The Hunter and the Trapped (9 page)

Outwardly, the college expedition to the festival at Arles was a great success. The student members were for the most part enthusiastic, the older members of the party, lecturers and their friends, were appreciative, if not altogether of the fare provided, at least of the reduction in their expenses due to the collective nature of the enterprise.

Throughout the fortnight Simon moved among the group, entertaining, helping, stimulating. Each night he spent with Penelope.

This was not difficult, since the whole group was housed in the same hotel. Nevertheless the girl found it a considerable strain, where she had looked forward to two weeks of undisturbed bliss. At Caroline's flat she was sure of understanding and the consequent privacy. Here she was continually irked by a fear of betrayal, discovery, exposure. Not that the students would have thought anything at all of it, except perhaps surprise at her success where so many had suffered rebuff. It was the older members, loyal to the reputation of the college and aware of a more old-fashioned outlook among their contemporaries in France, who might make trouble for her on their return to England.

“We are not the only couple in the party,” Simon told her, smiling at her anxiety. “I could name at least three others, but you probably know who they are, so I won't.”

Penelope said nothing. This was so like Simon. He adored intrigue: he delighted in reducing all relationships, romantic, idyllic or simply innocent, to the same level of frank lust. Still enthralled, still loving him, she was too honest not to realise now his devastating limitations.

As the days passed she began to grow more and more uneasy. Her minor criticisms were growing, and to prove them false she began to make demands upon Simon's time and attention that he instantly repudiated. One afternoon she found that he had attached himself to a group other than hers and without telling her of his intention. She passed three hours in a state of miserable, humiliating jealousy and when he came to her that night as usual, he found her still dressed, sitting by her window in an unlighted room, staring out into the night.

“I thought you weren't coming,” was all she said.

“Why?”

“You didn't tell me you were going with Anthea's lot.”

“Didn't I? Does it matter?”

His indifference goaded her into bitter complaint. At the end of it he said calmly, “You mustn't become greedy. Anyway, it isn't a bad thing to go on separate expeditions now and then. There's been a fair amount of talk. We can't afford to let it grow.”

“But you could have
told
me. I won't be possessive or greedy, as you call it, but it hurt to think you didn't want to tell me, even a simple thing like that.”

As he said nothing, she went on desperately, “I love you, Simon. Love means more than just – bed. It means trust and – sharing – and – and …”

His dark presence behind her, so still and silent, frightened her. The wall had gone up between them again, the wall that had crumbled at Diana's party, that she thought had disappeared for ever. Very deep in her mind she gave up the struggle. She suddenly understood that more than half her present unhappiness was sheer plain boredom. His unresponsiveness, his frequent withdrawal, especially his long silences when they were alone, were simply, crudely, boring.

Her mind was cleared but her heart struggled violently with the blasphemy.

“I love you, my darling,” she repeated, piteously.

“Then stop being romantic and come to bed. For a modern girl you talk the most wonderful nonsense.”

“I love you. But you don't love me.”

“Don't I? Come to bed and I'll show you.”

When he left her she was wholly his once more. But the voice of her mind, once heard, would never again be wholly stilled.

The party travelled back to England by train and boat, as it had gone out. It was a slightly diminished party, as several of the students decided to hitch-hike in France for a further week and one of the lecturers, who had brought his family with him, was staying on until the first week in September.

At Dover the party was reduced still further. There were still several weeks before the beginning of term, so most of the students were going to their own homes and these were not all in London. Penelope and Simon found themselves alone in a carriage of the boat train and at Victoria they left the platform well ahead of the remaining few who had kept together.

Penelope secured a taxi. Simon seemed to be taking very little interest in his surroundings. She gave the driver the address of the flat in Kilburn. Simon still took no notice. Only when they were carrying their suitcases up the two flights of dingy stairs to his door he said, smiling faintly, “You have never been to my flat before, have you?”

“You've never let me come here.”

