Flood Tide (14 page)

Outside the cottage, parked on the rough road, was the gleaming maroon Alfa Romeo, the car belonging to the Contessa Bianca Bernini.

Reah stumbled, clutching the parcel to her breast. Her heart was thudding violently. The Contessa had followed Ewart. They were together now.

Reah ran the last few yards, her head spinning, her vision blurred, feeling the way along the uneven path to the trellised porch. She put the package on the doorstep and fled.

She did not know how she got back to Southdean, tears scalding her eyes, her thoughts wild and disturbed. She had been a fool. The famous Ewart Morgan had just felt sorry for her.

The Alfa Romeo was the seventh wonder in the village for days. Reah got heartily sick of hearing about it.

Everyone was talking about that “furrin car and that television chap”. It did not look as if Ewart was doing much work.

Miss Hardcastle suspected that Reah had found more to her liking in Florence than its art treasures.

“I’m going to have a party,” said Miss Hardcastle, as if she had been planning it for days, whereas she had just thought of it. “A thank-you to the people who have been so kind to me since I broke my wrist. There’s the ambulance men and that nice young doctor; the nurses at the hospital; the caretaker and his wife. You, of course. You were a tower of strength that afternoon. And there’s Ewart Morgan; he’s almost a neighbour now.”

“Ewart? Why Ewart?” Reah interrupted. “He didn’t do anything to help.”

“Only indirectly. After all, if he hadn’t invited you to London that day, you would not have called in here first with your sketches. I might have lain undiscovered for hours.”

Reah felt prompted to say rubbish, but the look on Miss Hardcastle’s face forbade it.

“Besides, he sent me lovely flowers when he heard about my accident,” Miss Hardcastle went on, with a twinkle in her eye. “I was very touched. What do you think about next Friday evening? Would that be a good time?”

“He won’t come,” said Reah. “He’s writing his play. And he’s got a visitor.”

“He can’t write all the time. He must take the odd hour off to recharge his resources.”

“He’s recharging his resources all right,” said Reah in an aside.

“I’ll write the invitations this afternoon. Would you be able to take his invitation after school?”

Reah saw no way out. Miss Hardcastle would be offended if she did not turn up at the party. It would be ungracious not to do this small errand.

After school Reah cycled down the rough lane to the coastguard cottages, the wheels juddering over the stony ground. She propped her bike against a bank and ran up the short path to the door. It opened and Ewart stood in the doorway.

“I thought a juggernaut was approaching, or a Berman tank,” he said.

He was in his shirt-sleeves. His hair was tousled and a five o’clock shadow darkened his grim jaw.

“Where have you been?” he asked, catching her wrist. “I haven’t seen you for days.”

“You’re supposed to be working,” said Reah.

“I am working. That’s why I wanted you to call. I’ve no time to cook or eat. At least you could make me coffee.”

“What a nerve,” said Reah. “Get your lady-friend to feed you. I’m sure she makes superb lasagne.”

“Get in and fix some coffee,” he said, propelling her inside. “And don’t touch any paper. I know where everything is and I want it to stay that way.”

The inside of the cottage was a sea of paper. Sheets of typing lay on every available surface. An armchair was drawn up to the fire with a rug thrown over it. He had not even been to bed.

Reah put the invitation on the mantelpiece standing it against the clock. Spray spotted the windows facing the Channel and a loose sash cord rapped on the shutters.

“Don’t forget to open it,” she said. “Miss Hardcastle would be hurt if you didn’t answer.”

His eyes strayed to his typewriter. His work was already pulling him back.

“Okay,” she sighed. “I’m a fool. I’ll make you some coffee.”

Reah disappeared into the kitchen to clear up the chaos. It took a while till everything was to her satisfaction. It was dark now; the sound of waves crashing on the shingle below was loud and fearsome. She would not like to live so near to the cliffs.

