Читать книгу Tangled Tapestry - Anne Mather, Anne Mather - Страница 7

DEBRA poured herself a cup of coffee and carried it through to the wide window seat in the lounge. From here she had an uninterrupted view of the outer waters of the harbour, and at this hour of the early evening it was unbelievably beautiful. The apartment was small, and not always quiet as it was now, the rest of the building being taken up by young people who seemed to spend their nights playing records and dancing, despite the complaints of the landlady downstairs, but the situation made up to Debra for everything else it lacked. She spent hours sitting here, sometimes sketching idly, and sometimes just dreaming, and remembering that in twelve short weeks she would be back in Valleydown.

The prospect of returning to her aunt’s house was not an inviting one. Aunt Julia was not a gregarious person, and did not welcome company in the small house backing on to the river. She was content to sit and knit, and watch television, and sometimes read a magazine. She did a little gardening, complained about the neighbours and the housework, and the cost of groceries, and this was her whole world. In truth Debra had begun to think it was hers too. But this trip had been a revelation in more ways than one. She had met so many people, nice people, who were genuinely interested in her. Back home in England, any friendships she had made were quickly snuffed by Aunt Julia, and Debra had been loath to bring friends to her aunt’s house after Aunt Julia had been rude to a fellow teacher from the school.

She had never had a regular boy-friend. She had occasionally attended lectures together with fellow teachers, some of whom happened to be men, but this was all.

But here, in America, everything was different. There was no Aunt Julia to prevent her making friends, and only the habits of years curtailed her social activities. She was still very shy, and it was difficult to respond naturally to the natural exuberance of her colleagues. And yet she knew that given more time, it would come, if only she had the chance.

She sighed, and lit a cigarette. She didn’t smoke a lot, not at all at home, but she enjoyed a cigarette with a cup of coffee at this hour of the evening. She wondered idly what her life would have been like if her parents had lived. She didn’t know much about them. As long as she could remember there had only been Aunt Julia, and Valleydown. She could vaguely remember living somewhere else, somewhere nearer London, but always with Aunt Julia. Whenever she questioned her aunt about her parents she received no satisfactory answers. Julia seemed to think the fact that they had both died in a train crash was sufficient to tell a lonely child, not understanding that Debra would have cherished every memory she could relate with avid attention.

Debra shrugged these thoughts away as being disloyal. After all, had it not been for Aunt Julia she would have been in a children’s home, and Aunt Julia had described them in terrible terms, whenever she wanted to frighten Debra into submission for some misdoing.

Footsteps on the stairs outside the apartment, loud and frequent, heralded the arrival home of the three boys who lived in the flat above her. A few minutes later the throbbing beat of a current pop song came clearly from above, and Debra sighed again, and standing up walked back into the tiny alcove which served as a kitchen, and replaced her cup on the draining board.

It was only a little after seven-thirty, and the evening stretched ahead of her. She wondered what she would do. She didn’t much like to go out alone, and she had made no arrangements to meet any of the girls from the High School this evening. She supposed she could go to the movies, but on an evening like this the prospect did not appeal.

Suddenly the telephone rang shrilly, and Debra almost jumped out of her skin. She was still not used to the ubiquitous presence of the telephone, and in consequence usually felt her nerves jangle when its bell broke the quietude of her thoughts. Stubbing out her cigarette, and wondering who could be calling her, she lifted the receiver.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Debra Warren speaking.’

An unfamiliar male voice came to her ears. ‘Miss Warren? Good? I understand you took a party of teenagers to the Omega studios a couple of days ago.’

Debra pressed a hand to her stomach. She had still not quite recovered from that, to her, unpleasant sensation of being thoroughly appraised, and although she had thrust it to the back of her mind, at the man’s words it all came flooding back.

‘That’s right,’ she said, her voice cool. ‘But I must warn you that I have absolutely no interest in any further screen tests or auditions, or anything like that. I’m a schoolteacher, and I have no desire to be a film star!’

The man made a sound which seemed like suppressed humour, and Debra gripped the receiver tightly.

