The Lady on my Left (The Mists of Memory) Read online

  Well, she wanted Paul to be happy, didn’t she? She had always told herself that she would do anything in the world to further his happiness. There came to her the quaint, poignant words she had found embroidered on a piece of old silk. The cloth had been caught in the top of a bureau drawer, and she had been both intrigued and saddened as she read the story of a lost love. She had never forgotten the lines, and they seemed very appropriate to herself at this moment:

  His heart is a musical box.

  I lost the key;

  It was found by another.

  He bids ‘Come joy with me.’

  Come joy with me. Well, she was no Victorian heroine. She could not smile or be glib-tongued, feeling as she did. Yet she must not give herself away. If she did, their life together, or what was left of it, would be unbearable. So she fell into the role of chatelaine and nurse again, saying with harsh primness, ‘If you catch another cold, don’t expect me to go dizzy running round looking after you.’ She watched him straining to keep the upturned corners of his mouth from rising further, but the laughter was deep in his eyes when he said, ‘No, Matron, I won’t expect you to go dizzy. I wouldn’t for the world want you dizzy. I’m going back to the ward this instant.’ He made a mock movement of scurrying away from her, but when he reached the staircase door he turned to her again and said, ‘You remember what Dr Bailey prescribed two days ago? Champagne, he said. There is nothing like champagne for after-’flu depression. You remember? And I told him I didn’t need any champagne. But now, you know what?’ He brought his brows down. ‘You know, I think I do need that champagne. When Nelson comes back, slip across to Fuller’s and buy a bottle.’

  He did not wait for her reply but went swiftly through the door, and she stood with her hands tightly clasped before her, her teeth pulling in her lower lip, while a stern voice deep within her said, Now stop it! If you start crying at this stage where are you going to finish up? You might as well face it, you haven’t seen the last of Mrs Freda Gordon-Platt. Look at it squarely and it will hurt less later on: she is here to stay.

  Mrs Dickenson, as usual, had set the table and left everything for the evening meal. It was always something that could be quickly and easily done. Tonight it was grilled steak. These would take only a matter of minutes on the Aga grill pan. So when Alison refused to stay and drink the proffered champagne, making the excuse that she had to see to the steaks, Paul said, ‘What’s your hurry? There’s nothing spoiling. Come on, drink up.’ And he pressed the glass into her hand, then picked up his own and lifted it towards her, saying, ‘I want you to drink to me. To the new Paul Aylmer, who has this very day been rejuvenated.’ Bending down to her his voice now lost its bantering tone and he said quietly, ‘Drink up. I’ve got something to tell you.’ His eyes were looking deep into hers, asking, she thought, for her understanding. Her heart jolted against her ribs. She wanted to fly out of the room. She just couldn’t drink to what he was going to tell her.

  Reprieve came in the form of the distant sound of the shop bell. It brought both their faces in the direction of the hall. Paul’s tone was one of irritation as he said, ‘Who on earth can this be?’

  ‘It could be anyone; it is only half-past seven.’ She was walking quickly out of the room as she spoke. When she reached the bottom of the stairs and switched on the shop light, she could see the dark blur of a figure standing in the street. But it wasn’t until she actually opened the door that she saw who it was, and then her eyes widened and her mouth opened slightly in surprise.

  He was wearing a pork-pie hat and a light overcoat and looked younger than ever. He smiled disarmingly at her and said somewhat shyly, ‘I didn’t find the treasure and I’m not jumping the stakes, so to speak. My visit is utterly legitimate.’ When she did not answer, he shook his head slightly, adding, ‘My mother asked me to call to see if she had left her compact. She remembers powdering her nose, after what I imagine was a little weep.’ The look on his face was meant to encourage her to laugh with him at the foibles of their elders. ‘I understand that my mother and Mr Aylmer had a happy and gruelling reunion raking up the past this afternoon.’

  At this moment her mind was seething with suspicion. Left her compact? What an old trick! Yet, if the woman had worked this, she would herself have returned to retrieve the compact, wouldn’t she? Why hadn’t she? Why had she sent her son? Perhaps he had offered to come. He had likely seen it as an excuse to break the ice further; although they had met for only a few brief moments, she knew that this boy was interested in her; he had made it so plain. Unlike his mother, he appeared to be without guile. And anyway, she thought, she should be thankful to him, for he had stopped Paul, at least for the moment, from giving her the news that was apparently making him so happy.

  ‘Don’t look so disbelieving. My mother really has lost her compact. It happens to be a gold one and is of some value. If she didn’t leave it here then she must have lost it on the bus, for she remembers sorting through her bag for the exact fare.’

  ‘Come in.’ Alison spoke flatly. Then after locking the door behind them she said, ‘Will you come this way?’

  When they reached the upper hall Paul was standing waiting at the door of the drawing room, and he screwed up his eyes at the sight of the young man.

  ‘This is Mr Gordon-Platt, Paul.’

  ‘Oh?’ Paul’s eyes ranged over the young man, and in turn he himself was scrutinised.

  ‘Good evening, sir. I’ve heard quite a lot about you from my mother.’ The hand was extended deferentially.

