Voice of the Heart (91 page)

A produce truck and a couple of cars were coming towards them from the opposite direction, and Francesca eased her foot off the accelerator and dropped down to a crawl. The road had narrowed considerably, and care and expertise were necessary with the oncoming vehicles only a few yards ahead. Once these vehicles had passed and the route was clear again, she sneaked a hurried glance at Katharine, morosely
silent, encapsulated in worry, and unexpectedly she realized she had forgotten how unselfish and loyal the other girl was, particularly in a crisis. Nothing was ever too much trouble if her friends were in need. Francesca swung her eyes to the front, and as she peered ahead some of the hatred she had been harbouring for Katharine during the past two hours began to dissipate.

That analytical brain, which was to serve Francesca in such good stead as a writer in future years, began to work with great precision. Suddenly, with a clarity of perception, she saw the situation with Victor and Katharine in the harsh light of cold reality. Of course their affair had been an inevitability. And this had been staring her in the face all along. She had simply chosen not to see it. Making love on the screen had merely been a prelude to the real thing, was bound to have carried over into their private lives. He
was
irresistible; Katharine must have been mesmerized. Two and two now added up to ten in Francesca’s active mind: his unavailability on location. Katharine’s perpetual excuses, which had so infuriated Kim. Victor’s attentiveness to Katharine during the filming; the lunches in his trailer; the care and coaching he had given her. Even Nick had remarked that Victor had
carried
her through the picture. Francesca pursed her lips thoughtfully, recalling the final party, the way
they
had been huddled together and intimately so, sharing things she was excluded from, and laughing and chatting. An echo came back: Nick’s voice saying, ‘You’re on a fast track with a downhill racer, kid.’ An oblique warning, no doubt. And there was the diamond bracelet. Dismissed casually by
him
—as a token of his appreciation. Appreciation for
what
exactly?

A small tremor ran through Francesca as another realization hit her, and most forcefully. Earlier she had tried to shift the burden of guilt on to Katharine. Yet it was transparent that Victor was the initiator of the affair, and therefore culpable, ultimately responsible. Katharine must be exonerated
of all blame. She had been a victim really. They had both been his victims. He had used them for his own gratification, sexual and otherwise. An internal trembling took her, and her pain and hurt and rage and humiliation twisted together to form a tight steel band around her damaged heart. The heart she had so willingly and foolishly ransomed to
him
.

Katharine spoke, interrupting Francesca’s thoughts. She said, ‘Thanks for coming with me, Frankie. I know how rotten you were feeling from the sun. Are you still nauseous?’

‘No, I’m much better, thanks. And I’m glad to drive you, to be with you, Kath. I’m as concerned as you are about Hilary and Terry.’

‘Norman wasn’t very articulate, or forthcoming. He gets so hysterical. I wish I’d asked him more questions. It’s the
not knowing
that’s so worrisome. If only we had a bit more information.’

‘I agree. But try and relax, Katharine. We’ll soon be there.’

‘It’s not easy. Shall I put the radio on?’

‘Why not?’

Katharine twiddled with the knobs, settling on a station. The strumming of a guitar and the man’s voice instantly filled the little car. ‘
Yo se que soy una ilusión fugaz para ti, un capricho del alma, que hoy te une a mi.
’ Francesca gripped the steering wheel tighter, her knuckles sharp and white in her tanned hands, her breath strangled in her throat.
That
song again, evoking so many memories. At the dance on Saturday the mariachis had played it so incessantly it had become a litany to her misery. ‘
Una aventura más para ti
,’ the unknown singer sang, the radio blaring in her face, and she thought of the meaning of the words, repeating them in English to herself:
I know that for you I am just another affair. That after tonight you will forget me. I know I am just a fleeting illusion for you, that just a whim of the soul joins me to you. Even though you kiss me with wild passion and I happily kiss you, when the hour comes my heart dies for you.

Victor Mason’s favourite song… and how prophetic the words turned out to be, thought Francesca. My heart
is
dead. And he was just an illusion for me. It’s over.
I’ll never see him again.
Tears sprang into her golden-topaz eyes and trickled down her face, splashed against her lips, and a sob broke free as all of the pent-up emotions of the morning finally spilled out.

Katharine whipped her head around swiftly. ‘Darling, whatever is it?’ She touched Francesca’s arm lightly.

‘I don’t know,’ Francesca gasped, blinking, trying to see through the mistiness in her eyes. ‘But I think I’ll have to stop for a minute.’

