Читать книгу Lady of Hay: An enduring classic – gripping, atmospheric and utterly compelling - Barbara Erskine - Страница 16

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Early next morning Sam paid off the taxi and stood for a moment on the pavement staring round him, Judy’s address scribbled on a scrap of paper in his hand.

He looked up at the house then, slinging his case over his shoulder, he ran easily up the long flights of steps until he reached the shadowy landing at the top of the stairs. It was some time before the door opened to his ring.

Judy stared at the rangy figure in the rumpled cord jacket and her eyes hardened. ‘What do you want?’

‘Hello there.’ He grinned at her easily. ‘I’m Sam Franklyn.’

‘I guessed that. So – what do you want?’ Her tone was icy. With paint-stained fingers she pushed back the scarf which covered her hair.

‘May I come in?’

‘Please yourself.’ She turned away and walked back into the studio. Picking up a rag, she began to scrub at her fingertips with some turps. ‘What have you come here for?’ she asked after a minute. She did not bother to turn round.

Sam dropped his case in the corner and closed the door. ‘I rather hoped Nick would be here,’ he said mildly, ‘but I can see I’ve goofed. Where is he, do you know?’

‘I don’t.’ She flung down the rag. ‘But I can guess. He stood me up last night.’ She folded her arms and turned to face him. He could see now in the harsh revealing light of the studio windows that her eyes were red and puffy. There was a streak of viridian across her forehead.

‘Any chance of some coffee while you tell me about it?’ Sam said gently. ‘I’ve come straight from Heathrow and I’m parched.’

‘Help yourself. But don’t expect me to make polite conversation, least of all about Nick. I’m busy.’ She turned her back on him again.

Sam frowned. He watched her for a moment as she picked up a brush and attacked the canvas in front of her. Every muscle in her body was tense, the angle of her shoulders set and defensive beneath the faded green denim of her smock.

‘Do you know,’ she said suddenly, ‘I hate her. I have never actually hated anyone like that before. Not so much that I would like to see them dead. Do you think I’m paranoid or something?’ Her tone was almost conversational as with cool deliberation she loaded her brush with cadmium red and blotted a small figure out of the painting.

Sam watched her thoughtfully. ‘It sounds pretty normal to me,’ he said evenly. ‘Do I gather we are talking about Jo?’

‘Why don’t you make me some coffee too, while you’re at it,’ she returned sharply, ‘and shut up about Jo.’ Once again she pushed back the scarf which covered her hair.

Sam gave a small grimace. He found his way across to the kitchen by instinct and pushed open the door, then he stopped and surveyed the scene. There was broken glass all over the floor. Two saucepans of food had been left upside down in the sink. Staring down at the mess, he sniffed cautiously. One had contained asparagus soup, the other some kind of goulash. Sam frowned. In the bucket below the sink were two china plates with the salad that had been on them. She had hurled out what appeared to him to have been a cordon bleu meal, complete with crockery.

Glancing over his shoulder, he watched for a moment in silence as she worked, then he began to hunt for some coffee and set the kettle on the gas.

‘What do you call that picture?’ he asked several minutes later when he handed her a mug.

She took it without looking at him. ‘What you mean is, what the hell is it?’ she said slowly. She stepped closer to the painting, eyes narrowed, and added a small touch of red to the swirl of colours. ‘I had better not tell you. You’d have me taken away in a strait-jacket.’ She gave a taut smile. ‘You’re the psychiatrist. Why don’t you tell me what it means?’ She rubbed at the canvas with her little finger and stared thoughtfully at the smear of red it left on her skin. Then she swung round to face him again. ‘On second thoughts, why don’t you drink your coffee and get out of here?’

Sam grinned. ‘I’m on my way.’

‘Good.’ She paused. ‘I told her, you know. In front of the whole bloody world.’

‘Told her what?’ Sam was still studying the canvas.

