The Red Cliffs (14 page)

“
Alison, simply because his aunt said those things, you mustn
’
t think they all agree with her.
”

“
B
ut they do. They have only one point of view and that they get from
N
eil Edgerton. They hold Tom responsible for all that happened to Evelyn. They don
’
t know how Neil stepped in to ruin that marriage, how overbearing he was, how he dominated Evelyn and diminished Tom.
”
She went into the house and up to her room, and Lucy turned to Ralph
‘
who was coming in after putting the car in the garage. She spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness.

“
Put my stupid foot in it,
”
she said.

“
Just a stroke of bad luck,
”
commiserated Ralph.
“
If a vague old lady hadn
’
t made a couple of unfortunate remarks, it would have been a pleasant party. And I can
’
t see why they had it in for Tom—I met him only a few times and he seemed a decent enough sort, of man.
”

Lucy did not answer that. She had always had her reservations about Tom.

“
I
’
m sorry that Alison is upset,
”
she said.

“
We
’
ll soon get her out of that,
”
said Ralph.
“
We
’
ll console her.
”
And he and Lucy consoled her to such good effect that the remainder of their Easter weekend was spent in complete harmony.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Roger was disgruntled. From his point of view, the Easter weekend had been a failure. He had been disappointed when he heard that Alison expected visitors, and still more disappointed when he met them; for it seemed to him that they had made no effort to welcome him or make him feel at home. Lucy he had already met, but briefly, and she and Ralph, in their well-made clothes, with their savoir faire and the multiplicity of the interests they shared with Alison, made him feel an outsider.

At least he now knew what he was up against, now knew that Alison had admirers and their quality, for Ralph might well be one among many. But he, Roger, had one advantage over
all
of them. He was here on the spot, and knowing of the competition, he would not let the grass grow under his feet. Unfortunately, his conduct at the Golden Hind and afterwards had put him into Alison
’
s black books, and the first thing to be done was to reinstate himself in her good graces.

This he began to do. When Lucy and Ralph had returned to London, and a day or two had lapsed in which Alison might begin to feel lonely again, Roger went to apologise. Smiling ruefully, suitably humble, the bold black eyes strangely nullifying that humility, he attributed his behaviour to jealousy and pleaded with A
l
ison to forgive him.

She did so at once, firmly ignoring that faint unease which recurred so often when Roger was with her.

“
But you must behave more reasonably with my friends in future, Roger,
”
she said.

“
I will do anything you want,
”
he said.
“
I
’
m yours to command.
”

From that day, he did his best to step up the pace between himself and Alison. Tired of cycling the long distance between the town and Combe Russet so often, he bought a second-hand car, of considerably better appearance than Alison
’
s near-vintage specimen, and took her out in it to his private beauty spots, for he knew the whole country very well. He also appeared more often at Combe
”
Russet, and, if Alison was working at her carving, he made himself useful about the place; burning the rubbish in the incinerator, working in the garden, sometimes preparing supper for both of them. Alison protested.

“
Why should you come out here and work when you
’
ve already done a day
’
s work?
”
she asked.

“
I could ask you the same question.
”

“
Easily answered. I love to do it.
”

“
I could give you the same answer,
”
he said.
“
Don
’
t you know yet, Alison, that it gives me pleasure to be able to do things for you?
”

“
But it puts me under an obligation to you,
”
she said.

“
There shouldn
’
t be a feeling of obligation between friends. And
I
am your friend, Alison?
”

“
Of course, Roger.
”

“
It isn
’
t enough,
”
he said.
“
It
’
s a good beginning, but I won
’
t pretend it
’
s enough. I want to be a lot more than your friend, darling.
”

“
Oh, Roger,
”
she began, then stopped.

“
What is it?
”
he asked.

She shook her head, tempted to let the subject drop.

“
Go on,
”
he urged.
“
Tell me
w
hat you were
going to say.
”

“
I was going to say that it won
’
t be any good.
”

“
My wanting to be more than friends won
’
t
b
e any good?
”

“
Yes.
”

“
Why not? Because you
’
re in love with somebody else? Is that it? Is it that fellow who was here at Easter? Alison, tell me. Tell me if you
’
re in love with anybody.
”

“
Roger, I came down here to get away from love and love affairs and men; and I have no intention of getting involved in complicated relationships here. I
’
d like you to understand that I really mean that.
”

“
Why did you want to get away?
”

“
That
’
s my business.
”

“
Something that made
y
ou unhappy,
”
he concluded.
“
But you mustn
’
t be put off by one unhappy affair. We could have wonderful times together, Alison.
”

“
Not if you
’
re going to be a lovesick swain.
”

He laughed.

“
I think I can guarantee that I won
’
t be that,
”
he said, and indeed, anything looking less like a lovesick swain would be hard to imagine. Alison looked at him, his head thrown back as he laughed, the even white teeth, the black hair, the gleam in the eyes; and, in spite of the small doubt she often felt about him—and that doubt engendered by Neil probably without cause—she knew that she would miss Mm if she had to send him away. So she allowed him to stay, and because she had other things to think about than Roger,
’
she did not realise how systematically he was working himself into her life.

