The Tender Years (8 page)

‘That wasn’t a very satisfactory answer, surely?’

‘It sufficed. Clarice knows better than to make an issue of anything with me.’

Christine had looked at him, at the firm line of the jaw, the implacable set of the mouth, and surmised that if Clarice knew anything about him at all she would know how to read an expression like that. Christine certainly did.

‘You’ve been waiting a quarter of an hour,’ Luke was saying to Clarice, his words a response to her complaint. ‘But we arranged to meet here at eight o’clock and it’s still two minutes to.’

Clarice lowered her lashes, hiding her expression. ‘I came early,’ she said.

‘Have you looked at the menu?’

Was that a snub? wondered Christine. Luke had a rather subtle way of making you feel small by changing the subject like that.

‘Yes, I don’t want much—just a salad and some cold meats.’

Luke shrugged; the dinner was a strain on Christine and she felt sure it was to Clarice also, but Luke? He appeared to enjoy the meal and he talked when he felt the silence was becoming too strained. It was impossible to know whether he had sensed the dislike the two girls felt for one another.

After dinner Luke had to leave them for an hour as he had an appointment with the manager of the hotel, so to her dismay Christine found herself alone with Luke’s friend, a situation she had hitherto managed to avoid.

‘Shall we go for a stroll along the beach?’ she suggested, hoping that Clarice would oblige by saying she would rather go straight up to her bedroom. But she said yes, she would like a walk along the beach.

They had not gone far when Clarice said, nothing in her voice to betray her dislike, ‘You’re lucky to be staying on for another few days. I wish I was.’

‘You couldn’t manage it, you said?’

‘I have a job. I took these few days of my annual holiday when Luke phoned to say he was here. I’d no idea he had anyone with him.’ She turned to look at Christine. ‘He thinks a lot of you. I feel he regards you as a daughter.’

‘He intimated that?’

‘In a way,’ answered Clarice, smiling. ‘He’s talked about you at various times and that’s the impression I had—that he has a fatherly feeling for you.’

‘He’s always been someone I could lean on. . . .’ Christine let her voice fade to silence, regretting the confidence.

‘You needed someone to lean upon, then?’

‘Everyone needs a friend,’ was Christine’s evasive answer. ‘Luke can always be relied on to be my very good friend.’

‘And that’s how you feel about him . . . nothing more?’

‘More?’ Suddenly she was living again that intimate experience when Luke had awakened—if only temporarily—emotions she had never known before.

‘Well, he is more than a little attractive, isn’t he— even with that scar which sometimes—to me anyway— is scarcely noticeable.’

‘Nor is it noticeable to me.’ A small pause and then, ‘How long have you known Luke?’

‘Not long—just over four months.’

‘I’ve known him for seven years.’ Christine didn’t know why she said that, unless she was being faintly patronising towards the other girl.

‘Long enough for the friendship to have gone rather stale,’ commented Clarice with a laugh that seemed to have no humour.

‘Our friendship will never grow stale.’ Christine was bored with the girl and would have done anything to be able to bid her good-bye and walk away. She wanted be alone, and as the beach was deserted that would have been possible had it not been for Clarice. A long curving stretch of talcum-soft sand, with trees backing the shore to provide welcome shade during the daytime from the intensely bright rays of the sun.

‘You sound very optimistic,’ commented Clarice, stooping to slip off her shoes.

‘I feel optimistic.’

‘What about when Luke marries?’ Slow the words and with an undercurrent that caused Christine’s blood to feel cold all at once. Yet why should she have any fears? Luke’s manner with Clarice was surely proof enough that he wasn’t at present contemplating marriage. Moreover, he had said quite firmly that he wasn’t.

‘I think that we might still be very good friends,’ she said at last.

‘Luke’s wife might not like it. Have you thought of that?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Christine injected a chill note into her voice because she had no wish to continue this sort of conversation. She felt that the other girl was playing with her.

