Wild Melody (18 page)

a cigarette in quick, jerky puffs.

She felt sick with shame, and her body ached with frustrated emotion. A

sudden longing for reassurance swept over her and she moved towards him.

'Jason?'

'Oh God—no!' he exploded. He stepped backwards, throwing up a hand as if

he was warding her off, and Catriona paused, shocked and dismayed. 'Not

again, thank you. I don't know what effect this stop-go policy of yours is

having on you, my sweet, but it's playing hell with my nervous system, so

kindly keep your distance.'

'Jason—please. You don't understand . . .'

'I understand all right,' he said. 'You can't be properly grateful until you

know the full extent of your obligation, and you feel that gratitude has gone

far enough for one night. Well, consider all debts paid and in full. I never did

like the instalment system, and where sex is concerned, it's just sheer bloody

disaster.'

'No!'
He was at the door, shrugging on his discarded jacket, but she reached

him and gripped his arm, preventing him from turning the latch. 'You must

listen to me!'

His mouth curled impatiently. 'You have my undivided attention.'

She looked up at him, her eyes enormous with tears. 'You think I've just

been—teasing you, stringing you along so that you'll help me. But it isn't

true. Oh, I know you talked about my being under an obligation to you, but

you can't imagine I let you—kiss me because I felt—obligated.'

'Then why?' His voice was cynical. 'I'd like to know what you did feel—if

anything.'

It would have been the easiest thing in the world then to have cried, 'It was

because I love you'—the easiest, and yet the most impossible. The only sine

thing in a reeling world was that he must never know about this foolish,

hopeless love he had engendered in her. She did not know which reaction

she would find harder to bear, his mockery or his pity.

'Well, why?' he prompted, his voice harsh.

'I don't know.' She stared unhappily down at the carpet. 'No one had ever

touched me like that—or kissed me— before, and I—wanted ... I thought. . .'

'My God,' he said slowly. He put his hand under her chin forcing her to look

up at him again. 'Didn't it occur to you that you were playing with fire? That

there's only one inevitable conclusion when a man makes love to a girl as I

was to you?'

'I didn't think at first,' she whispered. 'And then, when I did think—I was

frightened . . .'

'I see.' He was silent for a moment. 'Did you find me so repulsive, then, or

did you merely think I was such a selfish brute that I wouldn't guess

how—innocent you were and be gentle with you?'

'Oh, no.' She twisted her hands in the folds of her gown.

'Then I can only conclude that it wasn't just virginal misgivings that made

you back off like that, and that you haven't told me the whole reason. Is there

something else—something that you're keeping from me?'

'Yes,' she said miserably, knowing that he only had to look into her eyes to

see the shaming truth.

'I thought so,' he said quietly. 'It explains a lot, doesn't it? That scene in the

kitchen with Jeremy—even your motive for asking me for help as you did.'

He gave a short, mirthless laugh. 'You know, you really had me going there

for a while. I thought you wanted me, when all you were after was a lesson

in loving. Well, next time choose someone else for you naive little

experiments or you may find you're out of your depth.' She cried out in hurt

at that, but his voice went on relentlessly. 'Stick to the surface emotions,

darling, like that pretty song you sang so sweetly tonight. But leave love out

of it. That's too wild a melody for the limits you've imposed on

yourself—musically and emotionally.'

If he had struck her, the pain could not have been greater, she thought dully

as the door closed behind him.

She walked back to the sofa and sank down on it. The rumpled cushions still

bore the impress of his body, and with a little moan-she buried her face in

them and wept until she could weep no more.

CATRIONA was dry-eyed but still wide awake an hour later when Sally

tiptoed into the bedroom.

'I'm glad you're not asleep.' Sally switched on the lamp on the cabinet that

stood between the two beds. 'Whatever happened at Moira's? Everyone's

dying of curiosity. The story is that she threw a drink all over you.'

Catriona sighed. 'She did spill one down me,' she admitted. 'I don't know

whether it was deliberate or not.'

'Well, if it wasn't this time, it will be next—and she'll probably use vitriol.'

Sally's voice was muffled as she tugged her dress over her head. 'She gets

you round there as the hired help and you turn into the evening's sensation.

Then, to cap it all, you walk off with the man in her life. I've never seen her

in such a temper! I don't envy Jason making his peace with her tonight, but,'

she chuckled, 'no doubt he has his methods.'

Catriona lay very still, trying to assimilate what had just been said.

'He—went back to the party, then?' she managed, her throat dry.

'Naturally.' Sally got into bed and clicked off the light. 'After all, his

invitation would include breakfast as well.'

'I suppose so.' Catriona had no idea how her voice could sound so normal in

spite of the pain that seemed to be tearing her apart.

'Well, at least no one can ever wonder what they see in each other,' said

Sally, punching her pillow into shape. 'And I'm sine it isn't marriage. Even

Moira has enough sense to realise that she's wasting her time trying to pin

Jason down—so she settles for what she can get.' She yawned. 'Goodnight,

love. Happy dreams.'

'Goodnight,' Catriona returned almost inaudibly.

She was still pale and heavy-eyed when she returned to work at the centre

the following week. Both Jean and Andrew exclaimed over her wan

appearance and she obediently accepted the aspirin and cup of coffee they

pressed on her, but firmly declined the suggestion that she should go home

again. Work was what she wanted, she thought. Something to occupy her

mind and create the physical tiredness that would enable her to sleep at

night.

News at the centre was depressing. Andrew had received a letter from the

local authority notifying him that the house was to be looked over by a

building inspector within the next few days.

'This could be the crunch,' he said worriedly. 'They may condemn the place

unless we can carry certain vital work out.'

