Читать книгу Clouds among the Stars - Victoria Clayton - Страница 11

‘So! The worm has turned.’ Ophelia flung down a letter among the toast crumbs on the breakfast table.

‘What worm?’ Cordelia was interested as, indeed, was I.

‘Which worm, you dunce.’ Ophelia’s lips were curved with a smile of satisfaction. ‘That soft squirming thing called Crispin Mallilieu. He’s written to ask me to marry him.’

‘Can I wear white with a pink sash and a wreath of pink rosebuds?’ said Cordelia instantly. ‘That’s what Janice Thatcher wore when her sister got married and Janice has hair as straight as stair rods and tiny, tiny eyes like ink blots.’

‘I’m so pleased!’ I said mendaciously, for the idea of Crispin as a brother-in-law was not one to gladden the heart. ‘How wrong we were to accuse him of cowardice.’

‘Actually, what about yellow sashes? And yellow rosebuds? We’ll all have to look the same and Harriet looks foul in pink.’

‘Do I?’ I remembered that we were discussing an event of great moment. ‘I suppose you’ll have to wait a bit, though – till Pa can give you away.’

‘Of course I’m not going to marry him.’ The light in Ophelia’s eye became scorching. ‘He says his mother’s begged him not to throw himself away but he can’t give me up, whatever the world may say. Pah! I don’t imagine the world ever gives Crispin a second’s thought. He’s much too dull and stupid. He suggests a quiet ceremony in a register office followed by a short honeymoon in a little pension he knows in the Pyrenees. The very idea of spending a weekend in a second-rate hotel with Crispin makes me want to kill myself. He thinks his mother will come round when it’s a fait accompli. He’s worse than a worm. I believe worms have guts.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Cordelia. ‘I saw this nature programme on the telly and it said that worms are just muscle and intestine, jesting and execrating, rather disgusting actually.’

‘But, poor Crispin – he must be very much in love with you,’ I said.

‘So? Plenty of people are in love with me. I can’t marry them all. Apparently his mother says I’m heartless and decadent. Ha! Merci du compliment.’ I could see that Ophelia, despite her expressions of derision, actually minded. I stopped feeling quite so sorry for Crispin. It was very stupid of him to repeat his mother’s remarks. ‘He says he’s sure she’ll come round eventually to our marriage if we show her we’re repentant. If he thinks I’m going to bed forgiveness from that ghastly old countess, he must be even more stupid than I thought!’ I had rarely seen Ophelia so moved. ‘If I were covered with warts, I’d think twice about abusing other people. I’d hide under a stone and hope that people would be kind to me.’

‘Is she really covered with warts?’ Cordelia looked fascinated.

‘She has two. On her chin. Huge and hairy.’

‘Poor thing. She can’t help that, I suppose,’ I said.

Ophelia turned on me, her eyes blazing. ‘Why are you always sorry for everyone but me? I suppose you’d like me to marry Crispin and be bored to death and patronised by that hateful old woman. I’m sick of you being holier-than-thou!’

‘I’m not!’ I very felt near to losing my temper. ‘It’s just that you despise people who aren’t beautiful – as though they wouldn’t be if they could. No one wants to be ugly –’

‘Christ!’ Ophelia got up from the table and slammed out of the room.

‘Don’t mind it,’ said Maria-Alba, who was washing up at the sink. ‘She is looking for a goat.’

‘A goat?’

‘Sì. Espiatorio. A thing to blame.’

‘Oh, I see, a scapegoat. Am I irritatingly goody-goody?’

‘Not all the time,’ Cordelia said kindly. ‘Sometimes you’re a bit wet but you’re still my favourite sister, by far.’

