Читать книгу More Than A Dream - Emma Richmond, Emma Richmond - Страница 5

THERE had been grey skies, a fine drizzle, the day Melly had arrived in France. The overnight ferry had been crowded and she had been glad to reach the relative freedom of the roads. The drive to the Hotel du Golf in Deauville had been without incident, and after unpacking she had wasted no time in gaining directions to the Military Cemetery from the desk clerk. First things first. Set up the alibi.

It was only a five-minute drive from the hotel. A winding road, empty of traffic, then along a small unmarked track, tucked away behind some trees. Isolated. Forgotten? No, not forgotten. All the war graves had been carefully tended. The grass cut.

Shrugging into her slicker, pulling the hood over her dark hair, she climbed from the car. A fitting day for visiting a grave, she thought, with the heavens crying, and guilt was her companion that day, because grandfather’s grave was only an excuse. Her father had drawn her a little map, which she had memorised, and, with that in mind, she walked straight to his grave.

Huddling more warmly into her slicker, she gazed before her. Yet, even with her eyes on the grey stone cross, she saw only Charles. Or, said the French way, ‘Sharle’. With a small smile, she savoured the name on her tongue. Sharle. No, not here, now; that was a betrayal of them all.

Focusing once more on the memorial stone, she conjured up an image of her grandfather. A face seen only in photographs. A black and white image of a young man that bore a striking resemblance to herself. Mid-brown curly hair, amber eyes with the same wistful expression. And he deserved far more of her attention than she was giving him. He had died for king and country, died so that future generations could be free, and here she was, over forty years later, giving him barely one tenth of her attention.

Captain David Morland. Aged thirty-two. Liberator.

June 6, 1944

Simple, poignant—and said nothing. How had it really been? Had death come swiftly, on silent wings? Or had it been resisted? Had he known? Or been unaware? There was no one to tell her now. Above the simple inscription was a carving of his regimental badge and his number. Not much as a testament to thirty-two years of life. And yet it was more than some had. Looking round her, at the bleak little cemetery, she shivered and began to move slowly along the row. So young, so little of life had been lived, and she began to silently mouth the names, as though it was important that someone, somewhere, remembered them. Not as a mass, but as individuals.

Most were from the First World War, only a few from the Second. Some were unknown. And in the corner, isolated, were the German war graves. No poignant little messages on these, no soft remembered phrase, just the name and date of death. Feeling depressed, she turned to go back through the little gate. Duty done. The reason for her trip to France. Liar. With a long sigh, she went back to the car.

Where was Charles now? Still in Deauville? And did she really expect to see him? Yes; the answer had to be yes. Not only expected, but needed. Needed to cure herself of this ridiculous infatuation, because surely that must be what it was? All these years of loving him, wanting him, unable to have a relationship with any other man because it was not him. Yet she had tried. Lord knew, she had tried. Accepted invitations from other boys, men, but none of them had had his smile, his warmth, that underlying streak of ruthlessness that sometimes showed in his grey eyes. The strength that could never be disguised. So foolish, irrational—and shaming. Like a schoolgirl languishing after a pop star, an idol. A man who probably rarely gave her a thought, and, if he did, would have been astonished—no, incredulous—had he known of her obsession. Her fantasy.

Putting the car in gear, she drove carefully along the bumpy track and down into the centre of town. People with obsessions always planned well in advance. She had carefully scrutinised the town map and therefore knew exactly where the harbour was. Knew, or at least had been told, that that was where Charles moored his yacht.

Finding the marina without difficulty, she parked, and then quickly scanned the line of expensive toys as they bobbed gently, swayed, curtsied, as if in mockery. And there it was, exactly like the photograph she had seen in the magazine at home. The Wanderer. Elegant, racy, exciting—like the man who stood on deck. An unexpected bonus, and she felt the familiar warmth course through her as she stared at dark hair ruffled by the breeze; at strong, tanned arms that were raised as he fiddled with something on the mast; at jeans-clad legs, astride to keep his balance. Slim, elegant, exciting. Charles Revington.

She stared at him for a long time, felt the jolt she always felt; felt her heart race, swell, and she wanted to do something incredibly juvenile, such as walk past him in the hope that he might see her.

