The Dark Shore (6 page)

4

After he had replaced the receiver, Jon left the station, walked up to Trafalgar Square and on towards Piccadilly. As he walked he started to worry about Sarah. Perhaps he could clear up this trouble with Eve during the ten days before Sarah arrived, but if not he would seriously have to consider inventing some reason for asking Sarah to delay her arrival. Whatever happened, Sarah must never discover the events which had taken place at Clougy ten years ago. He thought of Sarah for a moment, remembering her clear unsophisticated view of life and the naive trust which he loved so much. She would never, never be able to understand, and in failing to understand she would be destroyed; the knowledge would tear away the foundations of her secure, stable world and once her world had collapsed she would be exposed to the great flaming beacon of reality with nothing to shield her from the flames.

He walked down Piccadilly to Berkeley Street, and still the traffic roared in his ears and pedestrians thronged the pavements. He was conscious of loneliness again, and the bleakness of the emotion was at once accentuated by his worries. It would have been different in Canada. There he could have absorbed himself in his work or played the piano until the mood passed, but here there was nothing except the conventional ways of finding comfort in a foreign city. And he hated the adolescent futility of getting drunk and would have despised himself for having a woman within days of his coming marriage. It would have meant nothing, of course, but he would still have felt ashamed afterwards, full of guilt because he had done something which would hurt Sarah if she knew. Sarah wouldn’t understand that the act with an unknown woman meant nothing and less than nothing, and if she ever found out, her eyes would be full of grief and bewilderment and pain
...

He couldn’t bear the thought of hurting Sarah.

But the loneliness was hard to bear too.

If only he could find Marijohn. There must be some way of finding her. He would advertise. Surely someone knew where she was
...

His thoughts swam and veered in steep sharp patterns, and then he had reached the Ritz and was turning off into Berkeley Street. Ten yards down the road he paused listening, but there was nothing, only a sense of unrest and distress which was too vague to be identified. He walked on slowly, and two minutes later was entering the lobby of the hotel.

As he crossed the floor to the desk to ask for his key, he was conscious of someone watching him. With the key in his hand a moment later he swung round to look at the occupants of the open lounge directly behind him, and as he moved, the tall blonde with the faintly disdainful expression stubbed out her cigarette and looked across at him with a slight, cool smile.

H recognized her at once. He had never had any difficulty in remembering faces, and suddenly he was b
ack at Clougy long ago and listening lo Sophia say languidly, “I wonder who on earth Max will turn up with this time?”

And Max had arrived an hour later in a hot-rod open Bentley with this elegant, very fastidious blonde on the front seat beside him.

Jon slipped the key of his room into his pocket and crossed the lobby towards her.

“Well, well,” she said wryly when he was near enough. “It’s been a long time.”

“A very long time.” He stood before her casually, his hands in his pockets, the fingers of his right hand playing with the key to his room. Presently he said, “After I’d spoken to Max on the phone this evening, I realized I should get in touch with you.”

She raised her eyebrows a fraction, almost as if she didn’t understand him. It was cleverly done, he thought. “Just because I phone Max out of interest and tell him you’re back in town,” she said, “and just because Max later tells you that I phoned him, why does it automatically follow that you should get in touch with me?”

The lobby was sprinkled with people; there was one group only a few feet away from them seated on the leather chairs of the open lounge.

“If we’re going to talk,” he said, “you’d better come upstairs. There’s not enough privacy here.”

She still looked slightly bewildered, but now the bewilderment was mingled with a cautious tinge of pleasure, as if events had taken an unexpected but not unwelcome turn. “Fine,” she said, her smile still wary but slightly less cool as she rose to her feet to stand beside him. “Lead the way.”

They crossed the wide lobby to the elevator, the girl walking with a quick smooth grace which she had acquired since he had last seen her. Her mouth was slim beneath pale lipstick, the lashes of her beautiful eyes too long and dark to be entirely natural, her fair hair swept upwards simply in a soft, full curve.

On entering the elevator he was able to look at her more closely, but as he glanced across towards her he knew she was aware of his scrutiny and he turned aside abruptly.

“Six,” he said to the elevator operator.

“Yes, sir.”

