Island-in-Waiting (16 page)

“I just hope the strain isn't too much for him. He's been living off his nerves for years, but this term he's worse than ever.”

Annette came back with our main courses. “Were the recipe books all right?” she asked.

“Marvellous, thanks. I've had a busy day!”

“You're keeping your hand in, are you?” Neil commented as she moved away.

“I've been baking for the bazaar tomorrow.”

“I must say you've been incorporated into the community remarkably quickly!”

The meal was extremely good and Neil was amused by my comments as I sampled sauce and cutlet, vegetables and garnish. All of it was well up to the standards of
Les Cinq Nids
and my last doubts about accepting the partnership disappeared.

Subconsciously I relaxed and for the first time we were able to talk freely, to exchange ideas and points of view, without any hint of the supernatural overshadowing us. Neil was interested to hear about Paris and the cookery course and I laughed at stories of his brother Daniel's days at medical school. And throughout the evening the atmosphere of the Viking, with its lamplight and shadows, wrapped us round and made us welcome. I wanted it to go on for ever but one by one the tables around us emptied and I knew sadly that it could be drawn out no longer.

“It's time I took you home,” Neil said.

The wind had risen, sending wispy black clouds scudding over the silver-grey arc of the sky. Above us trees lifted skeletal arms in stark silhouette and a rustling multitude of leaves alternately advanced and retreated in the gusts that blew along the sides of the road. We reached the cottage much too soon. Neil got out and came round to open my door.

“Thank you for a lovely evening,” I said.

“I've enjoyed it too. We must do it again.” He drew me towards him and again I steeled myself to match my attitude with his. It was a gentle kiss, undemanding, uncommitted, yet surely this, I thought on a wave of longing, was what had really brought me to the island, and again I felt pity for Ray. After a moment he raised his head and looked down at me.

“Do you still imagine I asked you out to please Hugo?” he asked softly. “If so, perhaps this will convince you otherwise.” He pulled me close again and this time the kiss was more urgent, altogether more personal. It was the memory of this, out of context, that had sent me hurrying towards him at Heathrow. For several minutes past and future hung deliriously locked in the present, until an instinct older than time alerted me to the fact that we were being watched.

I turned quickly, my eyes flying open, and gave a sharp cry. Down the lane a figure had detached itself from the shadow of the trees and was moving silently away.

Neil said urgently, “What is it? What's the matter?”

“Someone was there – behind that tree!”

“Watching us, you mean?” He turned sharply. “I can't see anything. You must have imagined it.”

I didn't answer but his own denial hadn't convinced him, because he added brusquely, “Well, I hope he enjoyed it, whoever he was.”

What had been between us was tarnished and spoilt.

“It's time you went in anyway,” he said. “Good-night, Chloe.”

“Good-night.” I turned and walked blindly up the path to the house. ‘Whoever he was' Neil had said, but I knew that neither of us doubted who it had been.

That night my sleep was peppered with fragments of dreams which melted away as I reached to examine them more closely: the stretch of coastline seen from the hill; a straw guy; Kirree Clegg's blue, blue eyes. I came fully awake to the memory of Ray's antagonism and Neil's spoiled kisses. It could only have been Ray, surreptitiously hidden in the shadows watching us, determined to see for himself whether I accorded Neil more than the ‘arm's length treatment'. Miserably I wondered what conclusion he had reached and how it would govern his actions now.

‘Evil comes home to roost': one of Granny Clegg's nebulous warnings. It seemed quite feasible that she was able to translate vibrations from Ray and myself into some identifiable threat.

The future seemed to be lying in wait for me like a giant bird of prey. On a wave of despair I wondered whether to run away again after all. Perhaps by avoiding any further unpleasantness with Ray it would be possible to avert the lurking danger which appeared to hang over us.

As for Neil, he might well decide our continuing friendship wasn't worth the trouble Ray seemed bent on causing. It was only my infernal time-jumping which had accelerated my own feelings, catapulting me to our first meeting already in love with him.