“It was a good rule. Safer all round.”

“D'you want me to go away?”

“Soon. You might as well come in as you're here.”

This was not very encouraging. Nor was the sight of the flat when Simon unlocked the door. The way led straight into a reasonably large sitting room, with two doors leading out of it at the opposite side. Evidently the building had been constructed to provide the maximum of tenants in the minimum of space, Penelope thought. She had noticed two numbered doors on each landing; two separate dwellings. And the stairs, with infrequent dim lights and no lift, went up and up.

The room smelled neglected and stuffy. While Penelope was putting down her suitcase near the door, Simon crossed the room quickly, opened one of the other doors, stood a moment, and then closing it again, moved to the window, pulled the top down, letting in a cold petrol-laden draught and drew the curtains.

Penelope straightened herself.

“It
would
be freezing – and raining! After all that glorious sun. Can I put the fire on?”

Simon had not moved from the window and did not answer. She looked on the mantelpiece for matches, noticing in the mirror above it how pale and worn she looked, her hair blown all over her forehead, her makeup practically gone.

“Have you got a match?”

As he still did not answer, she turned, shocked to see his face, whiter and more strained than her own. He was shivering.

“Darling! You're frozen! Haven't you got a match? I
must
get the fire going!”

He moved to help her, finding a taper behind a small flower jug on the mantelpiece and producing a lighter from his pocket.

“I hate bangs,” he said, his teeth clicking together as he spoke.

She stooped to the fire, but there was no gas in the pipe.

“Shilling meter?” she asked, fumbling in her handbag for coins. “Bother these francs. I meant to put them away. Where is it? Kitchen? Which door?”

“Give me the shilling,” he said, angrily. “Stay where you are.”

She was more puzzled still by his manner, but he was obviously upset, even ill, she thought, excusing him to her heart. All the same, she
had
paid the taxi and now the meter. He could at least say –

He came in again, a little flushed now but speaking more normally.

“Try again,” he said.

The fire lit, without a bang. Simon dropped into a chair beside it, holding out his shaking hands to the warmth that began to spread into the chill room.

Penelope sat back on her heels beside him, watching and pitying. He was a bad sailor as he had always told her. Going out the day had been fine and sunny and he was able to sit, very still, throughout an extremely smooth crossing and afterwards eat a hearty meal on the train in France. This afternoon had been very different. He had foregone lunch that day on the train to prepare for the crossing, which had been distinctly choppy. Penelope had never been sea-sick in her life, not even on her father's yacht. She had seen Simon, driven by rain, wind and spray, settle on an uncomfortable narrow bench just outside one of the big saloons. He was obviously controlling himself by sheer will-power. She dared not speak to him. Later, with one or two of her student friends, she had eaten a good meal in the almost deserted dining saloon of the ship.

So now, remembering their journey, she said, “You
must
have something to eat. You've had nothing since coffee and rolls this morning. It's after seven. Will there be any food in the flat? I suppose not. What can we do?”

“You'd better find a meal out or go home,” he said, dully.

“I won't go home and leave you like this. You must have something here, if it's only a tin.”

She moved towards the door he had gone through to feed the meter, but he stopped her again.

“I won't have you messing about in my flat,” he said, furiously. “You may think you own me, but you damned well don't.”

“I only – Simon, you're ill! Isn't there any shop round here – I must get you …”

He pulled himself up in his chair with an effort.

“There's a funny little delicatessen place round the first corner to the right as you leave the block. It's open till eight, except on Thursdays. This isn't Thursday, is it?”

“No, it's Friday,” she said, staring at him.

“See what you can find. There won't be much, but I don't want much after that appalling journey.”

He dropped his head in his hands, leaning forward again towards the fire. Though Penelope wanted to take him in her arms and comfort him she thought better of it. What he needed was hot food inside him. She snatched up her handbag and went quickly out of the flat.