‘Thank you very much.’ I felt gloomy. We were getting terribly on each other’s nerves. Quite apart from the fact that I hate rows, surely when everything was so miserable we ought to try to stick together? Anyway, during a quarrel our family always fell into the same divisions, which had more to with temperament than the merits of the argument so the rows were pretty pointless. Perhaps this is the case with all families. My mother and Bron were generally in league, and my father, Ophelia and Cordelia were usually on the same side. Portia was my ally on these occasions of family feud but God only knew where she was now. I wondered, not for the first time, if I ought to consult Inspector Foy but I was afraid Portia would be angry with me for making a fuss.

Wherever one turned one’s thoughts there seemed to be doubt and difficulty. I took a covert look at Maria-Alba as she bent to give Mark Antony and Dirk their breakfast biscuits. At least they were settling down together. Mark Antony had established ascendancy the day before by springing claws like flick knives and hissing like a maddened cobra. Dirk had rolled on to his back and ratified the peace treaty before the ink was dry, like a dog of sense.

Maria-Alba began to dry the cups. She had black rings under her eyes and her hands were shaky. She had made delicious little custard and raisin buns for breakfast so she must have risen early. Insomnia was one of the first signs with Maria-Alba that things were going seriously wrong. I hated the idea that she might have to go back into the psychiatric unit. For all our sakes we could not afford to allow what was left of our domestic structure to break down. I resolved not to lose my temper or provoke any more quarrelling, even if it meant knuckling down under insult. I was given the chance to put theory into practice immediately.

‘You bitch, Harriet! You bloody little traitor!’ Bron was standing beside me, clad in his dressing gown, his hair ruffled from sleep. He thrust a newspaper into my face. ‘I’m sacking you as a sister! From now on you’re no relation of mine! I don’t think I’ll ever be able to bring myself to speak to you again! And nor will the others when they see this!’

I was bewildered. But one glance at Bron’s face convinced me this was not play-acting. My heart began to race. ‘What is it? What have I done?’

Bron slammed the paper down in front of me and pointed to a headline. ‘Read it!’

‘My Unhappy Family. Waldo Byng’s Daughter Confesses All. An exclusive story by Stanley Norman.’ Under the caption was a large photograph of me grinning into the camera, my chin resting on the top of Dirk’s head.

‘Oh, but I didn’t. I only said “no comment” whatever they asked me –’

‘So where did they get this?’ Bron real aloud in a voice modulated by fury.

‘Oberon Byng, aspiring thespian and young man-about-town seems likely to follow in his jail-bird father’s footsteps in more ways than one. After being expelled from school for impregnating the matron he has had a chequered career. A few undistinguished stage roles have been interspersed with nefarious dabblings, receiving stolen goods and drug trafficking. He is now being investigated by Scotland Yard with regard to a serious charge of fraudulent land deals.’

‘Oh! Oh dear! I only said – Stan was telling me about his family and it seemed polite – I didn’t say you’d been dealing in drugs, only that you were suspended for a term for taking that hookah to school that Pa brought back from an opium den in Shanghai, and smoking it in the junior common room. And I just mentioned the car you bought that turned out to be stolen, though it wasn’t your fault, and you lost all the money for it. He’s just turned everything around and made it all sound terrible! He seemed so nice and friendly and I was sorry for him. Oh God, I’m so sorry!’

‘You absolute imbecile! Don’t you know that’s what journalists always do? It’s the oldest trick in the book.’

‘I wasn’t thinking. I’d forgotten about him being a reporter and he was so depressed. His wife’s an invalid and they haven’t got any money. I was trying to cheer him up.’

‘What a sap you are! Well, I hoped you’re pleased to have your photograph splashed all over the Daily Banner. There isn’t even the smallest one of me.’

I hung my head in shame.

‘I say, Ophelia’s going to be hopping mad when she reads this.’ Cordelia gave a whoop of glee. ‘Jolly well serves her right. Listen!

