Rainbow for Megan

MEGAN SHAW'S wide grey eyes were fixed sombrely on the girl seated opposite her. Iris Markway was, as usual, immaculately turned out; she must, thought. Megan disparagingly, spend hours getting her war-paint on. Megan had never really liked Iris, four years her senior, and doubted whether she would ever have made a friend of her had she known her when they were both younger. Since Iris was a comparative newcomer to the small Wiltshire village Megan had been born in, the question was unlikely to be answered. When the reason for her visit was disclosed, Megan liked her even less.

Iris went on in her slightly affected drawling voice. `Oh, Alain said it in a joking way, but I know he meant it, so for heaven's sake keep away from him and give him space to breathe.'

Megan's eyes sparked. 'Keep away from him?' she repeated indignantly. 'Well ! Of all the..

Iris got up leisurely and walked to the door. 'Well, someone had to tell you,' she said spitefully. 'I'm surprised you haven't taken the hint before now. If you must know, everybody thinks you're chasing him.'

Megan stood looking at the closed door, then blinked hard and slowly shook her head, making the brown unruly curls bounce. Iris had said he had asked her to have a word with her !

She sat down slowly. She wasn't chasing Alain. He had always seemed pleased to see her, had teased her as he always had. He couldn't think. .. . not after all these years. She'd looked on him as a brother—the brother she'd never had; anything else was simply ridiculous.

She thought back to last summer when he'd come home during the vacation, and recalled two occasions when he'd said he wasn't going to a particular social event and she had not attended either. Later she had found he had attended. Megan gulped and the tears began to swell in her eyes. She had only wanted to make sure he wasn't lonely. And all the time he'd thought... She brushed her eyes impatiently. What a fool she'd been! Alain lonely? Why, half the female population for miles around would jump at the chance of his company. Well, as far as she was concerned he was welcome to date the lot of them ! Oh, she would keep away all right ! To think she had been so pleased that he was coming home for good this time, all studies over, and the knowledge he had learnt put to practical use on his farm on the village outskirts Just let him ask her how she was ! Megan fumed. That was if she let him get near enough to ask !

She glanced at the clock, and with a determined expression went to the telephone. When connected, she asked Mr. Tilson the local grocer if the groceries were ready for Clock House. Megan had once done Mr. Tilson a favour
by running them up to the farm,
and had somehow got stuck with the job ever since. It was a natural request to make, as in the old days Megan had spent half her time on the farm. When she was told they were ready, she gave a small sigh of relief. Originally she had intended to take them up that afternoon; Alain wasn't due till one o'clock and she had hoped to see him. It was now almost twelve o'clock, so she would take them up now. That way she would avoid meeting him.

Slipping her cardigan on, she went to get the car, calling out to her father that she wouldn't be long. She doubted if he heard her, for as usual he was engrossed in his work, and not in this century at all but back in the sixteenth, searching out data for his latest book. With a guilty start Megan remembered that she had not typed his latest notes for him, and was at least three chapters behind. As she started up the car, she told herself grimly that there was plenty of time now. She was lucky, really, there was so much to do in her capacity as secretary to her father, and helping out with research, plus all his correspondence. She drove steadily on down through the village.

Mr. Tilson was talkative, and mentioned with

twinkling eyes how the place would soon become livelier. Megan knew he was only teasing her, but it hurt just the same. Did everybody in the village think she was chasing Alain? If they did, it appeared no one took it seriously except Iris. She banged the box of groceries in the boot of the car. 'Careful,' warned Mr. Tilson, 'there's some delicacies in there.'

Alain's housekeeper, Mrs. Smith, watched Megan deposit the box on the kitchen table. 'You're early,' she commented. 'He's not due till one. Are you staying on for lunch?'

Normally Megan would have asked if it would be a bother, and equally normally Mrs. Smith would have replied, 'No trouble.' This time she looked at the small grey-haired woman, who rarely smiled, but was not half so intimidating as she looked; Megan knew a kindly nature lurked behind her blunt remarks. It was odd, Megan mused, that after all this time, it had never occurred to her that people might think.... She shrugged these thoughts away. There was only Iris's word to go by, and Iris was definitely biased where Alain was concerned. She answered Mrs. Smith's question. 'Er ... no, thanks, Mrs. Smith. I'm behind with Father's work and I must get up to date this weekend.' And that, she thought as she took her leave, would cover her for that weekend—if any remarks were made by Alain about her absence.

