier to feed us all together.”

  “Who has the contract?”

  “The young married couple who run the restaurant down the road. It’s only open in the evenings, so I imagine they’re glad of the extra money providing our lunches five days a week.”

  “It sounds just the kind of business I should be looking for!”

  “I thought you didn’t want to be burdened by overheads?”

  I smiled. “I was only trying not to run before I could walk. Anyway, I hope for your sakes order will be restored tomorrow.”

  “I very much doubt it. Everyone was rushing round trying to persuade the cooks in the different houses to provide a bit extra for us but they all have different menus so it would be very complicated.”

  I said on impulse, “I could do the lunches till she’s better, if it would help.”

  Hugo looked up. “Now that is a thought! Do you think you could cope?”

  “I don’t see why not. I’m used to cooking for fairly large numbers, and I’ve nothing else to do.”

  “Bully for you! I’ll ring through after dinner and pass on the suggestion.”

  The college accepted my offer with gratitude as, when in turn I phoned her, did Annette St Cyr.

  “This is the first time we’ve let St Olaf’s down,” she told me, “and I’ve been so worried it might lose us the contract. They must be able to depend on their caterers. That’s the trouble with there being only two of us – when we’re both ill we’re completely stuck. We’ve had to cancel restaurant bookings till the end of the week, which is something we can’t really afford.”

  “Don’t worry about the lunches, anyway. If you tell me what you were planning and where I can find it, I’ll do the rest.”

  “It should be Spaghetti Bolognese tomorrow, with ice-cream to follow. The sauce only needs thawing and reheating. The main problem is getting it to you.”

  “I’ll come and collect it, if there’s somewhere you can leave it.”

  “Would you mind? We could put the containers in the passage just inside the back door and leave it on the latch. We’ll keep out of the way though – I don’t want to pass this on to you! There’s a large selection of pans at college, so don’t worry about utensils. You know the kitchenette off the staff-room? It has a cooker, fridge, sink and so on. They use it to make tea and coffee during the day. The washing-up isn’t your concern, of course. Two girls come in to serve the meal and clear and wash up afterwards. Once the dessert is portioned out you’re free to go.”

  I was quite pleased at the prospect of cooking again, having enjoyed the challenge of the Poularde, and it was only as I was dropping off to sleep that I realized I should in fact,
as Ray had assured me, be at college the following day.

  Six

  The Viking Restaurant was a converted coach-house on the Jurby road and Annette’s clear directions led me to it without any trouble. The sign of a helmeted warrior with flowing hair dispelled any possible doubt that I had reached my destination. As arranged I walked round the building and pushed open the back door. The small passage inside obviously doubled as a wine cellar and racks of bottles lined the walls. There was a flight of stairs at the far end and on the left a door led presumably to the kitchen. I was tempted to take a quick peep inside but discretion overcame curiosity. I collected the containers left ready for me, snipped down the latch on the door and went on my way.

  As I approached the corner where we’d seen the ram my hands tightened apprehensively on the driving-wheel, but today the fields and hillside falling away below me held no trace of strangeness. Perhaps the atmosphere was expunged of any lingering unease once the foreseen incident had taken place. I put it thankfully out of my mind and minutes later turned into the gateway of St Olaf’s.

  By the time the girls arrived to lay the long table everything was well in hand and for the next half-hour or so I worked harder than I had for some time, ladling steaming mounds of spaghetti and sauce on to a seemingly endless succession of plates.

  “That’s all for in there,” Kitty, the elder girl, said at last. “These three plates are ours. We’ve just enough time to eat it before serving the sweet.”

  We sat down at the small corner table and as we ate they regaled me with news of their boy-friends and their homes in the village. I gathered they spent the rest of the day helping with the housework at one of the college houses. Despite their chatter, however, they ate remarkably quickly and were pushing back their chairs before I had eaten half my own meal. I wasn’t hungry anyway and abandoned it to embark on spooning out the ice-cream. Since I didn’t want any myself I was then free to go. I said good-bye to the girls and, avoiding the still crowded staff-room, went out by the other door leading directly on to the corridor. I pulled it shut behind me and turned to find myself face to face with Ray. He took my arm.