She made sandwiches and coffee then realised that the clatter from his typewriter had stopped. He had fallen asleep across the machine, his head cradled on folded arms. His face was turned towards her in the shadow, eyelashes like dark fans on his cheeks.

“Ewart…Ewart,” she spoke softly into his ear.

“Mmn?”

“Stand up and come with me.” She put her arms round his waist and hauled him into a standing position. She held him against her, panting a little with the exertion.

“This way,” she said in a schoolmarmish voice. “Come along now. Walk.”

She hauled him across the room. He collapsed into the armchair almost taking Reah with him. She prised herself out of his arms and straightened up. He was sound asleep, sprawled over the chair, his head thrown back so that the dark hair of his chest showed at his unbuttoned shirt.

Ewart’s face settled deeper into sleep, the tension disappearing. She eased off his sneakers and put his feet up onto a low stool. She fixed the old-fashioned fire guard in front of the glowing coals, hoping the room would keep warm for a few hours.

She made a cheque out to Ewart Morgan, leaving the amount blank, and put it with the invitation, propped against the clock. Now she did not owe him anything.

A terrible ache swelled inside her. She longed to have him sleep in her arms, his body folded against her, his head on her breast.

She touched his hair gently. It was soft as she had known it would be. She moved the fringe out of his eyes, then, trembling, she bent and kissed him. All her love for him came into being and was recognised in that one sweet kiss on his sleeping face. She touched the tiny mole at the corner of his eye, then left.

It was dark and blowy outside. She turned her bike into the tip of the wind and started to push it home. Her mind was in shattering confusion, knowing that she loved him.

There might never be another day. She scarcely recognised landmarks she had known since a girl.

Miss Hardcastle’s party created a minor clothes problem for Reah. Cocktail parties, even rural ones, were not the normal social scene in Southdean.

Reah was almost resorting to a flying visit to the shops at Eastbourne when she remembered a length of flame-coloured tapestry she had bought to make new curtains for the sitting room and to re-cover the chairs.

The night before the party Reah sacrificed the chairs and made herself a full, gathered skirt from the material.

With her antique blouse, narrow gold belt and strappy bronze sandals, it was a flamboyant outfit.

“This is such fun,” said Miss Hardcastle, who was wearing her prize-giving royal blue silk. “I can’t think why I haven’t done it before.”

“Because you haven’t broken a wrist before,” said Reah.

“Well, I shan’t wait until I break a leg to have another party. Perhaps there’ll be an engagement to celebrate, or something,” she added with a sly look.

It had grown into a big party. Cook had produced trays of canapés, cheese and curry dips with raw vegetables for dipping, and a mouthwatering selection of tiny éclairs, rum babas and meringues.

Reah was over by the window, talking to a school governor when Ewart arrived. She knew without turning that he was in the room.

His eyes were raking over her. The gold leather belt showed off her slimness and she knew that her small breasts, now rising more rapidly, were too clearly defined against the fine lawn of the blouse.

Suddenly he was at her side. She did not have to look.

“Will you excuse us,” he said politely to Reah’s companion. “I have an urgent matter to discuss with Miss Lawrence.” He took her arm and Reah saw, with a moment of chilling apprehension, that Ewart was not in a party mood.

She had never seen him so angry, yet cold at the same time. His eyes were dark and menacing.

“What the devil do you mean by this?” Her blank cheque was crushed in his hand.

“It’s the money I owe y-you,” she stumbled over the words.

“Every time I think we are beginning to get along you go and do some damned fool thing to spoil it.”

“Me?” said Reah, indignantly, her wits returning. “I didn’t force myself into your room that night in Florence. I don’t remember tearing off your shirt or holding you down on the bed. That’s the kind of behaviour that spoils a relationship. Paying back owed money is hardly anti-social.”

Miss Hardcastle appeared with two glasses of sherry.

“This is a party, not an arena,” she said lightly. “If you want to fight, go out into the quadrangle.”

Ewart was immediately contrite.

“I’m so sorry, Miss Hardcastle, but there’s something about this obstinate young woman that sets my teeth on edge.”