‘What Nick said to you on the phone. That she would crack open if she were hypnotised again. That she is more or less out of her mind.’ She threw down the brush and crossed to the untidy desk by the window. Pulling open a drawer she extracted a newspaper clipping. ‘This was in yesterday’s Mail.’

Sam took it. He read the paragraph, his face impassive, then he handed it back.

‘You certainly made a good job of that bit of scandal.’

Judy smiled. She turned back to her canvas. ‘So, hadn’t you better rush over to Cornwall Gardens and see if Nick can spare you one of her hands to hold?’

‘That’s what I’ve come for.’ Sam drank the last of his coffee, then he put down his empty mug. ‘I take it,’ he added carefully, ‘that you think that Nick spent last night with her.’

‘Unless he got run over and is in the mortuary.’

‘And you were expecting him here to dinner.’

‘As you plainly saw.’

‘I am sorry.’ Sam’s face was carefully controlled. ‘Nick’s a fool. You deserve better.’

She went back to the painting and stood staring at it. ‘That’s right. And I mean to get it. Make no mistake about it, Dr Franklyn, I mean to see that Nick leaves her for good. So if it’s your mission in life to comfort Jo Clifford and see that she keeps calm and safe and sane, I suggest you move in with her, and send your brother to me, otherwise I’ll see to it that she regrets the day she was born.’

Sam turned and picked up his case. ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ he said. He pulled open the door. ‘But if you’ll take a piece of advice from me, I suggest you use a little more subtlety with Nick. If you behave like the proverbial fishwife he’ll go off you for good. I know my brother. He likes his ladies sophisticated and in control. If he sees the mess in your kitchen he’ll leave, and I wouldn’t altogether blame him.’

He didn’t wait to hear the string of expletives which echoed after him as he began to run down the stairs.

Jo was sitting on the cold concrete steps outside the library watching a pigeon waddling along in the gutter. Its neck shimmered with iridescent purples and greens as it moved unconcerned between the wheels of the stationary cars intent on gathering specks of food from the tarmac. The roar of traffic in the High Street a few yards away distracted it not at all. Nor did the scream of an accelerating motorbike a few feet from it. Behind her the library doors were unlocked at last. Jo did not move.

The events of the previous afternoon, and the restless tormented night which had followed, had receded a little, dreamlike, now that it was day. Standing in the kitchen drinking a hasty cup of tea before Nick woke up, Jo had stared out of the window and scowled. Somehow Carl Bennet had managed to influence her. There was no other explanation. She would go to the library, look up the few facts she had, draw a complete blank there, and return to begin work on an article which would ridicule out of existence the whole idea of hypnotic regression.

Now standing up slowly, she brushed the dust off her skirt, watching as the pigeon, startled into sleek slimness by her sudden movements, took off and swept with graceful speed up and over the rooftops towards the park.

As she ran up the echoing staircase to the library she became aware suddenly that she could hear her own heartbeats drumming in her ears. The sound was disconcerting and she stopped outside the glass swing doors to try to steady herself. Her head ached violently and her eyes were heavy with lack of sleep.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed through the doors and turned towards the reference section, skirting the tables where already students and newspaper readers were establishing their base camps for the day. As she pulled the notebook from her bag she realised that her hands had begun to shake.

Begin with The Dictionary of National Biography.

It was unlikely she would find Matilda there, but it was a place to start. She approached the shelf, her hand outstretched. Her fingers were trembling.

‘Braos?’ she murmured to herself. ‘Breos? I wonder how they spelled it?’ There was a rustle of paper beside her as a large bespectacled priest turned to the racing page. He looked up and caught her eye. His wink was comforting.

She walked slowly along the shelf, squinting at the gold-lettered spines of the books, then she heaved out a volume and carried it to a table, perching uncomfortably on the very edge of the chair as she began to leaf through the pages.

Don’t let it have been realPlease don’t let it have been real … I can’t cope with that … She shook her head angrily. The thick paper crackled a little, the small print blurring. A slightly musty smell floated from between the covers as the riffling pages stirred the hot air of the room.