This assessment, apparently already acknowledged subconsciously, took me by surprise but I had to admit its truth. Unfortunately there was no way of knowing whether our dream relationship had progressed beyond last night. I had ‘remembered' Neil's kisses; now, I had received them. That might be all that was due to me.

“I forgot to mention I have to go into college this morning,” Martha told me when, heavy-eyed, I finally reached the kitchen. “Some folios have been mislaid and they're needed for an exhibition at the weekend. I shouldn't be long though, so we can still have an early lunch and be up at the hall by two. Is all your stuff ready?”

“Almost. I just have to assemble the
gâteau
and put the finishing touches to the cakes.”

“There's Hugo tooting. See you later.” The kitchen door banged behind her.

I drank a cup of coffee which was all the breakfast I wanted, and the hard knot of misery lay heavy and unmoving inside me. Mechanically I filled the coffee cake with whipped cream, spread fondant icing on
the
japonais au chocolat
and sandwiched together the tiny meringues, decorating each with its piece of crystallized cherry. Even the delicate task of dipping the balls of choux pastry into syrup and arranging them round the Gâteau St Honoré occupied only a fraction of my attention.

After an hour or so I paused and surveyed my handiwork with a professional eye. The gingerbread and cheese scones were already stacked in tins for transporting to the hall, the
petits
fours
arranged in sweetpaper casings. There was nothing more I could do for the moment.

I remember turning from the kitchen table and starting towards the hall. After that, I don't know. As I reached the door à clutch of terror inexplicably grabbed hold of me and in the same instant I seemed to see an enormous lorry, headlamps blazing, charging down the hall towards me.

There was no time to question the veracity of its appearance, nor to move out of the way. I flung my arms instinctively over my head and screamed in a frenzy of fear. The next second I was thrown to the floor by the shattering impact as huge wheels crushed down on my body. Total darkness engulfed me.

I'm not sure how long I lay there before struggling back to consciousness. My arms were still clamped protectively round my head and it took a considerable effort to unlock them. Dizzily I sat up. Above me on the hall table was the vase of chrysanthemums Martha had arranged the day before. Their bitter scent pricked at my nostrils. Through the open sitting-room door I could see the fireplace and a corner of Hugo's chair. It was all so normal, so safe and familiar. How could I possibly have conjured up that mind-shattering vision of a juggernaut in this tiny hallway?

Ray
The name clarioned in my head like an alarm bell. Could I warn him in time? How many precious minutes had elapsed while I lay unconscious on the floor?

I hurled myself at the phone, all memory of our last meeting wiped from my mind. The number! What was the number? My incoherent prayers were answered in the form of a letter on college paper laying beside the phone. With trembling fingers I started to dial.

“St Olaf's College. Can I help you?”

“Could I speak to Ray Kittering, please?”

“I'm sorry, personal calls aren't allowed during school hours.”

“But it's desperately urgent! Can you at least tell me if he's there? Please!”

The secretary doubtless had previous experience of hysterical females phoning Ray, but the note of panic in my voice must have reached her. “Just one moment, I'll see if I can contact him for you.”

There was a click in my ear. I chewed my lip in a frenzy of impatience as one second remorsely followed another. If he wasn't there, what could I do?

“Hello, staff-room?”

“Could I – is Ray there?”

The voice sharpened. “Chloe? Is that you? It's Neil. Whatever –?”

“
Is Ray there?
” No time for normal pleasantries – no time –

“Just a minute.”

“Hello?” Ray's voice, unmistakably. Relief swamped me and I leant on the window-sill for support. “Hello?” he repeated more loudly. “Are you there?”

“Yes,” I whispered dryly.

“Well, what is it?”

“You're all right?”

“To the best of my knowledge. Shouldn't I be?”

I was shaking uncontrollably. “I thought you might have had an accident.”

“Why the hell?”

“There was a lorry, one of those continental monstrosities. It came bearing down with its headlamps blazing. I was sure you'd been hurt.”

“Where was this lorry?”

Where indeed? “I can't explain,” I said helplessly.