The surprised expression on Mrs. Smith's face did

not go unnoticed by Megan. 'You're not staying, then?' she asked, then added, 'Oh, well, you'll be up later, I expect.'

Megan's expression was grim as she started up the car. Mrs. Smith was in for a surprise, and so were a few other people if Iris was proved right. She was thankful that her father was too engrossed in his work to notice anything unusual—he would probably be grateful she had got down to catching up. She felt a rush of affection for him. Really, he was a dear, never upbraiding her for not keeping pace with him, only every now and again mildly enquiring how far she had got, and then only when he had promised to let the publishers have the book by a certain date. Megan would apply herself to the task, often working in the evenings to catch up, and had never let him down.

She turned off the lane leading to Clock House, and noticed idly that the wheat was looking fine—it should be a good harvest. Driving steadily on, she passed Hanks Meadow, and her thoughts went back in time. It was here that Alain had given her that first walloping. In spite of her depression she had to smile. She had been a holy terror in these days, and had been caught assisting the local poacher to land a salmon when Alain had come across them. The poacher, thoroughly experienced in these matters, had dropped everything—including the salmon—at

the slight sound of a snapping twig in the surrounding shrubbery; leaving Megan wondering why her newfound friend had found it necessary to desert her in such a hurry. She was not long left in doubt !

Alain had been twenty-two then, and Megan fourteen. She hadn't spoken to him for days afterwards. Anyone else dishing out that treatment might have been forgiven by the tomboyish Megan, but Alain—her friend and confidant suddenly coming the heavy hand—was a bit too much to take. She frowned. Here she was, five years later, as mad with him now as she had been then.

In an odd way she felt betrayed. She had never got on with girls of her own age; her mother had died when she was five, and the memories had slowly faded with time. With a kind but absentminded author father, Megan had had a slightly bohemian upbringing. Mr. Shaw's sister had come to keep house for them for a time, then to everybody's surprise had married the Vicar. By then Megan was sixteen, and able to look after her father, and she had not taken too kindly to the strict discipline imposed by her aunt, who had been determined that Megan should receive adequate instruction on how a young lady should conduct herself. It had not been a successful venture. Most of the time seemed to have been spent on lecturing Megan on her mode of dress, which was anything that happened to be handy When she

was prevailed upon to wear a dress for a special occasion, instead of her beloved jeans, it would get torn, usually through climbing trees in answer to a challenge.

So Megan had grown up trailing after Alain, who was the only one who had treated her as a being in her own right, the only one she had been able to talk to, with her father in a world of his own, and an aunt who continually scolded her. She realised now how Alain had taken pity on her. She sighed. As Iris had cuttingly put it, she was a big girl now. She felt immensely sad. She had never envisaged a time when he would turn her away. It was like someone in your own family telling you to go away, that they no longer need you; and it hurt, it hurt very much.

She had just turned off the main road into the lane leading to the village, when she saw the car. There was no mistaking the bright red of his sports car. She knew he must have seen her, too, but she carried on as if she had not seen him. He had often accused her of daydreaming and said she was getting as bad as her father, particularly when they had an argument—he would think she was daydreaming now, she thought as she drove on through the village.

There was a lump in Megan's throat as she neared her home. There had been no hooting to bring her out of her daydream and make her realise he was home. He must have been relieved that she hadn't
spotted him. Iris had been right; she hadn't really believed it, but what had just happened was confirmation enough.

Part of her understood. Alain was twenty-seven and would soon be starting to think about settling down. He was the last of his line and would naturally hope to have children. If he were courting, he would not want Megan around. Was it Iris? She shrugged. She could not see that as a successful association. Iris, was a beauty, there was no denying that, but she lacked a sense of humour and took herself too seriously. Well, whoever it was, Megan thought crossly, she wished he'd get it over with and settle down; things then might start to get back to normal.