… Bowen … Bradford … Branston … Braose, Philip de (fl. 1172), two inches of print, then Braose, William de (d. 1211). There were more than two pages.

She sat still for a moment fighting her stomach. She could taste the bile in the back of her throat. Her forehead was damp and ice-cold and her hands were burning hot. It was a while before she became conscious that the priest was watching her closely and she realised suddenly that she had been staring at him hard, oblivious of everything but the need not to be sick. Somehow she forced herself to smile at him and she looked away.

All it meant was that she must have read about them somewhere; she had a good memory, an eye for detail. She was a reporter after all. And that was what she was here for now, her job made easier because the characters she was searching for were obviously at least moderately well known. She took a deep breath and stared down at the page. Was Matilda there, in the article, which she could see at a glance was full of place names and dates? Had she lived long enough to make her mark on history and have her name recorded with her cruel overbearing husband? Or had she flitted in and out of life like a shadow, leaving no trace at all, if she had ever existed?

The priest was still watching her, his kind face creased with concern. Jo knew that any minute he was going to stand up and come over to her. She looked away again hastily. She had to look up Richard de Clare, too, and Abergavenny and make notes on them all. Then, perhaps, she would go and have a cup of coffee and accept the consolations of the Church if they were offered.

It was several minutes before the intercom on the doorstep below Jo’s flat crackled into life. Sam bent towards the display board.

‘Nick? It’s Sam. Let me come up.’

Nick was waiting on the landing as Sam walked slowly up the carpeted stairs. ‘You’re too late,’ he said brusquely. ‘She went to a hypnotist yesterday and let him regress her.’

Sam followed him into the brightness of the flat and stared round. ‘What happened? Where is she?’ He faced his brother coldly, taking in the dark rings beneath Nick’s eyes, and the unshaven stubble.

‘She had gone before I woke up.’ Nick ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I think she was OK. She was last night. Just shocked and rather frightened. She had a long session which seemed to get out of control. The hypnotist couldn’t bring her back to consciousness. She seemed to get so involved in what was happening, it was so real to her.’

‘You were with her?’ Sam turned on him sharply.

‘Of course not! Do you think I’d have let her go! No, she brought back a tape of what happened and I heard it last night.’ Nick shook his head wearily. ‘She was in a terrible state – but not in danger as far as I could tell. She never stopped breathing or anything. I stayed the night with her and she spent most of it tossing and turning and pacing up and down the floor. She must have got up at dawn and gone out. She did say she’d go to the library first thing. Maybe she went there to see if she could find any of these people in a history book.’

Sam took off his jacket and threw it on the back of the sofa. Then he sat down and drew the tape recorder towards him. ‘Right, Nick. May I suggest you return to your titian-haired artist friend and try to apologise for last night’s ruined meal? Leave Jo to me.’

‘Like hell I will!’ Nick glared at him.

‘I mean it. Go back to Miss Curzon, Nick. She is your new love, is she not? I went there straight from the airport under the impression that you would be there. She is not pleased with you, little brother. If you value your relationship with her I should go and make amends as fast as you can. Meanwhile I shall listen to the tape and talk to Jo when she returns. I shan’t want you here.’

Nick took a deep breath. ‘Jo asked me to stay.’

‘And I am asking you to go.’ Sam turned his back on Nick, his shoulders hunched as he searched for the ‘play’ button on the machine. ‘She is my patient, Nick.’

Nick hesitated. ‘You’ll ring me after you’ve spoken to her?’

‘I’ll ring you. Better still, do you still have your flat in Mayfair?’

‘You know I do.’

‘Give me the key then. I’ll stay there for a night or two. And I’ll see you there some time no doubt.’ He switched on the tape and sat back on the sofa thoughtfully as Jo’s voice filled the room.

It was four hours before Jo came home. She stopped dead in the doorway, her keys still in her hand, staring at Sam. He had long ago finished playing the tape and was lying on the sofa, his eyes closed, listening to the soft strains of the ‘Concierto de Aranjuez’.

