The Ivy Tree (5 page)

I said hurriedly: ‘I'll have to take these through to the kitchen. See you later. Keep your eye on the White Slaver.'

‘Sure. All the same, it's all very well to laugh, but she's got that kind of face. Stodgy, but clever, and more to her than meets the eye. Must be something, anyway, stands to reason. I mean, I'm telling you, the way she stares. Oh well, maybe you
are
just like someone she knows, or something.'

‘Maybe I am,' I said.

I picked up the tray and, without another glance at the corner under the contemporary Crusaders, I pushed my way through the swing door into the steamy cubby-hole that the Kasbah called its kitchen.

Next day she was there again. And the next. And Norma was right. Now that I knew, I could feel it, the steady gaze that followed me about the place, pulling my own eyes so strongly that I had to will myself not to keep glancing back at her, to see if she was still watching me.

Once or twice I forgot, and my look did cross hers, to see her eyes drop just as they had before, and the heavy face, expressionless, stare down at the slow swirl of brown in her coffee cup as she stirred it. Another time when I caught the edge of her steady, obstinate stare, I stopped, cloth in hand – I was wiping a table top – and let myself look surprised, and a little embarrassed. She held my gaze for a moment, then she looked away.

It was on the third afternoon that I decided that there must be more in it than a chance interest. My recent encounter on the Roman Wall was still very much in the front of my mind, and I felt strongly that that afternoon's mistakes would hardly bear repeating.

When the bar-counter was quiet, I paused by it, and said to Norma: ‘She's still at it, your White Slaver in the corner. And I'm tired of it. I'm going over to speak to her and ask her if she thinks she's ever met me.'

‘Well, you needn't bother,' said Norma. ‘I been trying to get a minute to tell you ever since a quarter to six. She's bin asking about you. Asked Mavis who you were.'

‘
Did
she?'

‘Uh-huh. Right out. Got hold of Mavis while you were in the kitchen. What's up?'

‘Nothing. No, really. What did Mavis tell her?'

‘Well, she didn't see nothing wrong in it, the old girl said she thought she knew you anyway, and asked if you came from these parts and if you were living in Newcastle. So Mavis said who you were and that you'd come from Canada and had a fancy to stay up north for a bit, seeing as your family'd come from round here hundreds of years ago, and that you were just working here temp'ry like, till you get yourself sorted out and found a proper job. Mavis didn't see anything wrong in telling her, a woman like that, sort of respectable. It's not as if it was a
man
, after all, is it?'

Another time I would have appreciated the way Norma said the word, as if describing a dangerous and fascinating kind of wild beast; but just now I had room only for one thing. ‘No,' I said, ‘it's all right. But – well, it's odd, Norma, the whole thing, and I don't like mysteries. Did Mavis find out anything about
her
? Who she is, where she comes from?'

‘No.'

I looked unseeingly down at the tray of crockery in my hand. Fleetingly, I was there again: the Roman Wall in the sunshine, the bubble of the curlews, the smell of thyme, the swans preening and dipping in the lough below, and, facing me, that hard blue stare, as genuinely dangerous, I felt sure, as anything that Norma could have dreamed up . . .

I said abruptly: ‘I want to know who she is. But I don't want to speak to her. Look, Norma, she's got a dress-box or something with her, and it's labelled. I'm going into the kitchen again, now, because I don't want to look as if I've any interest in it. Will you ask Mavis to go over, say something – any excuse will do – and get a look at that label?'

‘Sure. You leave it to me. Anything for a spot of excitement. Oh, and tell them to get a move on in there: I'll be out of cups in a minute.'

When I got back from the kitchen with the cups, the corner table was empty. Mavis was at the counter with Norma. I said, a little anxiously: ‘Did she see you looking?'

‘Not her,' said Mavis. ‘Funny sort of woman, eh? Norma says you don't know her.'

‘No.' I set the tray down on the counter. ‘The box was labelled, then? What was the name?'

‘Dermott. A Miss Dermott.'

I turned slowly to look at her. ‘Dermott.'