‘I have it on the authority of her sister that Miss Ophelia Byng, formerly an actress, was jilted at the altar by the Hon. Crispin Mallilieu. He is the second son of the Earl and Countess of Sope. When the Earl brought the marriage service to a halt by voicing his objection to the alliance of his son with the daughter of a suspected murderer, the bride-to-be fainted and had to be carried from the church by four of the officers who were to have formed the guard of honour. According to her sister, Ophelia has locked herself in her bedroom, still dressed in her bridal finery, surrounded by magnificent wedding presents from England’s most aristocratic families, which she refuses to return.’

‘He’s making it all up!’ My indignation was unbounded. ‘It’s a crib from Great Expectations! Of course I didn’t say any such thing!’

‘I’m sure Ophelia will be comforted to know that,’ said Bron drily.

‘If I could get hold of that hateful liar I’d – I don’t know what I’d do to him. It’s all wild invention – apart from the bit about you getting Matron pregnant. I wish I hadn’t told him that.’

‘Golly! Look at all this about Portia.’ Cordelia’s voice was awed.

‘Even worse is the present predicament of Portia Byng who, her sister reports, has left the country in mysterious circumstances, escorted by a man who is wanted by the police for crimes ranging from illegal immigration to homicide. According to a reliable informant, Mr X, thought to be of Albanian extraction, is known to his associates as The Gravefiller. Chief Inspector Charles Foy has been in touch with Interpol, acting on a tip-off that she has been taken to Albania. The informant has also revealed that Mr X has a harem of girls in his mountain hideaway, kept under guard to satisfy his unbridled sexual depravity.’

Cordelia gave a scream. ‘Is it true? My poor darling sister! What do you think unbridled sexual depravity means, exactly?’

‘Oh, Lord! You don’t think … No, Portia can’t have gone abroad; she would have telephoned. He’s made it all up. It’s just nonsense like the rest.’ I read the article again, wanting to reassure myself. Supposing there was even the smallest amount of truth in the story?

‘There isn’t anything about me.’ Cordelia sounded disappointed.

‘No doubt there’ll be something in the evening edition.’ Bron was bitter and I couldn’t blame him.

‘I don’t suppose I’ll ever be able to make you see how sorry I am,’ I said sorrowfully.

‘I shouldn’t think so, no.’ Bron took a plate, filled it with buns and went slowly upstairs with the mien of a man betrayed.

I felt deeply remorseful. I had been an idiot and I deserved all the vituperation that would no doubt be coming my way. Dirk put his paws on my knees and tried to lick my face. I was grateful for his solicitude.

‘Don’t worry, Hat,’ Cordelia patted my arm, smearing my sleeve with custard. ‘I shall go on speaking to you even if everyone else in the world refuses to. There was a sad film I saw once called The Angry Silence about this man who was sent to Coventry by his workmates …’

I stopped listening to Cordelia’s recital of the plot as my eye fell on another, smaller item on the same page.

DRUGS SEIZED AT HEADQUARTERS OF REBEL POLITICAL ORGANISATION.

Acting on information received, police yesterday raided a house in Owlstone Road, Clerkenwell. They took away several packages, believed to be cannabis, and the remains of a cake. The officer in charge said he could not confirm the presence of illegal substances until these items had been subjected to laboratory tests. Several arrests were made and an injunction has been served prohibiting the group known as SPIT to hold further meetings on the premises.

‘… I mean, nothing could be that important, could it?’ asked Cordelia. ‘I’d have given in at once – What’s the matter?’

‘This is the worst day of my life.’ I groaned and put my head in my hands.

‘You can’t possibly know that. You might have something really awful going to happen to you later on. All your children burned to death or your nose cut off in a revolving door.’

I was too depressed to argue. The telephone rang and went on ringing. There had been an offended silence since I had dared to plug it back in, the night before. And the gang of pressmen outside the front door was considerably depleted. It seemed they were busy digesting Stanley Norman’s scoop. Now the telephone bell seemed to have a new tone, insolent and at the same time imperative.