‘Please,’ she said. ‘Whoever you are, get off this line!’

‘Hold on, hold on,’ he said hastily. ‘Look, my name is Dominic McGill, and I want to see you.’

Dominic McGill! Debra’s brain buzzed chaotically. Dominic McGill! She knew that name! Who was he? A film star? No! Her brain rejected this. Where had she seen his name? Recently! She ran a hand over her forehead puzzlingly.

‘I’m a playwright,’ he supplied, as though reading her thoughts.

Of course! Debra’s memory clicked. Dominic McGill, the playwright! That was where she had seen his name—on the script that Emmet Morley had given her to read. Dominic McGill had written ‘Avenida’, the play that when filmed had given Elizabeth Steel her most successful role!

Swallowing hard, she said: ‘I really can’t imagine why you’re ringing me, Mr. McGill.’

‘Can’t you? Well, maybe not, at that. Anyway, that changes nothing. I still want to see you.’

‘And I’ve explained I want nothing more to do with that screen test,’ said Debra quickly. ‘Look, understand me, Mr. McGill, I’m not some stage-struck teenager. Whatever you have to say doesn’t interest me one bit!’

‘Is that so?’ He sounded rather less amicable now. ‘Now, you look, Miss Warren! I have no intention of discussing this matter over the phone. When will it be convenient for me to come round?’

‘To come round?’ echoed Debra in amazement. ‘Surely I can’t make it any plainer. I don’t want to have anything more to do with it!’

‘Miss Warren,’ his voice was cold now, and for some reason she shivered, ‘I mean to see you. Now tell me when, like a good girl!’

‘Don’t patronise me,’ she said angrily. ‘For goodness’ sake! There ought to be laws against this sort of thing. I’m going to hang up now, Mr. McGill. Please don’t ring again!’

And she did so, slamming down the phone with a sense of satisfaction, a malicious kind of satisfaction which she didn’t know she possessed.

Then she lit herself another cigarette, and switched on her television, turning the volume up high to drown the wailing tones of the guitars in the flat above. She was annoyed to find herself trembling, and she shook herself violently. Why had she this awful feeling of apprehension suddenly? Just because a producer had taken a fancy to her and had her tested, it didn’t mean that she was no longer in control of her own destiny. And Dominic McGill! She shrugged bewilderedly. Imagine receiving a call from Dominic McGill! It was all quite fantastic, and quite crazy.

She crossed to the mirror and studied her face seriously for a minute. What was there there to attract such interest? She wasn’t particularly beautiful. Since arriving in San Francisco she had seen dozens of beautiful girls, with much more clothes sense than she had. Besides, surely the fact that she herself wasn’t interested would be enough to put them off.

She grimaced at herself mockingly, and then picking up the book she was reading, she subsided on to the couch, completely ignoring the television.

About an hour later her doorbell rang. Frowning, she put down her book and glanced at her watch. It was almost nine. Immediately she felt nervous. Who could be calling on her at this hour? She crossed to the door, and without unfastening the bolt, she opened it to the width of the chain catch.

A man stood outside. He was tall, very lean and tanned, as though he spent long hours in the open air, with hair of that particular shade of ash-blond as to appear silvery in some lights. He was not handsome; his features were hard and craggy, but he had very light blue eyes, fringed by dark lashes, that seemed to penetrate Debra with their intensity, and she felt a shaky feeling assail her lower limbs.

‘Y … yes?’ she said, keeping half behind the door.

‘I’m Dominic McGill,’ he said, in a quiet voice. ‘Can I come in?’

Debra’s fingers tightened on the door handle. ‘No,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘We … we said all we had to say over the phone.’

‘No,’ he shook his head, ‘We didn’t. Now, open the door.’

His voice was still quiet, but his blue eyes had narrowed and Debra felt suddenly afraid. After all, who did she really know here, in San Francisco? A few teachers at the High School. Her landlady? Who would miss her if she disappeared?