The lift drifted upwards lazily. Canned music was playing softly from some small, insidious loudspeaker concealed beneath the control panel. Jon was reminded of Canada suddenly; ceaseless background music was one of the transatlantic traits which he had found most difficult to endure when he had arrived from England long ago, and even now after ten years he still noticed it with a sense of irritation.

“Six, sir,” said the man as the doors opened.

Jon led the way down the corridor to his room, unlocked the door and walked in.

The girl sh
r
ugged off her coat.

“Cigarette?” said Jon shortly, turning away to take a fresh packet of cigarettes from a drawer by the bed.

“Thanks.” He could feel her watching him. While he was giving her the cigarette and offering her a light he tried to analyze her expression, but it was difficult. There was a hint of curiosity in her eyes, a glimpse of ironic amusement in the slight curve of her smile, a trace of tension in her stillness as if her composure were not as effortless as it appeared to be. Some element in her manner puzzled him, and in an instinctive attempt to prolong the opening conversation and give himself more time to decide upon the best method of handling the situation, he said idly, “You don’t seem to have changed much since that weekend at Clougy.”

“No?” she said wryly. “I hope I have. I was very young when I went to Clougy, and very stupid.”

“I don’t see what was so young and stupid about wanting to marry Max. Most women would prefer to marry rich men, and there’s always a certain glamor attached to anyone in the motor racing set.”

“I was young and stupid not to realize that Max—and a hell of a lot of other men—just aren’t the marrying kind.”

“Why go to the altar when you can get exactly what you want by a lie in a hotel register?” He flung himself into a chair opposite her and gestured to her to sit down. “Some women have so little to offer on a long-term basis.”

“And most men aren’t interested in long-term planning.”

He smiled suddenly, standing up in a quick, lithe movement and moving over to the window, his hands deep in his pockets. “Marriage is on a longterm basis,” he said. “Until the parties decide to get divorced.” He flung himself down in the chair again with a laugh, and as he felt her eyes watching him in fascination he wondered for the hundredth time in his life why women found his restlessness attractive.

“I should like to meet your new
fiancé
e,” she said unexpectedly, “just out of interest.”

“You wouldn’t like her.”

“Why? Is she like Sophia?”

“Utterly different.” He started to caress the arm of the chair idly, smoothing the material with strong movements of his fingers. “You must have haled Sophia that weekend,” he said at last, not looking at her. “If I hadn’t been so involved in my own troubles I might have found the time to feel sorry
f
or you
.
”
He paused. Then: Max did
you a
bad turn b
y taking you down to
Clough.”

She shrugged.
“
It
’
s all in the past now.”

“
Is it?”

A silence.
“
What do you mean?”

“
When you called me on the phone this evening it seemed you wanted
t
o revive the past.”

She stared at him.

“
Didn’t you call me this evening?”

She still stared. He leaned forward, stubbed out his cigarette and was beside her on the bed before she had time to draw breath.

“
Give me your cigarette.”

She handed it to him without a word and he crushed the butt to ashes. “Now,” he said, not touching her but close enough to show her he would and could if she were obstinate. “Just what the hell do you think you’re playing at?”

She smiled uncertainly, a faint fleeting smile, and pushed back a strand of hair from her forehead as if she were trying to decide what to say and finding it difficult. He felt his irritation grow, his patience fade, and he had to hold himself tightly in control to stem the rising tide of anger within him.

Something in his eyes must have given him away; she stopped, her fingers still touching her hair, her body motionless, and as she looked at him he was suddenly seized with a violent longing to shake her by the shoulders and wrench the truth from behind the cool, composed expression.

“Damn you,” he said quietly to the woman. “Damn you.”

There was a noise. He stopped. The noise was a bell, hideous and insistent, a jet of ice across the fire of his anger. Pushing the woman aside, he leant across and reached for the cold black receiver of the telephone.

“Jon—” she said.

“It’s my son.” He picked up the receiver. “Jon Towers speaking.”

“Call for you, Mr. Towers. Personal from Toronto from a Miss Sarah—”

“Just a minute.” He thrust the receiver into the pillow, muffling it. “Go into the bathroom,” he said to the woman. “It’s a private call for me. Wait in the bathroom till I’ve finished.”

“But—”

“Get out!”