Wrenching her eyes away, she was disgusted by her stupidity. And it was stupid, and childish, and hopeless. Climbing from the car, she quickly locked it, and, resolutely turning her back, she began to walk along the wooden promenade that divided the long sandy beach from the bathing huts.

‘Hey! Melly! Hang on!’

If you wanted something badly enough you would get it. Closing her eyes tight for a moment, she quickened her step, pretended she had not heard the urgent shout. Staring blindly at the wooden boards before her, she fought for composure. Fool. Stop, be casual. I can’t. The longing to see him and the need to escape were equally powerful. She should never have come. And yet, if it was he who chased after her, it would look, wouldn’t it, as though their meeting was accidental?

The sound of footsteps behind her did not diminish, and it was almost a relief when her arm was caught and she was brought to a halt. Swinging round in feigned surprise, she stared up into the face of the man she had loved since she was a child.

Laughing grey eyes looked back. A wide smile stretched the firm tanned skin of his face. ‘I would have felt the most awful fool if it hadn’t been you! What on earth is my innocent little friend doing in this den of iniquity?’ he asked with that engaging grin that had been haunting her for most of her twenty-five years.

‘Oh, this and that,’ she managed simply. Surprised, after all, at how easy it was, she smiled. Her heart might be racing, her pulse erratic, but, to her intense relief, she sounded ordinary, normal. ‘Hello, Charles.’

‘”Hello, Charles,”’ he mimicked lightly. ‘So casual, Melly? You don’t even sound surprised.’

Cursing herself for not at least pretending, she fabricated. ‘Not surprised, no; more—disbelieving, I think. I certainly didn’t expect to see anyone I knew.’

‘No,’ he agreed gently, ‘that’s what’s so nice about travelling. One never knows who one will bump into.’ And, sounding as though he really meant it, he added, ‘It’s really good to see you.’ His eyes full of devilish laughter, he grasped her shoulders and kissed her smoothly on each cheek, then before she could register the feel of him, the warmth, he steered her towards the only nearby café that was open. In the summer, she guessed, the wide glass panels would be pushed back, and tables and chairs would be placed outside, but today, in early April, and with a cold east wind blowing, they were mostly all closed and shuttered.

Hooking a chair out with his foot, he pushed her gently into the seat before taking the chair opposite. Summoning the waiter with an ease that she envied, he quirked an eyebrow in query. ‘Coffee?’

‘Please, white.’

‘Deux cafés-crème, s’il vous plaît.’

‘Grands? Petits?’ the waiter asked smoothly.

‘Grands, merci.’

As soon as the waiter had departed to execute their order, he continued, ‘So what brings you to Deauville? Not the racing,’ he teased, ‘that doesn’t start till August. The golf? The sailing? The casino?’

Settling back in her chair, not quite sure she believed this was happening, and that Charles was actually sitting opposite her, a quizzical expression on his strong face, she toyed idly with a sugar wrapper someone had left on the table. Even though hope had been warring with expectancy, she still found it hard to believe that her fantasising, her irrational hopes, were being realised. Glancing up at him, she felt faint. ‘Not the casino, no. The war graves.’

‘The war... Oh.’ With a nod of understanding, he slapped the table. ‘Of course, your grandfather. You’re looking for his grave?’ Noting her astonishment, he smiled. ‘I remember your father once telling me that his father had fought and died in Normandy during the D-Day landings. Any luck?’

‘Yes. I knew, of course, that it was the Military Cemetery at Tourgeville; it was just a question of finding it. The authorities were very helpful when I contacted them in England—they even offered to take me there.’

‘But you wanted to go alone,’ he put in understandingly.

‘Yes. I’ve just come from there.’

‘Which is why you’re looking so pensive,’ he exclaimed softly, ‘and insensitive Charles Revington has just trampled all over your feelings with his size-nine boots. I’m sorry.’

With a renewed stab of guilt, because she hadn’t been feeling any of the emotions he expected of her, she protested softly, ‘No need to be sorry, and insensitive is the last thing I’d call you. I was just feeling a little sad, and thoughtful, I suppose.’

With a gentle hand he removed the wrapper from her fingers, then lifted them to his mouth and kissed the tips. ‘Triste. That’s what the French would say. Have you been to look at the landing beaches? Sword, Juno, Gold, Omaha?’

‘No, not yet.’ No need to tell him that she had only arrived that morning.

