Wild Melody (24 page)

ears caught it.

'And who is Mitch?' She paused. 'Carol—who is Mitch?'

Carol's shoulders moved as if she was trying to shake off a burden suddenly

grown too heavy for her to bear.

'He's dead,' she said dully. 'Oh God, he's dead.' And she began to cry with

long, gulping sobs.

Andrew was there. 'Let's get her out of this crowd,' he said swiftly. 'You

come too, Catriona. Jean, take her other arm.'

Gently but firmly the weeping girl was urged towards the door. Behind her,

Catriona could hear Ian stepping into the breach, using his actor's skill to

drag the crowd's attention back from what had just transpired. Before they

had got into the hall, the singing had begun again, a little raggedly.

There was nothing very new in Carol's story, told there in the office while

Jean made tea and rang the doctor. She had met Mitch at a pop concert in her

home town eighteen months before. He was the guitarist with a group, but

he had told her his ambition was to make it on his own as a serious folk

singer. They were playing a number of gigs in neighbouring towns and she

had followed the group around, just watching and listening to him.

Eventually when they moved on, she went too. At first, everything was

fine— Mitch even obtained a couple of sol o bookings and was able to try

out his folk act. But he didn't have the instant success he dream ed
of.
One

booki ng agent told him frankly his value was as a group art ist not a

soloist, and he became self- contained and morose.

"The group fi nall y got rid of him in t he end.' Carol clasped her hands

round t he warmth of her t ea cup. 'He—he didn't want to know. Didn't

rehearse--didn't try any more. They got sick. I couldn't blame them. He was

so moody too, there was no living with him.'

It had been quite some time, she said, before she had realised the terrifying

reason for these sudden changes in mood he seemed subject too. Even then,

she hadn't really believed it. Not until she had found the hypodermic syringe

hidden in a drawer. She had confronted him with it, begged him to get help,

and he had premised that he would, but it was only the first of many such

promises.

From then on Mitch's path had led downhill—fast, and Carol had been

powerless to do anything to help him or prevent his eventual total

disintegration.

'He couldn't get work,' she said. 'No one would touch him, because they

didn't know how he was going to be. He wasn't getting any money and he

needed money—for the stuff. I got a job in a supermarket, but that wasn't

enough. It just paid our-rent and food, and that wasn't what he needed. He

used to come down to the supermarket and wait for me to finish work. One

day he got sick of waiting. He hit this woman and grabbed her bag. They got

him, of course, and he had to go to court. He got a suspended sentence and

they said he had to get treatment. He said he would—he promised me.' Her

mouth trembled uncontrollably. 'He said I kept on at him—that he couldn't

stand it any longer, and he went. I didn't see him for nearly three weeks, then

the police came for me.'

Mitch, she had discovered, was in hospital, but he was not receiving

treatment. He had developed acute blood poisoning.

'I was there with him all the time,' she said. 'They couldn't do much for him.

He was too far gone when they found him. I kept thinking—all the

time—that if I hadn't kept on at him maybe he wouldn't have gone. Maybe

he'd still be alive now. They said I could have his things—there wasn't

much. He'd sold nearly everything to get money for the—stuff. But he'd

always kept the guitar. He thought all the time that one day he was really

going to make it. Having the guitar was like still having part of him.'

Andrew spoke gently. 'Where's the guitar now, Carol?'

She looked down dazedly as if she expected to find it in its usual place,

cradled in her arms. Her shoulders moved again wearily. 'It's upstairs—I

think.'

'Do you want it?' Jean bent over her, her warm face compassionate.

There was a long silence, then Carol shook her head. 'No,' she said simply.

'Not any more.'

The doctor's arrival relieved Catriona from her vigil. All during the pitiful

recital she had knelt at Carol's feet, her hands clutched in that fierce grip.

Now she moved stiffly back into the dark hall, rubbing her finger-joints.

The singing was still going on, but she could not face a crowd yet. She went

down the passage to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water.

From behind her Jason said quietly, 'All right?'

'Yes.' She made herself speak normally. 'The doctor's with her now.'

'I meant you,' he said abruptly.

Catriona gave a slight shake of her head and took another sip from her glass.

He came over and stood looking down at her. T shouldn't have made you

come here tonight. I'm sorry,' he said.

'I'm not.' She looked up at him gravely. 'She's talked and told us everything.

Now Andrew can get help for her. Besides, I knew what I might be doing. I

knew that song meant something to her and I used it deliberately.'

His eyes were hard. 'I didn't get that impression. It seemed to me you were

singing from your heart.'

She was silent. He was the last person she could tell that every word, every

note of music had ached with her wanting him.

'Poor Catriona!' There was an odd note in his voice. 'Always fated to fall in

love with the wrong man.'

He knew. The humiliating awareness kept her eyes fixed on the floor. She

couldn't face him and see—what? Mockery? Pity? Sudden tension invaded

her body as Jason reached out and drew her to him, holding her against him

with unwonted gentleness.

His hand came up and stroked her face, then found her chin, lifting it with

firm insistence. He was going to kiss her, and then her self-betrayal would

be complete. With a strength she had not known she possessed, she dragged

herself out of his arms and stared at him, masking her other emotions with

anger.

'Save your compassion, Mr Lord.' She hated herself for sounding so young

and breathless. 'Keep it for people like Carol. She needs it. I—I don't.'

There was a loaded pause. Then, 'As you wish,' he said, his voice flat and

cold, and left her.

IT seemed strange to come to work and find the Home Counties' TV vans

gone from the road outside the centre. Strange too to find how the whole

crew was missed, especially by the people who had complained most

vociferously at the beginning of filming about the invasion of their privacy.

