First Friends (43 page)

‘Harriet!' He croaked rather than spoke her name and his face told Cass all that she needed to know.

To Harriet the shock was total and she could neither move nor speak.

‘Isn't this a lovely surprise?' Cass smoothly bridged the awkward moment. ‘Tom phoned just after I spoke to you yesterday morning. He behaved so badly last time that I was afraid to tell him you were coming. But I know he always likes to see you, Harriet. And how nice to meet Michael. This is my husband Tom. Harriet's staying with Michael at Tavistock, darling.' She let this sink in, whilst Tom and Michael shook hands. ‘And now, what about some tea?'

O
N
M
ONDAY MORNING
T
OM
, having watched Cass out of the house, came quietly downstairs and into the kitchen. Where was that postcard? He must, absolutely must, contact Harriet. It had been the worst afternoon Tom could ever remember, with Cass playing the role of the devoted wife, Harriet brittle and unapproachable, the friend Michael, detached, observant—and how close a friend was he, dammit?—even the children had conspired to make it hell. Gemma, conscious, as always, of an audience had clung to him, sat on his lap, kissed him repeatedly instead of ignoring him as she usually did. And Oliver . . . well, to be fair, Oliver hadn't been too bad. He had played the dutiful son entertaining his parents' fuddy-duddy old friends and it was he who had mentioned the postcard. It had, apparently, a Victorian reproduction picture for which Oliver had invented a rather amusing caption. He had told Harriet about it and how he liked doing the same thing with the cartoons at the back of
Punch
. The postcard had been fetched to prove his point and Harriet's address remarked on. Now where the hell was it? Not on the hall table at any event. And then Charlotte, who was so moody lately one hardly dared speak to her . . . At the recollection Tom shook his head in disbelief. She had breezed in, face
wreathed in smiles, positively bubbling over, helped people to cakes and tea, chatted brightly. They couldn't have presented a more united family front if they'd been practising all year.

Tom reached up to the high shelf above the Aga, a favourite place for bits and pieces.

‘Are you lookin' for somethin', sir?'

Tom jumped, barked his knuckles and swore. Mrs Hampton stood behind him looking concerned.

‘I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to startle you.'

‘That's all right, Mrs Hampton. I didn't hear you.' He nursed his bruised hand. Damn the woman, creeping about instead of getting on with her work. ‘Don't let me interrupt you.' He left the kitchen quickly to resume the search elsewhere.

Mrs Hampton watched him go and then took from her apron pocket the postcard she had found whilst turning out the drawing-room. Halfway down the side of the sofa it had been. She studied the picture thoughtfully and then reversing it read the message. After a moment she placed it where Cass always stood postcards and the like—on the high shelf above the Aga.

U
PSTAIRS IN HER BEDROOM
Charlotte, who had a day off to revise for her O levels, moved to and fro sorting out her clothes. Since Hugh's telephone call yesterday morning to invite her to a school fête next weekend followed by a party she had been overflowing with joy. She was not to know that she was being invited because Lucinda couldn't go, and she was happier than she had been for many months. She had allowed herself to be taken to look at several schools—including Blundells—and had agreed to think seriously about boarding. Her name was down provisionally, her place dependent on the result of her exams in a few weeks' time. She had decided that sulks and moods were getting her nowhere and that, at present, it was best to be compliant. She was waiting for Tom's leave, for an opportunity to talk to him seriously about how she felt. Slowly Hugh was making her feel that to take her A levels and go to university was a sensible, adult thing
to do and she longed to do and be all the things he would want. She knew that she'd behaved badly at his sister's party and wanted to prove to him that it had just been a bad moment and that she was perfectly capable of being sensible. She was still unhappy at the idea of being away from home but Guy and Giles would be starting in the sixth form at the same time and Hugh had suggested that she might like to visit him in Bristol and altogether it seemed about time that she considered her future carefully. She was still concerned about Cass, sure that she was up to something, although she wasn't quite sure what and she was keeping an eye on her. Meanwhile there was Hugh and next weekend and the long summer holiday to look forward to.

So Charlotte sang to herself as she planned what to wear in five days' time when she saw Hugh.

