The Glass Castle Page 6

  ‘I said I’d call you, Heron. How have you been?’

  ‘Very busy,’ she replied, and she forced her voice to sound natural and unflurried. It was so silly to let her nerves be shaken by him, but she had hoped that he wouldn’t contact her again; that she wouldn’t have to find the courage to say that she didn’t wish to see him any more.

  ‘I’ve been rather occupied myself,’ he said. ‘I’m having the Glass Castle redecorated, for there’s some really monstrous wallpaper in some of those rooms, straight out of a Victorian parlour. I’ve also made a bonfire of the stuffed sofas and the bamboo whatnots. Very little of the furniture was worth keeping, and I’ve some rather nice pieces in storage. All the activity has caused a little more tongue-wagging, as you can imagine.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and pictured the scene of curiosity as the strippers and painters went to work on that quaint old house which had stood empty for some years, before Edwin Trequair had taken it over. Empty of occupation, that was, for everyone had known of the dust-sheeted furniture that stood about in the rooms made dark by the tall shutters at the windows. There couldn’t help but be rumours about the Glass Castle, for the last person to live there had been the granddaughter of the man who had built it. Miss Olivia Glass, who drove about in a big, old-fashioned limousine chauffeured by her only servant, who with his shaven head, his deeply lined cheeks, and his impeccable black suit, always looked more like an Austrian baron than a manservant. Yes, there had been rumours about the Glass Castle for as long as Heron could remember. After the demise of Miss Olivia the place had remained locked up and shuttered, while the azaleas and the hydrangeas grew like giants in the garden, and the cobwebs thickened on the unshuttered windows of the sea-tower ... that marvellous, jutting tower of glass above the wilder part of Jocelyn’s Beach.

  ‘You will have to come and see the house when the transformation has taken place,’ he said casually. ‘And, Heron, don’t say “yes” again in that polite schoolgirl voice. Don’t you like your present—or do you like it too much?’

  ‘Edwin,’ his name broke from her, ‘did you have it sent to me?’

  ‘Yes.’ He spoke with mocking politeness. ‘I can have it exchanged for something else, if you prefer.’

  ‘I don’t prefer—what I mean is, I can’t accept anything like this. It’s far too expensive and you’ll have to take it back.’

  ‘I don’t have to do anything, unless I wish,’ he drawled. ‘Put the watch on and don’t be so absurdly prim and proper about a present from a friend of your mother’s.’

  ‘I can’t—I won’t accept it,’ she said rebelliously. ‘I shall return it to the shop and tell them to inform you—’

  ‘You will do no such thing,’ he cut in, in a voice which could have cut the line. ‘You will keep the watch and if you don’t like it, don’t wear it. Giving it to you is merely my way of saying thank you for the evening we spent together. I shall be coming to London next week and I hope we can repeat the experience? I understand there is to be a revival of The Constant Nymph at the Classic Theatre, and it will be a sort of pilgrimage for me to see it again. I last saw it as a boy, and it’s always been a favourite of mine. Do you know the story, Heron?’

  ‘I have read the book,’ she admitted, ‘but I’ve never seen the play.’

  ‘Then you have a treat in store for you. You will come?’

  With her every instinct, her every nerve, she wished to say no to him, but suddenly a disarming note had crept into his voice; a hint of humour as if he pictured her at the telephone, torn between her desire to refuse him, and her inability to hurt even a fly.

  ‘I—I may be too busy to get away,’ she stalled.

  ‘Force yourself,’ he said drily. ‘I’ll be in Town on Friday and will call for you at a quarter to seven. The play starts early, so we can have supper after the show this time. I hope that dragon for whom you work doesn’t insist that you spend your Saturdays at work?’

  ‘No, only in an emergency.’

  ‘Good, then it won’t matter if I keep you out late on Friday night. Till then, child, and don’t shut the little watch away unless you can’t help yourself. They’re all the better for being worn, like mink coats and pearls.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, Mr. Trequair.’

