Across the Lagoon (3 page)

The following afternoon she came down to town again to stroll round the shops. Because they all had the same closing hours as her old store there were several that she had never had a chance to browse through. She „ passed a news-stand on her way round the square. She was tempted to buy an afternoon paper and cast a casual peep down the
Situations Vacant
columns. But she refrained and carried on with her shop-window gazing. Why make problems for herself? She had a perfectly good job to go to. Best leave it at that.

When she got tired of the bustle of town she went to sit in the pleasure gardens, a strip of green parkland, beautified by cascading trees and brilliant flowerbeds. The paths and lawns were alive with holidaymakers. Children sailed their boats in the stream which flowed through to the sea. The strains of gay military music came from the elevated bandstand set amidst tall pines. Carol lay draped in her deckchair, content just to bask in the leisure.

On Friday morning she awoke with the feeling that her freedom was fast slipping away from her. Determined to get the most out of the day, she rose quickly and prepared for the beach. Unfortunately she had to be on hand this afternoon to go for a fitting for her store uniform. All the girls at Rankworths wore tailored brown dresses with the name of the store embroidered on the lapels. It was a nuisance and it was cutting into her holiday, but there was nothing to be done about it. At least if she got a move on she would have a nice long morning. She needn't be back until about two.

The weather was so gorgeous, the sea with the sun warming it such fun to splash in, it was nearer three when she arrived home.

Damp and glowing from her activities, she turned in at the drive. The house stood bathed in the still afternoon warmth, its silence as she approached it making her guiltily aware that she was the only one not occupied with the work of the day.

She found her mother patching sheets on the old treadle machine in the living room. She sat and chatted for a while about the holiday scene at the beach, then went upstairs to change. This was no simple task. First she had to get rid of the sand. It was amazing how it seemed to find its way into everything. It was in her towel and in her beach bag and she could feel the grit of it between her toes and on her skin. In the end she decided it would be quicker to take a bath.

Dried off and smooth-skinned again in fresh underwear, she had just washed the bath out and was drawing her bathrobe about her when the sharp shrill of the telephone pierced the downstairs silence.

'I'll get it,' Carol called to her mother, shooting down alongside the banister. 'It'll be the store telling me my dress is ready.'

Carol was well acquainted with the tones of Miss Witherston, the store supervisor, having listened to her singing the praises of working at Rankworths for a full half hour when she had applied for the job. Hurrying to the phone now, she could just see the stout lisle-stockinged woman tapping her pencil with tight- lipped impatience because no one was answering. She lifted the receiver and waited for the hearty contralto voice to come through.

'Is that Miss Lindley?'

Carol was too confused to give an immediate reply. All poised as she was to answer Miss Witherston's summons to go for a dress fitting, it was several seconds before her befuddled mind could adjust to the fact that it was a man's voice on the line. And there was something familiar about its harsh timbre.

'Ye ... es, this is Miss Lindley speaking,' she managed to get out at last.

'Good. Gray Barrett here.' Before she had time to make any comment he rapped crisply, Tack your things and get on the first train out here. We'll be leaving for Venice on Sunday. Stephanie will have to wait until tomorrow before we can pick her up from school, and you'll have to give her a hand in choosing one or two holiday garments…' The voice faded slightly from the receiver as though he was rooting irritably for something on his desk. Amidst the rustle of papers he added acidly, half to himself, 'My housekeeper has to pick this time of all times to go down with the mumps!'

He came back close to the mouthpiece and at the silence he asked testily, 'Have you got that?'

'Yes, I've got it,' Carol replied mechanically.

'Right. There's a train at six this evening, I believe. I'll see you then. We'll pick Stephanie up on the way to London tomorrow. Don't forget you'll need your passport.' He rang off with a harsh impersonal 'Goodbye' as though hers was only one of a string of phone calls he had to make.

Her pink mouth curling incredulously, Carol hung up, still unable to believe her ears. She couldn't get over the colossal conceit of the man. Without giving her time to open her mouth at her interview he had turned her down flat for the job. Now when he couldn't get anyone else and he was stuck he thought all he had to do was snap his fingers and she would come running.