She went without a word. The bathroom door closed softly behind her and he was alone.

“Thank you,” he said into the receiver. “I’ll take the call now.”

The line clicked and hummed. A voice said, “I have Mr. Towers
for you,” and then Sarah’s voice, very clear and gentle, said, “Jon?” rather
doubtfully
as i
f she found it hard to
believe she could really be talking
t
o him across
th
e entire length of the Atlantic Ocean.

“Sarah,” he said, and suddenly there were hot tears pricking his eyes and an ache in his throat. “I was going to phone you.”

“Yes, I know,” she said happily, “but I simply couldn’t wait to tell you so I thought I’d ring first. Johnny, Aunt Mildred has come back to London a week early from her cruise—she got off at Tangier or something stupid because she didn’t like the food—and so I’ve now got a fully qualified chaperone earlier than I expected! Is it all right if I fly over to London the day after tomorrow?”

Three

1

After Jon had replaced the receiver he sat motionless on the edge of the bed for a long moment. Presently the woman came out of the bathroom and paused by the door, leaning her back against the panels as she waited for him to look up and notice her.

“You’d better go,” he said at last, not looking at her. “I’m sorry.” She hesitated, and then picked up her coat and slipped it quietly over her dress without replying straight away. But after a moment she said, “How long will you be in London?”

“I’m not sure.”

She hesitated again, toying with the clasp of her handbag as if she could not make up her mind what to say. “Maybe I’ll see you again if there’s time,” she said suddenly. “You’ve got my phone number, haven’t you?” He stood up then, looking her straight in the eyes, and she knew instinctively she had said the wrong thing. She felt her cheeks burn, a trick she thought she had outgrown years ago, and suddenly she was furious with him, furious at his casual invitation to his hotel, furious at the casual way he was dismissing her, furious because his casual manner was an enigma which she found as fascinating as it was infuriating.

“Have a lovely wedding, won’t you,” she said acidly in her softest, sweetest voice as she swept over to the door. “I hope your
fiancé
e realizes the kind of man she’s marrying.”
She had the satisfaction of seeing the color drain from his face, and then the next moment she was gone, slamming the door behind her, and Jon was again alone with his thoughts in his room on the sixth floor.

2

After a long while it occurred to him to glance at his watch. It was late, well after midnight, and Justin should have phoned an hour ago. Jon sat
still for a moment, his thoughts swiftly recalling the evening’s events. Perhaps Camilla had forgotten to ask Justin to phone the hotel. Or maybe she hadn’t forgotten but had deliberately withheld the message out of malice. Perhaps she also knew where Marijohn was and had lied when she had told him otherwise
...
But no, Rivers had said he was the only one who had any form of contact with Marijohn, so Camilla had been telling the truth.

Michael Rivers.

Jon leaned over on the bed, propping himself up on one elbow, and picked up the telephone receiver.

“Yes, sir?” said a helpful voice a moment later.

“I want to call number five, Consett Mews, W.8. I don’t know the number.
”

“Thank you, sir. If you would like to replace the receiver we’ll ring you when we’ve put through your call.”

The minutes passed noiselessly. The room was still and peaceful. After a while Jon idly began to tidy the bed, straightening the counterpane and smoothing the pillows in an attempt to smother his impatience by physical movement, and then the bell rang and he picked up the receiver again.

“Your number is ringing for you, Mr. Towers.”

“Thank you.”

The line purred steadily. No one answered. They’re in bed, thought Jon, half-asleep and cursing the noise of the bell.

He waited, listening to the relentless ringing at the other end of the wire. Ten
...
Eleven
...
Twelve
...

“
Knightsbridge five-seven-eight-one.
”

This was an unknown voice. It was quiet, very distinct and even self
-
possessed.

“I want,” said Jon, “to speak to Justin Towers.”

“Speaking.”

There was a silence. God Almighty, thought Jon suddenly. To his astonishment he noticed that his free hand was a clenched fist, and felt his heart hurting his lungs as he drew a deep breath to speak. And then the words wouldn’t come and he could only sit and listen to the silence at the other end of the wire and the stillness in the room around him.

He tried to pull himself together. “Justin.”

“Yes, I’m still here.”

“Did your grandmother tell you I’d called at the Mews this evening?”

