Born of Woman (60 page)

Now, he appeared to have forgotten her existence—even Lyn's as well, although the half hour's grace she'd invented for him had been up some time ago. She was sick with nerves, waiting for Matthew to pounce. And yet he seemed unusually distracted, sorting through his desk, switching from one task to another, one mood to another, apparently unaware of the time. He snatched up one of his letters—began to mutter as he read it, obviously enraged. Suddenly, he ripped the sheet in two, crumpled up the pieces.

Jennifer winced, shifted in her chair, torn between remaining as quiet as possible so that he would forget the reason he had summoned her in the first place, or attempting to return him to the Ellen saga. She decided to stay quiet, stared down at the floor. Edward had been standing on that very patch of carpet just two weeks ago. One of Matthew's staff had leaked the story to the press, who had arrived that afternoon and turned Matthew's tight-lipped ‘No comment' into slander and innuendo. She tried to imagine the two men face to face. Impossible. All they had in common was Hester—who had played mother to the wrong one. Had Hester resented Matthew because he wasn't her own son and yet brought back bitter memories, or tried to love him as an Edward, or simply treated him dispassionately as part of the job?

‘Jennifer!'

She jumped. Matthew was on his feet, bearing down on her.

‘Look here, I don't believe Lyn's on his way at all. I've waited more than forty minutes and there's not a sign of him. He's avoiding me deliberately—has been all along. I'm not so simple that I don't see through your constant excuses and evasions. They're obviously a pack of lies.'

‘L … lies?' Jennifer ducked, as if warding off a blow. Matthew was looming tall and grey in front of her. He suddenly veered round to the window, stood there gazing out. Jennifer could hear the clock stalking through the silence, feel her own heartbeat painfully loud. The roar of city traffic seemed to have come to a sudden halt, as if Matthew had raised his voice to it.

‘Yes, Jennifer, lies.' Matthew swung round to face her. ‘I've been up to Bedfordshire—twice, in fact—just in the last few days. I called at the address you gave me—that little flat where you and Lyn have been living for the past three months. Except, of course, you weren't. I found the place. Oh yes—it does exist—I'm sure you did your homework very well. But the Mrs Lane who owns it says she's lived there twenty years and has never heard of a Lyn or Jennifer Winterton in her life.'

Jennifer's cheeks were flaming, her legs twisted round the chair leg. ‘Well, you see, I …'

Matthew cut her short. ‘I've tried to be patient, tried not to pressure you. Oh, I suspected you were lying—I'm not a fool—but I realised there might be … problems, so I simply waited, gave you a chance to tell me in your own time. I can't wait any longer, I'm afraid. I've got to speak to Lyn before today's up. It's absolutely essential, with Edward on the warpath. It makes us look guilty if one of the chief parties simply disappears into thin air. It's damaging our case—and, apart from anything else, there's that pack of vile reporters ready to spring. Surely you can see now what an unprincipled lot they are, and how vital it is we present a united front? If we all take a different line, they'll blow our story to bits. They've no respect for truth—and nor have their witless readers. I mean, take this letter here.' Matthew picked up the crumpled pieces, brandished them in her face. ‘No—forget the letter.' He tossed it back on the desk. ‘Lyn's the one who ought to read it, and I intend to make him do so. What I propose is that we go and confront him now. You can tell me where you're living—the correct address this time, please—and we'll drive there straight away. I've got my car outside. Never mind how far it is—I filled the tank last night and this must be first priority. If Lyn can't get in to see me, then we'll have to visit him.'

Jennifer had groped up from her chair and stood trembling by the book-case. ‘N … no, Matthew. We
can
‘t. It's just not … possible. I mean, he isn't …'

Matthew ignored her, locked his papers in a drawer. ‘It's a waste of my precious day, of course, especially when I'm so pressed for time already, but I can't see any alternative. If Lyn's as ill as you say he is—though bloody-minded is probably nearer the truth—then we'd better make it easy for him, save him all the trouble of a journey. That's fair, isn't it? I've left it long enough, for heaven's sake, tried not to get unpleasant or deliver ultimatums or … And what do I get for my trouble—a …?'