‘Does it mean anything?' asked Norma.

Mavis said: ‘Dermott? That's an Irish name, isn't it?'

‘What's the matter?' said Norma quickly. ‘Mary,
do
you know her?'

I said sharply: ‘Did you see the address? Was there one? Did you see where she was from?'

Mavis was looking at me curiously. ‘Yes, I did. Some address near Bellingham, a farm. White-something Farm, it was. Mary, what—?'

‘Yes, that was it. Then you
do
know her?'

‘No. I've never seen her in my life. Honestly. But—' I took in my breath – ‘she must know someone I know, that's all. I – I've met someone from Whitescar . . . she must have heard I worked here, and came to see. But what an odd way of doing it, not to speak, I mean . . . Oh, well,' I managed a smile, speaking lightly. ‘That's
that
little mystery solved, and nothing to it after all. Thanks a lot, Mavis.'

‘Think nothing of it.' And Mavis, dismissing the incident, hurried away. But Norma, lifting the piles of clean cups and saucers from the tray I had brought, and stacking them slowly in place, eyed me thoughtfully.

‘Nothing to it, eh?'

‘Nothing at all. If she's here tomorrow I'll speak to her myself.'

‘I would,' said Norma. ‘I would, too. Find out what she's playing at . . . Friend of a friend of yours, eh?'

‘Something like that.'

Something like that
. I could see the likeness now: the poorish copy of that dramatically handsome face, the sepia print of Connor Winslow's Glorious Technicolor. ‘
My half-sister keeps house at Whitescar
 . . .' She would be some half-dozen years older than he, with the different colouring she had probably got from her Dermott father, and none of the good looks that his Winslow blood had given Connor. But the likeness, ill defined, shadowy, a characterless travesty of his vivid charm, was there, to be glimpsed now and then, fleetingly, by anyone who knew. I thought, suddenly: I wonder if she minds.

‘I wouldn't let it upset you,' said Norma. ‘Really I wouldn't.'

‘I won't. Thanks, Norma. Don't worry.'

She wasn't looking at me. She began to rearrange a carefully stacked pile of chocolate biscuits.

‘There's a man in it, isn't there?'

‘Well, you could hardly—' I paused. It was easier that way, after all. ‘Yes, I suppose there is.'

‘Oh
well
.' This, for Norma, would apparently have explained behaviour a good deal odder than Lisa Dermott's. ‘Well, you take it from me, dear, have done with it if it bothers you. If she's here tomorrow I'd walk right up to her, if I was you, and just ask her straight out what she's playing at and what she wants.'

‘All right,' I said, ‘I will.'

But I wasn't there next afternoon to watch for her coming. I gave my notice in that night.

3

When the knock came at my bedroom door I knew who it was even before I looked up from my packing.

My landlady, Mrs Smithson, was out: I had been to look for her as soon as I came in, only to remember that Wednesday was her regular evening for the cinema and late supper with a friend. Even without this knowledge I could never have mistaken the tentative, even nervous quality of this knock for Mrs Smithson's forthright rapping. As clearly as if the thick, shiningly varnished door were made of glass, I could see who stood there; the toffee-brown eyes under the brown, undistinguished hat, and the drawn-down corners of the soft, obstinate-looking mouth.

I hadn't heard anyone come upstairs, though the bare and echoing linoleum of the two flights to my room was a more than sufficient herald of approach. She must have come up very softly.

I hesitated. She must know I was here. I had seen no reason for silence, and the light would be showing under my door.

As the soft, insistent rapping came again, I threw a swift look round the room.

The ashtray by the bed, almost full . . . the bed itself, disordered . . . evidence of the hours spent smoking, thinking, counting the stains on the fly-spotted ceiling, before I had finally risen to drag out and pack the cases that stood – proof of a more tangible kind of disturbance – in the middle of the floor.

Well, it was too late to do anything about them now. But there, on the table near the window, was a more cogent witness still – the telephone directory, borrowed from downstairs, and open at the page headed: ‘
Wilson – Winthorpe
 . . .'