‘Please,’ she said, running a tongue over her dry lips, ‘go away. I … I don’t want anything to do with it. I’m sorry if you’ve had a wasted journey.’

‘Open the door,’ he repeated, ignoring her pleas.

Debra closed her eyes momentarily. ‘And if I don’t?’

‘You will.’

She glanced back at the telephone. ‘I could call the police.’

‘You could be dead before they arrive,’ he remarked, as though he was discussing the weather.

‘Oh!’ Debra pressed a hand to her mouth.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, open the door,’ he said coldly. ‘You have nothing to fear from me.’

Debra unlatched the door with shaking fingers, unable to resist any longer. She opened it wider, and he stepped inside, into the light. Then, as before with Emmet Morley, she saw his sudden shock of recognition, before he controlled his expression.

She saw now he was a man in his late thirties, dressed casually in a turtle-necked navy blue sweater over grey pants, a grey car-coat over all. She thought he was very attractive, and stifled the idea. But there was a kind of animal magnetism about him that was hard to ignore. Whatever kind of life he had led, it had not been always easy, she thought. He was no soft-skinned drone; and this was part of his attraction. He would not be a man to play around with—in any way.

‘So,’ he murmured, ‘you are Debra Warren.’

Debra did not reply, but merely stood there rubbing her elbows with the palms of her hands nervously.

‘Emmet tells me you made a good test. And you read part of Laura’s script from “Avenida”.’

Debra shrugged and nodded.

‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘are your parents living?’

Debra shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Don’t give too much away,’ he remarked dryly, lighting himself a cigarette. ‘Who were they?’

‘I never knew them. I … I suppose my father was my aunt’s brother, as our names are the same.’

He studied her thoughtfully. ‘And you never knew Elizabeth Steel.’

Debra stared at him exasperatedly. ‘Oh, not that again!’ she exclaimed. ‘How would I know Elizabeth Steel?’

He ignored her question and said: ‘Where do you live?’

‘Didn’t Mr. Morley tell you?’ she asked sarcastically.

‘Yes. But you tell me.’

Debra exhaIed irritably. ‘Valleydown, in Sussex. Don’t tell me you’ve heard of it!’

Again he ignored her outburst, much to her annoyance.

‘How old were you when they died?’

Debra compressed her lips. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Come on. When?’

Debra squared her shoulders. ‘Now look here,’ she said. ‘You’ve come here, practically forced your way in and asked a lot of questions for which you’ve received answers. Now this is all! Do you understand?’ Her green eyes were blazing, and he seemed lost in some speculative study. Then he shrugged, his eyes cold.

‘You look here,’ he said, in a quiet voice that emanated suppressed violence. ‘Sure I’ve come here uninvited, sure I’ve asked you questions, and can you say in all honesty you don’t know what in hell I’m talking about?’

‘Of course I can!’ Debra felt something suspiciously like tears behind her eyes, pricking uncomfortably. ‘If I knew what it was all about, maybe I’d be able to tell you what you want to know. Because it seems obvious to me that you want something that at present you’re not getting.’

‘You’re damn right,’ he muttered, his blue eyes piercing her cruelly. ‘I really believe you’re on the level!’

Debra was breathing swiftly. ‘For goodness’ sake,’ she exclaimed, ‘get to the point!’

‘All right, all right, I will!’ He flung his cigarette out of the half-open window, staring momentarily on the midnight blue scene below him, lit like stars with the myriads of lights of the city.

Then he looked back at her. ‘All right, Miss Warren. You can have it straight. Elizabeth Steel may have been your mother!’

For a moment there was silence in the apartment, and then Debra gave a nervous laugh. ‘You must be joking,’ she exclaimed.

He shook his head, and said: ‘Say, do you have anything to drink around here?’

Debra shook her head. ‘Only Coke.’

He smiled sardonically, and for a brief moment she could not drag her eyes away from him. Then she hunched her shoulders and looked towards the kitchen. ‘Do you want some coffee?’

