The Sculptress (25 page)

“And what was the best piece of advice?”

He dropped a casual arm across her shoulders could she really be as lonely as she looked? The thought saddened him and walked her up the alleyway.

“That happiness is no laughing matter.”

She gave a throaty chucide.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, woman, that the pursuit of happiness deserves weighty consideration. It’s the be-all and end-all of existence.

Where is the sense in living if you’re not enjoying it?”

“Earning Brownie points for the great hereafter, suffering being good for the soul and all that.”

“If you say so,” he said cheerfully.

“Shall we go in my car?

It’ll give you a chance to test out your theory.” He led her to an ancient Ford Cortina estate and unlocked the passenger door, pulling it half-open on screaming hinges.

“What theory?” she asked, squeezing inelegantly through the gap.

He shut the door.

“You’il soon find out,” he murmured.

They arrived with half an hour to spare. Hal drew into a parking space on the sea front and rubbed his hands.

“Let’s have some fish and chips. We passed a kiosk about a hundred yards back and I’m ravenous. It’s the fresh air that does it.”

Roz’s head, tortoise-like, emerged from the collar of her jacket, slowly easing its frozen jaw and skewering him with gimlet eyes.

“Has this heap of junk got an MOT?” she grated.

“Of course it’s got an MOT.” He slapped the steering-wheel.

“She’s sound as a bell, just lacks a window or two. You get used to it after a while.”

“A window or two!” she spluttered.

“As far as I can see it hasn’t got any windows at all except for the front one. I think I’ve caught pneumonia.”

“There’s no pleasing some women. You wouldn’t be whingeing like this if I’d whisked you down to the seaside on a beautiful sunny day in an open-topped cabriolet. You’re being snotty-nosed just because it’s a Cortina.” He gave an evil chuckle.

“And what about suffering being good for the soul? It’s done bugger all for yours, my girl.”

She thrust the screeching door open as far as it would go and crawled out.

“For your information, Hawksley, it is not a beautiful sunny day’ she giggled ‘in fact it will probably turn out to be the coldest May day this century. And had this been a convertible, we could have stopped to put the top up. In any case, why aren’t there any windows?”

He tucked her into the crook of his arm and set off towards the fish and chip kiosk.

“Someone smashed them,” he said matter of factly.

“I haven’t bothered to replace them because there’s a good chance it will happen again.”

She rubbed the end of her nose to restore the circulation.

“I suppose you’re in hock to loan sharks.”

“And if I am?”

She thought of her money on deposit, untouched, going nowhere.

“I might be able to broker you out of your difficulties,” she suggested tentatively.

He frowned.

“Is this charity, Roz, or an offer to negotiate?”

“It’s not charity,” she assured him.

“My accountant would have a fit if I offered charity.”

He dropped his arm abruptly.

“Why would you want to negotiate on my behalf? You don’t know a damn thing about me.” He sounded angry.

She shrugged.

“I know you’re in deep shit, Hawksley. I’m offering to help you out of it. Is that so terrible?” She walked on.

Hal, a step or two behind, cursed himself roundly. What sort of fool lowered his de fences just because a woman looked lonely? But loneliness, of course, was the one thing guaranteed to strike a chord.

There must have been times when he hadn’t been lonely but he was damned, at the moment, if he could remember them.

Roz’s delight in the cottage, masked by an unconvincing smile of bored indifference, announced itself loudly as she stared wide-eyed at the views from the windows, noted the double glazing admitted grudgingly that, yes, she had always liked open fireplaces, and, yes, she was quite surprised by the size of the rooms. She had expected them to be smaller. She poked for several minutes round the patioed garden, said it was a pity there wasn’t a greenhouse, then, rather belatedly, obscured her enthusiasm behind a pair of dark glasses to examine a small rose-covered outhouse which was used by the present owners as a third bedroom, but which might, she supposed, at a pinch, serve as a sort of study-library.

Hal and Mr. Richards sat on cast-iron chairs in front of the french windows, talking idly about very little and watching her.