‘You should make the time. They’re worth seeing, and the American Cemetery in Saint Laurent. It will bring a lump to your throat. So many crosses, so many dead.’

‘Yes, I will.’ With a little smile for the waiter, and a hesitant, ‘Merci,’ she gratefully turned her attention to putting sugar in her coffee and stirring it. He was too near, too charming, too much the man, and she could think of nothing to say, nothing that would interest him. From longing for the chance to see him, talk to him, now that the moment was here she felt gauche, shy, uninteresting.

‘You’re on your own?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then the least I can do is buy you dinner...’

‘Oh, no!’ she exclaimed in sudden panic. ‘Truly, you don’t need to do that.’

‘I know I don’t,’ he agreed with another teasing smile, ‘but I would like to. You can tell me all that’s been happening at home. You still live in Beckford? That good old hotbed of gossip?’

Feeling unworldly and suburban, she gave a wry smile and nodded.

‘Still at home?’ he teased.

Wishing she could invent a worldly lifestyle for herself, suddenly transpose into an exciting, intriguing companion, she gave another reluctant nod. ‘Very unenterprising of me, I know, but, well, I’m quite happy there.’

‘No need to sound defensive, or apologetic,’ he said gently, ‘we can’t all be adventurers.’ With a wry smile of his own, he picked up his cup. ‘Still the wicked one, am I?’ he queried with a crooked grin.

‘Fraid so. Unredeemable. They’re all just waiting for your sticky end so that they can say “I told you so” to each other.’ Studying him while his attention was elsewhere, she wondered if he minded. He didn’t look as though he did, but then, Charles never looked anything but amused. It had been nearly fifteen years since he had actually lived in the village, and, although she had seen him from time to time, when he had made a flying visit to Beckford for her brother’s funeral, returned quite often to see old friends, it had been over a year since she had last seen him, and then only briefly, and from a distance, which perhaps was why she had felt this overwhelming need to see him now. ‘You no longer go back?’ She knew very well he didn’t, knew that his old friends had moved away, but she didn’t want him to know that she knew. Didn’t want him to know of her infatuation. Her obsessive interest in his affairs.

Returning his attention to her, he gave a faint smile and shook his head. ‘Still writing your children’s books?’

‘Yes, still doing them.’

‘No more yearnings to be a nurse?’ he asked with a quizzical smile.

‘No,’ she denied with a faint grin as she remembered that youthful ambition, remembered his teasing.

‘Well, if determination should win any prizes you’d get the big one. Still unpublished?’

‘No,’ she denied with a touch of pride. ‘I am now, well, if not exactly rich and famous, at least being sold.’

Looking genuinely pleased, he exclaimed, ‘Congratulations! What name do you write under? Would I have heard of you?’

Amused, she shook her head. ‘I doubt it.’

‘Tell me anyway,’ he persuaded gently, and as though he really was interested. But then, that was part of his charm, he always appeared interested in other people’s doings.

Knowing he would make the connection, she confessed reluctantly, ‘Donny.’

‘Ah.’ With a sympathetic nod, he said, ‘For your brother.’

‘Yes.’

‘Your parents have come to terms with it now?’

‘On the surface perhaps, but inside? No, not really,’ she said with rather haunting sadness.

‘Is that why you stayed at home?’ he asked gently.

‘Partly, I suppose. Whenever I made noises about leaving, finding a flat, they didn’t exactly say anything, but they looked so hurt that I didn’t have the heart to persist.’

‘Kind Melissa.’

With a little shrug, she finished her coffee. She wasn’t sure kind came into it. Cowardice perhaps, or guilt. Not that she really had anything to feel guilty for, and yet, whenever she had broached the subject about leaving, guilt was what they had made her feel. And if she had left, lived a different sort of life, would she have got over this need for Charles? And yet, to be honest, mostly, she didn’t feel a desperate need to try her wings elsewhere, just now and again when she began to feel stifled by the feelings of responsibility her parents engendered in her. There was also the question of money. Due to the fact that her father had lost all interest in his business when Donny had died, their income now was quite small, and without her contribution they would have found it hard to manage. So she stayed, and if her brother’s ghost was part of the package, well, it was an amiable ghost, not one that ever threatened her peace of mind. She could think of him now with love and affection, not the aching pain that his death had brought over ten years before. Such a silly death, such a wasteful, foolish way to die, to trip and knock yourself out and then drown in a puddle barely big enough to wet your shoes.