“Yes, she did.”

“Then why didn’t you phone when you arrived back? Didn’t she tell you that I wanted you to phone me?”

“Yes, she did.”

Silence.
There
was
something
very uncommunicative about the quiet voice and the lack of hesitation. Perhaps he was shy.

"Look, Justin, I want to see you very much—there’s a lot I have to discuss with you. Can you come round to the hotel, as soon as possible tomorrow morning? What time can you manage?”

“I’m afraid
I
can’t manage tomorrow,” said the quiet voice. “I’m going out
f
or the day.”

Jon felt as though someone had just thrown an ice-cold towel in his face.
H
e gripped the receiver tightly and sat forward a little further on the edge of the bed.

“Justin, do you know why I’ve come to Europe?”

“My grandmother said you were here to get married.”

“I could have married in Toronto. I came to England especially to see you.”

No reply. Perhaps the nightmare was a reality and he simply wasn’t interested.

“
I
have a business proposition to make you,” said Jon, fumbling for an approach which would appeal to this impersonal voice a mile away from him in Knightsbridge. “I’m very anxious to discuss it with you as soon as possible. Can’t you put off your engagement tomorrow?”

“All right,” said the voice indifferently after a pause. “I suppose so.”

“Can you have breakfast with me?”

“I’m afraid I’m very bad at getting up on Saturday mornings.”

“Lunch?”

“I’m—not sure.”

“Well, come as soon after breakfast as you can and then we can talk for a while and maybe you can have lunch with me afterwards.”

“All right.”

“Fine,” said Jon. “Don’t forget to come, will you? I’ll see you tomorrow. ” After he had replaced the receiver he sat for ten seconds on the edge of the bed and stared at the silent telephone. Presently when he went into the bathroom, he saw that there was sweat on his forehead and his hands as he raised them to flick the sweat away were trembling with tension. This is my mother’s fault, he thought; she’s turned the boy against me just as she tried to turn me against my father. When I meet Justin tomorrow he’ll be a stranger and the fault will be hers.

He felt desolate suddenly, as if he had taken years of accumulated savings to the bank only to have them stolen from him as he approached the counter to hand over the money. He had a shower and undressed, but the desolation was with him even as he slid into bed, and he knew he would never be able to sleep. He switched out the light. It was after one o’clock, but the night yawned effortlessly ahead of him, hours of restless worry and anxiety, a steady deepening of the pain behind his eyes and the ache of tension in his body. The thoughts whirled and throbbed in his brain, sometimes mere patterns of consciousness, sometimes forming themselves into definite words and sentences.

Sarah would be coming to London in two days’ time. Supposing Eve made trouble ... He could pay her off for a time, but in the end something would have to be done. If only he could find Marijohn ... but no one knew where she was, no one at all except Michael Rivers. Hell to Michael Rivers. How could one make a man like Michael talk? No good offering him money. No good urging or pleading or cajoling. Nothing was any good with a man like that
...
But something would have to be done. Why did no one know where Marijohn was? The statement seemed to imply she was completely withdrawn from circulation. Perhaps she was abroad. Perhaps there was some man. She wouldn’t live with Michael any more, Camilla had said; no doubt there were affairs too.

But that was all wrong. There would have been no real affairs. No real affairs.

But no one knew where Marijohn was and something would have to be done. Perhaps Justin would know. Justin
...

The desolation nagged at him again, stabbing his consciousness with pain. Better not to think of Justin. And then without warning he was thinking of Clougy, aching for the soft breeze from the sea, pining for the white shutters and yellow walls and the warm mellow sense of peace
...
Yet that was all gone, destroyed with Sophia’s death. The sadness of it made him twist over in bed and bury his face deep in the pillow. He had forgotten until that moment how much he had loved his house in Cornwall.