  ‘How do you do? Come in.’ After a handshake Paul turned about and the young man followed. Alison, bringing up the rear, said, ‘Mrs Gordon-Platt thinks she left her compact here this afternoon. Have you seen it?’

  ‘Her compact?’ Paul turned and looked from Alison to the young man, then back to Alison again and said, ‘No, I haven’t seen any compact.’

  ‘Where was she sitting?’ Alison had the feeling she was presiding over an investigation.

  ‘In that chair there.’ He pointed to the big armchair to the side of the fireplace, then walked towards it and, looking down, said, ‘There’s nothing here.’ Bending forward now he picked up the cushion and shook it. ‘She can’t have left it…But wait a minute. Look.’ He pointed, and there, trapped between the framework and the upholstery, was a circular gold object. Picking it up, he held it in his hand for a moment and looked at it thoughtfully before handing it to the young man, saying, ‘I wonder how that happened. I didn’t notice her upset her bag.’

  ‘Oh, she’s always laying things down and forgetting about them. She’s very absent-minded in that way.’

  Absent-minded. Mrs Gordon-Platt absent-minded? Alison couldn’t imagine it. And yet there would have been no point in leaving her compact unless she were going to return for it herself. She felt that she was being unjust to the woman, on this point at any rate. And to make amends, and also because she didn’t want to be alone with Paul, she decided to extend an invitation. Anything rather than have to listen to what Paul had to tell her. So she said, ‘We were just about to eat. Would you care to join us?’

  ‘Really…I would love it. But will you have…? Well, what I mean—’

  ‘Oh, we have enough. I will cut down on Paul’s share. He eats far too much anyway.’ As she spoke she did not look at Paul but walked out of the room. In the kitchen she put the hot soup into a tureen and the steaks on the grill pan, added another plate and bowl to the hot rack, then stood watching the steam hissing fiercely from the pan. And she likened the fierce heat that was sealing in the juices of the steaks to the anguish that was sealing off her natural spontaneity. This morning, when she had woken up, life had been good, wonderful, the day ahead much too short. Now, looking back on it, it had been long and filled with surprising and frightening crevices of pain. And today was but a beginning, for if Paul again took up with Mrs Gordon-Platt…If he married her, and taking up with her once more could only lead to that, then what would there be to live for?
Some wise sage would tell her she was young, that she would forget, she would marry and have a family. The only family she wanted was Paul. The only man she wanted to marry was Paul…There, it was out, she had said it to herself. Her thoughts and feelings over the years had flown round this truth like a moth round a flame, advancing and retreating, advancing and retreating. And now the moth had gone into the centre of the flame and been burnt up. She was being burnt up. There’d be nothing left of her when she lost Paul, for she would have no family, no-one in the world belonging to her. She knew that this latter thought possessed a thick coating of self-pity, but if she didn’t pity herself who would pity her? She had no-one to turn to, no relatives in whom she could confide. As her thinking reached this point she had a mental picture of the elder Mrs Gordon-Platt and the old maid, together with the faded velvet high-backed chair, and she blinked her eyes as she wondered why she should think that this combination should present itself as a symbol of a family. For a moment her mind darted from her own worry and tried, as it had done earlier in the day, to catch at some thread that would tell her where, before, she had seen the two old women and the chair.

  The time clock rang, warning her that the steaks were ready. Within a few minutes she was carrying the tray through the door which led into the dining section of the long room, and glancing along its length she saw that Paul was sitting listening to Mr Gordon-Platt, who was saying, ‘No, not in England. I was born in Mexico, of all places. My father went there straight from here. We lived there until I was ten; the business went flat. My father wasn’t a very good businessman, I’m afraid. It’s been my mother who has had to do all the thinking, all the time.’ There came a little laugh here. ‘She might be absent-minded and leave things about, but she’s got a very good head for business. If she’d had half a chance she would have pulled us through. But there it is. I’m glad to be in England, anyway.’

  ‘You had never been in England before you came to Beacon Ride?’ Paul was asking the question with stiff politeness.

  ‘Oh, yes. I first came to England when I was fifteen. I was at school here for three years and then I went back to Italy.’

  ‘It must have been expensive keeping you at school in England.’ There was more than a touch of cool politeness in Paul’s voice now.

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. But my mother was wonderful. She squeezed the coffers dry to give me a start.’

  ‘A start? To what? What are you going to do?’

  ‘Well, I really wanted to take up art, but that is out of the question now. Unless you’re a natural-born Picasso you can’t get into that line without having enough money to keep you going until you strike it lucky. When my grandfather’s will brought us back here, I thought…well, that was that, everything was cut and dried for me. Of course, I hadn’t seen the place then.’

  Into the uneasy silence Alison said, ‘Come along and get it while it’s hot.’

  It couldn’t be said that the supper was a gay affair, or even a passably pleasant meal, but it certainly wasn’t the fault of Roy Gordon-Platt, for in his diffident way it was really he who kept the conversation going, asking questions of Paul with suitable deference, mostly questions concerning the business. He confessed to being ignorant with regard to antiques, admitting that his knowledge went back only as far as the early Victorian period.