She flounced along the hall and up the stairs a grim smile on her face. What a hope
he
had! In her room she jerked about, dropping one job for another. Let him look after his niece himself! That would show him. She swished her hair before the wardrobe mirror.
She
certainly didn't intend to lower herself to help him out. And anyway, she didn't have a passport.

T
he train slid smoothly on its way amidst the pines.
Pale
shafts of fading sunlight slanted across the carriage lighting up the small neat suitcase which rested on the seat. Carol sat and gazed across at it in a slightly dazed way. She still didn't know what had possessed her to toss her things into it.

Her mother hadn't cared for the idea of her going to Italy. Her father when he came home from work had liked it even less. But she had soothed them both by telling them all about the job and reassuring them that she knew how to look after herself.

Her pulses thumping now as it hit her what she had let herself in for, she turned to stare out of the window. She thought of Miss Witherston and the job she was leaving behind at Rankworths. Curiously enough she felt no remorse.

She was so deeply engaged in reflection, the train pulled into the village of Lyndhurst almost without her noticing it. Hastily she swept her suitcase up and made for the door.

The soft light of evening veiled the countryside as she stepped out on to the platform of the little station. As usual it was deserted, but as she made her way towards the tiny exit, the figure of a man approached her. He was ruggedly tall and well dressed and Carol realised with an acute knotting up of her stomach that it was Gray Barrett.

As he strode up she felt excruciatingly self-conscious in her simple summer dress, her thin arms wrestling with her luggage, her nose a bright pink from her week in the sun.

He took her suitcase from her and flicking his moody brown gaze around and over the slim dressing case she carried, he asked, 'Is this the lot?'

Floundering for an excuse to explain her small wardrobe, Carol stammered, 'I... I had to pack in a hurry*'

He led the way out. At the barrier the ticket collector touched his cap to the big man respectfully. ' 'Night, Mr Barrett.'

'Goodnight, Simms,' Gray Barrett nodded absently, and made his way out to his car.

Carol followed meekly. She had never expected to find
him
at the station to meet her. As he opened the car door for her and she took a seat at the back she reminded herself cynically that he had a vested interest in her now.

They made the trip to Rowan House in silence. Though Carol tried to give the appearance of gazing dispassionately at the view, she was blazingly conscious of the man seated at the wheel in front of her. It didn't help to know that he was sitting frowning to himself as though he had already forgotten she was there.

They swung into the drive of the beautiful old house and came to a smooth stop outside the front entrance. Carol stepped out. While Gray Barrett was swinging her bags out of the back, she admitted to him nervously, 'I haven't got a passport.' He breathed a sharp sigh of exasperation. She added brightly, 'But I got my photograph taken in a booth at the station.'

"That's a help,' he said sarcastically. And then, 'Where is it? I'll have to tackle the authorities and see if we can get one rushed through.'

Carol had to hand him the washed-out pictures of herself from her handbag. On them she looked pale, lopsided and unreal.

'The door was opened as they turned towards it by a plump little woman in a bright flowered smock. Something in the warm round features struck Carol as being vaguely familiar. Gray Barrett moved inside and spoke. 'This is Miss Lindley, Emily.' He swung the luggage with him. 'She's going to accompany my niece to Italy in your sister's place.'

Mrs Vernon's sister. That explained the likeness.

'How do you do,' Emily recited, a jolly light showing through her attempt at staid politeness.

Carol found her smile less strained in the woman's presence.

'Show her to a room,' Gray Barrett instructed. "We'll have dinner at the usual time.' The passport pictures in his hand, he strode away across the hall.

Carol took her suitcase. Emily reaching for her dressing case seemed to revert with relief to her natural self, once the boss had disappeared. 'Fancy Blanche catching the mumps of all things,' she chattered, chuckling under her breath at the phenomenon, and leading the way upstairs. 'The doctor thinks she picked it up from one of the Johnson children next door to the village shop. Apparently they've all had a dose and the mother hasn't bothered to keep them indoors.'

'I hope she's not feeling too ill?' Carol felt obliged to put in solicitously as they climbed.