“And I find television celebrities quite impossible to talk to rationally,” said Reah, sipping the sherry quickly to calm her jangling nerves.

“Then I suggest, Reah, that you go and talk to that nice young doctor from the hospital. Ewart, there are a couple of nurses longing to meet you. They seem to know all your plays.”

Miss Hardcastle moved on, hoping she had defused the situation. It was possible that neither of them could see what was plainly obvious to her.

“Nice-looking nurses,” said Ewart. “Feminine and womanly. I can’t bear skinny women, all bones and brains, ready to argue about everything.”

“Drop a few names, and they’ll be swooning at your feet. I’m sure you know how. I shall enjoy meeting the doctor. People with worthwhile jobs interest me. Stringing together a few words of one syllable is hardly work.”

Ewart was incensed. Reah knew she had gone too far again, but it gave her a heady surge of triumph. She wanted to hurt him.

He turned on his heel, helped himself to an asparagus canapé and spent the rest of the party being extremely charming to everyone except Reah. He said not another word to her.

Reah stayed behind to help clear up when the guests had gone. She did not notice Ewart leaving. Miss Hardcastle drifted around, feeling a little high on three glasses of sherry and the euphoria of a successful party.

“I did enjoy myself,” she said, scraping out the last of a cream dip with a broken crisp. “We ought to have more parties. What a pity you don’t get on with that handsome Ewart Morgan.”

“I feel nothing but distaste for him.”

“That’s a pretty skirt you’re wearing.”

“My sitting-room curtains.”

“I’m sure Ewart Morgan noticed.”

“He wouldn’t notice if I was wearing an ex-army bell tent,” said Reah stonily.

Reah left Miss Hardcastle sitting by the fire with a tray of tea, the clearing up finished and her flat ship-shape. She felt exhausted. She retrieved her bicycle and began to push it down the drive.

A tall man came out of the shadows; Reah was too worn out to be alarmed.

“I’ll take you home,” said Ewart. “You can’t ride a bike in that skirt.”

He bent nearer and sniffed. “And you’ve had too much sherry.”

“Gallons,” said Reah.

“Don’t exaggerate. The car’s at the end of the drive. Leave your bike in the shrubs.”

He grasped her hand. She felt drained of emotion. The Alfa Romeo was at the entrance to the drive. Ewart had taken the nurses back to the hospital then returned for Reah.

“So the Contessa is back,” she said. “I hope the menu has improved.” She could hardly trust herself to speak.

“The Contessa? Here, in my chaotic cottage? You over-estimate my appeal, dear girl. I doubt if that aristocratic lady would come within sniffing distance.”

He jerked her chin up. “Nor would she care to leave the many children and grand-children who inhabit her villa outside Florence in droves.”

“Grand-children?”

“The Contessa Bianca Bernini is one of those wonderfully preserved Italian women who look forty but must be at least sixty. She is still beautiful and youthful. And she is something of a heroine. During the flood disaster she drove from the villa every day with her car full of food from her kitchen and produce from her gardens and set up free feeding points. Her sheets were torn up for nappies; she gave away every blanket she possessed. When the restoration work began, she and her children came every day, armed with blotting paper and talcum powder and worked painstakingly on the muddied lumps that were rare manuscripts and books.”

Reah’s thoughts spun as she re-adjusted this new information.

“But Milan?” she asked.

“Another hero. The Contessa heard that this man, an ordinary shopkeeper, now old and retired, was visiting Milan just for the day. She phoned me and I went immediately to see him.”

“When I saw the car… I thought that…”

“The car is mine. The Contessa was in financial difficulties and I offered to buy the car from her. A simple transaction.”

Relief flooded through Reah making her dizzy. It was Ewart’s car. The Contessa was not some man-eating Italian beauty, but a silver-haired grandmother tearing up sheets for nappies. Reah was ashamed of the thoughts that had become twisted and bitter in her mind.