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

  ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ Alison gazed at the dangling stone.

  ‘The old swine!’

  Alison’s head jerked upwards at the bitterness in Paul’s voice. It was the first time she had heard him speak thus of any woman. Perhaps, she thought, with a touch of resentment, he considered the jewels belonged by right to Mrs Gordon-Platt’s daughter-in-law. There was one thing certain: if Mrs Freda Gordon-Platt had just this half of the necklace, she wouldn’t have to bother going round selling things…not for a long while, anyway. She said quickly, ‘She hid them for a purpose. They’re for her daughter, Margaret.’

  She almost fell backwards as Paul’s knee jerked, and for a moment the writing case was in danger of toppling onto the floor. As she steadied it with her hands she said quickly, ‘Careful…careful.’

  ‘What do you know about Margaret?’

  ‘Nothing. Well, just a bit.’ She was stammering now. ‘I know she married the gardener’s son and her mother was upset at the time.’ And she asked quietly, ‘Did you know Margaret?’

  There was a pause before he answered, ‘Yes, I knew Margaret.’ He was examining the tracery of gold chain and he spoke as if to the jewels. Enigmatically he said, ‘It’s damned unfair.’

  ‘What do you mean, Paul? What’s unfair?’

  ‘Nothing…nothing.’ His voice was brusque and he moved uneasily in his chair, and added quickly, ‘Now about these.’ He tapped the necklace. ‘Where do we stand? That’s the point.’

  ‘Where do we stand?’ She was puzzled. ‘We’ll have to give them back to Mrs Gordon-Platt; we can’t keep them.’ She moved her head slowly. ‘Of course we can’t!’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But, Paul!’ Her voice was high. ‘It’s all she’s got.’

  ‘All she’s got!’ He almost spat the words out. ‘She’s had too much for too long, has Mrs Gordon-Platt. That’s her trouble. I understood you to say that she wants her daughter to have these. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what Miss Beck said.’

  ‘Well, you never know with a woman like that. I think it would be wiser for us to keep them until the daughter turns up.’

  Alison sat back on her heels and stared up at Paul. She couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t believe that Paul, the man who wouldn’t get mixed up in any rings or questionable deals, should be talking in this way. He wanted to keep this find. Legally, she supposed, it belonged to him. Or did it? She would have to enquire; this was the first time the question had arisen.

  Paul was now bending towards her, talking quietly, persuasively, ‘Look, we won’t do anything yet. The albums can be returned to the storeroom, but we’ll keep this’—he tapped the writing case—‘in a safe place.’

  ‘No, Paul, please.’

  At this point they heard the sound of the shop doorbell ringing, and as Alison wondered dazedly who it could be, Paul’s head jerked to one side with sharp impatience as he exclaimed, ‘That will be him, your Mr Roy.’ There was undisguised bitterness in his voice, and now his hand came out and, gripping her shoulder, he said under his breath, ‘Listen, Alison, listen to me. We’ll do nothing about this matter until we’ve talked again. And don’t mention it to anyone. Do you hear?’

  ‘But, Paul…’

  ‘Alison, I’m asking you to do something for me. Simply wait until we talk about this again. If he wasn’t here now perhaps we could go on and discuss it, but he’s at the door. Now look, go down and let him in. You can stall for a time; I’ll leave that to you.’ The corner of his mouth quivered.

  She backed away from him and he said quietly to her now, ‘Don’t look at me like that, Alison.’ When she did not answer he went on, ‘Give me time to put these things away; he mustn’t see them.’

  Like someone walking in a dream, she turned away and went down the stairs. She couldn’t believe what she knew to be true: Paul was meaning to keep this half of the necklace. Perhaps, as he had said, if they could have gone on talking he might have come to another decision about it. But would he? In her heart she doubted it. Oh, it would be the evening she had promised to go out, when she hadn’t been out of an evening for weeks. She didn’t know how she was going to get through it, for she would be able to think of nothing but Paul and that necklace.

  But it wasn’t Roy Gordon-Platt to whom she opened the door, it was Bill Tapley. ‘Brr…rr!’ He bustled past her, and as she closed the door slowly he asked, ‘Paul in?’