He sat up in bed, throwing back the bedclothes and going over to the window. “I want to talk about Clougy,” he thought to himself, staring out into the night. “I want to talk about Sophia and why our marriage went so wrong when I loved her so much I could hardly bear to spend a single night away from her. I want to talk about Max and why our friendship was so completely destroyed that we were relieved to go our separate ways and walk out of each other’s lives without a backward glance. I want to talk about Michael who never liked me because I conformed to no rules and was like no other man he had ever had to deal with in his narrow little legal world in London. I want to talk about Justin whom I loved because he was always cheerful and happy and comfortable in his plumpness, and because like me he enjoyed being alive and found all life exciting. And most of all I want to talk to Marijohn because I can discuss Clougy with no one except her
...
”

H
e went back to bed, his longing sharp and jagged in his mind, and tossed and turned restlessly for another hour. And then just before dawn there was suddenly a great inexplicable peace soothing his brain and he knew that at last he would be able to sleep.

3

After he had breakfasted the next morning, he went into the open lounge in the hotel lobby and sat down with a newspaper to wait for Justin to arrive. There was a constant stream of people crossing the lobby and entering or leaving the hotel, and at length he put the paper aside and concentrated on watching each person who walked through the swinging doors a few feet away from him.

Ten o’clock came. Then half-past. Perhaps he had changed his mind and decided not to come. If he wasn’t going to come he should have phoned. But of course he would come. Why shouldn’t he? He had agreed to it. He wouldn’t back out now
...

A family of Americans arrived with a formidable collection of white suitcases. A young man who might easily have been Justin drifted in and then walked up to a girl who was sitting reading near Jon in the lounge. There was an affectionate reunion and they left together. A couple of foreign business men came in speaking a language that was either Danish or Swedish, and just behind them was another foreigner, dark and not very tall, who looked as though he came from Southern Europe. Italy, perhaps, or Spain. The two Scandinavian business men moved slowly over towards one of the other lounges, their heads bent in earnest conversation, their hands behind their backs like a couple of naval officers. The young Italian made no attempt to follow them. He walked slowly over to the reception desk instead, and asked for Mr. Jon Towers.

“I think, sir,” said the uniformed attendant to him, “that Mr. Towers is sitting in one of the armchairs behind you to your left.”

The young man turned.

His dark eyes were serious and watchful, his features impassive. His face was plain but unusual. Jon recognized the small snub nose and the high cheekbones but not the gravity in the wide mouth nor the leanness about his jaw.

He walked across, very unhurried and calm. Jon stood up, knocking the ash-tray off the table and showering ashes all over the carpet.

“Hullo,” said Justin, holding out his hand politely. “How are you?”

Jon took the hand in his, not knowing what to do with it, and then let it go. If only it had been ten years ago, he thought. There would have been no awkwardness, no constraint, no polite empty phrases and courteous gestures.

H
e smiled uncertainly at the young man beside him. “But you’re so thin, Justin!”
was all he could manage to say, “You’re so slim and streamlined!” The young man smiled faintly, gave a shrug of the shoulders which reminded Jon instantly and sickeningly of Sophia, and glanced down at the spilt ashes on the floor.

There was silence.

“Let’s sit down,” said Jon. “No point in standing. Do you smoke?”

“No, thank you.”

They both sat down. Jon lit a cigarette.

“What are you doing now? Are you working?”

“Yes. Insurance in the city.”

“Do you like it?”

“Yes.”

“How did you get on at school? Where were you sent in the end?” Justin told him.

“Did you like it?”

“Yes.”

There seemed suddenly so little to say. Jon felt sick and ill and lost. “I expect you’d like me to come to the point,” he said abruptly. “I came over here to ask you if you’d be interested in working in Canada with a view eventually to controlling a branch of my business based in London. I haven’t opened this branch yet, but I intend to do so within the next three years. Ultimately, of course, if you made a success of the opportunity I would transfer the entire business to you when I retire. My business is property. It’s a multi-million dollar concern.”

He stopped. The lounge hummed with other people’s steady conversation. People were still coming back and forth through the swing-doors into the hotel.

“I don’t think,” said Justin, “I should like to work in Canada.”

A man and woman near them got up laughing. The woman had on a ridiculous yellow hat with a purple feather in it. The stupid things one noticed.

“Any particular reason?”

“Well
...”
Another vague shrug of the shoulders. “I’m quite happy in England. My grandmother’s very good to me and I’ve got plenty of friends and so on. I like working in London and I’ve got a good opening in the City.”

He was reddening slowly as he spoke, Jon noticed. His eyes were still watching the spilt ashes on the floor.

Jon said nothing.

