Stephanie (8 page)

He said no more for a time. This was the big surprise of the weekend. It was not one he found unwelcome so long as Stephanie was not damaged by it. He thought she was pretty upset. But if they were still in love … The idea that young people should sacrifice their affair with each other to preserve a marriage seemed a highly improbable scenario these days.

He held his tongue, afraid to say the wrong thing, waiting for her to continue if she had the mind to.

Eventually she said: ‘I'm talking too much. Nothing has been decided.'

‘Between you?'

‘Not exactly. Chiefly by me. I'm in – deep water.'

‘Have you met his wife?'

‘Just to say hello. She's very dark, rather brooding. Nice, I thought. But that was before things blew up.'

‘His first wife was Greek, wasn't she? I think you told me.'

‘Yes. His daughter Polly is his first wife's daughter.'

‘If you break up, will he go back to his wife?'

‘It isn't like
that
, Daddy,' Stephanie said in some irritation. ‘ He's never left her!'

He shifted in his chair, for his ankles were aching. They always did when his children were home because he moved out of his chair more.

Stephanie said: ‘Perhaps I've been a bad picker, like you.'

‘I wasn't a bad picker. It was only later on that she picked someone else.'

‘Sorry. Pity she didn't go on with her painting. I think some of them are good.'

‘So do I,' he said, eyeing a still life on the dining room wall. ‘Trouble is, painting's a full-time life of its own, whether you're good or not so good. Maybe she had too many interests.'

‘I couldn't paint a shelf,' said Stephanie. ‘You've told me I'm a bit like her, but not in that respect.'

‘Does Errol paint?'

‘No. But he's a nut on photography.'

‘I should have liked to meet him.'

‘I was going to bring him home. Now it's doubtful, to say the least.'

James saw her eyes. ‘It still means a lot to you?'

‘Yes – well, yes. I've said so.'

‘Who knows? Since I haven't an idea what's troubling you, I can't predict. But it might come all right again.'

Stephanie rubbed the back of her hand across an eye. ‘I doubt if you two would have suited each other, anyhow.'

‘Whom is that meant specially to insult?'

She smiled. ‘I certainly don't know what to make of him half the time! And as for you, I've known you a bit longer, but you still puzzle me.'

‘Say on.'

‘Is there any more of that Coutet? … Thanks.
In vino veritas.
My tongue is loose … But you are such a
gentle
man, so mild, so good-mannered, so elegant; butter wouldn't melt. But it
must
have melted at one time.'

‘What d'you mean?'

‘Well, that perfect
array
of medals in the case in the hall, you didn't get them on a Christmas tree.'

‘I was young and rash –'

‘Maybe. But does character change all that much, just in the course of a few years?'

‘In those days I was acting
out
of character,' James said, but his daughter did not seem to hear.

‘For instance. For instance, Daddy, when this man came over from Rio and stole your wife, did you not make a – make a fight of it? … Or did you? I was too young to remember.'

James lit a cigar. ‘There is port but –'

‘No, this is delicious. And I'm sure it won't keep till tomorrow!'

He said: ‘For a few years when I was young I got into the habit of fighting. It seemed to come easy to me. Maybe some old cutpurse lurks in the family genes. When it was over, then I put all that side behind me. Had to. In answer to your question, did I fight when your mother said she was going to leave me … I did my best to keep her, or my worst, if you look at it that way. Yes, I fought, but in a civilised way. it was all very civilised but very bitter just the same.'

‘Thank you, Daddy. I'm sure you don't want to go into details. I asked Teresa a couple of times but she's only three years older and doesn't have a much better memory of it than I have.'

‘I'm afraid I've been a very lax single parent.'

‘Lenient, yes. Except where grammar and syntax were concerned.'

James laughed. ‘ Well, it seemed with two daughters on my hands, I couldn't guide them morally, but I did expect 'em to write the Queen's English.'

‘I remember so well things you dinned into us. “ The verb to be never has an object.” “A relative pronoun must be next to its antecedent.” “ Tommy sits next to his uncle.” I wonder if Teresa remembers! I must ask her.'