  ‘Formal as a defence, or as a reproof, Miss Brooks?’

  ‘Both, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, I shall hope that your mood will be a little more friendly on Friday. Do you think it will be?’

  ‘I shall force myself,’ she retorted, and heard his growl of a laugh a moment before he rang off. She stared a moment at the receiver and realized that once again he had had his way with her and she was committed to yet another date with him. Annoyed with herself for giving in to this man she didn’t much like, she slammed down the receiver, tossed his gift to the cushions of the sofa, and marched into the small kitchen to make a cup of coffee. What was his object in pursuing her in this way? Sending her an expensive gift, and inviting her to a play with so evocative a name? Did she evoke for him memories of her mother Ruth? Or did he plan to make love to her?

  She returned to the lounge with her coffee and sat down on the sofa to drink it. The ruby-coloured jewel-case was very bright against the dove-coloured cushions, and as she went over in her mind all that he said over the telephone, she could recall no tender word, no hint that he felt any desire for her.

  Heron decided in a while that for her own peace of mind she must believe that he took her out because he was rather lonely since his return to a much-altered England; that as Ruth’s daughter she was the nearest he had to a family. He never mentioned a family, and somehow Heron didn’t have to ask if he had one. He seemed a man who had always been alone.

  She reached for the jewel-case and took the watch from its satin bed. It felt very light and delicate in her fingers, and when she placed it on her left wrist it had a golden prettiness against her skin, and the tiny rubies winked in the sunshine that came through the windows of the lounge. She had never in her life before accepted more than chocolates or flowers from a man ... but never in her life before had she known a man like Edwin Trequair, who didn’t coax a girl, or flirt, or say the usual words. Take it or leave it, he said, but don’t dare return it! She reluctantly smiled and wondered what Sybil would have to say about this when she came to London next weekend. Heron had only just remembered that her cousin was coming to stay with her for a couple of days, and it would have been a valid excuse to offer Trequair. Dared she ring him and say she had just remembered about Sybil? She sat hesitant for several minutes, which were silently ticked away by the little watch on her wrist. She wouldn’t have hesitated to break a date with anyone else, but there was something about Trequair which forbade a girl to treat him lightly. He inspired respect even as he aroused a sense of danger ... Heron’s hands clenched together, for she had almost begun to feel as if he had a certain hold over her, and that was crazy. Crazy!

  Heron jumped to her feet and went to fetch her coat from the bedroom. She would go out, mingle with people, and try to dispel her rather confused thoughts.

  The April sunshine had given way to a shower, but by the time Heron reached Queensway it was raining hard and she darted for the plate-glass doors of a nearby art gallery and hastened in out of the downpour. It was a gallery she knew, where she had bought a couple of paintings and a pair of Victorian silhouette pictures for the hall of her flat. Several other people were wandering about, looking at the art objects and the paintings, and as always Heron liked the atmosphere of whispering peace created by the beauty of inanimate objects that were yet charged with grace and colour and a heavenly sense of movement.

  She had neared the end of the long gallery when she was suddenly arrested by a painting she had not seen before. It was of a lighthouse set in a sea that was still except for the shifting of light on the crest of long silky waves. Heron leaned forward and peered intently at the lighthouse ... she caught her breath, for there was a figure of a man just barely
perceptible on the narrow platform encircling the upper part of the structure. He was all in black and very lean... like the ghost in The Turn of the Screw, she thought. Not there unless you really looked, and then very much there.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  The voice so startled her that when she swung round her face had gone a little white.

  ‘Sorry if I made you jump.’ The man who addressed her was David Wildwine, who owned the galleries, and who had once asked her to work for him because he felt that she had a ‘good eye’ and would also grace the place with her presence. David was an extremely attractive Hebrew without being in the least handsome; he combined a look of sartorial elegance with a native shrewdness. He might have been fun to work for, had Heron not been dedicated to her own line of work.

