Memories of You (33 page)

‘Why do you ask?'

‘You seem subdued.'

‘Just tired. Stefano's was busy today.'

She would say no more but once they were in the restaurant and the conversation began to flow her rather cool manner warmed a little. Matthew learned that Charlotte and Edward had met at a family wedding, that he was, according to his besotted fiancée, exceedingly clever and that he was a junior civil servant in the Foreign Office.

‘Very junior,' Charlotte said, ‘and paid a pittance in spite of all the languages he speaks. So I'll not be deserting my desk at the magazine for a while yet.'

Despite his skills as a linguist it seemed that Edward had very little to say in his native tongue and was happy to leave all the talking to Charlotte. Charlotte, rosy with wine, was equally happy to oblige.

When they left the restaurant Edward stepped forward to hail a taxi and as he did so Charlotte took hold of Matthew's arm. ‘Don't wait too long,' she told him.

‘What do you mean?'

‘Do you really not know? Oh, Matthew, you're perfect for each other. For goodness' sake marry the girl before she gets tired of waiting for you.'

Matthew, embarrassed to be spoken to like this, glanced quickly at Helen. He was relieved to see that she was talking to Jocelyn and did not appear to have heard what Charlotte had said.

Charlotte gripped his arm more tightly. ‘Oh, I know you think you're doing the right thing,' she said. ‘You're older than she is and when you met she was completely inexperienced. But think about it. Do you really want her to go off with someone else? I don't think so. So, Matthew old chum, bloody well get on with it!'

When the others had driven off in the taxi Matthew and Helen walked to where he had parked his car. Helen was quiet on the way back to the flat but she seemed happy.

‘I'm going to be a bridesmaid,' she told him. ‘The family are quite grand but in an impoverished sort of way. Charlotte's father will probably be left penniless after this wedding.'

‘Seriously?'

‘Well, not exactly penniless but Charlotte says it's a good job she doesn't have any sisters to marry off and her elder brother has been through university and started working in the bank. That's why I'm going to be a bridesmaid, you know.'

‘Because Charlotte's brother works in a bank?'

Helen nudged his arm. ‘Don't be daft. Because she has no sisters and apparently very few suitable cousins.'

‘You like Charlotte, don't you?'

‘Very much.'

‘I suppose she's like a sister to you?' Matthew didn't know why he had said that but even though he couldn't see Helen's face he sensed the change in her expression.

‘No,' she said. ‘We're very close but she's not like a sister.'

After that Helen was quiet and when they got back to her flat he didn't stay for very long. He longed to ask Helen about her own family, but when he had tried to in the past he had been rebuffed. He knew she came from Newcastle and that she had had to leave school earlier than she would have wanted. But she never explained why. She had told him that her mother was dead, and when he had asked her if there was any other family she had simply said, ‘No, I have no family.'

He had sensed a great sadness when she said those words and had often wondered if there had been some kind of tragedy in her past. But if so, and whatever it was, she had obviously buried it deep inside her. Maybe one day she would tell him, but until then he would just have to be patient.

 

The onset of night had brought a cold wind and her windows were not exactly draught-proof. When Matthew had gone Helen drew the curtains. Too full of Chianti to want anything more to drink, she simply sat and listened to the hiss and pop of the gas fire.

After a while sheer habit took her to her desk where she sat down and opened her diary. She took the cap off her fountain pen and stared down at the page in front of her. What would she write? The usual amusing little observations about what happened at work? Later she would use some of them in her column. But she knew some of them were becoming repetitive and she was beginning to wonder how much longer she could make her pieces fresh and interesting.

And what about her personal life? She could have described the outing to Bertorelli's: the food, the wine, the conversation. How happy Charlotte was. And me, she thought. Am I happy? I should be. I love Matthew and he loves me, but we seem to have arrived in some kind of limbo. I want life to move on and I'm not sure if he does.

I wonder if he knows how much it hurts me to constantly feel that I'm being held at arm's length. And me . . . no matter how deeply I love him I don't know if I can take much more of this. Oh, Matthew, my darling, what am I going to do?

Helen replaced the cap on her pen and closed her diary. She slipped it into a drawer. She wasn't sure if she would write in it again.

‘Didn't you know that Helen has taken a few days' leave?' Marina looked at Matthew quizzically and sensing his embarrassment she smiled kindly. ‘Perhaps you just forgot,' she said. ‘I know you men – in one ear and out the other!'

