Nest of Sorrows (8 page)

It would be simple with Mike. Mike had already left school and had done his national service in the Air Force. So now they would go to college together, get engaged, be married as soon as the last term was over, then live happily ever after in a cottage with roses round the door. In the evenings, they would paint, together and separately. One day, one of them would become famous. One day, there’d be a Wray hanging in some London gallery and all the snobs would gather to say that they simply had to have a Wray. It didn’t matter which one of them became famous – the other would stay at home to mind children and prune roses. Happy. Simple. A perfect life, a life without parents.

She worried about Mam, though. It seemed cruel, leaving her alone with Dad the way he was. It was obvious that he’d never really forgiven life and Mam for not giving him a son. Still. There was nothing she could do about any of it, was there? And it was OK to be happy. Yes, it was OK.

That evening found Kate standing on the corner outside the Palais de Danse. She knew she looked nice. From Auntie Vera, who was always generous with her clothes, she had borrowed a newish cotton dress in pale cream with a pattern of large gently blue cornflowers. The same aunt had lent her some dyed blue high-heeled shoes and an off-white stole full of holes, as light as a spider’s web, it was. Her burnished hair had curled properly for once, and it reached just to her shoulders, softening the startlingly clean lines of her face.

Mike was late. It wasn’t like him to be late. A few of the lads whistled as they passed her, while one or two asked her to go in with them, but she remained where she was, faithful as always. Then he came round the corner with a girl on his arm and a fixed smile on his face. The shock sent her reeling, so that she literally fell against the building.

‘Kate!’ He sounded breathless. ‘This is Josianne, our Pamela’s French penfriend. My naughty little sister had other plans for tonight, so I brought poor Josianne as my guest. She has very little English.’

‘Allo?’ The pretty gamin face was creased by a frown. She looked gorgeous, all swathed in a red silky-satiny material with a daring halter neck. Her eyes and hair were dark, and the mouth was generous, too generous for Katherine’s liking. ‘How old is she?’

‘J’ai seize ans!’

‘Ah.’ Sixteen! She looked older than Kate did! And suddenly the cornflower dress was dowdy, just a borrowed frock with no glamour, no panache. ‘Shall we go in, then?’ Katherine’s tone was cool.

Inside, a few Brothers and lay-teachers from the girls’ school were getting politely inebriated at the bar. Mike left the two girls together while he went for pineapple juices and a glass of beer for himself. Josianne’s eyes swept over the room with an air of contempt. ‘
Il n’y a quelquechose à manager?
’

‘I don’t speak French.’

‘Oh. There is not the professeur of French at your
lycée
?’

‘Yes, there is the professeur of French. I don’t like French, can’t do it.’

‘
C’est la même chose pour moi
. For me the same. I not like English, so my father is send me here.’

Katherine ground her teeth noiselessly. Mike’s French was flawless – he spoke it like a native! But when he returned to the table, Josianne had been whisked away by the first in a long queue of potential partners.

He sipped at the beer, his eyes following the French girl’s every move.

‘Well? How long is she staying?’

‘Till the end of the dance, I suppose. Though perhaps I should take her home early, she is only sixteen . . .’

‘In England. How long is she in England?’

He shrugged, rather too carelessly for Katherine’s liking. ‘A month – six weeks – I’m not sure.’

‘And you’ll have to look after her because Pamela’s French is appalling.’

‘I expect so.’

‘What a terrible chore.’

He looked at her for what seemed like the first time since they had come into the hall. ‘Katie, are you jealous?’

‘Of course not. It’s just going to be such a nuisance. It will cut into our art time.’

‘Yes.’

She sighed. ‘Ah well. Never mind. In a few weeks, we’ll be off to Manchester. I hope there’s something to paint in Manchester.’

He hesitated, then took another swig of Dutch courage. ‘Katie?’

‘It’s Kate, or Katherine. You know I don’t like Katie.’

‘OK. Sorry. Look, I didn’t want to tell you this tonight, but I’m not . . . I mean . . . I won’t be going to Didsbury. My parents weren’t happy in spite of the fact that the college had a decent art department. They want me to get a Catholic certificate. I’m going to De La Salle, staying with the Brothers.’

‘Oh.’ What else could she say? All those plans, all those years . . . ‘Oh’ somehow summed it all up, didn’t it?

‘We can meet some weekends.’