It was Mr Potter, the bank manager. When I said my mother would not be able to answer his letter for at least two weeks he sounded cross. He kept saying that it was all ‘very irregular’, to which I could make no answer, having no idea what, in a bank’s eyes, constituted regularity. I have never been good with money. In this I am a true Byng. I always hope some will come from somewhere and, so far, it always has. I waited patiently, mostly in silence, while he remonstrated with me. Sometimes I said ‘I see’ when he seemed to require a response. I suppose this was irritating for he got more and more tetchy. When he began to talk of solicitors and bailiffs I felt alarmed but continued to say ‘I see’ because I really couldn’t think of anything more appropriate. It would hardly do any good to beg him for mercy, or a donation to the fund for indigent Byngs.

‘I’m sorry, Miss Byng, but I don’t think you do see. Unless funds are immediately forthcoming, I’m afraid the bank will have to freeze the account.’

I was suddenly annoyed beyond bearing by the hypocritical tones of regret he put into his voice. I was certain that the fall of the House of Byng was brightening his dreary life immeasurably. Why should he have all the fun, lecturing and threatening and making himself out to be a model of deportment when he probably fiddled his business expenses, bullied his children and neglected his poor old mother, if he had one? ‘Why don’t you give yourself a well-deserved rest from these onerous duties?’ I said in my sweetest voice. ‘Go and – make love to your mother’s cook.’

I could not quite bring myself to use an obscenity so it lost something in translation but I put the receiver down with a sense of triumph. It was a cheap victory but nothing better was likely to come my way.

The arrival of the post brought more unhappiness. I saw at once, among the bills and circulars, a letter addressed to me, in Dodge’s handwriting.

I never would have believed it of you. My confidence in my own judgement is severely undermined. You grassed on your friends to save your own skin. You are a traitor and that is the kindest thing I can say. You are expelled from the society – and my heart – for ever, with effect from this moment. D.

There was a postscript: ‘Yell says she saw you let that pig put his arm round you. I hope there was nothing worse.’

The ink grew faint at the end as though the pen was spluttering with indignation. I had felt too many things too violently in the last forty-eight hours for this latest blow to my happiness to have much immediate effect. Dodge’s pale, angular face, fierce with polemic, loomed up in the forefront of my brain from time to time and there was an intensification of the gnawing sensation in my stomach that had been there since I heard of Pa’s arrest, but I was incapable of anything like serious reflection.

Dirk followed me up to my room and stretched himself out on the bed next to Mark Antony, his head pillowed on my pyjamas, while I sat at my desk and wrote several stanzas of verse. I knew the poetry was bad but I didn’t care. Anything was better than thinking about life.

Maria-Alba brought lunch up to my room. I rushed to take the tray from her so she could recover her breath, for the last flight of stairs was steep.

‘I call and call but you not answer so I think Harriet like to be alone. Perhaps it is better. Ophelia is in cattivissimo umore, eccome!’ She flapped her fingers and blew out her cheeks, to denote tempestuous rage.

‘I can’t say I blame her.’

‘Certo.’ Maria-Alba settled her huge frame on my bed. Mark Antony removed himself to the windowsill but despite the circulation in his paws being cut off, Dirk merely smacked his lips and continued to snore. ‘It is not a thing a woman enjoys to be know – to be abandon by a man. And a woman like Ophelia – mio Dio!’

‘I’d better resign myself to being extremely unpopular for several years.’ I felt my chin wobble.

‘Su, su, Harriet!’ Maria-Alba stroked my arm with her large yellow fingers. ‘It will come better. We are all in troubles but they will go away.’

‘It isn’t only Bron and Ophelia. The bank’s going to stop our money. And I’m very worried about Portia. Supposing that beastly, bloody Stan didn’t make it up? I mean, what does a man have to do to be nicknamed The Gravefiller? And Dodge thinks I informed on him to the police. He doesn’t want … to see me … any more.’