‘Erm . . . yes. Something like that.'

He stood there uncertainly. Stefano's was busy as ever, and with the early evening diners arriving Marina's attention had already strayed to the reservation book. She looked up and, as if surprised to see him still there, she said, ‘Well, you know where she lives. I'd get along there if I were you.'

‘Right. Thanks. I will.'

Matthew stepped out into the wet street. A watery sun was trying hard to break free from the clouds but the rain persisted. People looked miserable as they hurried to the bus stops and underground stations to begin their journey home. He was sure that Helen hadn't told him that she was taking any leave, but no doubt she would explain as soon as he got to the flat. The image of the young man who had been watching the place swam into his consciousness. The same young man who worked at the dog track. Matthew hoped to God that no harm had befallen her.

The inclement weather had brought an early end to daylight and the reflected light from shop windows shone on wetly gleaming pavements. Further out of town lights were showing behind drawn curtains in the modest flats and houses, but Helen's windows were completely dark. Matthew got out of the car and tried the bell anyway, but there was no reply.

Just as he turned away, one of the girls who lived in the downstairs flat arrived breathless and soaking and desperate to get in from the rain. ‘You're a friend of Miss Norton's, aren't you?' she said. Before he had time to reply she added, ‘Didn't you know she's gone away? I said I'd keep her mail for her. Now, if you don't mind . . .'

‘Oh, yes . . . sorry.'

Matthew moved out of the way so that the cheerful girl could open the front door. As she stepped inside he almost asked her if it was all right to follow her in. He thought if he could only go upstairs to Helen's flat he might be able to solve the puzzle of why she had gone away without telling him. She might even have left a note pinned to the door.

Knowing the plan was irrational, he hesitated and the downstairs tenant was inside the porch and had turned to face him. She had her hands on the door ready to close it. She must have read his mind.

‘Miss Norton didn't leave a message for you,' she said. ‘I'm sorry.'

Intensely discomfited by the girl's obvious sympathy, Matthew managed a cheery, ‘That's OK. I'm sure she'll write.'

He hurried back to his car and sat there soaked to the skin and dripping miserably. He wasn't at all sure that Helen would write to him. And he had no idea what he could do about it.

 

It didn't take Helen long to unpack her suitcase. She hadn't brought much because she didn't intend to stay here long. She walked over to the window and looked out at the traffic on Neville Street. When she had lived in Newcastle as a child she would never have thought that one day she would be able to afford a room in the Royal Station Hotel.

She wasn't sure whether she was supposed to close the heavy velvet curtains or leave that for the chambermaid, so she left them for the moment and turned to look at the elegant Victorian room while she decided whether to go down for dinner or order something from room service.

Room service, she decided. I'm tired after the journey and I want to get my thoughts together for tomorrow, and in any case I'm not very hungry. She couldn't help giving a small smile of satisfaction as she relived the journey home, so different from the journey to London all those years ago in the crowded carriage and with the packet of sandwiches that Eva had made for her. This time she had travelled first class and had gone to the restaurant car for lunch. If only Eva could have seen me, she thought, and immediately frowned when she remembered why she had come and that she was going to have to face her old friend in the morning.

She wondered if her aunt's housemaid would have changed much. She knew herself to be very different from the gauche schoolgirl who had once had to make a new life in London. Now she was confident and, she had to admit to herself, stylish. Her mother had brought them up to speak nicely but now even the slightest trace of a northern accent had gone.

Not long after she had rung for service and ordered a light meal the young waiter returned with a selection of sandwiches and a steaming pot of coffee. He placed the tray on a low table near the ornately tiled fireplace. Helen, knowing what it was like to ‘wait on' for a living, tipped him generously. He closed the curtains for her and withdrew with a polite little bob of his head.

When she had eaten her fill she got into her pyjamas and, finding the coffee still passably hot, she filled up her cup and took it to bed with her. A mistake. The extra shot of caffeine chased away any hope she had of sleeping. She reached for her handbag which she had placed on the bedside table and took out the letter that had brought her here. Although she had already read it many times she read it again.

 

This was not what Helen had expected when she had decided to write to Dr Salkeld. She had imagined that Eva had simply grown tired of writing her little reports and if anything had been wrong she would have written straight away. That could still be the case. Dr Salkeld could indeed be letting his imagination overcome his sensible everyday self, but the letter had disturbed Helen enough to make her decide to come and find out what was happening.