  ‘It’s a very good painting,’ she said cautiously, for she had a sudden longing to own the Lighthouse and she knew that David wouldn’t allow friendship to interfere with a business deal. If he guessed that she had a strong wish to own the painting, he would make her bargain for it, and somehow her mood was too edgy this afternoon for a game of that sort. ‘It looks as if it might be dearer than I can afford.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you’re the kind of girl to pay the price for what you really want,’ he said, and very casually he touched her left wrist, still adorned by Trequair’s wrist-watch. ‘That is a painting of quality, so I can’t let it go for less than what it’s worth, now can I?’

  ‘Who’s asking you to do that?’ She gave him a frown. ‘It’s nice, but if I paid your price I’d be living on sardines and tea for the next couple of months.’

  ‘With your connections?’ His fingers gripped her wrist. ‘Lots of people come into my galleries and quite a few of them have money to throw about, but none of them look quite like you. You are quality, like that painting. You have that certain elusive something that the artist tries to put into his work. You’ll only go to the highest bidder yourself, like that Lighthouse.’

  ‘Thank you for the character reading,’ she said indignantly. ‘You must think that people have a price tag on them, like these things you sell. As if the world were a market-place!’

  ‘It is,’ he smiled. ‘There is always something we’d give our souls for, and I’m not just being cynical. We do all have our price, and being the artistic creations of the creator of the universe we know the strength, or the weakness, of our own value. You’d be wasted on a man without taste and a bit of money—I have both.’

  Her eyes flew wide open as she took in his words. ‘David, I came in here to look at paintings, not to be propositioned!’

  ‘What a pity.’ His smile was droll, worldly, with just a slight shade of regret about the sculptured lips. ‘I can only assume from this very nice piece of jewellery you are wearing that I have a formidable rival with excellent taste.’

  At mention of the watch Heron withdrew her wrist from David’s fingers and gave him a look which was supposed to wither him. ‘If I told you it was given to me by a friend of my family, then you’d look more cynical than ever, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Funnily enough I’d believe you.’ His gaze drifted over her hair, which shone bright as a flame under the chandeliers of the gallery. ‘You should be painted yourself, Heron. Look, if I make you a gift of that Lighthouse of which you are enamoured, will you sit for me? You know that I do a little painting myself, and though I’m no Renoir, I am fairly good at portraits. You liked that study I did of Sylvia Asquell, now didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘But unlike Sylvia Asquell I’m not a lady of leisure who can waste hours of her time posing for a portrait, even when painted by one of the most popular bachelors of the last ten seasons.’

  ‘We could work on Sundays,’ he said. ‘You could come to my studio and sit for me there. Afterwards—’

  ‘I’m quite sure what the “afterwards” would entail.’ Heron glanced again at the Lighthouse haunted by that elusive dark figure. ‘No, David. I’ll wait until I can afford to buy this painting, and then it will be mine without any bargaining.’

  ‘It’s exciting to bargain,’ he said, walking with her to the plate-glass doors that shimmered with raindrops. The sun had appeared again like a teasing smile, and when the doors were opened a smell of wet pavements and petrol wafted to Heron, combined with wet wool coats and grilled onions.

  ‘The rain never washes London,’ she said. ‘It only makes it smell like an old dog.’

  David Wildwine laughed and his hand moved as if he might touch the curl of red-gold hair against her white forehead; a small flame burning her skin. ‘You’re a strange girl, Heron. A sea girl, eh? And you pine for the ocean and the beach as you don’t yet pine for a man. Look, you must have that painting! I’ll have it sent to you—’

  ‘I can’t afford it—’

  ‘Who’s talking about money?’

  ‘David, your ancestors will turn over!’

  ‘The bit of exercise will do them good.’ His teeth were a primitive white against his dark skin. ‘You want the painting, eh?’

  ‘We all want something, but it isn’t always good for us to get it for nothing. I might be able to buy it in a few weeks, if you’ll save it for me?’