‘How did you get in?’ He did not immediately open his eyes.

Jo sighed. She dropped her shoulder bag on the floor and banged the door behind her.

‘Where’s Nick?’

Sam’s eyes narrowed. ‘He felt he should return to make his peace with Judy. I’m sorry.’

‘I see.’ Jo’s voice dropped. ‘And he’s left you here to pick up the pieces. I suppose I should be grateful he stayed at all last night. I hope he told you I don’t need you, Sam. Nothing awful happened. I’m perfectly all right. I did not become incurably insane, nor did I kill anyone as far as I know.’ She unbuttoned her jacket wearily. ‘When did he leave?’

‘Soon after I arrived. He was worried about you Jo.’ Sam was watching her closely. ‘Nick’s a nice bloke. Even if it is all over between you both he wouldn’t have left you alone, you know that.’

Jo dropped her jacket on a chair and reached for the Scotch bottle on the table by the phone. ‘That’s right. Good old St Nicholas who never leaves a friend in the lurch. Want one?’

Sam shook his head. He watched as she poured; she did not dilute it.

‘Have you heard it?’ Her eyes had gone past him to the cassette lying on the coffee table.

‘Twice.’ Her face was pale and drawn he noted, her hair tied back into an uncompromising pony-tail which showed new sharp angles to her cheekbones and shadows beneath her eyes.

‘It all happened, Sam.’ She raised the glass to her lips. ‘I found it so easily. William de Braose, his wife – most books seem to call her Maude – I didn’t even know it was the same name as Matilda – their children, the massacre of Abergavenny. It was all there for anyone to read. Not obscure at all.’ She swallowed a mouthful of whisky. ‘I must have read about it somewhere before, but I swear to God I don’t remember it. I’ve never studied Welsh history, but all that detail in my mind! It doesn’t seem possible. Christ, Sam! Where did it all come from?’

Sam had not taken his eyes from her face. ‘Where do you think it came from?’ She shrugged, flinging herself down on the sofa beside him, turning the glass round and round in her fingers.

Sam eyed the length of lightly tanned thigh exposed where her skirt caught on the edge of the cushions. He moved away from her slightly. ‘Where would you like it to have come from?’

Jo frowned. ‘That’s a loaded question. Yesterday morning I wouldn’t have hesitated to answer it. But now. Matilda was so real to me, Sam. She was me.’ She turned to face him. ‘Was it the same in Edinburgh? Did the same thing happen then too?’

He nodded slowly. ‘You certainly reacted dramatically under regression. A little too dramatically. That was why we decided it would be better if you remembered nothing of what happened afterwards.’

Jo jumped to her feet. ‘You admit it! So you told me to forget it, as if it had never happened. You took it upon yourselves to manipulate my mind! You thought it would be bad for me to know about it, so bang! You wiped it clean like a computer program!’ Her eyes were blazing.

Sam smiled placatingly. ‘Cool it, Jo. It was for your own good. No one was manipulating you. Nothing sinister happened. It was all taped, just as it was for you yesterday. It’s all on the record.’

‘But you deliberately destroyed my memory of what happened!’ She took a deep breath, trying to control her anger. ‘Was I the same person? Matilda de Braose?’

‘As far as I remember you didn’t tell us what your name was,’ Sam said quietly.

‘Well, did I talk about the same events? The massacre?’

Sam shook his head. ‘You were much more vague with us.’ He stood up abruptly and walked over to the windows, looking up through the net curtains towards the sky. ‘You must not go back to this man, Jo. You do understand that, don’t you?

‘Why not?’ Her voice was defiant. ‘Nothing terrible happened. And he at least is honest with me. He has professional standards.’ She threw herself down on the sofa again, resting her head against the cushions. ‘Oh sure, it was a bit nerve-wracking for him, as it obviously was for you, but I was all right, wasn’t I? I didn’t seem hysterical, my personality didn’t disintegrate. Nothing happened to me.’ She looked down at her hands suddenly then abruptly she put them behind her.