‘Yes.’

He swallowed another mouthful of ale. ‘And we should really mix with other people. I mean, we’ve only ever been out with one another, haven’t we?’

‘True. But that was fine with me.’

‘Me too!’ he said hastily. ‘We can get together again, when college is over. It’s not the end, Katie – I mean Kate. But we may be cramping one another’s painting style. And you’re so much better than me,’ he added generously.

‘Yes. Yes, I know I am.’

‘Pardon?’ His jaw dropped for a moment.

‘Your style is too flat and lifeless. Perhaps you will do better away from me.’

He stared hard at her. She wasn’t talking just about painting, was she? No. The yellow lights in her eyes were flashing like some awful warning of shipwreck or earthquake. ‘Do you want to dance?’ he asked quietly.

‘No. I think you should go and rescue your little French girl before something interesting happens to her. After all, she’s only half dressed.’

‘Katie!’ But she had left him, the table and the pineapple juice before the second syllable of this unwelcome name had left his lips.

She learned several things that night. The first was that she couldn’t depend on Mike. The second came to her after several dances; Katherine sounded too saintly and it was better to introduce herself as Kate. Kate from
The Taming of the Shrew
? She half-smiled as some clumsy sixth-former put her through a painful square tango. The last lesson was quite an interesting one. Although she was completely covered by the dress, it was without sleeves, and if she let the stole slip to reveal a shoulder, she got more dances than the girls in low-necked frocks. The introductory stages of sex were no longer a mystery. Men were malleable and women were clever.

Mike didn’t get much of a look-in with his French partner. In fact, he seemed to sit out most dances. Almost every time Kate waltzed or quick-stepped by, he was nursing his beer at the same table. Hard cheese, she thought viciously. He came across at one point to where she stood with several girls from school, his face flushing deeply as he asked for a dance. She refused, pleading a sore foot, only to sweep past him seconds later in the arms of a very popular house captain.

The last waltz loomed dangerously near. He wouldn’t get a look-in with Josianne, Kate realized that well enough. She glanced round frantically, hoping that some handsome chap would claim her before she became a midnight wallflower. Or cornflower, she mused grimly as she dropped the stole an inch more. She was not heartbroken, refused to be, surely didn’t deserve to be heartbroken? Why this great leaden lump in her throat, then?

She swivelled on her heel and faced a blank wall, remembering, seeing in her mind’s eye, almost tasting the days that she and Mike had spent together. Eight years, nine years, how long had it been? A hairslide, a new paintbrush, a dirty hanky dipped in the pond to soothe a scraped shin.

It had all been planned, hadn’t it? Marriage, children, painting, roses round a cottage door. She was going to cry. She must not cry! For pride’s sake, she must hold herself together until the end of this nightmarish dance. Or could she leave now? Could she cross this vast room full of sweating bodies and escape to cleaner and fresher air? Could she?

‘Good evening.’

With a supreme effort of will, she pulled herself together and turned to see a man by her side, a real grown-up man, very dashing and good-looking. ‘Where did you come from?’

‘I gatecrashed.’

‘Thought so. How old are you?’

‘That’s a rude question.’

‘And gatecrashing’s a rude business.’

‘OK. Let’s just say I’ve turned thirty, shall we?’

‘Oh. How far over the hill are you?’

‘Two years. Will you dance with me?’

She studied him while he led her expertly through a foxtrot. He had dark hair, eyes that were nearly black, a fresh complexion and thick dark eyebrows. When he closed his eyes, the lashes curled up on his cheeks. It was quite a good face, she decided. Spoiled slightly by a weakish chin, yet saved by a strong nose. Nice. Comfortable. She felt right in his arms. Yes, they fitted together. Mike would be furious, wouldn’t he? She looked round and caught no sight of her boyfriend; nor could she see his little French girl. Ah well. Mike was gone, possibly forever. A cold fist seemed to close around her stomach, and she shivered in spite of the intense heat.

‘They’ve gone,’ he said into her hair. ‘He wasn’t good enough for you anyway. I’ve been watching you for the past hour. Near to tears, weren’t you?’

She nodded.

‘Not worth it, me dearie. He’s a mere child, and here you are dancing with a man. That’s why he left. He stormed out with that awful girl in the red dress as soon as he saw us talking.’

‘Oh.’ She liked him. Especially if he thought Josianne was awful. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Geoff. Geoff Saunders.’