Catriona remained silent. She was glad that she had not raised Andrew's

hopes in any way by telling him she intended to ask Jason's help. It would

have been awful to have had to confess what a failure it had been, and

impossible to explain why.

Andrew was speaking again. 'There'll be a meeting of the trustees later this

week. I'll have to attend and let them know the exact position.' He sighed. 'It

isn't a task I relish.'

'What will you do if the centre has to close?' Catriona asked.

He shrugged. 'Go back to parish work, I suppose.'

'And Jean?' She watched him carefully, and had the satisfaction of seeing

him flush.

'Well, she's very highly qualified, you know,' he said awkwardly. 'She

would have no trouble in getting another post even if—I mean, if she didn't.

. .' His voice tailed off and Catriona bent over her typewriter, hiding a smile.

The morning was as busy as she had hoped. The phone rang constantly,

usually proving to be social workers urgently seeking accommodation for

people, and several new arrivals, including two families with young

children, actually took up residence. In the middle of it all, the police arrived

to pick up a young man who had arrived over the weekend, after absconding

from Borstal, and the builder looked in to announce, with a certain gloomy

relish, that the usual patching-up job on the roof was no longer adequate and

that an entirely new roof was what was needed.

Jean and Catriona were having a belated snack in the kitchen when two men

appeared in the doorway to ask where the piano was wanted.

'Oh, lord!' Jean jumped up. 'I'd forgotten all about it. It had better go in the

big sitting room, I suppose.'

As she hurried out to the hall, she explained to Catriona that the piano was a

gift from a local youth club which had been fortunate enough to acquire a

better one. It was indeed a very battered-looking instrument, with the ivory

missing from a number of the keys, but as Catriona tried a few experimental

chords, it seemed to be in tune.

'Mrs Lamb will be delighted,' Jean remarked. 'Apparently she used to play

in a pub at one time, so I daresay we can look forward to some live

entertainment in the evenings.'

'I could always bring my guitar along,' Catriona offered rather diffidently.

'That would be marvellous.' Jean looked at her quickly. 'But don't feel you

have to. You work quite hard enough in office hours without coming back in

your own time.'

'I'd like to.' Catriona picked out a soft minor chord before closing the piano

lid. 'I don't have a lot to do in my spare time.' She saw Jean watching her

with a concerned expression and gave a determined smile. 'I must get back

to work.'

But as they came out into the hall, they saw they-had yet another visitor. Mrs

Henderson was standing in the hall, her neat, upright figure cast in lines of

disapproval.

'Good afternoon, Miss Haydon,' she greeted Jean, and gave Catriona a

glacial look. 'And how long do you normally take for a lunch break, young

woman?'

'I have an hour,' Catriona told her quietly.

'She usually takes less, but today she was giving me a hand on the domestic

side,' Jean intervened, and Catriona looked at her gratefully.

'I see.' Mrs Henderson sniffed slightly. 'The Trust does not pay office

worker's wages to domestic staff, Miss Haydon. I had my doubts as to

whether a full-time office assistant was really necessary, although Mr

Milner assured me she was. If Miss—er—Muir doesn't have sufficient work

...'

'Oh, but I do,' Catriona protested. 'It was just that the piano arrived and we

were trying it.'

She realised at once she had said the wrong thing. Mrs Henderson's mouth

grew tighter than ever.

'A piano—what piano?' She listened to Jean's explanation in silence with no

relaxation of her attitude. 'I suppose the gift was intended as an act of

kindness,' she said at last. 'But I feel the Trustees should have been

consulted before it was accepted. After all, Miss Haydon, this is intended to

be a shelter for distressed persons, not a social club. However, as it is here

now, I suppose it had better stay. Perhaps it had better be locked during

working hours.'

Catriona flushed angrily at the implication, but Jean's voice was tranquil as

she replied, 'Of course, Mrs Henderson. I'll see to it.'

Mrs Henderson turned her gaze back to Catriona. 'Do you intend to resume

work at all this afternoon, young woman?' she asked glacially, and Catriona,

her face flaming, walked ahead of her into the office. Andrew, who was

sitting at one of the tables, sent her a sympathetic look, but it also contained

a warning, and she bit back the protest that was trembling on her lips. Mrs

Henderson did not seem to like her very much as it was, and no useful

purpose would be served by antagonising her further. She sat down at her

typewriter and fitted paper and carbons into it with exaggerated efficiency.

Andrew had risen and welcomed Mrs Henderson, offering her a chair.

'Well, Mr Milner, and have you had time to think over the proposition that

has been put to us?'

'Frankly, I've thought about nothing else since you telephoned.' Andrew

resumed his own seat. 'It's come rather as a bolt from the blue.'

'It has, indeed,' Mrs Henderson said with a trace of grim- ness. 'And you are

sure you are not responsible?'

'Quite sure.' Andrew shook his head. 'Oh, I've heard of the programme, of

course, but I can't imagine why they should want to feature the centre on it.'

'On the contrary, I consider that some tribute to my dear husband's unfailing

generosity is long overdue. He certainly never received the recognition he

deserved in his lifetime.'

'No.' Andrew was silent for a moment. 'But—forgive me —is this the

purpose of the programme? My understanding was that it was the centre

itself—alive and working—that they wanted to film.'

Catriona sat as if she had been turned to stone. She turned and her eyes met

Andrew's with a mute question. He nodded.

'It's true, Catriona. Incredible as it may sound, Mrs Henderson has been

contacted by a television producer who wants to feature the centre in a

forthcoming documentary.'

'That—that's wonderful.' Catriona's response was totally mechanical. She