I went silently across the room, and shut it. Then I turned back to the dressing-chest and pulled open a drawer.

I said, on a note of enquiry: ‘Yes? Come in.'

When the door opened, I had my back to it, lifting clothes out of the drawer. ‘Oh, Mrs Smithson,' I began, as I turned, then stopped short, my brows lifted, my face registering, I hoped, nothing but surprise.

She said, standing squarely in the doorway: ‘Miss Grey?'

‘Yes? I'm afraid—' I paused, and let recognition dawn, and with it puzzlement. ‘Wait a moment. I think – don't I know your face? You were in the Kasbah this afternoon, the café where I work, weren't you? I remember noticing you in the corner.'

‘That's right. My name's Dermott, Lisa Dermott.' She pronounced the name Continental-fashion, ‘
Leeza
'. She paused to let it register, then added: ‘From Whitescar.'

I said, still on that puzzled note: ‘How do you do, Miss – Mrs? – Dermott. Is there something I can do for you?'

She came into the room unasked, her eyes watchful on my face. She shut the door behind her, and began to pull off her plain, good hogskin gloves. I stood there without moving, my hands full of clothes, plainly intending, I hoped, not to invite her to sit down.

She sat down. She said flatly: ‘My brother met you up on the Roman Wall beyond Housesteads on Sunday.'

‘On the Ro— oh, yes, of course I remember. A man spoke to me. Winslow, he was called, from somewhere near Bellingham.' (
Careful now, Mary Grey; don't overplay it; she'll know you'd not be likely to forget a thing like that
). I added slowly: ‘Whitescar. Yes. That's where he said he came from. We had a rather – odd conversation.'

I put the things I was holding back into the drawer, and then turned to face her. There was a packet of Players in my handbag lying beside me on the dressing-chest. I shook one loose. ‘Do you smoke?'

‘No, thank you.'

‘Do you mind if I do?'

‘It's your own room.'

‘Yes.' If she noticed the irony she gave no sign of it. She sat there solidly, uninvited, in the only chair my wretched little room boasted, and set her handbag down on the table beside her. She hadn't taken her eyes off me. ‘I'm Miss Dermott,' she said, ‘I'm not married. Con Winslow's my half-brother.'

‘Yes, I believe he mentioned you. I remember now.'

‘He told me all about
you
,' she said. ‘I didn't believe him, but he was right. It's amazing. Even given the eight years, it's amazing. I'd have known you anywhere.'

I said, carefully: ‘He told me I was exactly like a young cousin of his who'd left home some eight years ago. She had an odd name, Annabel. Is that right?'

‘Quite right.'

‘And you see the same resemblance?'

‘Certainly. I didn't actually know Annabel herself. I came to Whitescar after she'd gone. But the old man used to keep her photographs in his room, a regular gallery of them, and I dusted them every day, till I suppose I knew every expression she had. I'm sure that anyone who knew her would make the same mistake as Con. It's uncanny, believe me.'

‘It seems I must believe you.' I drew deeply on my cigarette. ‘The “old man” you spoke of . . . would that be Mr Winslow's father?'

‘His great-uncle. He was Annabel's grandfather.'

I had been standing by the table. I sat down on the edge of it. I didn't look at her; I was watching the end of my cigarette. Then I said, so abruptly that it sounded rude: ‘So what, Miss Dermott?'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘It's an expression we have on our side of the Atlantic. It means, roughly, all right, you've made your point, now where is it supposed to get us? You say I'm the image of this Annabel of yours. Granted: I'll accept that. You and Mr Winslow have gone to a lot of trouble to tell me so. I repeat: so what?'

‘You must admit—' she seemed to be choosing her words – ‘that we were bound to be interested, terribly interested?'

I said bluntly: ‘You've gone a little beyond “interest”, haven't you? Unless, of course, you give the word its other meaning.'

‘I don't follow you.'

‘No? I think you do. Tell me something frankly, please. Does your brother still persist in thinking that I might
actually be
Annabel Winslow?'