Second Tomorrow (12 page)

Luke was regarding her intently, waiting for her comment, but a suitable one evaded her and it was with a deep inward sigh of relief that she saw her brother come back and sit down at the table.

‘Your drink’s on its way,’ he told Luke, who thanked him and leant back in his chair, and from then on they all chatted together, mainly about Luke’s new project until, at half-past ten, he rose and left them.

Clare stood at the barrier, her feelings mixed as she waited for the arrival through Customs of Mrs Weedall, for although it was less than three months since she had seen her, it seemed more like three years. So much had happened; she had not only adapted to a totally new environment, but had almost thrown off her unhappiness . . . had come near to the threshold of a new and exciting life.

‘Clare!’ The exclamation brought her mind back to the present and she forced a smile to her lips as she held out her hands to the woman who seemed, on looking back now, to have dominated her life from the moment Clare had met her
son. ‘Oh, but it’s good to see you, child! I’ve been so impatient to get here! What a long, boring flight it is from London to Miami!’

‘It does take a long time,’ agreed Clare, taking Mrs Weedall’s thin cold hands in hers and leaning forward to kiss her cheek. ‘But you’re here now, and it’s nice to see you.’ Stooping, she picked up the two suitcases from the trolley, surprised that they were far larger and heavier than she would have expected. How long, she wondered, was Mrs Weedall intending to stay? ‘I have Phil’s car just outside,’ she said smiling, and glanced round to find a porter.

‘Isn’t it beautiful here?’ commented Mrs Weedall as the porter dealt with her luggage. ‘I believe I’m going to like it very much. We’ve had such dreadful weather at home, and it’s been so cold that I’ve had an enormous expense with the heating. And Simon’s never been round to see to the jobs that want doing. I was glad when the idea came to me to pay you a visit, Clare, dear—and thank you, child, for wanting me. You’re the only person in the world who thinks anything about me, for I’m sure neither Simon nor his flighty young wife care whether I’m dead or alive.’ The last word ended on a small sob and her footsteps flagged, making it necessary for Clare to slow down. But the porter went on ahead.

‘This car?’ he thumbed towards it and Clare nodded. He put the cases on the back seat and after handing him his tip Clare saw her visitor
into the car and, going round to the other side, slipped into the driver’s seat.

‘It isn’t far,’ she said soothingly as Mrs Weedall leant back against the upholstery as if she were exhausted. ‘I expect you’re wanting a nice cool drink and a freshen up?’

‘I am, dear. Phil didn’t mind providing me with a room?’

‘Of course not. You’re going to have one of the very best in the hotel, one facing the sea with a balcony where you can sit out and relax. You can even have your meals sent up there if you like,’ she added, but was instantly told that Mrs. Weedall had no wish to be alone except at night.

‘I’ve been going out of my mind,’ she confessed, a great sigh that was almost a sob coming from deep in her throat. ‘The weeks going by and me never speaking to a soul, and my only diversion the weekly visit to my darling Frank’s grave. Can you imagine, Clare, just how empty my life has been?’

‘Yes, indeed I can.’ Clare swallowed the hard little lump in her throat and fell silent, concentrating on her driving. Not that driving in Flamingo Cay was in any way difficult; on the contrary, since what little traffic there was moved at a slow leisurely pace with everyone practising patience and, more important, courtesy. No one could remember when the last road accident had occurred on the island.

‘The scenery’s beautiful.’ Mrs Weedall was looking out all the time, absorbing everything as
they rolled along the narrow, tree-shaded road. ‘Is this the town you spoke of in your letters, dear?’ she asked as they passed through the one main street of Cottonstown. ‘It’s very small to be the capital.’

‘Yes,’ laughed Clare, ‘it is. You see, the island’s small, as I told you in my letter. But it’s so attractive, and as for the towrn—well, it grows on you very quickly.’

‘You can’t get all you want here, surely?’

Clare shook her head. ‘No. We get important commodities from Miami. It’s quite a simple matter to go over there—twenty minutes by air—and order what you want. It then comes over within a couple of weeks or so.’ She was thinking of the tremendous amount of supplies which she would be requiring in the near future when her work for Luke began.

‘Is someone looking after Frank’s grave while you’re away?’ asked Clare after a while. She felt sure that some provision would have been made for the grave to be attended to.