‘What’s wrong?’ Sam had seen her out of the corner of his eye. He went over to her and, kneeling, he took both her hands in his. He studied the palms intently. Then he turned them over and looked at her nails.

She tried to pull away. ‘Sam –’

‘Your hands aren’t hurt?’

‘No, of course they’re not hurt. Why should they be?’

He let them go reluctantly, his eyes once more on her face. ‘They were injured last time, in Edinburgh,’ he said gently. ‘They started to bleed.’

She stared at him. ‘There was blood on the floor, wasn’t there?’ she whispered after a moment. ‘I remembered that. And when I got home I found I was covered in bruises.’ She stood up, pushing past him. ‘I thought I’d had an accident. But somehow I never bothered to ask you about it, did I?’ She bit her lip, staring at him. ‘That was your post-hypnotic suggestion too, I suppose. “You will not remember how you were injured, nor will you question why.” Is that what you said to me? God it makes me so angry! All this has happened to me before and I did not know about it. You snatched an hour or so of my life, Sam, and I want it back.’ She looked down into her glass, her knuckles white as she kneaded it between her fingers. ‘It’s the thought that these memories, this other life has been lying hidden in me, festering all these years, that frightens me … Wherever they come from, whatever they are, they must mean something special to me, mustn’t they?’ She paused then she looked away from him. ‘Do you know how she died?’

Sam’s jaw tightened. ‘Who?’

‘Matilda, of course. They think she was starved to death.’ Jo drank the rest of her whisky quickly and put down the glass. She was suddenly shuddering violently.

Sam stood up. He caught her arm. ‘Jo –’

‘No, Sam, it’s all right. I know what you’re going to say. I’m not about to get obsessive about her. It’s me, remember. Level-headed Jo Clifford. I’m over the shock of it all now, anyway. Reading about it has put it in perspective. All those dry dates and facts. Ugh! Funny how history never seemed to be to do with real people, not to me anyway. At least not until now …’ Her voice tailed away. ‘When you and Professor Cohen finished your experiments, Sam, did you reach any conclusions?’

‘We were able to float various hypotheses, shall we say,’ Sam smiled enigmatically.

‘And they were?’

‘Roughly? That different subjects reacted in different ways. We tabulated almost as many theories as there were regression sessions. You must read his book. Some people faked, there was no question about that. Some openly re-enacted scenes from books and films. Some produced what they thought we hoped we would hear. And some were beyond explanation.’

‘And which was Joanna Clifford?’

‘I think one of the latter.’ He gave a wry smile.

Jo eyed him thoughtfully. ‘I had a feeling you were going to say that. Tell me, Sam, do you believe in reincarnation?’

‘No.’

‘Then what do you think happens?’

‘I have one or two ill-formed and unscientific theories about, shall we say, radio waves trapped in the ether. Some people, when in a receptive state, tune into the right wavelengths and get a bit of playback.’

‘You mean I was actually seeing what happened in 1174?’

‘An echo of it – a reverberation, shall we say? Don’t quote me, Jo, for God’s sake. I’d be drummed out of every professional body there is. But it does go some way to explain why more than one person gets the same playback on occasions. It explains ghosts as well, of course. A good all-round theory.’ He laughed.

‘Have you seen a ghost?’

The strain, he noted with satisfaction, had lessened in her face; her neck muscles were no longer so prominent.

‘Never! I’m not the receptive type, thank God! You haven’t any coffee I suppose, Jo?’ He changed the subject thankfully. ‘I need a regular fix every two hours or I get withdrawal symptoms and it’s been twice that at least.’

‘Why not? Sam –’ She paused in the doorway, running her fingernail up and down the cream-painted woodwork. ‘Can you hypnotise people?’

‘I can. Yes.’

‘And regress them?’

‘I haven’t gone on with Cohen’s experiments,’ he replied carefully. ‘There are others chasing that particular hare now. My field is rather different.’

Jo grinned. ‘You didn’t answer my question, Dr Franklyn. Can you regress people?’