H
ARRIET LAY IN BED
gazing sightlessly at the ceiling. She had heard Michael leave and even now, several hours later, couldn't summon up the energy to get up. What was the point? She felt sick with horror every time she thought about yesterday's tea-party, re-living it over and over again, as if it were a film being projected on to the ceiling above her. What had seemed so romantic all these years and had been so delightful an idyll for those few days in her own home in Lee, had rather a different guise when looked at in the cold light of day. Cass, surrounded by her family, had made her feel cheap, grubby. And Tom's face . . . Harriet groaned aloud and pulled the sheet over her head in an effort to shut out the pictures. She jumped violently as the shriek of the doorbell tore through the cottage followed by the barking of Michael's dog. She found that she was trembling as she pulled on her dressing-gown, thrust her feet into slippers and hurried down the stairs. Maybe Cass had come to confront her, or maybe Tom himself. She dragged open the front door and gazed in bewilderment at the postman.

‘Parcel to sign for.'

Silently Harriet took the proffered pencil in nerveless fingers and signed shakily, aware of the postman's interested gaze.

‘Sorry to get you up, missis.' He was smiling openly now. Oh, God. He must think that she and Michael . . .

‘No, no. I was up, actually. Mr Barrett-Thompson isn't here at the moment. I'll give it to him when he gets back.' She could see that he didn't believe a word of it. Well, who cared?

She shut the door, put the parcel on the hall table and went into the kitchen. Max, the huge Newfoundland, emerged from the utility room off the kitchen and looked at her. His tail waved languidly in greeting before he sat down with a deep sigh, resting against the door jamb. Max never stood when he could sit, or sat without leaning against something.

‘Oh, Max.' Harriet looked at the great dog with his benevolent expression and kindly eye and her misery seemed to overwhelm her. Kneeling beside him she threw her arms round his neck and, burying her face in his abundant coat, burst into tears. Max was quite equal to this sort of thing. People were always hugging and stroking him, exclaiming at his size, remarking on his coat and admiring his general demeanour. He found the burden of being so wonderful very tiring and he sighed again deeply.

Harriet stood up, wiping her eyes on a tea-towel, and Max, worn out by his output, lay down with his head between his paws.

‘I must pull myself together,' Harriet told him and he cocked an eye at her. Was she moving towards the biscuit tin? No, merely toward the kettle. He rolled on his side and prepared to sleep. Barking at the postman always exhausted him.

Harriet made coffee wondering how Max, even while unconscious, managed to exude comfort. Whilst she was drinking her third mug of coffee the doorbell shrieked again causing her to start and bang the mug against her teeth.

Max struggled up from his short course in death and essayed a bark or two. Really! Couldn't a dog get a minute's peace? Harriet had got the door open and was staring at Tom. Seeing a strange man, Max felt a bit more effort was called for on his part, but he was ignored. They were too busy gasping at one another.

‘How on earth . . . ?'

‘I remembered his name and looked him up in the book.'

‘Why didn't you phone?'

‘Wanted to check he wasn't here . . . '

‘But how . . . '

‘Stopped off at his office. Saw him through the window. Didn't wait to find a phone-box. Oh, Harriet . . . '

‘Oh, God, Tom. Yesterday was so ghastly . . . '

And so on, and so on. Humans were so emotional, so exhausting. Max returned to the utility room and, flopping down, resumed his slumbers.

‘F
OR HEAVEN
'
S SAKE RELAX
, love. Talk about a cat on a hot tin roof.' Now that they'd made love again Tom was back in control. His urgency to track Harriet down had surprised him and he had a feeling that he was being rather swept along, out of control.

‘I just feel that we shouldn't have done it here, Tom.' With her passion temporarily abated, Harriet felt guilty and confused. ‘After all, it is Michael's house.'

‘Well, we're not in his bed, are we?'

Tom's calmness had the opposite effect on Harriet who now felt edgy. There was a tendency for her beautiful romantic affair to look sordid and she simply couldn't bear it.

‘No, but still, let's get up. He might arrive at any moment.'

‘Why?' Tom made no effort to move. ‘Does he usually come home for lunch?'