“There
’
s
another reason too,”
said the boy as if he sensed his other reasons hadn't been good enough. “There’s a girl—someone I know
...
I don’t want to go away and leave her just yet.”

“Marry her and come to Canada together.”

Justin looked up startled, and Jon knew then that he had been lying. “But I can’t—”

“Why not? I married when I was your age. You’re old enough to know your own mind.”

“It’s not a question of marriage. We’re not even engaged.”

“Then she can’t be so important to you that you would ignore a million-dollar opening in Canada to be with her. Okay, so you’ve got friends in England—you’d find plenty more in Canada. Okay, so your grandmother’s been good to you—fine, but what if she has? You’re not going to remain shackled to her all your life, are you? And what if you have got a good opening in the City? So have dozens of young men. I’m offering you the opportunity of a lifetime, something unique and dynamic and exciting. Don’t you want to be your own master of your own business? Haven’t you got the drive and ambition to want to take up a challenge and emerge the winner? What do you want of life? The nine-till-five stagnation of the city and years of comfortable boredom or the twenty-four hour excitement of juggling with millions of dollars? All right, so you’re fond of London! I’m offering you the opportunity to come back here in three years’ time, and when you come back you’ll be twenty times richer than any of the friends you said goodbye to when you left for Canada. Hasn’t the prospect any appeal to you at all? I felt so sure from all my memories of you that you wouldn’t say no to an opportunity like this.”

But the dark eyes were still expressionless, his face immobile. “I don’t think property is really my line at all.”

“Do you know anything about it?”

Justin was silent.

“Look, Justin—”

“I don’t want to,” said the boy rapidly. “I expect you could find someone else. I don’t see why it has to be me.”

“For Christ’s sake!” Jon was almost beside himself with anger and despair. “What is it, Justin? What’s happened? Don’t you understand what I’m trying to say? I’ve been away from you for ten whole years and now I want to give you all I can to try and make amends. I want you to come into business with me so we’ll never be separated again for long and so that I can get to know you and try to catch up on all the lost years. Don’t you understand? Don’t you see?”

“Yes,” said Justin woodenly, “but I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“Has your grandmother been talking to you? Has she? Has she been trying to turn you against me? What has she said?”

“She’s never mentioned you.”

“She must have!”

The boy shook his head and glanced down at his watch. “I’m afraid—
”

“No,” said Jon. “No, you’re not going yet. Not till I’ve got to the bottom of all this.”

“I’m sorry, but—”

“Sit down.” He grasped the boy’s arm and pulled him back into his chair. Justin wrenched himself away. “There’s one question I’m going to ask you whether you like it or not, and you’re not leaving till you’ve given me a proper answer.
”

He paused. The boy made no move but merely stared sullenly into his eyes.

“Justin, why did you never answer my letters?”

The boy still stared but his eyes were different. The sullenness had been replaced by a flash of bewilderment and suspicion which Jon did not understand. “Letters?”

“You remember when I said good-bye to you after I took you away from Clougy?”

The suspicion was gone. Only the bewilderment remained. “Yes.”

“You remember how I explained that I couldn’t take you with me, as I would have no home and no one to help look after you, and you had to go to an English school? You remember how I promised to write, and how I made you promise you would answer my letters and tell me all you’d been doing?”

The boy didn’t speak this time. He merely nodded.

“Then why didn’t you write? You promised you would. I wrote you six letters including a birthday present, but I never had a word from you. Why was it, Justin? Was it because you resented me not taking you to Canada? I only did it for your own good. I would have come back to see you, but I got caught up in my business interests, so involved that it was hard even to get away for the odd weekend. But I wanted to see you and hear from you all the time, yet nothing ever came. In the end I stopped writing because I thought that in some strange way the letters must be hurting you, and at Christmas and on your birthday I merely sent over money to be paid into your trust fund at your grandmother’s bank
...
What happened, Justin? Was it something to do with that last time at Clougy when—”

“I have to go,” said the boy, and he was stammering, his composure shattered. “I—I’m sorry, but I must go. Please.” He was standing up, stumbling towards the swinging doors, not seeing nor caring where he went.

The doors opened and swung in a flash of bright metal, and then Jon was alone once more in his hotel and the failure was a throbbing, aching pain across his heart.