  ‘It will save itself, honey. Not everyone has your elusive taste in art—tell me, why are you scared of letting a man do something for you? Most women have their hands out all the time, for this or that from a guy. Whoever gave you that watch must have had a struggle!’

  ‘He knew my mother. ’Bye!’ With a wave of her hand and a smile Heron left him standing in the doorway of the galleries. David had a bold look that matched his reputation, but he amused her far more than he alarmed her. Despite all the tales about his love life, she felt she could trust him. She knew he was someone she could turn to if she ever needed help ... not that she anticipated needing a broad shoulder to weep on, certainly not right now.

  The reddening sun was riding high over the tall city buildings, and she had begun to feel hungry. Crossing the road, she entered a Wimpy Bar and ordered egg and chips, and a cup of coffee. As this was Saturday the bar was mainly occupied by young couples enjoying a meal before setting off for an evening of dancing, or smooching in a cinema. Heron, who was not made lonely by her own company, quite enjoyed sitting at the bar as an observer rather than a participant. She had too reserved a look to be approached by any of the young men who strolled into the Wimpy for a steak sandwich or a plate of cottage pie. But more than one of them glanced her way, attracted by her hair and her solitude, and she had the feminine satisfaction of knowing that she was appealing even if her elusive quality made her unapproachable to any male under the assured and experienced age of thirty,

  She heard one of the girls remark to her boy-friend that there was a rather good film showing at the Columbia, and Heron decided to go along to the cinema and pass the evening there instead of in the quietness of her flat. She didn’t want to be alone at the flat; she wanted to fill her thoughts and her mind with a bright, noisy film that would blot out for a while the gnawing question as to why Edwin Trequair was pursuing her ... and why she found it so difficult to elude him.

  The night before Heron was due to see Edwin again she slept badly and dreamed of the time she had fallen into the lake at Memory, when her mother in her pale lilac party dress had come running across the lawn to the sound of her frightened sobs. There had been a full moon and Heron had wandered from her nursery, drawn by the moonlight to the edge of the water. There had been big water-lilies floating at the edge of the lake and she had bent to pluck one and had tumbled head first into the water. She had screamed with fright ... she would have drowned if one of the young gardeners had not been smoking a cigarette in the rose arbour and heard the splash and the scream. He had jumped into the lake and saved her, and then all the guests from the party had come milling around and everything had been confusion after that. She had never seen the young gardener after that night, for he had been due to leave Memory to go elsewhere to work. He was a
mbitious, said Betsy her nurse; wanted to be something more than a gardener. Betsy had tossed her head and said he had a shilling on himself for someone who came from a foundling home somewhere down in the West-Country, where they all had foreign looks and ways. Heron never forgot the hot colour in Betsy’s cheeks ... the way Heron flushed herself when she was on the verge of tears. The sulky kind of tears when she couldn’t get her own way.

  That night of the old dream Heron woke with tears on her cheeks and as she lay there in the dark and felt them run down her face she felt almost like a small girl again, left alone in the nursery while the grown-ups enjoyed the wine and the music.

  Heron wiped away the tears from her cheeks, but she couldn’t wipe away the memories which her dream had re-awakened. She knew now that Edwin Trequair had been at the house that night; that he had been there at the lakeside when they had handed her to Ruth, all wet and howling, with the water-lily still gripped in her frightened fingers.

  She lay thinking about the dream, and then she drifted off to sleep again, awoke late in the morning and had to skip breakfast in order to try and catch her usual bus to work. She missed it and was late arriving at Temple Court, to the annoyance of the head clerk who had some important typescript to be prepared before eleven o’clock when Miss Carnaby was due in court. The end result was that Miss Carnaby had to depart for her case with an incomplete dossier of notes while Heron typed like mad to complete them. She then had to dash to the Magistrates’ Court with them, and she was dashing up the stairs to the court where her employer would be in action when she tripped, stumbled, laddered a new pair of tights, and dropped the folio of notes in the process.