They finished the Coutet. James's cigar was half-spent. Stephanie lit a cigarette. They had moved from the dining room to the drawing room where a fire burned. The girl stretched her legs gratefully. In this warm cosy atmosphere she was more easy than she had been for many weeks. All the grievous, heart-wrenching problems remained unsolved, but just now they were outside the walls of this house. Here was a sort of sanctuary.

James said: ‘When a woman takes it into her heart and her head and her guts to fall in love with a man, there's not much one can do to restrain her. You ought to know! When it happens, as in my case, it was
another
man, there are very few barriers one can put up. Even her love for her children didn't quite weigh heavily enough in the balance.'

‘I think you loved us more than she did.'

‘That's an assumption based on the event. I don't think it follows.'

‘It was a funny old visit Teresa and I paid her. They did their best to make us feel welcome; but it was all rather brittle. It's a brittle city.'

They sat silent for a while. ‘Well, just in case you don't know it,' Stephanie said, ‘I love you very much.'

‘This must be the drink working on you,' he said brusquely, seeing the tears in her eyes and feeling them in his own. ‘
In vino lachryma
, as they say in dog Latin.'

‘Talking of dogs, why don't you keep one?'

‘They make messes in the garden. But that isn't why I don't marry Mary Aldershot.'

Stephanie crowed with laughter.

‘Incidentally,' James said, ‘ this concern for my welfare is quite exceptional. I must boast to Teresa about it, try to make her jealous.'

‘How is she?'

‘Heavily preggers. But enjoying it, I think.'

‘One thing about Teresa, she really does enjoy everything.'

‘Don't you?'

‘Not everything. Not by any means everything.'

‘Including, no doubt, your impending break up with Errol Colton.'

‘Very much including that,' said Stephanie.

Stephanie said: ‘Could I speak to Sir Peter Brune, please?'

‘Who may I ask is calling?' She recognised the voice of John Peron, Peter Brune's secretary and general assistant.

‘Stephanie Locke.'

‘Mrs Locke?'

‘Miss Locke. I spent a weekend …'

‘Of course. My apologies. I am not sure whether Sir Peter is on another line, but will you hold?'

She waited, examining the fingers of her right hand which showed a stain from nicotine. Why did one over-smoke when one was in a dilemma?

‘Stephanie?' The unmistakable, cultured, amused-sounding voice with its slight Welsh accent.

‘Sir Peter. I –'

‘My dear, how nice to hear from you!' He sounded as if he meant it. ‘It's time you came to see us again. Were you ringing me to remind me?'

She laughed. ‘Hardly … I just wanted –'

‘How is Errol? I believe you've been off somewhere with him.'

‘Yes. He's well.'

‘I bear some of the responsibility for it all, since you first met him at my house.'

‘I absolve you.'

‘Where was it – India – you went?'

‘Yes. It was very good. Sir Peter …' She hesitated.

‘As the shop-gals say, can I help you?'

‘I'm not sure. Now it comes to the point, I'm not quite sure why I'm bothering you. It is true, isn't it, that you run a clinic – or finance a clinic – for the treatment of drug addicts?'

‘Not exactly. But I know what you mean. You're probably talking about the Worsley Clinic outside Reading. I'm on the board of that.'

‘And that treats … ?'

‘Well, it was not started exclusively for the treatment of drug addiction but that is its main purpose nowadays. Advanced cases. Often people are sent to us when ordinary hospitals have had a go and failed. Lord Worsley started it years ago, when addiction was a minor blackspot, but it's grown with the problem. Privately financed. We try to charge people according to their means. There's always a minimum of twenty-five per cent getting the treatment free. Was this what you wanted to know?'

‘Partly. Thank you.'

‘Clearly you don't have a problem yourself. Some friend?'