‘I have done, yes.’

‘And would you do it to me?’

‘Under no circumstances. Jo –’ He paused, groping for the right words. ‘Listen, love. You must not contemplate pursuing this matter. I meant it when I said you should not see Carl Bennet again. You must not allow anyone to try and regress you. I am not so concerned about the drama and the psychological stress that you are put under, although that is obviously not good for you. What worries me is the fact that you are prone to physiological reaction. You reflect physically what you are describing. That is very rare. It is also potentially dangerous.’

‘You mean if William beat me … her up, I’d wake up with bruises?’

‘Exactly.’ Sam compressed his lips.

‘And if she starved to death?’ The question came out as a whisper.

There was a pause. Sam looked away. ‘I think that is unlikely.’ He forced himself to laugh. ‘Nevertheless, it would obviously be foolish to put yourself deliberately at risk. Now, please – coffee?’

For a moment Jo did not move, her eyes on his face. Then slowly she turned towards the kitchen.

It was dark when Dorothy Franklyn arrived at the flat carrying an armful of roses. A tall, striking woman in her mid-sixties, she habitually wore tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses and immaculate Jaeger suits which made her look the epitome of efficiency. She was in fact always slightly disorganised and invariably late for whatever she was trying to do. Jo was enormously fond of her.

‘Are you sure you don’t mind me dropping in like this, Jo?’ she said apologetically as she came in. ‘I came up for a matinée and then I had supper but I wanted to leave you the flowers.’ She eyed Jo surreptitiously. ‘You look tired my dear. Would you rather I just left them and went?’

Jo shook her head. She caught the other woman’s arm and pulled her into the room. ‘Sit down and I’ll put the kettle on. You’ve just missed your son. That’s why I’m tired, he took me out to dinner.’

Dorothy smiled, her whole face lighting with pleasure. ‘Jo! I’m so glad. It broke my heart when you and he split up –’

‘No –’ Jo interrupted. ‘I meant Sam.’

‘Sam?’ Dorothy frowned. ‘I thought he was in Switzerland.’

‘He was. He’s stopped off in London for a few days – mainly to do a quick psychoanalysis of me, I think.’ Jo grinned wryly. ‘He’s staying at Nick’s flat if you want to see him. Nick’s not there of course, so the flat is free.’

She could feel the other woman’s eyes on her face, bright with embarrassment and sympathy, and she forced herself to go on smiling somehow.

‘How is Sam?’ Dorothy asked after a long pause.

‘Fine. He’s been giving a paper on some terribly obscure subject. I was very impressed. He took me to tea at the zoo.’ She laughed.

Dorothy smiled. ‘He always says the zoo teaches one so much about people.’ She hesitated, eyeing Jo thoughtfully. ‘He has always been very fond of you, you know, Jo. I don’t think you and Nick ever realised how much it hurt Sam when Nick walked off with you. Nick has always found it so easy to have any girl he wanted – I’m sorry, that sounds dreadful, and I know you were different – you were special to him. But you have been special to Sam too.’

Jo looked down guiltily. ‘I think I did know. It’s just that we met under such strange circumstances. I was a guinea pig in one of his experiments.’ She shivered. ‘Our relationship always seemed a little unreal after that. He was so concerned about me, but I always had the feeling it was a paternal concern, as if he were worried about my health.’ She paused abruptly. ‘He was, of course. I know that now. Anyway, he was twenty-six or -seven and I was only nineteen when we first met. We belonged to different worlds. I did rather fancy him –’ She was staring at the roses lying on the table. ‘If I’m honest I suppose I still do. He’s an attractive bloke. But then Nick came along …’ She stood up abruptly. ‘Let me put these in water or they’ll die before our eyes. And I’ll make you some coffee.’

‘Is it serious, this thing with Judy Curzon?’ Dorothy’s voice was gentle.