'No, she's sitting up today,' Emily nodded a glance along a corridor leading off from the main landing, 'but her face is very swollen, and of course at her age she'll have to take it carefully for a while.'

They went into a room with green bedcovers and draperies and putting the dressing bag down inside, the sunny-faced woman revealed in confiding tones, 'Between you and me she wasn't too keen on the idea of going to Italy, so I don't think she minds this little bit of inconvenience.' With a wink she went to push the green drapes back busily. Then she opened the window a fraction to let in the air.

Feeling the woman's warmth and friendliness wash over her in the strange household, Carol put in conversationally, 'Your sister must be glad to have you on hand to look after her.'

'Me? Oh, I don't live in Lyndhurst.' Emily's jolly features crinkled wryly as though country life didn't
appeal to her.
'I
've come over from Poole.
I
run a little caf£ on the
quay with my husband
and two daughters.' She
made a tour of
the room flicking at this and that
while she talked. 'Blanche is a widow
with no family.
And Mr Barrett had no one to look
after him.' When
she had cast a last look round she came up confidingly again to Carol. 'He's very nice, but it will be a
relief
when he's gone away.' She rolled
her
eyes at the awesome atmosphere of the house. 'This kind
of
thing
isn
't much in my line.'

They smiled together conspiratorially, then reminding herself of her temporary position, Emily asked practically, 'Now do you think you're going to be all right in here? I've picked you a room with a bathroom,' she nodded to an adjoining door, 'and there's a nice view out at the back.'

'Oh, I'm sure I shall,' Carol said gratefully. 'And thank you very much for looking after me.'

The pleasant-faced woman in her bright flowered smock turned to the door, looking back to say with another roll of her eyes, 'I've got to go down now and see about the meal.'

On her own, Carol gazed round the room. It was large and airy, though like downstairs its heavy furnishings were sombre and lacking in something to bring out their rich mellow look. The view from the big cur- tainless window was more rewarding. It showed grassy stretches rolling away to a boundary of leafy oak and chestnut trees.

She turned and pondered over her suitcase. There was no sense in unpacking because presumably she was only staying here for the night. An ache of excitement engulfed her when she thought that tomorrow she would be starting out for Italy. To try and curb it a little she made herself re-fold everything in her case, a little more neatly this time.

This done, she laid her nightgown out, then washed and freshened up in the bathroom. She could think of nothing to do after that to pass the time, but she was too afraid to step out of her room. Everything was so silent. She listened and moved about, slightly on edge. In the end she decided to take the plunge. After all, no one was going to eat her... she hoped.

It was just her luck to sidle out on to the landing at the precise moment that Gray Barrett chose to stride across the square of hall below her. Obviously engrossed with his thoughts as he came out of a downstairs room, his glance, for some reason, flickered upwards. Irritated at being mildly startled by the sight of the pale apparition standing on the stairs, he looked at his watch and barked, "We'll be dining in a moment. You'd better come down.'

Carol nodded obediently and whispered soft-footed down the stairs. The big figure had disappeared by the time she reached the chequered hallway. She had no idea where to go from here. There were rooms all around her and at the far end of the space a passageway led deeper into the house.

Was the dining room along there? she wondered with nervously thudding heart. She was too scared to go and find out. What if she was trespassing in some forbidden area of the house?

Surrounded by doors, wall furniture, dark pictures and china vases, she hung about uncertainly, sneaking a look into this room and that, without appearing to, for some sign of life. She was beginning to lose hope of eating at all tonight, when a voice from the doorway beside her made her jump almost out of her shoes, as Gray Barrett rasped, 'In here, Miss Lindley. Don't take all day. Mrs Potter's waiting to serve.'

Colouring foolishly, Carol turned and followed him inside. The d£cor of the room and furnishings were much the same as the rest of the house except that a long oval polished table, complete with several straight- backed chairs, stood facing a line of french windows in the centre of the room. A doorway at the end, apparently connecting with the rooms along the passageway which she had just caught a glimpse of, was open, and much to her relief, bustling through, a crisp white apron fronting her flowered smock, her round cheeks aglow with cooking, was the cheering sight of Emily.