Mr. Richards, thoroughly intimidated by Hal’s brusque one word answers, scented a sale but contained his excitement rather better than Roz.

He stood up when Roz had finished her inspection and, with a disarming smile, offered her his chair.

“I should perhaps have mentioned, Miss Leigh, that the present owners will consider selling the furniture with the house assuming, of course, a satisfactory price can be arranged. I understand none of it is more than four years old and the wear and tear has been minimal with weekend occupation only.” He glanced at his watch.

“Why don’t I give you fifteen minutes to talk it over?

I’ll go for a stroll along the cliff path.” He vanished tactfully through the french windows and a moment later they heard the front door close.

Roz took off her glasses and looked at Hal. Her eyes were childlike in their enthusiasm.

“What do you think? Furniture, too.

Isn’t it fabulous?”

His lips twitched involuntarily. Could this be acting? It was damn good if it was.

“It depends what you want it for.”

“To live in,” she said.

“It would be so easy to work here.”

She looked towards the sea.

“I’ve always loved the sound of waves.” She turned to him.

“What do you think? Should I buy it?”

He was curious.

“Will my opinion make a difference?”

“Probably.”

“Why?”

“Because common sense tells me it would be a mad thing to do. It’s miles from everyone I know, and it’s expensive for what it is, a pokey little two up, two down. There must be better ways of investing my money.” She studied his set face and wondered why her earlier offer to help had made him so hostile. He was a strange man, she thought. So very approachable as long as she steered clear of talking about the Poacher.

He looked past her towards the cliff-top where Mr. Richards was just visible, sitting on a rock and having a quiet smoke.

“Buy it,” he said.

“You can afford it.” His dark face broke into a smile.

“Live dangerously. Do what you’ve always wanted to do.

How did John Masefleld put it?

“I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied.” So, live on your cliff by the sea and go beach combing with your dog. As I said, it sounds like paradise.”

She smiled back, her dark eyes full of humour.

“But the trouble with paradise was that it was boring, which is why, when the one-eyed trouser-snake appeared, Eve was so damn keen to bite into the apple of knowledge.” He was a different man when he laughed.

She caught a glimpse of the Hal Hawksley, hail-fellow-well-met, boon companion, who could, were his tables ever full, preside with confident conviviality among them. She threw caution to the winds.

“I wish you’d let me help you. I’d be lonely here. And where’s the sense in paying a fortune to be lonely on a cliff?”

His eyes veiled abruptly.

“You really are free with your money, aren’t you? Exactly what are you suggesting? A buy-out?

A partnership? What?”

God, he was prickly! And he had accused her of it once.

“Does it matter? I’m offering to bail you out of whatever mess you’re in.”

His eyes narrowed.

“The only certain thing you know about me, Roz, is that my restaurant is failing. Why would an intelligent woman want to throw good money after bad?”

Why indeed? She would never be able to explain it to her accountant whose idea of sensible living was minimum risk taking clean balance sheets, and tax advantageous pension plans. How would she even begin?

“There’s this man, Charles, who reduces me to jelly every time I see him. But he’s a damn good cook and he loves his restaurant and there’s no logical reason why it should be going down the pan. I keep trying to lend him money but he throws it back in my face every time.”

Charles would have her certified. She swung her bag on to her shoulder.

“Forget I mentioned it,” she said.

“It’s obviously a sore nerve, though I can’t imagine why.”

She started to get up but he caught her wrist in a grip of iron and held her in her seat.

“Is this another set-up, Roz?”

She stared at him.

“You’re hurting me.” He released her abruptly.

“What are you talking about?” she asked, massaging her wrist.

“You came back.” He rubbed his face vigorously with both hands as if he were in pain.

“Why the hell do you keep coming back?”

She was incensed.

“Because you phoned,” she said.

“I wouldn’t have come if you hadn’t phoned. God, you’re arrogant. They come two a penny like you in London, you know.”

His eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Then offer your money to them,” he said, ‘and stop patronising me.”