‘It sounds like it. She is much more his type than I ever was. She’s domesticated and artistic and a redhead.’ Jo forced herself to laugh. ‘Perhaps I should cultivate old Sam now. Better late than never and we seem to have quite a bit in common after all. It might even make Nick jealous!’ Scooping up the flowers, she buried her face in the velvet blooms, then she carried them through to the kitchen and dropped them into the sink.

Turning the cold tap on full, she turned and saw Dorothy had followed her. She was frowning.

‘Jo. Please don’t just amuse yourself with Sam. I know it must be tempting to try and hurt Nick, but that’s not the way to do it.’ She leaned past Jo as water began to splash off the flowers and onto the floor and turned off the tap. ‘There’s too much rivalry between those two already.’

‘Rivalry?’ Jo looked astonished. ‘But they hardly see each other so how could there be?’

‘Sam has resented Nick since the day he was born.’ Dorothy absentmindedly picked the petals off a blown rose and threw them into the bin. ‘I used to think it was normal sibling rivalry and he’d grow out of it. But it was more than that. He learned to hide it. He even managed to fool Nick and their father that he no longer felt it, but he never fooled me. As he grew up it didn’t disappear. It hardened. I don’t know why. They are both good-looking, they are both confident and bright. Sam is enormously successful in his own field. There is no reason for him to resent Nick at all. At least, there wasn’t until you came along.’

Jo stared at her. ‘I had no idea. None at all. I thought they liked each other. That’s awful.’ Wearily she pushed the hair off her face. ‘I’m sure Nick likes Sam. He told me that he used to worship him when they were children, and I sometimes think that secretly he still does. Look at the way he turned to him when he was worried about me.’ She stopped. Had Nick really turned to Sam for help, or was he merely using him cynically to take her off his hands? She closed her eyes unhappily, trying to picture Sam’s face as he kissed her goodnight. It had been a brotherly kiss, no more. Of that she was sure.

Dorothy had not noticed Jo’s sudden silence. With a deep sigh she swept on after a minute. ‘I used to wonder if it was my fault. There was a six-year gap between them, you know, and we were so thrilled when Nick came along. Elder children sometimes think such funny things, that somehow they weren’t enough, or that they have failed their parents in some way …’

‘But Sam is a psychiatrist!’ Jo burst out in spite of herself. ‘Even if he felt that when he was six, he must be well enough read by now to know it wasn’t true. Oh come on, Dorothy, have some coffee. This is all too Freudian for me at this time of night.’ She plugged in the coffee pot and switched it on.

Dorothy reached into the cupboard and brought out two cups. ‘Are you seeing Sam again?’

Jo nodded. ‘On Wednesday evening.’

Dorothy frowned. ‘Jo. Is it over between you and Nick? I mean, really over?’

Jo turned on her, exasperated. ‘Dorothy stop it! They are grown men, not boys fighting over a toy, for God’s sake! I don’t know if it’s over between me and Nick. Probably, yes. But we are still fond of each other, nothing can change that. Who knows what will happen?’

After Dorothy had gone Jo sat staring into space for a long time. Then slowly she got up and poured herself a drink. She glanced down at the books and notes piled on the table, but she did not touch them. Instead, restlessly, she began to wander round the room. In front of the huge oval mirror which hung over the fireplace she stopped and stared at herself for a long time. Then solemnly she raised her glass. ‘To you, Matilda, wherever you are,’ she said sadly. ‘I’ll bet you thought men were bastards, too.’

The answerphone was to the point:

‘There is no one in the office at the moment. In a genuine emergency Dr Bennet may be reached on Lymington four seven three two zero. Otherwise please phone again on Monday morning.’

Jo slammed down the receiver. She eyed the Scotch bottle on the table, then she turned her back on it and went to stand instead on the balcony in the darkness, smelling the sweet honeyed air of the London garden, cleansed by night of the smell of traffic.

It was a long time before she turned and went back inside. Leaving the French windows open she slotted her cassette back into the machine, and switched it on. Then, turning off the lights, she sat down alone in the dark to listen.

Lady of Hay: An enduring classic – gripping, atmospheric and utterly compelling

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