I burst into tears and sobbed on Maria-Alba’s comforting bosom, as so many times in the past. ‘Che stupido!’ she hugged my head. ‘You are too good for him. He is lucky you speak him in the street, besides you allow him to kiss you. He is a bad boy, e disordinato.’ Maria-Alba had not forgotten that Dodge’s shoes had left a deposit of Deptford river mud on the drawing-room carpet and that he had stubbed out his cigarette among the sugared almonds in the silver bonbonnière.

‘He isn’t bad,’ I sobbed. ‘He really cares about people and wants to help them. I do love him.’ And just at that moment I did. There is nothing like being handed notice to quit to fan the flames of passion, even if you were only lukewarm before. Never had Dodge’s virtues been so desirable and his faults so negligible.

‘Cocca mia, you are tired. Eat your good lunch that Maria-Alba brings despite the poor legs, and you feel better.’

I was obliged to try though I was not in the least hungry and after a while, whether it was the rich risotto, unctuous with beef marrow, or the figs baked in marsala-flavoured custard or the utter kindness of Maria-Alba, petting and coaxing me as though I were a child, I certainly started to feel braver and stronger.

‘We’re going to have to make some economies.’ I wiped my greasy chin with the napkin. ‘No new clothes or taxis for anyone until Pa’s out of prison.’

‘Va bene. La cucina italiana is the peasant cooking, simple and cheap and good. We have pasta and polenta and gnocchi. I go see to the larder. And,’ she paused as though struck by inspiration, ‘we say go to Mrs Dyer. I tell her in the morning.’ Maria-Alba and Mrs Dyer, our daily, had never got on. Mrs Dyer was openly xenophobic when my parents were not in earshot, muttering about wogs, eyties, japs and darkies, usually with the prefix ‘dirty’. Maria-Alba clapped her hands together in a manner well satisfied and smiled for the first time for days.

‘What do you think?’ Bron stood with his hips thrust forward and his chin sunk on his chest so that his eyes looked brooding and sultry as they met ours. Well, everyone’s but mine. I was still less popular than Napoleon on the retreat from Moscow. Bron was wearing a long black coat with an elegant fur lining.

‘Amazing!’ Ophelia was moved to unusual enthusiasm. ‘It looks like mink.’

‘It is mink.’

‘No! How much?’

‘Just fifty pounds on account. Bloke I met in the pub is selling them cheap. Warehouse closing down. I’m paying in monthly instalments.’

I wondered where Bron had got even so much as fifty pounds. The telephone call with Mr Potter was much on my mind but I was reluctant to give them the opportunity to snub me, so I said nothing.

‘Do they have them in women’s sizes?’ Ophelia’s eyes were sharp. ‘Can you get me one?’

‘Got fifty smackers?’

‘No, but I could borrow from Peregrine.’

‘Consider it done.’

The curtailment of family spending seemed to have got off to a very poor start.

The doorbell began to ring persistently, which made Dirk howl and, for some reason, attack Bron’s coat.

‘Get your dog off me!’ he yelled. ‘He’s got his teeth into the lining.’

‘I go tell them va’ farsi fottere!’ Maria-Alba picked up the ladle.

‘You get on with supper,’ I said. ‘I’ll go.’

I was overtaken by Dirk, who hurled himself at the front door with a scream of rage. ‘No comment,’ I shouted when I could get near the letter box. ‘Please go away.’

‘For God’s sake, let me in!’ cried Portia’s voice.

I undid the chain and the lock and drew back the bolts. Portia fell into my arms. Dirk displayed wonderful intelligence by allowing Portia to enter before baring his teeth at the reporters who were trying to follow her in, and growling ferociously, until I managed to shut them out.

‘Who are those bloody people? Has the world gone mad?’ Portia sank down on the Cleopatra day bed, her head drooping as though exhausted. Then, as Dirk gave her a hearty, reassuring lick, ‘What’s this dog doing here?’