“Well, this concern is all very touching but it sounds somewhat garbled to me. Anyway I can't talk now, the bell's just gone. I'll phone later if you like and you can tell me about it.”

Clumsily I dropped the telephone back on its rest. Perhaps that ghastly impact lay in the future, then. Yet its threat had seemed immediate, simultaneous, and I had not been wrong before. For the first time I wondered why I had associated the danger with Ray, when it was myself the lorry had appeared to destroy. Because my hand had hurt when he cut his? Or because, on a deeper level, I'd always known he was in danger? Perhaps I'd been brought to the island in an attempt to deflect it.

Martha came hurrying home soon afterwards. “Chloe, are you all right? I believe you rang college?”

I nodded wearily. The extreme emotional reaction to the phenomenon had drained me.

“You look pretty shaken. What happened?”

Stumblingly I related my experience. She frowned.

“But why should you think it was directed against Ray?”

“There's a mental link between us, Martha. I haven't told you before because you were worried enough about me already.”

“What kind of mental link?” She looked apprehensive and I couldn't blame her.

“We ‘tune in' to each other sometimes. The man who hypnotized me five years ago is his uncle. That's where the connection lies.”

She stared at me. “How long have you known all this?”

I shrugged. “It's been building up ever since I arrived. So you see it's no use you and Hugo warning me about Ray. There's not much I can do about it.”

“Or about him, apparently. I was there when the call came through and he made the most of it, I can tell you.”

I stared at her aghast, belatedly aware of far-reaching effects I'd been too distressed to recognize before. “What happened?”

“Oh, he implied you'd made up some story just as an excuse to contact him. It was all a dig at Neil, of course. He said you'd had a row and he'd decided to finish with you, but that if you were prepared to apologize he might give you another chance.”

“Oh God,” I said tonelessly. “And Neil?”

“He just turned and walked out of the room. Ray would have laboured it still further but he caught my eye and shut up.”

“But you think Neil understood? I mean, he does know about this.”

“All I can tell you is that he certainly didn't look as though he understood.” She glanced across at me with compassion. “Did he make another date with you?”

“Nothing definite.”

“Well, he'll be at the sherry party tomorrow. If I were you I should waste no time in putting the record straight. If it's important to you, that is.”

She waited to see if I'd any comment to make but I was beyond it. “You still look groggy. Will you be able to face the bazaar?”

“It'll help to take my mind off everything. Anyway, I couldn't let Vivian down at this stage.”

“We'd better think about having some lunch, then.”

“I couldn't –”

“You'll have a bowl of soup, at least,” said my sister-in-law firmly. “Even I can produce that, since I have a tin-opener handy! Now go and wash your face, it'll make you feel better.” She gave me a gentle little push in the direction of the bathroom and went to locate the tin of soup.

By the time we set off for St Stephen's I had at least outwardly regained my composure. Inwardly, I was struggling to hold my mind above the abyss of conjecture which seethed just below the surface. I might have known Ray would lose no opportunity to humiliate either Neil or myself and I had made it ridiculously easy for him. He could never have hoped for so perfect an opening.

The road outside the church was already lined with parked cars and a little procession of women, arms piled high with boxes and tins, was wending its way round the churchyard to the hall. Martha drew up behind the last car and we too set off with our offerings.

A barrage of noise met us as we pushed open the door. Rudimentary stalls had already been erected and men up ladders were draping crêpe paper and fixing the names of the different stalls. Vivian, list in hand, was directing operations.

“Chloe, what a gorgeous
gâteau
! You're an angel! Put it on the centre table, would you, with the other raffle prizes. Your stall is the third on the left, and fancy goods is at the far end, Martha.” She turned to answer a query from someone hovering near and we obediently moved away.

Martha introduced me to Sally Davidson, Linda Barton and Amy Carnforth, and in spite of myself I felt a flicker of interest at seeing Sheila Shoesmith again. She was small and fair, elfin-faced with a pointed chin and baby-blue eyes which kept blinking nervously. I wondered if she knew how widespread her most intimate secrets were.