‘Yes, Simon did agree to do that. He or Susan will go every Saturday and change the flowers. I’ve left the money so they’ve no excuse for not carrying out my wishes.’

Every Saturday. . . . Clare’s nerves tingled. She would have liked to ask how long her guest was staying but refrained, deciding it was not the thing to do.

On arrival at the Rusty Pelican Clare had one of the porters take Mrs Weedall’s luggage up to
her room on the first floor. Like the one occupied by Stella Wesley, it had recently been newly decorated and furnished, and Mrs Weedall was suitably impressed with it.

‘It’s a lovely bed-sitter,’ she said looking all around. ‘I haven’t stayed in an hotel for over twenty-five years. Do they always have couches and desks and nice easy chairs nowadays?’

‘Not always, but very often they do.’ Clare walked over to a door and opened it, bringing an exclamation to Mrs Weedall’s pale lips as she showed her the bathroom.

‘I like it all very much. It’s most comfortable.’

She stood for a moment, as if wanting to take it all in; Clare watched her, noticing the thinness of the features, the sagging jaw, the hollows beneath the cheekbones, the drooping mouth, pale and parched at the sides. Her hair was almost white and so sparse that the scalp showed pinkly through it. She had no need to look so much older than her age, decided Clare, wishing that Susan, her daughter-in-law, would take some interest in her, encouraging her to make herself more attractive.

‘Do you want to come down and have afternoon tea with Phil and me?’ she inquired at last. ‘You’ll want to freshen up first, though?’

‘Yes, dear, I do feel like having a wash and combing my hair. And I would certainly be happy to have tea with you and Phil. Perhaps you’ll wait for me?’ she added uncertainly. ‘I wouldn’t know where to go otherwise.’

‘Of course I’ll wait,’ replied Clare reassuringly.
‘Shall I begin your unpacking while you’re in the bathroom?’

‘That’s kind, dear. Yes, I’d like you to unpack my cases.’

Clare began with the smaller of the two, heaving it onto the bed and opening it up, thinking what a lot of clothes Mrs Weedall had brought and hoping that she had heeded her advice about bringing only summer clothes and, perhaps a cardigan and an evening wrap.

She hung the dresses in the wardrobe and put the underwear in the drawers. Then she saw, close to the bottom of the case, and wrapped carefully in a brand new evening shawl, a gilt-framed double photo frame. . . . It was closed but Clare knew what she would find on opening it. Yes, Frank’s photograph and one of his father. Clare bit her lip, tears filling her eyes. To lose both husband and son. . . . Pity welled up as she reflected on what Mrs Weedall had said a short while ago. She, Clare was the only person in the world who thought anything about her. It was true, since her son scarcely ever went to see her, and in fact it had surprised Clare to learn that he had agreed to tend Frank’s grave while his mother was away. ‘I shall make this visit a happy and memorable time for her to remember,’ was Clare’s fervent vow as, reverently, she placed the frame on the bedside table and continued unpacking. Mrs Weedall reappeared from the bathroom and stood for a moment, looking at the empty suitcase which Clare was about to take from the bed.

‘Ah . . . you’ve put darling Frank’s photo there, by the bed. What do you think of that one, Clare? It was taken just before he knew you so I guess you haven’t seen it before?’

‘No . . . I haven’t seen that one before.’

‘It’s a good one of him don’t you think?’

Clare nodded and said yes, it was a very good one. She felt strangely numbed, as if part of her brain were paralysed and unable to function. She had several photographs of Frank, but at her mother’s request had left them at home. And now she felt she should have experienced some emotional reaction in finding the photograph and handling it, but there was none.

‘Is anything the matter, dear?’ inquired Mrs Weedall anxiously. ‘You seem troubled. Is it because of Frank’s photograph? But you must have some of your own, and I’m sure you have one by your bed, so that you can look at it every night before you go to sleep?’

Clare’s throat went dry. She looked at Frank’s mother through a mist of tears, wanting to tell her the truth, and yet not for anything in the world would she upset her. And so she lied, deciding that a lie was permissible under the present circumstances. ‘Yes,’ she answered, avoiding her eyes, ‘I do have Frank’s photograph by my bed.’

‘I knew it. And I’m so glad, Clare, that you’re remembering. As I’ve always said, if it had been you who had died then Frank would have cherished your dear memory for ever.’

Clare turned away. She had gone pale and the palms of her hands were damp. She saw herself as a traitor, a girl who even now was deceiving a woman who trusted her implicitly.