  ‘Yes…yes. But…but I don’t think he’s up to much.’

  ‘No? I thought he was getting along fine; he was out today. I just want a quick word with him.’

  He was moving away now and she followed him up the shop, staring at his broad, thick shoulders as she said, ‘I think he should be in bed.’

  ‘Really?’ He spoke over his shoulder. ‘What’s wrong with him now?’

  ‘You know he had ’flu.’ Her voice sounded indignant.

  But his voice was mild as he replied, ‘Yes. Yes, of course. But when I saw him at lunchtime in Eastbourne he looked as fit as a fiddle. Perhaps something he had for lunch didn’t agree with him.’

  ‘Did you have lunch with him?’ There was a note of surprise in her tone.

  ‘No, no.’ They were at the staircase door now and he turned to her and bent towards her as he whispered, ‘He was entertaining a lady friend. I just happened to be in the hotel dining room.’

  She made a great effort not to let the impression this news had made on her show on her face. Paul had been lunching with a woman in Eastbourne. She didn’t have to guess twice at the woman’s name. She felt anger rising in her again, and so consumed was she by it that she forgot that Paul had asked her to stall the visitor. She only remembered it as she preceded Bill Tapley into the drawing room. It was when she saw Paul sitting on the couch calmly smoking that she thought, He must have moved like lightning to get that lot put away so quickly. She also noticed that Paul appeared surprised and not at all pleased to see who the visitor was, and his greeting reflected it.

  Paul was on his feet now, and as he motioned the visitor to a chair, the shop bell rang once more. As Alison hurried out of the room, Bill Tapley laughingly said, ‘Business seems good after hours,’ and she thought, What is it about him that I can’t stand? And why am I afraid of him? She hadn’t realised until that moment that she was actually afraid of him.

  She opened the shop door to the sight of Roy Gordon-Platt, dressed, she thought, almost as if for a command performance. Sealock was, as its name suggested, a seaside town, and in or out of season no-one dressed to go to the Burley Hall unless it was for a mayoral occasion, and then only if you were a VIP in the front row of the circle. The thick fringe of her eyelashes flapped in perplexity for a moment, then she said as casually as she could, ‘Hello. I’m sorry, but I’m not ready yet.’

  He seemed slightly disappointed, but laughed lightly. ‘We’ve got half an hour yet.’

  ‘Half an hour!’ She turned from him and hurried up the shop, talking over her shoulder as he followed. ‘I won’t be long. It doesn’t take me long to get ready. I’ve been out all day and haven’t long been back.’

  ‘You sound tired. Are you sure you want to go out?’ There was an anxious note in his voice as he followed her up the stairs.

  ‘Oh, yes…yes. I’m looking forward to it.’ And she was; she didn’t want an evening in the company of Bill Tapley. And she was wondering at this moment what snappy comment Roy’s appearance would draw from him.

  She almost ran into the drawing room as she exclaimed, ‘Here’s Roy, Paul. I’m late; I’ll have to dash and get ready.’ And she held out her arm towards Roy as if drawing him into the room.

  Paul’s expression gave nothing away as he looked at Roy, but Bill Tapley had trouble in controlling his grin.

  She left them quickly, ran down to her room, and there changed into a dress she thought would not be too great a contrast to Roy’s finery. It was a fine wool, powder blue with a cowl collar. She had never worn it before an
d was pleased with the effect. She had told herself that she was keeping this dress for an occasion. What occasion, she couldn’t think. Well, she supposed this was an occasion, but whether it was worthy of a new dress was yet to be discovered.

  Four hours later Alison could give herself the answer. Decidedly the occasion hadn’t warranted the dress. True, Roy had done his best…poor boy. She thought of him as a boy, so much younger than herself, and this was really ridiculous, as she admitted when thinking about it. But he acted so much younger. Yet she knew she wasn’t being fair to him, for she had compared his every move this evening with Paul. Paul was lovely to go out with. On the few occasions he had taken her out to dinner, things had glided. Paul knew what to do…Roy did too, but he worked too hard at it. This made him appear gauche. Apart from the Brahms Academic Festival Overture, without the help of the programme she couldn’t have said what other item had been played, for although she had sat listening to the orchestra, her mind had been back in this house, going over the last few minutes with Paul before the doorbell had rung.