She did her job with
Harvey Deeprose by day and enjoy
ed it. She realised that it was good for her to have this necessity to leave Combe Russet, to mix with people and to be busily occupied, and the confusion that Deeprose could always cause around him kept her busy. It also made it all the more delightful to drive back to her house and workshop, and get on with the work she most liked to do.

Most of her evenings were spent in the workshop, with the wide doors open to the air and the view of the cliffs and headland, everything gilded by the evening sun; and these two jobs took up so much of her time that she never read all the books she wanted to read, or grew the flowers that she wanted to grow, or took as much care over her beauty routine as she would have liked. She listened to music as she carved, taking her record player into the workshop and plugging it in there; so that more than once, as Neil returned to his house for dinner, he heard the strains of a Sibelius symphony or a Brahms concerto on the evening air.

Life was so satisfactorily busy, in fact, that Alison did not think much about Roger; but Roger thought a great deal about Alison and Combe Russet, and in a thousand small ways he tried to make her dependent on him, and always tried gradually to increase the intimacy between them. When they walked together from the workshop to the house, it was always with his arm around her shoulders in a caress that might have been brotherly as easily as loverlike. When he left her, it was always with a kiss cheek. He helped her in and out of cars, over stiles or rough places, always holding her arm or her hand longer than was necessary. He built up an intimate list of endearments, addressing her more and more often as darling or
chérie
or sweetheart, using the words lightly so that she thought it would be making too much of it to protest.

One evening, he arrived to find Alison looking very beautiful in a silk dress of smoky grey; and as he stood stunned by her beauty and grooming and the slightly aloof air, she slipped on a coat of stiff silk of the same colour.

“
I hope you aren
’
t expecting supper tonight,
”
she said.
“
I
’
m going out to dinner.
”

“
Don
’
t go out to dinner, darling,
”
he said.
“
Stay here with me and I
’
ll get supper for you.
”

She looked sharply at him. The slightly flushed face, and slightly blurred words, told her that he had been drinking heavily. She resolutely squashed a faint feeling of alarm.

“
I have to go, Roger,
”
she said pleasantly.
“
I promised weeks ago.
”

“
Where are you going?
”
he asked truculently.

“
To Mr. and Mrs. Berritt,
”
she answered. She felt like telling him to mind his own business, but decided to be diplomatic instead.

“
Good grief, the vic
a
r
!” He flung
b
a
ck
h
is
handsome head and laughed loudly.
“
You can
’
t pretend that dinner with the vicar will be more exciting than dinner with me.
”

“
I didn
’
t say it would be,
”
said Alison patiently,
but after a
l
l, Roger, I have to have
some
contacts
with the people here.”

“
Why? Why do you need dull people like the vicar? Why do you need anybody but me? We have a good time together, don
’
t we, darling?
”

“
Of course we do. Look, Roger, I
’
m going to be late. I must go now.
”

“
All right.
”
He was sullen like a small boy. She opened the front door for him to go, and turned back to pick up her evening bag; but when she turned again,
h
is arms were waiting for her. He held her in an iron clasp, kissing her hair and her cheeks and her
l
ips, murmuring endearments that were redolent of whisky. Alison did not struggle, for she was not sure how far gone in drink he was, but when she could get her breath, she said sharply:

“
Roger! Now
I
’
m really angry with you. Let me go at once.
”
He was still sufficiently sober to realise her anger, and let her go.
“
Now you
’
ve spoiled my hair and my make-up, and made me later than ever.
”

“
You look beautiful,
”
he said.
“
Beautiful.
”
She held the door open wider for him, and he went through it, but when he turned back to say goodbye, he found it shut in his face. He leaned upon it, trying to remember what he had just said and done.

Alison went upstairs to do her hair again and touch up her make-up, sorely troubled. She saw that Roger
’
s car was still on the drive, so she went out of the back door, through the workshop to the garage, and started the car. Roger was still leaning on her front door waiting for her to open it when he heard the car start up and saw it emerge from the garage and go along the dri
ve, and he went to his own car
and followed her. There was no room for him to pass on the narrow lanes, but he kept so close on her
t
ail that she was frightened, as she slowed up for the bends, that he would hit her. All the vague uneasinesses and faint alarms she had felt about Roger crystallised now into one certainty. She had done the wrong thing in allowing him her friendship, in
permitting him to visit her so often and establish a routine which would be hard to break.

She was relieved to see that, as she turned on to the lane to the Vicarage, Roger went straight on to the town. She was reassured by the sanity and friendliness of the guests at the small dinner party, and was pleased to feel that, in the vicar and his wife, she had friends. She could almost persuade herself, in this reasonable and intelligent atmosphere, that she had exaggerated the incident with Roger: he would be heartily ashamed of himself later on, and come back to apologise.

She did not see him, however, for several days, and was surprised at the feeling of relief this gave her. She went home to her workshop with excitement and anticipation, and worked until she was tired and hungry. The head of the Young Miner had been sent to London, approved of, and brought forth more orders. She knew that she could sell all that she produced, and one Saturday, having lunched in town so that she need not bother to cook, she went back, on a beautiful sunlit afternoon, to spend the rest of the day in the workshop. She hoped that Roger
’
s absence would continue, and was pleased that the hours slipped away without any interruption.