‘Shall we go for that tea, Clare?’ Mrs Weedall’s quiet voice cut her thoughts and she turned, nodding her head absently.

‘Yes—yes, of course. You must be more than ready for it.’

‘It’ll be nice to see Phil again. I expect he’s bronzed and healthy—just as Frank was after that holiday you both took in Spain, remember?’

‘Yes—of course.’ Clare led the way to the lift and pressed the bell. ‘It was six years ago.’

‘That other couple went with you—some friends of yours—didn’t they?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I expect they’re married now.’

‘Yes, they are.’ The light above her head flickered and then came on. ‘The lift’ll be here directly.’

‘Have they any children?’

‘Two.’

‘One of each?’

‘No, two boys.’

‘Like I did. If you and Frank had married I feel you’d have had at least four. I’d have liked that. I don’t think Simon and Sue are intending to have any at all. It’s a selfish attitude if you ask me.’

‘Some people aren’t cut out to be parents.’

‘But you and Frank were. I’ll never forget you
with that little girl who came to visit me one time—’

‘The lift’s here,’ interrupted Clare, her nerve-ends ragged. They stepped into it and a few minutes later they were on the terrace, where a wrought-iron table and chairs were always reserved at this time for Phil and Clare.

‘Sit down,’ invited Clare, bringing out a chair. ‘I’ll go and see where Phil is.’

‘What a charming setting this hotel has! Don’t rush, Clare, dear, I’m very happy just to sit here for a few minutes and watch what’s going on. Just look at all those young people down there on the beach. How dear Frank would have loved to have a holiday in a place like this!’

Clare moved away, her face still white, and much to her dismay she ran into Luke the moment she was out of Mrs Weedall’s sight. ‘What are you doing here at this time?’ she wanted to know, so taken aback that she did not realise how abrupt her words would sound.

He looked down at her, his face suddenly taut. ‘Your visitor has arrived,’ he stated, ignoring her question. ‘And you’re not very happy about it. Why?’

She blinked, fluttering a trembling hand through her hair to take it from her eyes. ‘What do you mean—why?’

‘Exactly what I say. Why aren’t you happy?’

‘You reach the oddest conclusions,’ she retorted pettishly.

‘Correct all the same. Where is she?’

‘On the terrace. I’m looking for Phil. We’re going to have tea.’

‘Mind if I join you?’

She shook her head in a sort of urgent gesture. ‘Not today, Luke—er—she wouldn’t want a stranger just now. She’s tired and—well—’ She broke off, floundering because of the way he was looking at her and because she had no real excuse to offer for not wanting him to take tea with them.

His mouth was tight, his eyes glinting with anger. ‘If she’s got you like this already,’ he rasped, ‘then what are you going to be like by the end of her stay—?’ He broke off then asked, ‘How long will she be here?’

‘I don’t know,’ Clare answered, dismayed by the knowledge that she was very close to tears. ‘She’s brought a lot of clothes.’

‘She has? And what about this grave she attends every week? She’ll not want to leave that for very long.’

‘Her other son’s looking after it. I didn’t tell you about Simon, did I?’ She scarcely knew what she was saying; she did know that all she wanted was to get away before she burst into tears.

‘No, you didn’t tell me about Simon and as I’m not in the least interested you needen’t feel guilty about the omission.’

‘There’s no need for sarcasm!’ she flashed. ‘Simon’s her other son. He’s married and either he or his wife will look after the grave.’

‘Most interesting. And why, might I ask, are you telling me all this?’ He towered over her, forbidding and imperious.

‘You asked me who was looking after the grave.’ She twisted her head, to see if they were attracting any attention. But what few guests were in the hotel were either taking tea or on the beach. ‘I’ll have to go,’ she pleaded urgently. ‘Will you find Phil for me and tell him where we are?’

For answer he took her arm and led her gently into the lounge. She went meekly, unable to fight him—unable, in fact, to explain what was wrong with her.

‘Sit down,’ he ordered, ‘and I’ll get you a drink.’

She obeyed, leaning back to find a resting place for her head. ‘Mrs Weedall will wonder where I am,’ she began when Luke, not bothering to call a waiter, brought her a drink from the bar.

‘She’ll not run away,’ he assured her, and she was certain he added under his breath, ‘More’s the pity.’