‘Well, no. But I was upset last night and I didn't get up for breakfast this morning and he might just check.'

‘Why should he check? You're sure there's nothing between you?'

‘Oh, yes, Tom, honestly.' Harriet was now feeling positively irritable. ‘We've been through all that. And he doesn't know anything about us, either. But I was very quiet on the way back last evening and he must have guessed that something was wrong. He's much too nice to ask questions but he might just come back to see if I'm OK.'
Harriet pulled away from Tom's caressing hand and got out of bed. ‘I'm going to get up. Oh, God! Oh, Christ! Here's his car! Oh! Quickly, Tom, get up!'

‘Hell's teeth, woman, calm down. Stop pulling me.' Tom was moving as slowly as he dared in an attempt to maintain his dignity. ‘I'm dressing. Go on down and chat to him. I'm allowed to come and see you, dammit. Pull yourself together and go on down. Tell him I'm in the loo. For heaven's sake, Harriet, you can tidy up later. He won't come into your bedroom, for God's sake. Go on, Harriet.'

She almost fell down the narrow staircase, sobbing dryly, hot with shame.

‘Michael!' She arrived in the hall as he opened the front door.

He stood for a moment, pocketing his key, surveying her flushed face, dishevelled hair and the hastily donned jersey and then turned towards the kitchen door where Max had appeared with a weary ‘here we go again' expression about him.

‘I see we've got visitors.' Michael's voice was calm. Max sniffed at him and his tail waved tentatively. Something wrong here. Michael stroked his ears and spoke gently to him, but Max was not deceived. He sat down, leaning against the fridge, in case he should be needed to give comfort and support.

‘It's Tom.' Harriet sounded breathless. ‘He had to come to Tavistock and he thought he'd return our call. He's just dashed up to the loo.'

‘Ah. Is he staying to lunch?'

‘No.' It came out much too quickly and she turned as Tom came into the kitchen. ‘You can't stay to lunch, can you, Tom? Didn't you say you were on your way somewhere?' She signalled furiously to him behind Michael's back.

‘That's right. Hello, Michael. Hope you don't mind my popping in. Messages from Cass and so on. Actually, why don't you come with me, Harriet? I'm sure you remember the Harraps, don't you? They'd love to see you again. I can drop you back later.'

One look at Michael's face decided her. She couldn't face him just yet.

‘That would be lovely. Is that OK, Michael?'

‘Of course. You don't have to ask permission, you know. You're my guest, not my prisoner.'

‘No. I realise that. Well, I'll just get my bag.' She vanished.

‘Well, nice to see you again, Michael.' Tom followed her.

Michael stood motionless, listening to Harriet's feet running upstairs, down again, across the hall. The front door slammed and a car engine started up. Presently he sat down at the table.

Recognising his cue Max rose and came to sit by him. He leaned against his leg and put his heavy head on Michael's knee. It was one of those days.

W
HEN
M
ICHAEL ARRIVED HOME
that evening Harriet was in the kitchen, busy at the Aga.

‘Hello!' she said, without turning round, her voice brittle and gay. ‘Sold lots of houses? I'm making us a special dinner.'

‘That sounds good.' Michael's voice was noncommittal. ‘Hello, Max. Don't get up, old chap.'

Max hauled himself up into a sitting position supported by the dresser and wagged his tail. He flattened his ears and his tongue lolled out which was what Harriet called ‘Max laughing.'

‘I took him for a walk,' she said, in the same light, social tone. ‘I thought he needed exercise.'

Max looked at her reproachfully. Needed exercise! Great Scott! He'd been on the go all day, what with one thing and another. He'd only just settled down for a real snooze after Michael had gone back to the office when Harriet had appeared in a state of nervous tension and dragged him out to walk for miles on the moor. It was a dog's life! He looked at Michael for sympathy, but he was looking at Harriet. Max pulled in his tongue and lay down. There was no justice in this life.

‘Harriet.'

Harriet's heart began to thump and she busied herself with pans and plates.

‘Yes?'

He didn't speak again and she was forced, at last, to turn to look at him. He was leaning against the dresser, ankles crossed, with a cigarette in one hand and the other thrust into his trouser pocket.