‘There’s a spot ahead where you can pull in, over there, the entrance to that house,’ Katharine cried, pointing. She was riddled with alarm, wondering what had caused this rush of tears. She turned off the radio.

Francesca steered the car off the road and into a small gravelled area in front of tall iron gates. She braked jerkily, and bent forward, resting her head on the wheel, wracked with sobs. Katharine reached for her, held her close, stroking her hair. ‘What is it, Frankie? What’s upsetting you?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Francesca whispered through her tears, her shoulders heaving, her breath coming in gasps. She clung to Katharine, was about to confide in her, then changed her mind. She could never tell Katharine about Victor and herself. Never. Eventually the sobs subsided and she extricated herself from Katharine’s embrace, wiped her damp face with her hand, tried to smile. ‘I’m sorry,’ she began falteringly, looking at Katharine, whose face was expectant and questioning.

Francesca went on slowly, in a tremulous voice, ‘Everything’s falling apart… the beautiful summer is disintegrating in tragedy…’

Katharine brought her hand to her mouth, her eyes apprehensive. ‘Don’t say that,’ she exclaimed.

***

When they arrived at the hospital, Katharine got out and Francesca drove off to find a parking place. Katharine ran up the steps, and pushed through the doors. She found Norman Rook in the waiting room. He sat with his head in his hands, his shoulders hunched, shrivelled in the chair like an old man. At the sound of footsteps he lifted his head wearily. When he saw Katharine his dolorous face seemed to crumple and he shook his head slowly.

‘Oh no!’ Katharine cried, running to him. She sat down and took his hand in hers, holding it tightly, gazing at him, afraid to ask questions, her heart in her mouth.

He said, ‘Hilary’s still unconscious.’

‘And Terry?’ Katharine whispered.

‘Sedated right now. He became a bit difficult when I was sitting with him. Violent almost. He got out of bed, wanted to go and find Hilary. I couldn’t restrain him so I fetched the doctor. He gave him a shot.’

‘Just how
bad
are their injuries, Norman dear?’

‘Terry’s are all superficial, thank God. Cuts, bruises, a gash on his face, plus a broken rib and a sprained shoulder. He’ll be out of here in a few days…’ Norman’s eyes filled and he fumbled for his handkerchief, blew his nose loudly. ‘But Hilary—I just don’t know. It’s the coma that’s worrying the doctors. They’re doing more tests.’

‘Does she have other injuries?’

‘Yes, but like Terry’s they don’t seem to be all that serious. A broken leg and arm, and one side of her face is smashed up. The doctor I spoke to didn’t seem to think she’d need plastic surgery.’ His hand tightened on Katharine’s and he exclaimed fiercely, ‘She mustn’t die, Katharine. She
can’t
die! I don’t know what’ll happen to Terry if she… if she doesn’t make it. He won’t make it either. Not without Hilary he won’t.’

‘She’s going to be all right, Norman,’ Katharine asserted gently, but nevertheless with firmness. ‘We mustn’t be negative at a time like this. We’ve got to hold good thoughts.’

‘Yes,’ Norman mumbled. He swung his head, stared out of the window for a few minutes, and then turned bodily, gave Katharine the most penetrating of looks. ‘It’s our fault,’ he intoned dismally. ‘We shouldn’t have done what we did.’

Perplexed, Katharine asked, ‘What did we do? I don’t understand…’

Norman peered at Katharine curiously, and blinked. There was a small silence. He said in a low tone, ‘We schemed and plotted, and talked them into doing the picture. It’s because of us they got involved with each other again. We meddled in people’s lives. It’s wrong to meddle. Nobody has a right to play God, Katharine.’

She gazed at him thunderstruck. ‘How can you say such things,’ she admonished, her voice as low as his. ‘We were trying to help Terry solve his problems, remember? Be sides, we weren’t driving the car today. You’re being silly, Norman.’

Norman Rook seemed not to hear. The dresser sat gazing down at his sandals. ‘I’ll never forgive myself if Hilary dies,’ he said at last. ‘Meddling. That’s not right. As sure as God made little apples it’s not right. We’d both better
remember
that.’ He stood up, moved towards the door. ‘I’m going to check on them both again. I’ll be back in a jiffy.’