‘Kate Murray. Are you married?’

‘No. I’m going to marry you.’

She gulped back another ‘oh’.

‘Knew as soon as I saw you. I’m middle-management with Transglobe Plastics, good prospects, not a bad looker . . .’

‘Hang on. I’m only eighteen!’

‘So what?’

‘I’ve got to get through college.’

‘I can wait.’ The music stopped and the last waltz was announced. Without asking, he folded her in his arms and led her round the floor. ‘You dance quite well for a young one,’ he commented. ‘What’ll you do at college?’

‘Art main, History and English subsids.’

‘Teaching?’

‘Yes.’

They danced the rest of the waltz in silence, then, after Kate had been to tidy herself in the ladies’ room, he took her out into a clear moonlit night and walked her down to his car. ‘I’ll drive you home.’

‘I’ve not to get in cars with strange men.’

With great ceremony and much flourish, he extracted a card from his wallet. ‘At your service, ma’am. Geoffrey Saunders BSc, ARCS.’

‘Are you a surgeon or something?’

‘No. College of Science, Royal, Associate of. Ma’am!’ He clicked his heels and held open the door. ‘I don’t bite, I change my socks every day and my mother is well looked after. Yes, I am interested in you both body and mind, but I shall not rape you at the traffic lights. Not tonight, anyway.’

She began to giggle. ‘You’re hopeless, Mr Saunders. And you’re only seven years younger than my mother! My dad will go mad if he hears I’ve been out with an older man.’

‘I shan’t tell him if you don’t.’

‘OK. But drop me on Derby Street.’

When he stopped the car at the bottom of View Street, she didn’t know what to expect. He was a grown man after all, an adult, probably with experience too. Yes, he was too handsome to be inexperienced. She decided to go for the gauche tack. Perhaps if she came over all innocent, he would like her better. ‘What do we do now?’ she asked sweetly.

He smiled. ‘Well, I ask if I can see you again and you say no.’

‘OK. We’ll take that bit as read. What then?’

‘I find out your address, send flowers and chocolates – oh, and a Valentine’s card . . .’

‘My mother will kill me!’

‘Then I beat down your door, knock out your father, pick you up on my white horse and we ride off together into . . .’

‘An orange sunset with a touch of burnt umber,’ she concluded for him, thinking of her father. ‘Right. I’ll see you again.’

‘Tomorrow?’

She shook her head. ‘I’d play my hand closer to my chest if I were you. You’ve already proposed, which I felt was a bit premature and immature . . .’

‘Well, hush my mouth!’ This was said in a perfect Southern drawl.

‘Next week. I’ll see you next week. Pick me up here on Friday at seven-thirty.’

‘Fine. Now, I kiss you.’

‘Is that obligatory?’

‘Absolutely compulsory. I cannot allow you to leave these premises without being kissed. It’s something to do with car tax.’

‘And insurance?’

‘Naturally.’

And it was natural, too. It created in Kate the first real sexual feelings she had ever had in her young life. She was confused. Somewhere inside, a knife still twisted in the raw wound left by Mike. But she was young, desirable, wanted by this stranger. That heartbreak could turn to bliss in such a short space of time was a source of great wonderment to her. She wanted more, more kisses and more than kisses. He smelled good, felt good, tasted right and held her properly.

He released her and pushed her towards the passenger door. ‘You’d better go. I knew as soon as I saw you . . . You’d better go, Kate.’

‘Why?’

‘You know why. I’ll have to be careful. I’ve never been with anyone so much younger than myself.’

‘But I want . . .’

‘To get through college.’

‘Yes. But I think I could . . . learn to like you. Only I’m all mixed up about Mike and that girl and everything.’

‘OK. See me next Friday, then.’

‘Bye.’

‘Bye, darling.’

She stood on the pavement while the car made a big circle and drove away. No-one had ever called her darling before; darling was something out of the films. The whole thing was like a fairy story. Her legs were suddenly turned to jelly and she leaned against a nearby wall for a bit of support. Mike? God, who the hell had he been? She had a man, a real man, one of her own. And she couldn’t tell anybody about him!

She ran into the house, unaware that her cheeks were glowing, that her step was lighter. ‘What’s up with you?’ growled her father who had lost ten bob on a bent dog. ‘Been at the beer, have you?’