He shrugged, and then tucked his fingers into the back waistband of his trousers, walking across to the television, and switching it off firmly. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘let’s have some conversation. What do you really know about your parents?’

Debra twisted her fingers together. ‘Before you start asking questions, let me ask one,’ she said. ‘Why are you so sure I might be Elizabeth Steel’s daughter? Where’s the connection?’

He put his hand into his inside pocket and drew out a wallet. From it he extracted a photograph which he handed silently to Debra. She stared at it in amazement. She might have been looking at a photograph of herself. But this woman’s face was older more mature, and yet, basically, there was little difference. The hair, the eyes, the whole expression, was emphatically identical.

‘I see,’ said Debra, breathing shakily. ‘Now I understand.’ Then she looked up at him. ‘Even so, it’s possible for anyone to have a double.’

He lit another cigarette before answering. ‘Sure it is, and that’s why Emmet wanted to test you. I guess he thought that if you were conceivably some relation of Steel’s it would show.’

‘And?’

‘Well, let’s say the resemblance was sufficient to warrant further investigation.’

Debra brushed back her hair from her eyes, feeling bewildered. It was like some crazy dream, brought about by the disturbing affair at the studios. This couldn’t actually be happening to her. Her parents had been English, they had been killed in a train crash when she was a baby. She could not possibly be Elizabeth Steel’s daughter.

‘This is ridiculous,’ she said unsteadily. ‘My parents died in a train crash years ago. If I was Elizabeth Steel’s daughter why was I brought up in England? And who is Aunt Julia?’

Dominic McGill put the photograph back in his wallet, then he said: ‘Elizabeth Steel was English, even though she made her greatest impact professionally in the States. It’s quite possible that your aunt—did she bring you up, by the way?’ and at her nod, he continued: —‘it’s possible that your aunt was Elizabeth’s sister—or I should say is her sister.’

‘That sounds unlikely.’

‘I agree. It is unlikely, but I find in this business the unlikeliest things can happen.’ He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘What are you thinking? That you wish you’d never gone to the Omega studios?’

‘How did you guess?’ Debra managed a small smile.

‘But why? For most girls it would be a dream come true?’

‘If it is true, why didn’t Elizabeth Steel bring me up herself? And why have I never heard of her from Aunt Julia?’

Dominic McGill shook his head. ‘I can’t tell you that. Not at the moment, anyway. Her producer, Aaron Johannson, knew her longest. He might know. Unfortunately he’s out of the country at the moment, filming on location in Spain. But when he comes back …’

‘Mr. McGill,’ Debra chose her words carefully, ‘even if it’s true, that I am Elizabeth Steel’s daughter, what then? What will it achieve to know the truth?’

‘Look, Miss Warren, when Steel died she left a small fortune. She had no apparent next of kin. The money is in trust.’

Debra shook her head slowly. ‘I don’t want the money,’ She shivered. ‘If that’s the whole point of this enquiry, then forget it. I have enough money for my needs.’

Dominic McGill looked exasperated. ‘Oh, don’t give me that,’ he said, raising his eyes heavenward. ‘Look! Okay, I guess the knowledge that your mother may have abandoned you at birth isn’t pleasant hearing, but at least have the sense to realise that if there is any money it’s yours to use as you like.’ He drew deeply on his cigarette. ‘Besides, that’s not all. Aaron is on the point of remaking “Avenida”. Can you imagine the impact you would make in that part?’

‘Me?’ Debra looked astonished. ‘I can’t act!’

‘Anybody can be a film star,’ replied Dominic McGill laconically. ‘They’re not all Oliviers, you know.’

‘Does it occur to you that in spite of all this I may be happy as I am?’

McGill’s eyes were derisive. ‘You really are quite a girl, aren’t you?’ he mocked her. ‘The only woman I’ve ever met who is actually not curious! Do you mean to tell me you can go back to—what was it—Valleydown, and forget everything I’ve told you? Won’t it ever trouble you that I might just be right?’