Tight-lipped, they took their leave of Mr. Richards with false promises of phoning the next day, and drove off up the narrow coast road towards Wareham. Hal, all too conscious of the darkening clouds and the reduction in speed that wet tarmac would enforce on him, concentrated on his driving. Roz, crushed by his hostility which, like a tropical storm, had blown out of nowhere, withdrew into hurt silence.

Hal had been gratuitously cruel, and knew it, but he was gripped by his own certainty that this trip had been engineered to get him out of the Poacher. And God was Roz good. She had every damn thing: looks, humour, intellect, and just enough vulnerability to appeal to his stupid chivalry. But he had phoned her. Fool, Hawksley! She would have come back, anyway. Someone had to offer him the stinking money.

Shit! He slammed his fist against the steering-wheel.

“Why did you want me to come with you?” he demanded into the silence.

“You’re a free agent,” she pointed out caustically.

“You didn’t have to come.”

It started to rain as they reached Wareham, slanting stair-rods that drove in through the open windows.

“Oh, great!” announced Roz, clutching her jacket about her throat.

“The perfect end to a perfect day. I’ll be soaked. I should have come on my own in my own car. I could hardly have had less fun, could I?”

“Why didn’t you then? Why drag me out on a wild-goose chase?”

“Believe it or not,” she said icily, “I was trying to do you a favour.

I thought it would be good for you to escape for a couple of hours. I was wrong. You’re even more touchy away from the place than you are in it.” He took a corner too fast and threw her against the door, grazing her leather jacket against the buckled chromium window strip.

“For God’s sake,” she snapped crossly.

“This jacket cost me a fortune.”

He pulled into the kerb with a screech of rubber.

“OK,” he snarled, ‘let’s see what we can do to protect it.” He reached across her to take a book of road maps out of the dashboard pocket.

“What good will that do?”

“It will tell me where the nearest station is.” He thumbed through the pages.

“There’s one in Wareham and the line goes to Southampton. You can take a taxi back to your car at the other end.” He fished out his wallet.

“That should be enough to pay your way.” He dropped a twenty-pound note into her lap then swung the car on to the road again.

“It’s off to the right at the next roundabout.”

“You’re a real sweetheart, Hawksley. Didn’t your mother teach you any manners along with her little aphorisms about women and life?”

“Don’t push your luck,” he growled.

“I’m on a very short fuse at the moment and it doesn’t take much to rile me. I spent five years of marriage being criticised for every damn thing I did.

I’m not about to repeat the experience.” He drew up in front of the station.

“Go home,” he told her, wiping a weary hand across his damp face.

“I’m doing you a favour.”

She put the twenty-pound note on the dashboard and reached for her handbag.

“Yes,” she agreed mildly, “I think you probably are. If your wife stuck it out for five years, she must have been a saint.” She pushed the door open on its screaming hinges and eased round it, then bent down to look through the window, thrusting her middle finger into the air.

“Go screw yourself, Sergeant. Presumably it’s the only thing that gives you any pleasure. Let’s face it, no one else could ever be good enough.”

“Got it in one, Miss Leigh.” He nodded a curt farewell, then spun the wheel in a U-turn. As he drove away the twenty pound note whipped like a bitter recrimination from the window and fell with the rain into the gutter.

Hal was cold and wet by the time he reached Dawlington, and his already evil temper was not improved to find her car still parked at the end of the alleyway where she had left it. He glanced past it, between the buildings, and saw that the back door of the Poacher stood ajar, the wood in splinters where a crowbar had been used to wrench it free of its frame. OH, Jesus! She had set him up. He knew a moment of total desolation he was not as immune as he thought himself -before the need to act took over.

He was too angry for common sense, too angry to take even elementary precautions. He ran on light feet, thrust the door wide and weighed in with flailing fists, punching, kicking, gouging, oblivious to the blows that landed on his arms and shoulders, intent only on causing maximum damage to the bastards who were destroying him.

Roz, arriving thirty minutes later with Hal’s sodden twenty pound note clutched in one hand and a blistering letter of denunciation in the other, stared in disbelief at what she saw.