‘No. Not that exactly either.' She struggled to find the words that would explain sufficiently but not explain too much. She pictured him sitting there, fingering a cuff link. A big man but spare, sallow-skinned, deeply lined cheeks, a sardonic charming mouth, grey hair, probably in his late fifties, not quite the obvious millionaire, not quite the obvious scholar. Long years of wealth had given him a sense of importance he was quick to deny. ‘I
have
a sort of a problem, but it's one of conscience or something. I want to make up my mind. God, that sounds prosy …'

‘Take your time. I'm in no hurry.'

‘Look,' she said. ‘I've lived a fairly mayfly sort of life, enjoying things, not caring much. Drugs were for other people to worry about. Well, somehow it won't do any longer. One should, I think, have a point of view, at least. Whether it's something one mildly dislikes, like a drunk in the street, or – or something much more.'

‘It's no easy problem. There isn't any pure black or pure white about it. Just endlessly different shades of grey.'

‘I expect that's right. But I'm so totally ignorant and I think it's time I woke up and saw for myself.'

‘Saw what?'

‘I don't know. Just have the opportunity to visit somewhere like the – the Worsley Clinic. See what people look like. See what it means in terms of a human life. You may think it silly but I just don't want to form any judgment from hearsay.'

‘With some special purpose in mind?'

‘Yes, I suppose so. Lord knows, I'm not the hot gospeller type. I shan't be in the front of any procession. But there's a sort of choice in front of me over the next few weeks. I'd like to be certain – or more certain than I am now. Indeed, I'd like to be very certain. Understand?'

‘Not with the greatest clarity. What do you want me to do – arrange for you to visit the Worsley Clinic? In what capacity?'

He waited.

She said: ‘I thought …' and stopped. ‘Well yes, if that's the best way … Yes, I'd like to visit the Worsley Clinic. But in what capacity I don't quite know. I haven't any friend there. Clearly they don't want people snooping around at all hours. But I thought –'

‘Oh, it can be arranged. The head man is a Dr Charles Bridge. I can telephone him, say you're a friend of mine (which incidentally you are!), say you are studying the subject for a thesis. That do?'

‘Brilliant.'

‘But I'd warn you, you won't see anything dramatic. Clinics are, well, clinical places … Would you like me to come with you?'

She was startled. ‘ That
would
be kind.' She stopped. ‘But Sir Peter, I think no. I don't want any red carpet. I'd just –'

‘I promise you they'll be far too occupied to put down a red carpet for anybody. But it's up to you.'

‘Well then, thank you. But isn't it too much trouble for you? Aren't you busy buying property – or whatever millionaires do in their spare time?'

He laughed. ‘ I have a few modest commitments on Wednesday. But I'll ring Bridge in a few minutes and see if he can arrange something tomorrow – I'm certainly free in the afternoon. I'll get Peron to ring you back. What time d'you lunch?'

I'm due out fairly soon. Back well before two-thirty.'

I'm due out fairly soon. Back well before two-thirty.'

‘We'll ring you at three.'

She blew out a breath as she put the telephone down and resisted the temptation to pull out another cigarette. In spite of a happy self-confidence bolstered by the fact that she knew herself to be intellectually above average and that she found herself attractive to men, she had not relished making the telephone call and the request. Peter Brune was an important man inside the college and out. He had endowed a new library for St Martin's and given them some vast sum for repairs needed to the roof and clock-tower. She had seen him at High Table three or four times, usually dining with the Principal, but she was only a lowly student in the body of the hall. There was talk of his receiving some honour from the university this year. Apart from his benefactions he was also, as her father had remarked, a notable Greek scholar. It was just chance that she had got invited to Postgate, and during the weekend there, though always charming, he had had a variety of other guests and hadn't had all that much time to talk to her.

So the telephone call might have been looked on as a presumption. Instead it had gone well, and his offer to accompany her was specially flattering. Sir Peter was not married, apparently never had been, and, if there were those to suggest he was not the marrying kind, that made it all the more complimentary that he should be so obliging.

After all the nagging worry, she felt disproportionately relieved to have done something about it. Just for the time being it was as if she was unloading the agony of choice. This could only be temporary, for the choice had finally to be hers. Nothing useful might come out of this visit, but for the present she could hope there would.