  After the concert Roy had taken her to the Spa for a drink, and there in the lounge his youthfulness had embarrassed her, for he had indeed appeared a boy among men. If he had been dressed casually this wouldn’t have been so apparent. He had the air, she thought, of an amateur London Johnnie at the beginning of the century. And so she was thankful when at last they reached the shop door. She did not ask him in but assured him that she had spent a wonderful evening. And he left her quite pleased with his efforts. She was able to shake her head at herself in the mirror, and smile and say, ‘But he’s a nice boy.’

  She had expected Paul to be sitting up waiting for her, but all she found was a note that read, ‘Gone to bed with a hot drink; see you in the morning. Goodnight.’

  Later, lying in bed, her hands behind her head, out of all the events of an eventful day her mind collected a thought which she whispered aloud: ‘What’ll I do if he marries her?’ And the answer unrolled itself in a series of pictures. She saw herself flitting from saleroom to saleroom, and buying the small pieces that would fit into her shop; she would have a shop, small and select, with a little flat above or at the back, and it would be exquisitely furnished. She saw herself in her flat of an evening sitting alone, working on her accounts. She saw herself lift up her face from the ledger and realised it was an old woman she was looking at. She took her hands from her head and with a barely audible groan turned on her side.

  The following morning when she entered the kitchen it was to find Paul already up and about. He turned towards her, saying, ‘Oh, I was just going to bring you some tea.’

  ‘Why are you up? Are you feeling better?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’m quite all right.’

  She looked closely at him. He didn’t look quite all right. He still had that peaked, drawn look that spoke of the aftermath of a bad bout of influenza. ‘You should go away for a few days somewhere.’

  He smiled wryly at her as he handed her the cup of tea, and then seating himself on the high stool near the breakfast table he slowly moved the spoon around the cup as he said, ‘We could have a very nice holiday on that writing case.’

  ‘But Paul!’ She sounded aghast, and as he clinked the spoon sharply on to the saucer, he put in quickly, ‘All right, all right, I was only joking. What’s the matter with you these days?’

  ‘What’s the matter with me?’ Her eyes were wide, her eyebrows moving up. ‘What’s the matter with me?’ she repeated. ‘It’s what’s the matter with you!’

  ‘Oh lord, Alison, don’t let’s start again, not at this time of morning. Although I’m feeling all right, I’m still not feeling all right at this time in the morning, you should know that by now.’ The corner of his mouth quivered, but she would not answer the half-smile. She said sharply, ‘You’re not going to keep it, Paul, are you? You’re going to give that half of the necklace—’

  ‘Look, Alison.’ With a deliberate movement he put his cup down on the table. ‘I’m going to give it back, yes. It will reach its owner eventually…and I say eventually, but in the meantime I want you to leave it where it is…here.’

  She could only stare at him. Paul Aylmer was known far beyond the precincts of his own town for fairness and squareness in a deal. He was looked upon by many in the trade as a prig, but that hadn’t deterred him from doing what he thought was right. Yet at this moment she did not believe him when he said that the stones would eventually reach their rightful owner. She felt that for some reason he was intent on keeping them. But why? As far as she knew he wasn’t hard-up, and even if he had been, there was her money. Then it came to her that she had the reason why he wanted to hang on to this half of the necklace. If the stones were returned to Mrs Gordon-Platt it was almost a certainty that Freda Gordon-Platt would never see them. She thought bitterly, She’s a fast worker, I’ll say that for her. In three days she had wiped out the bitterness of twenty years and so enlisted his sympathy that he was back almost where he had been. She recalled to mind Nelson’s remark about his love for Freda…stark, staring mad. And this caused her voice to reach a cracked, high note as she exclaimed, ‘That writing case belongs to old Mrs Gordon-Platt and she should have it immediately. You know she should.’

  ‘All right.’ He was facing her now, his tone almost a growl. ‘Take her the writing case by all means, but the contents stay here, and that’s my last word on it.’