Pushing the memories aside, she asked lightly, ‘So what are you up to these days? Apart from being an adventurer, that is?’

‘Oh, this and that,’ he dismissed. ‘I get by.’

She could see that, she thought wryly, if the sailing jacket he was wearing was anything to go by. That certainly hadn’t come from Woolworths. But any chance to probe further was thwarted by the appearance of a woman who seemed vaguely familiar. She was tall, and fair, and very, very attractive, and her face was full of laughter and lively curiosity as she stared at Melly through the window behind Charles. Putting a finger to her lips to indicate silence, she slipped in through the door, tiptoed across to the table, and then put both hands over Charles’s eyes.

Grasping her wrists in his strong hands, he removed them and turned to peer upwards, then grinned. ‘Bonjour, madame,’ he greeted lightly.

‘I’ll give you “bonjour”! You are a wretched, wretched man, Charles! Where have you been? And why didn’t you come to my party?’

‘I was busy,’ he drawled laconically, and Melly got the definite feeling that those narrowed grey eyes held a warning. For the woman not to presume, perhaps? This was a part of him that she had never seen, and just for a moment she felt a little frisson of fear at her temerity in seeking him out. He was not a boy, but a man of the world, sophisticated, wealthy. In his own setting he was vastly different from her childhood friend.

‘Yes, and I can imagine what with!’ the woman laughed, bringing Melly back to the present with a start.

‘I’m sure you can.’

With a comical grimace, and a little smile for Melly, she hurried to rejoin her companions outside.

What had he been busy with? Melly wondered as she followed the elegant blonde’s progress with her eyes. Women? His yacht? Not something she could ask. Finally turning back to face him, she observed, ‘She looks a bit like the actress...’

‘Alison Marks,’ he put in coolly. ‘Yes. She is.’

‘Hm,’ she offered ruefully. ‘You move in exalted circles.’

‘Exalted?’ he queried thoughtfully. ‘No, they’re just ordinary people. Quite nice, some of them. You should come back in September; they’re all here then for the film festival.’ Seeing her puzzlement, he clarified, ‘The American Film Festival. It’s held in Deauville each year. Want to go? I’ll get tickets for you if you like.’

‘Me? Good heavens, no!’ she denied without really thinking about it.

‘Sure? I can get you an invite. Rub shoulders with the rich and famous... No, perhaps not,’ he added softly with a little shake of his head. ‘A lamb among lions...’ With another, more genuine smile, he continued, ‘It would probably bore you to tears. Not your sort of people, Melly. All full of their own egos.’

Which, of course, perversely, made her want to change her mind, a fact he very well knew, judging by the twinkle in his eyes.

The crashing open of the door made them both turn. A man with grey hair and a weatherbeaten face was standing in the opening, and he stared at Charles with an expression of almost despair on his face.

‘Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?’ Charles queried with a frown.

A burst of French issued from the other man, and the only word Melly caught was a name, Laurent.

Shoving his chair back, Charles hurried across to the man standing agitatedly in the doorway, and Melly didn’t need to be able to understand French to know that Charles was demanding details of whatever it was that had happened.

Quickly finding some francs, she put them on the table to pay for the coffee, then, pushing her own chair back, she hurried to join the two men who were striding urgently back towards the harbour. Something was wrong, that was obvious, but what?

There was a large knot of people on the quay, all talking, obviously discussing whatever it was that had occurred, and she watched Charles and his companion stride up to some sort of official and begin to question him. She saw him nod, then shove his hands into his pockets and look out towards the open sea.

She could have gone away then, left quietly, without fuss, because she knew he’d forgotten all about her, but she didn’t want to go away, didn’t want to leave. Moving to stand beside him, she asked hesitantly, ‘Is something wrong?’

Snapping his head round, and then staring at her as though he wasn’t sure who she was, he gave a long shudder, and with an obvious effort focused his attention on her.

‘Melly. Oh, hell, I’m sorry...’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, tell me what’s happened.’

‘It’s Laurent—well, Laurent’s yacht, at any rate; apparently a motor cruiser went into her side. I don’t know any details; the rescue launch has gone out...’ Breaking off, he continued, more to himself than her, ‘He’ll be all right. More lives than a cat...’ And then he closed his eyes, as if he was silently praying.