Katharine sat back in the chair, staring at the closed door. She was filled with distress and horrified at Norman’s extraordinary pronouncement. It was unacceptable to her. How could
they
be blamed for the accident? Norman was in shock, rambling, she reasoned. He didn’t know what he was saying. Rising, Katharine went to the window, stood looking out. Whilst she
had
counted on Hilary’s emotional attachment to Terry to achieve her own ends, she had not anticipated a rekindling of their old love affair, nor that Hilary would leave Mark and run off with the actor. What I did, I did for
them
, she said inwardly, self-justifying. I had the best of intentions. Whatever Norman says, neither of us is responsible. Not for anything. And least of all for the car crash.

She closed her eyes, leaned her forehead against the window, recalled how beautiful Hilary had been on Saturday night at the dance. Her throat tightened.
Live, Hilary
, she cried inwardly.
Fight. You must fight. Don’t give up. Fight for your life. For Terry. Oh Hilary, please, please live.
The phrases turned and turned in her mind, and she remained immobile in front of the window, concentrating on the injured girl, sending out waves of love with every ounce of her strength.

So immersed was Katharine in her inner thoughts, she did not hear the door opening.

Francesca came into the waiting room quietly, paused in the middle of the floor, intently regarding the motionless figure. There was a vulnerability about Katharine at this moment, and Francesca thought: She’s such a tiny little thing, and so fragile. Like a child really. Her heart filled with tenderness and warmth, washing away the last vestiges of her anger. She took a step forward, ‘Kath… Kath.’

Katharine swung around, and shook her head, conveying her misery. ‘Things are bad, Frankie, and—’

Holding up her hand, Francesca also shook her head, but in a positive manner. ‘It’s
all right
, Kath. Everything’s going to be all right. I just saw Norman talking to one of the doctors. Hilary’s finally regained consciousness. We can see her in a few minutes.’

A smile of relief mingled with joy spread itself slowly across Katharine’s face, which was as white as bleached linen and stark with anxiety. She flew across the room, almost fell into Francesca’s arms, and the two girls stood holding each other tightly, laughter finally breaking through.

Mrs Moggs said, ‘That’s it then, Your Ladyship, the last of your suitcases.’ The hat ablaze with poppies bobbed furiously, her head moving in rhythmic conjunction with her finger as she counted the pieces of luggage they had brought down to the hall. ‘Seven cases,’ she pronounced. ‘I ’opes they’ll all fit in Mrs Asternan’s car.’

‘Yes, there’s ample room in the Rolls, Mrs Moggs,’ Francesca replied. ‘Thanks for helping me. Now, let’s go into the kitchen to have that cup of tea and go over everything.’

‘Right yer are, M’lady,’ Mrs Moggs smiled. ‘I’ve got the kettle on.’ She stomped after Francesca, who was already swinging through the dining room. Seating herself at the kitchen table, Francesca proceeded to empty the contents of a manilla envelope on to the table.

Pouring hot water into the brown teapot, Mrs Moggs said, ‘’Ow about a nice Cadbury’s chocolate finger with your cuppa char?’

‘No, thank you,’ Francesca murmured without looking up.

Mrs Moggs pursed her lips, her flinty eyes regarding Francesca with acuteness. ‘You don’t eat enough, if you don’t mind me saying so, Your Ladyship,’ Mrs Moggs clucked. ‘You’re all nice an’ brown from yer ’olidays, and you looks well, but you’re ever so thin, M’lady.’

‘I’m really not hungry at the moment, Mrs Moggs. I’ll have a snack for lunch before I leave for Yorkshire. Please, come and sit down.’

‘Ta, ever so.’ Mrs Moggs brought the tea tray to the table, shuffled into a chair opposite Francesca, commenced to pour the tea.

‘These are Miss Tempest’s door keys,’ Francesca showed them to her. ‘She wants you to go in once a week to dust and keep an eye on things.’ Francesca slipped the keys in the envelope. ‘Put everything in here, Mrs Moggs, so that nothings gets lost.’

‘Yes, I will, Your Ladyship. An’ is Miss Temple ’appy in ’Ollywood? ’Ow is things goin’ with ’er now?’

‘Very well. She likes it there.’ Francesca did not bother to correct Mrs Moggs, who continued to mispronounce Katharine’s name. ‘Here’s her cheque for the next three months. If she’s delayed she’ll send you another one. She has your address.’

Thanks ever so.’ Mrs Moggs folded the cheque, put it in her apron pocket.

Indicating the small white envelope on the table, Francesca explained, ‘Your train ticket is in here, plus ten pounds for additional expenses. I’ve also included your wages for the next few months.’