‘I'm gr … grateful, Matthew—honestly I am. It's j … just that …'

‘I knew you'd see my point, my dear. All right—I'm sorry if I shouted. Let's both calm down and get our coats on. I'm not a monster—I understand Lyn might feel awkward coming here, having to face old colleagues when he's so much in the news. It's quite a sensible plan, in fact, meeting at your place. He'll be more relaxed on his own ground, and at least there'll be some privacy and a lot less interruption. Right, let's get off then, shall we? I'll have a quick word with Anne on the way out and …'

Jennifer had darted to the door and stood in front of it. ‘Matthew—listen—we can't visit Lyn. You don't understand. I've tried to get in touch with him myself, but …' The stern brown office walls were blurring into dark and shadowy elm trees, the neat brown carpet jungling into an overgrown allotment. She had been back to Cobham several times, searched the place for Lyn, found the barn deserted, his temporary home dismantled. She shut her eyes. She could see the cold sad relics she had picked up from the ground—a mouldy crust, a pencil stub, a handkerchief stained brown with her own blood. Those were all she had of him—those and her still scarred knees. And now he was lost to her completely. No marriage, no address, no shared and cosy home for Matthew to drive to. Nothing but his footprints on a path, the imprint of their bodies on a pile of rotting straw.

She had left two notes for him—one in the barn, one pinned to the door outside. A few days later, both were indecipherable, stained and voided by the rain. She had blundered out of the barn, paced the allotments once more—hopelessly. Lyn's harvest was ruined now—onions split apart and mouldering, runner-beans blown down. No one had eaten his produce except the slugs and pigeons; no one claimed it save the frost. It would be the same at Hernhope—weed and briar in place of sap and shoot—their inheritance snatched away from them, their dowry lost and tarnished. Susie was right. Her life with Lyn was over.

Matthew's office was tipping and trembling as dark Cobham shadows spilt across the no-nonsense City daylight and bulky furniture fractured into a shimmering haze of tears. Matthew came over, steered her gently from the door. His voice was softer now, but still impatient. ‘There's no need to cry, my dear. We can sort everything out, if only you'll confide in me. Now come along, just give me that address. You'll feel better once we're on our way. I shan't make Lyn return to work, if that's what you're afraid of. In fact, all I plan to do is …'

Jennifer sprang away from him. ‘Don't you understand, Matthew?' she shouted suddenly. ‘Lyn's not
with
me any more. We've parted—separated.'

‘Separated?' Matthew clutched at the edge of the bookcase, sawed the air with his other hand in a helpless, pleading gesture. ‘But wh … when? Why?'

Jennifer was struggling to control herself. She already regretted her outburst, feared Matthew's interference. ‘It's all r … right. It's only t … temporary.' Her tears denied it. They were falling through her hands now, making damp spots on her dress.

Matthew passed his handkerchief. He looked both angry and embarrassed. ‘Why on earth didn't you tell me before? I could have helped you sort it out, talked to Lyn myself. What happened? Was it a quarrel or a …?'

‘N … no. Lyn wants to be … alone, to try and …'

‘Alone? But he's a married man with responsibilities, not a hermit. He's got responsibilities. He can't just walk out and …'

‘He didn't, Matthew. I … agreed. I mean, we thought it … better. Just for a little while, until …'

‘Well, you've had your little while. Now it's time to patch things up. I'm afraid we're all in trouble, Jennifer—very serious trouble. I've tried not to worry you, but the situation is much worse than it appears. This is no time to be indulging in petty little squabbles, when there are really vital issues at stake. We've got to pull together—Lyn as well. What I suggest is that I call on him myself and discuss the whole affair—your marriage as well. He'll soon see sense once he understands exactly what's at risk. He's moved into lodgings, has he?'

‘No … yes … I'm not quite …'

‘Look, you must co-operate, Jennifer, if you want your husband back. Just tell me where's he's living and leave the rest to me.'

Jennifer sank back in the chair, spoke very slowly and deliberately, as if she were addressing a pre-school child. ‘I—don't—know.'

‘You mean, he left you no address? I'm sorry, but I can hardly credit that.'

‘He … er … hasn't got an address. He's … travelling. Driving round the country.'