Catriona listened and smiled and agreed, and kept her own heartache strictly

to herself.

'My, that Mr Lord was a dish!' Mrs Lamb smacked her lips reminiscently as

she loaded the last article of laundry into the elderly spin dryer and closed

its lid. 'If I was a young bit of a thing like you, Catriona, I'd have been after

him like a shot.'

'Girls these days don't know when they're on to a good thing,' Mrs Waters,

one of the newer residents, remarked enviously.

Catriona, intercepting an anxious look from Jean, made herself smile. 'Oh, I

think we do,' she said with an attempt at lightness. 'It's the thought of all the

competition that we find a bit daunting.'

'Hmm.' Mrs Lamb set the drier going. 'Well, I think if a thing's worth

having, it's worth fighting for. Maybe if I'd fought a bit harder, Bert

wouldn't have gone off like that. But there again, he probably would have.

Law unto himself, is my Bert. Always was.'

'She sounds as if she would be quite ready to have him back in spite of the

way he left her,' Catriona told Jean when they were alone.

Jean smiled a little. 'I don't doubt it. That's one of the things Andrew and I

have always noticed—one of the encouraging things—that people don't

simply write off relationships which have gone wrong, even when to

outsiders they seem a total disaster. You hear girls with black eyes and

broken ribs making excuses for the husbands who gave them to them.' She

sighed. 'I don't think I possess that sort of courage—or optimism.'

Catriona_ shook her head. 'Nor me.' She paused. 'How's Mitch—I mean

Carol—today?'

"Very calm--very rational. She's seeing Dr Winters this — : — and she's

given Andrew her parents' address in the north. He's going to write to them

to see what the chances are of her going back there for a while at least. It

seems there was a terrible row when she left originally, and she's afraid they

may not want her back. I hope she's wrong. Affection and a stable

background are just what she needs at the moment.'

Andrew appeared in the doorway, looking harassed. 'Mrs Henderson,' he

mouthed. 'On the warpath too, I'm afraid. Could we have some coffee?'

Mrs Henderson's mood seemed no sweeter when Catriona carried the tray

into the office. She acknowledged her quiet greeting with a sniff and turned

immediately back to Andrew.

'As I was saying, Mr Milner, I can see no useful purpose being served by

these people becoming part of the studio audience. If I had been consulted, I

would have said so.'

'I'm sorry you feel like that, Mrs Henderson.' Andrew tried to be

conciliatory. 'But I don't see any harm in it. After all, they did take part in

the documentary and it will be their only chance to see the programme. We

have no television set here, as you know. And it's Mr Lord's intention that

the residents should take part in the studio discussion.'

Mrs Henderson snorted. 'Mr Lord has a deplorably highhanded attitude,' she

said. 'I think he has lost sight of the fact that these people are charity cases.'

'I think Mr Lord knows precisely what these people are,' Andrew said

quietly. 'I also think he knows precisely how to run his programme. It's

hardly our place to dictate its format or say how the studio audience should

be constituted.'

'Well, I am extremely disappointed in the whole thing,' Mrs Henderson

announced. 'I wish I had never given permission for the filming. I'm not at

all sure that I shouldn't forbid the programme to be shown.'

'I think it's a little late for that,' Andrew said drily. 'It's scheduled to go out

on Monday evening. Besides, surely any cancellation of the project would

have to be a Trust decision, and I doubt whether a meeting of all the trustees

could be convened in time.'

Mrs Henderson glared at him, and remained silent.

After a pause, Andrew went on, 'I must say there seems to be an amazing

amount of interest in the programme from other sources. I've been asked to

take part in a radio forum on the problems of the homeless, and one of the

evening papers was on the phone earlier asking about us and our work.'

'Indeed?' she snapped. 'I hope all this publicity has the desired effect and

does not simply make people discontented and ungrateful. I have grave

doubts about the wisdom of the whole undertaking. Good day, Mr Milner.'

'I was afraid of that,' Andrew said gloomily, after Mrs Henderson had gone.

'I was hoping she wouldn't find out that everyone from the centre was going

to be in the audience. Let's just hope she doesn't refer to them in public as

charity cases, or there could be a riot.'

'Perhaps that's what this place needs,' Catriona muttered. 'Well, not a riot,

but some kind of shake-up among the trustees. They can't all have her rigid

attitude, surely.'

'On the contrary. I think there are several who would like to have a more

positive say in running things, but no one wants to make the first

move—because she's James Henderson's widow and it's Henderson money

that has been involved up to now. It's understandable, I suppose—loyalty to

the name and all that, but it would be easier for the centre if she had rather

less control.'

Sally was sympathetic when Catriona recounted the day's events over

supper that night.

'Money's the answer, of course,' she said. 'If the trust was bolstered up by

outside finance, then Mrs H. could be ushered out of the driving seat.'

Catriona nodded rather unhappily. 'It seems cruel, but she's so—hostile

towards the centre and everything Andrew is trying to do. Anything she

does comes from a sense of duty, not from any real interest in people. I can't

believe she's the right person to be at the head of a charity organisation.'

Sally nodded sombrely. 'In her heart, she might be quite glad to be relieved

of the job,' she said. She paused, then grinned at Catriona. 'How about a

demo at the studio on Monday night—banners with "Henderson must Go"

on them? Think she'd take the hint?'

Catriona smiled reluctantly. 'I doubt it. She'd probably close the centre

instead.'

'It's a big week for all of us on television,' Sally remarked as they cleared

away. 'The centre documentary on Monday, and the play on Wednesday.