‘If it were I, then I’d object. Strongly.’ Clarice straightened up and they walked on, Clarice swinging her shoes by their straps. Christine looked at her with a sidelong glance. A pretty dress of flowered cotton, low in the neck and without sleeves. A white kid bag over her shoulder, a diamante comb in her chestnut hair. Most attractive, Christine grudgingly owned. It was not beyond the bounds of possibility that Luke would one day fall for all these feminine attractions—yes, no matter how perfunctory his interest at the present time. A calculated technique on Clarice’s part, and given sufficient time and ample opportunity she could succeed in getting what she wanted, which was undoubtedly to win Luke for her husband.

‘It could be a long time before Luke marries.’ Christine spoke at last, remembering what he had said concerning the possibility of his marrying—one day.

‘You think so?’ There was the suspicion of a sneer about Clarice’s mouth when perceived in profile. ‘Perhaps the wish is father to the thought,’ she quoted.

‘It’s unprofitable to discuss it,’ said Christine coolly, ‘since it’s impossible to predict just how long it will be before he gets married.’

‘You’re not in love with him?’

The forthright question took Christine aback but she answered without hesitation, ‘Of course not!’

Clarice made no comment, and after they had walked a little while longer over the moonlit sands Christine suggested they turn back. ‘Luke might finish the interview early,’ she added, ‘and so I feel we ought to get back so as not to keep him waiting.’

Arthur Mead was sitting alone at the breakfast table when Christine went along to join him. He hadn’t been too well lately and it seemed wrong for his wife to go away on holiday at this particular time.

‘Are you feeling any better?’ asked Christine anxiously as she sat down opposite to him.

‘A little.’ He smiled at her and commented on her dress, saying it was pretty and that blue suited her. ‘Is it new?’ he added. ‘I don’t remember seeing it before.’ ‘It isn’t new. I’ve had it ages.’

‘I’ve had a letter from Greta,’ he said a short while later. ‘She and Steve are coming over for a visit next week.’

‘They . . . are?’ Steve—to see him again! ‘It’s just six months since they were married,’ she recollected. ‘Seems much less than that.’

‘How long will they be staying?’ Christine felt her pulses racing, her heart beating much too quickly. Steve . . .

‘Greta didn’t say. But it’ll be for a while, I think, judging by the gist of her letter.’

‘Did you write to tell her you weren’t well? Is that why they’re coming?’

He shook his head. ‘I haven’t written for over a month.’

‘Did she say what day they’d be over?’ Christine helped herself to toast and marmalade while Arthur poured her a cup of coffee.

‘She thinks Thursday, but she’ll give me a ring before then.’

Christine was suddenly puzzled by his manner and she was impelled to ask, ‘Is something wrong, Father?’

He was frowning, but at her words his brow cleared. ‘No—er—what makes you ask that?’ He was not looking at her and her puzzlement increased.

‘I don’t really know. You seem—worried, sort of.’

He shrugged his shoulders and lapsed into silence. After a while Christine asked if Loreen would be home for Greta’s visit.

‘I’ve no idea. I should think she’ll be back by then.’ His tone was flat, expressionless. ‘She’s been away ten days already,’ he added as if he had been mentally reckoning up the time.

‘Are you going to the office today?’ Christine felt the need of company and Luke was in Nassau. Her thoughts were all on Steve and would remain so unless she had some diversion. ‘Let’s go to the beach, just you and me, and have lunch at the Fisherman’s Reef—they do those delicious small sea fish marinated in lime juice, remember? They garnish them with herbs and garlic butter.’ Her voice was low and persuasive, her big violet eyes anxiously darkened by her plea. ‘We could swim first, then soak up the sun, have lunch, and afterwards have a little drive round the island. I want to buy some plants from Hydraflora—small palms and allamandas for my balcony.’ Eager and encouraging, she forgot her manners and leant her elbows on the table, cupping her chin in her hands. ‘You work too hard, love, so please take today off.’

‘It would be nice,’ he agreed, but—’ To her disappointment he shook his head, ‘I’ve a lot to do—some other time, dear.’

Her body sagged. She wished she had insisted on taking the job offered her. Of late she had known a strange restlessness and on a couple of occasions she could almost have run away, lost herself in some place right away from Cassia Lodge. Only Luke held her, she realised, and the promise she had made him. Luke, who was, as always, her prop and her haven. She had asked him recently how his affair with Clarice was progressing and had received the kind of noncommittal reply that had effectively discouraged any further enquiries on her part.