  Alison had expected Paul to explain that early Victorian furniture now came under the heading of antiques, but Paul, she noticed with uneasiness, had fallen into one of his stiff silences. Perhaps it was because of Roy’s manner, for he called him ‘sir’ all the time. Although this was perhaps good manners, it was also openly giving deference to an older man, a man old enough to be his father, a man who might have been his father. Did Roy know this? Whether he did or not there was one thing she was vitally aware of: Paul did not like the boy, whereas the more she herself saw of him, the more she took to him.

  The meal over, she made no attempt to clear away, for what conversation there was was now solely between herself and Roy, and she did not want to leave him to the mercy of Paul’s stark silence. As much as she loved Paul, at times in the past she’d had her work cut out to endure these herself.

  It was about half-past nine when Roy took his departure. As he shook hands with Paul he said, ‘I hope we’ll meet again soon, sir.’

  To this Paul merely inclined his head; then after a moment, he said, ‘Goodbye.’

  Alison led the way down the stairs through the shop to the door, and after she had opened it, Roy, holding her hand in farewell, asked, ‘Do you like music?’

  ‘It all depends what kind it is.’ She was smiling at him.

  ‘There’s a symphony concert on at the Burley Hall for the next three evenings, starting tomorrow. I was thinking of going. Would you care to come?’ His face took on a solemn look as he added, ‘You’d be doing me a favour, for I feel rather at a loose end at times, and that’s putting it mildly. Believe me, I get frantic sitting in that mausoleum, especially in the evenings.’

  She could understand this and she felt in sympathy with him. Yet if he had given her this invitation two nights ago she would have refused it point-blank. But since his mother had complicated her life, and since Paul, to use his own words, had become rejuvenated by her appearance, she almost grabbed at the invitation. ‘I’d love to,’ she said. ‘I haven’t been to a concert for months. In fact, I haven’t been out anywhere for months…Yes, I would love to.’ As she said this, Alison knew she was setting the seal on the already changed way of life in this house.

  ‘Oh, good. Good.’ The look on his boyish face, expressing his evident pleasure and enthusiasm, was very flattering, but a little embarrassing.

  She said quickly, ‘Goodbye. It’s been pleasant having you here this evening.’

  His face became solemn and he spoke almost under his breath as he said, ‘You’re a very kind person, aren’t you?’

  ‘We won’t go into the traits of my character at this time of night.’ She laughed to cover her embarrassment. ‘Goodbye. Oh! Will you call here for me? And when is it? Are you going tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course. Tomorrow night. I’ll call about seven. All right?’

  ‘All right.’ She watched him for a moment as he moved reluctantly away, and because she knew he was going to turn to see if she was still standing there, she stepped back into the shop and swiftly closed the door. At the staircase door she put out the shop light and stood in the darkness for a moment, bracing herself, as it were, before she faced Paul again. She knew he was annoyed and his mercurial changes of manner always affected her.

  Slowly she climbed the stairs and went into the room. He seemed to be waiting for her. His silent mood must have passed for he greeted her stonily with, ‘Well, have you enjoyed yourself?’

  She reared against the aggressive tone and also the unfairness of his attack. He could be merry and bright after a visit from Mrs Gordon-Platt, but she apparently wasn’t to enjoy the son’s company. Why? His whole attitude, to say the least, was strange. If he was interested in Freda Gordon-Platt then it was going to be awkward for him if he didn’t like her son. She gave him no direct answer to his question but burst out, ‘What do you want, anyway? You can’t have everything your own way.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ He brought his brows down at her.

  ‘Just what I say…Talking me down with…with others, just as if I were an infant, or a gauche girl, fresh from school…All right!’ She bounced her head at him. ‘If you consider me so young…quite undeveloped’—she stressed the word—‘then it is better that I associate with others of my age, don’t you think?…Yes, I enjoyed myself tonight, and for your information, I like him. I think you would at least know where you stood with him.’

  Before her mouth had snapped shut, she was sorry for what she had said. Although she saw that Paul was still angry, his expression showed plainly that she had hurt him, and deeply. Impulsively she was about to move forward, her hand outstretched in contrition, when he turned from
her and walked down the room and out through the dining-room door. Clearly, he had gone this way to avoid passing her. A few seconds later she heard his bedroom door close with a bang.

  Oh dear, dear, dear! She covered her face with her hands. Why was everything going wrong?

  She was walking slowly towards the fire when the phone rang. It was in the hall, and when she lifted the receiver and heard a voice speaking her name, her eyes widened. The voice was saying, ‘Is she in…Miss Read?’

  ‘Miss Read speaking.’

  ‘Oh…oh. This is Miss Beck, Miss Read. You remember me?’

  ‘Oh yes, Miss Beck, I remember you. Of course.’

  There was silence on the line now and Alison said, ‘Hello, are you there?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’m here, Miss Read. I…I wonder if you could manage to come and see me.’

  Alison withdrew the mouthpiece slightly away from her face, puzzled by the request, then said, ‘Yes. Yes, of course, Miss Beck. When would you like me to come? I could pop over tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘No, no, that wouldn’t do. You see…Well, it’s like this. I want you to come when Mrs Charles is out. I’m phoning now because I have the house to myself. You understand?’