‘Charles,’ his companion said quietly and, grasping his arm, drew his attention to the rescue launch that was slowly entering the harbour. Glancing at Charles’s face, she saw hope warring with bleak presentiment. Averting her eyes, she too stared at the launch as it slowly motored to the quayside.

A man and a woman were escorted off first, the woman weeping hysterically, the man white and obviously shaken. No one else, only the blue uniformed figures. Charles and his companion walked towards the man who was obviously in charge. She saw him shake his head.

Feeling helpless, and useless, she watched as a white-shrouded form was stretchered up and put carefully on the cobbles. Saw Charles kneel and gently pull back the covering to stare down at, presumably, the face of his friend, and then stand helplessly by as the stretcher was picked up and carried to the waiting ambulance. The other man accompanied it, leaving Charles looking lost and anguished, unbearably hurt.

Her heart aching for him, she walked back to his side. Slipping her hand into his arm, she held it warmly against her.

‘I should have gone with him,’ he said bleakly. ‘I was intending to, only I wanted to finish fixing something on Wanderer. If I’d been with him...’

‘If you’d gone with him,’ she said gently, ‘it might have been you.’

‘You think that matters? No, Melly, it wouldn’t have mattered at all. No loss to anyone. But Laurent... Oh, God.’ Turning his head, and obviously becoming aware of the knots of people still talking, speculating, he clenched his teeth and eyes tight for a moment, then, grasping her hand, he said harshly, ‘Let’s get out of here before the Press arrive!’

Pulling her along the sandy track and across the main road towards a block of flats, he pushed through the main entrance door and into a waiting lift. Pressing the button for the third floor, he kept his face resolutely turned to one side, away from her, until the lift halted and the door slid open.

Melly had just time enough to notice that the landing was covered with expensive green carpet, the walls painted cream, before she was tugged along to a door at the end. Flat three hundred and one. Charles inserted his key and, still grasping her hand, pulled her inside. Releasing her, he strode along the tiny hall and into a door at the end. Following slowly, she watched him push open the french windows of the large square lounge and step out on to the balcony for a brief moment. Then, still without speaking, he came inside and made for the bar set up in one corner.

Feeling totally inadequate, and uncertain what to do for the best, she investigated the kitchen and made coffee and sandwiches, neither of which Charles touched, but just refilled his glass every time it was empty and stood staring out over the harbour. Knowing there was nothing she could say to alleviate his suffering, she thought it was probably best to allow him to come to terms with it in his own way. Curling up in the armchair, she watched and waited, in case he should need something. Anything. A shoulder to lean on, cry on. Someone to hold.

As the sky gradually purpled, then blackened, he gave a long sigh and gently pushed the windows to. Turning, he stared at her for a moment before walking, quite steadily, across to the standard lamp and switching it on.

‘Thank you,’ he said simply. ‘I’ll be all right.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed helplessly.

Walking across to the cream leather sofa, he sat, still nursing his glass, and began to talk. All about Laurent, their friendship, the things they had done together. ‘He was my friend,’ he concluded quietly. ‘My very good friend.’ A look of such agony crossed his face that Melly felt tears start to her eyes. Placing his glass carefully on the floor, he hunched over, his head on his knees. Without stopping to think, she rose quickly, and sat beside him. Putting her arms round him, she held him close, laid her head against his and rocked him silently.

‘Don’t go,’ he said thickly.

‘No, I’ll be here. As long as you need me to stay, I’ll be here.’

They had sat for a long time like that, until, eventually, she had helped him into his bedroom, helped him undress, and had then lain beside him in silent comfort.

* * *

‘Madame? Madame!’

With a little start, she blinked, turning her head, and stared rather blankly at Jean-Marc.

‘It is the telephone, madame. Your mother.’

‘Mother? Oh, right, thank you.’

Feeling disorientated and muzzy, she got reluctantly to her feet. Memories of that night spent with Charles remained vivid in her mind and, for a moment, she was resentful at having to put them aside. Memories of his lovemaking would probably be all she ever had. All she maybe deserved, because she had made a conscious decision to stay with him that night. It hadn’t only been the action of a friend; it had also been a selfish desire to be near him. With a little sad sigh, she followed Jean-Marc inside.