‘But surely he keeps in touch with you? He must have
your
address.'

‘Yes. Well, no …' She stopped. As far as Matthew was concerned, she, too, must be a nomad. She had to protect Susie and her baby.

‘Where
are
you living, Jennifer? And no more lies, please.'

‘I've been … er … travelling a bit myself—staying with various friends around the country. I'm still not sure about the future, but I … thought I'd return to L … London, find myself a bedsit, just a temporary place until …'

‘A bedsit, when we've a whole great house in Putney? That's quite unnecessary. You'll be far better off in a proper family than moping on your own in some squalid little bolt-hole. And why pay rent when there's all that space at home? I'd feel a lot less uneasy with you safely on the premises. I don't want reporters on your trail, distorting what you say. I can ward them off at Putney, keep an eye on things.'

‘No, Matthew. I've got to be alone. I need some time and space to think things out, decide what I'm going to do and …'

‘You can be as private as you like at Putney. We won't intrude at all. You can have Susie's old room, if you prefer, and be all on your own at the top of the house and …'

Jennifer swallowed. She could see the rag-dolls and the teddy-bears, Susie's body stretched naked on her bed. Now that room was bare, like the barn was bare, and Hernhope. Soon Susie would be gone as well, the baby handed over. She stared out of the window at an abandoned building opposite, windows boarded, walls black with age and grime. Nothing left but emptiness …

The phone was ringing again. Matthew snatched it up, put his hand across the mouthpiece while he spoke to her. ‘Forgive these interruptions. After this, I'll get Anne to take my calls. We need some privacy so we can decide on a plan of action. I want you to tell me when you last saw Lyn and exactly what he said to you. We've got to track him down.' He raised his voice, removed the hand. ‘Yes, hallo? Matthew Winterton here. Oh, hallo, Mr Phillips. Yes, of course, I've got a moment. Excuse me just a second, please.' He covered the mouthpiece again, gestured Jennifer to the door. ‘I'd better take this on my own. It's Edward's solicitor—highly confidential. Wait outside a moment, please, or better still, go down to Anne and ask her to make you a coffee. I won't be long. As soon as I've dealt with this, we'll …'

Jennifer blundered out of the room, walked slowly down the stairs. She couldn't face Anne, admit to her and Matthew that Lyn was sick and raving, calling himself a criminal, living like a tramp. Her last memories were precious, despite his fevered state. She didn't want them trampled by Matthew's contempt or Anne's disapproving pity. Already, she had made things worse. By owning up to Matthew, she had confirmed her loss of Lyn and the failure of her marriage. If she spelt it out again, it would become still more inescapable, Matthew's meddling and pontificating stamping it ‘official'.

She stumbled down the last few stairs, paused at the ground floor. She could hear a buzz of conversation through half-closed office doors, the grouse of an ancient typewriter. No one had actually seen her—the staircase was deserted—but if she continued down the passage, she would pass Anne's office at the front. Instinctively, she turned the other way, towards the rear of the building. There was a toilet there with a fire exit which led out to the back. The lavatory was empty. She slipped inside, turned the key, stood facing the scarlet letters: PUSH BAR TO RELEASE.

Did she dare escape? Wouldn't it be wiser to behave responsibly, return for Matthew's pep-talk, Anne's interrogation? She slumped down on the toilet seat. She was too dispirited to face anyone at all. She could always write to Matthew, invent the next instalment of lies, fob him off for another week or two.

She stood up, took a step towards the push-bar, pressed against it. Nothing happened. She pushed again—harder. Suddenly, it gave and she lurched out into the open, shocked by the blast of freezing air stinging on her cheeks. She was standing in a backyard with buildings looming tall and dour around her. She glanced up at Matthew's offices, hardly recognisable from the back. The paint was peeling, the brickwork stained and crumbling. All the pomp and polish had been lavished on the front facade—the only one which clients ever saw.

It felt strange to be outside in her flimsy rayon dress. She had left her coat behind—a hostage to Matthew—impounded in his office. She felt vulnerable without it, guilty and exposed, shivering in the searchlight of the raw winter sun. She must hide herself, cloak herself. She darted through an archway, came out into a side street, dodged around the corner to the bus stop.