As soon as the door closed behind her Simon sat up, listening to the sound of her footsteps dying away on the stone stairs. When the sound stopped he called out, loudly, “You can come in now, Mrs. Morris. But turn the kitchen light on first.”

Looking round he saw the light go on in the kitchen and smiled. The door opened slowly and a thin, slightly bent figure in a drab skirt and overall under a bright red overcoat moved reluctantly into the room.

“Think yer got second sight, do yet?” she said, trying to attack when she knew she was defeated.

“No. But you left the door open a fraction when you tried to close it after you heard my key in the lock. And you didn't put the light out quickly enough. I saw it when I got out of the taxi.”

“We all know you're wonderful,” she said, moving by slow steps towards the door.

Simon held out his hand.

“Give me the key,” he said.

She clutched the pocket of her coat, giving away the key's whereabouts, but she continued towards the door.

“Take the key out of your pocket and give it to me,” he ordered.

Mrs. Morris hurried towards the door. But Simon was too quick for her. He bounded from his chair, leaped past her and was standing with his back to her escape and his hand held out when she checked herself, almost touching him.

“The key,” he repeated, staring into her eyes.

Very slowly Mrs. Morris took it out and handed it to him. Then, looking this way and that she caught sight of the two suitcases near the door. Before Simon could stop her she was on her knees beside them, looking at the labels, reading the initials on Penelope's.

“That wouldn't be Miss Penelope Dane, now would it?” she said, standing up again, her face full of malice. “Daughter of Mr. Hubert Dane, Q. C.?”

“Will you go,” he said, ignoring her question. “And remember this. From now on you will get the caretaker to let you in here when you come to clean for me and if I ever find you in my rooms again out of working hours I shall send for the police.”

“Nark it!” Mrs. Morris said, roughly. “Call for the police indeed! You wouldn't dare to,
and
you know it. Police! You make me laugh. I bin ' ere to clean same as you asked me to. Waiting for me money and why shouldn't I? It's my right.”

“Then why did you hide? Why go into the kitchen with the light off? Miss Dane would have found you there if I hadn't stopped her going in.”

“Then for why did you stop 'er? Oh, you needn't answer.”

“I don't intend to.”

He took out his wallet and found a pound note.

“Two hours the day I left – after I'd gone. An hour and a half today. Seventeen and six. I want two and six change.”

Mrs. Morris laughed, but she took his note, saying, as she did so, “You do, do you? Well, you can listen to me.
I
want thirty nickers. Fair price for keeping quiet about the new girl friend. There's two I know would pay more than that for the evidence I got now.”

Simon's face darkened in anger, but he did not move.

“Very well. I shall simply deduct the half-crown from your next week's wages. You will come on Friday morning for two hours as usual.”

“Thirty quid,” Mrs. Morris said, on a rising note. “And cheap at the price. I don't mind giving you till Saturday, seeing you're only just back. Considerate, that's me. Not like my old man. Catch 'im doing a kind act.”

Something in Simon's face made the words fade on her lips. She pulled her coat together and went away.

After she had gone he stood looking at the door, cursing her in a whispered string of violent obscenity. Then, shivering again, though the room was now much warmer, he went back to his chair near the fire.

Almost at once the bell rang. Penelope was back with a brown paper carrier bag of provisions. Simon said nothing, simply let her in, shut the door behind her and returned to the fire.

“Your delicatessen shop was splendid,” she said, gaily. “It had everything. Cold meats, salad, fruit, packet soup, cheese.”

“Bread and cheese will do for me. I suppose they had bread?”

“Yes, bread. What d'you cook on? Gas or electricity?”

“I don't cook. There is a gas affair. No need for you to cook, either.”

“I'm going to make some soup. The rest's cold.”

“God damn you! Stop talking about food!”

She stared at him, more grieved than affronted, more puzzled than afraid. Though his words were violent, he had spoken them in a low voice, almost without expression. Leaving her parcels on the table she went to him and knelt at his side.