‘I ought to get a job,’ she said with a sigh. ‘This hanging around isn’t healthy.’

‘Healthy?’ with a lift of his bushy grey eyebrows. ‘That’s an odd word to use, isn’t it?’

‘One gets morbid. I like being alone sometimes—I think everybody does—but since Greta went, and with Mother . . .’ She tailed off but Arthur finished for her, ‘Being away from home so much you feel lonely.’

She nodded her head, ‘If I had a job, it would at least fill my days.’

‘You do a good job here—supervising the servants, planning the meals. You should be glad there’s no need for you to go out to work.’ 

‘I’d have company.’

‘You’ve friends, haven’t you?’

‘Some are married and others have jobs.’ She knew she sounded discontented but her voice was only a reflection of her thoughts. This life was becoming more and more boring; she felt as if she were drifting and sometimes the future frightened her.

‘What about boyfriends? Other girls seem to have several at one and the same time.’ Amusement edged Arthur’s voice as he added, ‘Greta had dozens before finally settling for Steve. . . .’ His voice trailed unexpectedly, his humour being replaced by a frown and a tightening of his lips as if he were suppressing a sigh. He glanced at his watch, then rose from the table. ‘I must be off. Have a nice day.’ He was gone; she sat there looking at the piece of pawpaw he had left, and the roll and butter on his side plate. His cup was half filled with coffee.

Christine felt a tremor of acute uneasiness affecting her nerves. Her father was changing in some indefinable way and she felt he had more on his mind than he would have her know.

Listening, she heard the front door close and, a moment or two later, the engine of his car. It was only a short journey to his office and yet he always used the car. Ten minutes’ walk a day would do him good, she thought.

Later, she decided to phone Luke. It would use up a few minutes of this monotonous time she was having to get through. He was pleased to hear her voice but went very quiet after she had said, ‘Greta and Steve are coming next week for a visit.’

‘Already?’ His voice was tight when it reached her after the long pause.

‘They’ve been married six months. It’s time they paid their parents a visit. I expect Steve’s mum and dad will be glad to see him.’

‘And you?’ he asked, the cool brevity seeming to double the distance between them.

‘I’m looking forward to the visit, naturally.’

‘Naturally,’ he murmured and then, with a briskness she knew was assumed, ‘Look, Chris, I’m exceedingly busy just now so I must ring off. Have a nice day.’ Have a nice day. ... It was usual for people to say that but how was she to have a nice day, here on her own but for the servants? She replaced the receiver with a sigh, under no illusions as to the reason for Luke’s behaviour. She ought not to have mentioned her sister and brother-in-law’s coming visit. To talk of Steve to Luke these days was like holding out a red rag to a bull. Luke had no patience to listen, even if she only mentioned Steve casually.

‘Forget your sister’s husband,’ had become familiar to Christine and recently she had refrained from mentioning Steve at all.

Steve’s smile seemed a little strained and Christine thought she detected a similar strain in his voice as he greeted her as he and his wife arrived at Cassia Lodge. Christine, having taken special care with what bit of makeup she used, and having washed and set her hair only that morning, looked radiant and beautiful, the attractiveness of her honey-gold skin being enhanced by the white sundress she wore which was very low cut and without sleeves. It was short to reveal the full allure of slender legs, also tanned like the rest of her body. Dainty white sandals and a white ribbon bow in her hair completed the picture which had caused an unexpected narrowing of Luke’s eyes when he had called a short while before the arrival of the couple. He had seemed to look at Christine with something akin to contempt but she had no chance of asking him what was wrong because, having called merely to see Arthur, he and the older man had gone immediately to the study where they were at present. So it had fallen to Christine to be the one to greet her sister and Steve, as Loreen was still away on holiday.

‘You’re looking wonderful,’ said Steve, holding out both his hands towards her. Greta had shouldered past Christine and was already in the house. ‘You’ve grown an inch or more since I last saw you.’

She laughed to hide her sudden tension; she had no wish that Steve should ever guess at her feelings for him.