Debra turned away. She couldn’t take it in. She couldn’t be Elizabeth Steel’s daughter. She just couldn’t. But as she tried to find some truth in all that she had been told certain things came back to her; her aunt’s refusal to discuss her parents; the pathetically little she knew about them; and most of all, Aunt Julia’s hatred of all things American.

She turned back to McGill. ‘So,’ she said, ‘if I do accept all that you’ve told me, what then?’

Dominic McGill’s eyes narrowed. ‘Well, now, I guess we wait until Aaron comes home. And then it’s up to you. Can you dismiss it all?’

Debra felt the hot tears pricking at her eyes. ‘You know I can’t,’ she cried tremulously. ‘Oh, why did you have to come here, why did I ever arrange that visit to the studios?’

‘The astrologers would likely call it fate,’ he remarked lazily. ‘Calm down, kid, it’s not the end of the world. It may be the beginning of yours.’

‘I was happy, I was,’ she cried, staring at him with wide eyes. ‘You’ll never believe me, I know, but I’m not cut out for this sort of thing. I never wanted to be anything than what I am!’

‘A schoolteacher!’

‘Don’t say it like that. I like working with children.’

‘You don’t look much more than a kid yourself,’ he said.

‘I’m twenty-two,’ she replied indignantly.

‘A great age,’ he remarked sardonically. ‘Oh, to be twenty-two again!’

‘I’m sure you don’t mean that.’

‘You’re right. But even at twenty-two, I didn’t have that dewy-eyed innocence. God, if Steel was your mother you’ve a hell of a lot to learn.’

He walked to the door. ‘Tomorrow’s Saturday. I guess you won’t be working.’

‘I … I have a baseball match to attend in the afternoon,’ she said quickly.

‘High livin’,’ he mocked, his expression amused. ‘Okay, make it Sunday. At least that will give you a couple of days to cool down. I’ll pick you up at eleven in the morning, right?’

‘Why?’ Debra stared at him.

‘I have something to show you,’ he replied casually, opening the door. ‘Don’t worry, honey. You may find something in all this to enjoy.’

‘But—’ Debra linked her fingers. ‘I’m sure there ought to be something more than this to say. I mean, how do I know you are who you say you are?’

He grinned then, a completely charming relaxation of his features. ‘Honey, no one would dare to impersonate me!’

Then he closed the door behind him, leaving her alone with her thoughts. She ran to the door, but as her fingers closed over the handle she found she could not turn it. It was no use calling him back. It was her problem, and no one else’s, and her heartache if it turned out to be true. What kind of a person was Elizabeth Steel to turn her back on her own baby? Had she never had any curiosity about her own child? Did she have no desire to see her, developing into a child, and then … But her thoughts were brought up short. Elizabeth had been killed when she was only twelve years old. Might she have changed if she had lived? Would she eventually have acknowledged her offspring?

And on the heels of this thought came another: if Elizabeth Steel was her mother, who was her father? Was she illegitimate? Was that why so little interest had been taken in her? Oh, God, she thought, feeling sickened. ‘It couldn’t be true,’ she said aloud, as though by voicing the opinion, it negated it.

But the fact remained that there was a faint, yet sturdy, vein of authenticity about the whole affair. So many things linked together, most particularly her aunt’s attitude.

And yet why should her aunt act that way? Why pretend she had no mother, even if that mother refused to acknowledge her? There were hundreds of children in similar circumstances, living with relatives because their parents hadn’t time for them. It didn’t make sense.

When she went to bed that night her thoughts were no further forward. She felt a healthy resentment towards Dominic McGill for coming here so arrogantly, and brutally destroying her peace of mind. She was also aware that she had never met a man like him before. He could be hard and cold, yet when he smiled he had the charm of a small boy. A man of moods and complexes, completely outside her comprehension.

She rolled over in her bed, punching her pillow into shape angrily. Whatever came of all this, whatever truths were uncovered, Dominic McGill was merely interested in her as Elizabeth Steel’s daughter, and as such, a possible asset to the remake of his famous ‘Avenida’. She must never, at any time, start thinking of him as a friend of hers.