  For one moment longer he glared at her, then jerking the cord of his dressing gown tightly round his waist he turned away and marched out of the room.

  She stood with her fingers pressed tightly against her lips. She had a great desire to flop down and howl. Never before had Paul spoken to her like that. She shook her head to prevent the tears coming and exclaimed aloud, ‘That beastly woman!’

  Chapter Four

  Alison always thought of the week that followed as the lead-up to the day of…THE SALE, the sale that acted as a gun to shoot her world into fragments.

  After Paul had said plainly that he meant to keep the find in the writing case, he refused to allow her to bring up the subject again. Following the testy conversation over that early morning cup of tea, she had tried to approach him and he had allowed her to go on for a time, then had answered her quietly and briefly, saying, ‘Alison, trust me in this.’

  She wanted to, oh, she wanted to trust him, but she knew she couldn’t, and when on the Saturday morning she again opened the subject he turned on her fiercely, and speaking emphatically, cried, ‘If you don’t give me time, I swear that old woman won’t see her precious stones again, and I mean it.’ And Alison knew him well enough to know he did mean it. She became swamped in a feeling of apprehension, which did not lessen when there came into the shop, at half-past eleven on Saturday morning, a visitor…not a customer. It was Mrs Freda Gordon-Platt.

  Before she could speak, Alison said, ‘I’m afraid Paul isn’t here.’ She couldn’t keep the coolness from her tone.

  Mrs Freda Gordon-Platt looked at her for a long moment; then smiling stiffly she remarked, ‘Oh, I’ve missed him, then.’

  ‘Had you an appointment?’ Alison’s tone was strictly businesslike and, she knew, very much out of place. It caused a ripple of humour to pass over Mrs Freda Gordon-Platt’s face and her head went slightly to the side as she said, ‘Yes, I had an appointment.’ She stressed the word appointment. ‘When we spoke on the phone this morning I—’

  ‘Well, perhaps he’s forgotten,’ Alison cut in rudely.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Now the chin came in and the patient tone was such as one uses to an erring child, or a young girl at best: ‘You are very fond of Paul, aren’t you, my dear?’

  ‘I don’t see what that’s got to do with it.’

  ‘Don’t you? I think you do. And I can understand it. He’s a person one can get very fond of, very fond—’

  ‘It’s taken a long time for you to find it out. It’s a pity you didn’t think that way years ago.’

 
‘What do you know about my business?’ Mrs Freda Gordon-Platt’s face looked thin and pinched now, and at that moment there was the definite stamp of forty on her features.

  ‘Quite a bit.’ They stood looking at each other in what could only be called a hate-filled silence, and it was the older woman who regained her composure first. She actually smiled at Alison, and shaking her head and in a tone that spoke of understanding, she said, ‘Youth. Oh, youth. Well, we all have to be young; it’s a penalty, and we all have to learn, haven’t we? And while I’m on about youth, my son, at the moment, is wallowing in one of youth’s traps…He has fallen in love with you.’

  ‘That’s nonsense; we’ve only met three times.’

  ‘It can happen in the first minute, I’ve heard. Anyway, there it is. And let me tell you, my son is a nice boy.’

  ‘I have found that out already for myself…and I can’t understand—’

  ‘Please don’t say it.’ Freda Gordon-Platt’s voice was sharp and her hand was suddenly raised. ‘Don’t you dare say you don’t know how it came about he is my son.’

  Alison stared at the woman in genuine surprise. ‘I had no intention of making such a trite remark. I was merely about to say that I don’t understand how he could tell you that. After all, he was only out once with me.’

  ‘He did not tell me. I’m his mother and I happen to know him. And I would like to inform you at this point’—Mrs Gordon-Platt drew herself to her full height of five-feet ten before going on—‘that you’d be a very fortunate girl if you got my boy…But just how fortunate he would be, only the years ahead would tell.’

  After this slap, Alison was about to return when she was stopped once again with an imperious lift of the hand. ‘I don’t wish to haggle with you, my dear; I’m going. And when Paul comes back, tell him I called and have gone on to The Crown.’