She looked up. Even in the scattered light from the chandelier I could see that Portia was a mess. She was wearing a black leather blouson, much too big for her, and enormous, baggy jeans. Her face was extremely dirty.

‘Where have you been? I’ve been so worried!’ I was so relieved, I probably sounded cross.

‘Don’t scold me. I’ve had the most awful time. I’m as weak as ditchwater.’

I sat down and put my arms around her. ‘I’m so thankful to see you. I’d made up my mind to ring the police.’

‘Ow! That hurts.’ She winced and pulled away. I saw that what I had assumed to be dirt on her cheeks and lips was bruising.

‘Portia! Who did this to you?’

‘That bastard Dimitri, of course. We went to his house. You never saw anything like it – an absolute scream – a circular bed, nylon furry cushions and a television that popped up and down when you pressed a button, a cocktail bar – and I thought it was going to be fun.’ Portia was talking fast, as though she was nervous. ‘But when I laughed at the erotic murals on the ceiling – they were really awful – Dimitri got huffy. We had a bit of a row. Then I said I didn’t want to go to bed with a bad-tempered dwarf – I may not have mentioned that he’s stocky, with short legs. And other similarities to Toulouse-Lautrec, as I discovered later. The most enormous prick you ever saw.’ Portia laughed but her expression was anguished. I realised she was trying to recapture her usual breezy, cynical manner but also that it was a huge effort.

‘Portia! You didn’t really say that! I mean, you didn’t call him a dwarf?’ I had always admired her blasé attitude to sex and her flippant attitude towards the male ego. ‘What did he say?’

‘He smacked me across the mouth and broke my tooth. Look!’ Portia lifted her swollen top lip to show me her front tooth, broken in half. ‘I tried not to cry but I do so hate the dentist!’

Portia closed her eyes and hugged herself, shaking her head as though to rid herself of the memory. Her fingernails were grubby as usual, which made her small white hands look childlike. I took one of them in mine. ‘Poor darling, what an ordeal! The brute! Hitting a girl! He ought to be locked up.’

She smiled and shrugged. ‘That isn’t the worst of it. But don’t let’s go into detail. Only I’m conditioned now, like Pavlov’s dogs. I shan’t be able to see a pair of sunglasses ever again without wanting to throw up. Dimitri wore them all the time, even in bed. I’ve no idea what colour his eyes are.’

‘In bed! You slept with him? Why didn’t you come home straightaway?’

‘He had a gun, that’s why.’

‘A gun!’ Cold waves of fear ran up and down my legs. ‘Oh, Portia!’

‘For God’s sake, Hat, keep your voice down! I don’t want the entire neighbourhood to know. He put the gun against my head –’ Portia gave me a look that was shamefaced – ‘I know I always say I’m not frightened of anything but I was really scared then. So I let him do what he wanted.’

‘Only a fool wouldn’t have been scared! I’d have screamed!’

‘I expect you would have. You always were a terrible coward.’ Portia tried to regain her old spirit, but added, ‘I may have let out a small scream myself. The bodyguards – they took it in turns to sit outside the door – had guns too.’

‘Portia! You might have been killed!’ I tried to put my arm round her again but she gave a gasp of pain. ‘Darling, what a risk to take! I can’t bear to think about it!’

‘All right, all right! I know I was a fool to go off with him. You needn’t pretend to be so worldly-wise.’ Portia sounded offended. ‘Who was it who had to ask what fellatio meant?’

‘That was ages ago – anyway, never mind. So he raped you!’ I had forgotten all my prejudices against violence. I felt murderous. I could easily have killed Dimitri with my bare hands if he had presented his throat. I tried to stifle my anger for Portia’s sake. ‘Stan was right. He is a gangster. We must tell Inspector Foy at once.’

‘Inspector who?’

‘Foy. He’s – Oh, never mind for the moment. But what happened then? And how did you manage to get away?’

‘I had to go along with whatever he wanted or he hit me. It was – No, I’m not going to think about it. Only if I ever see another furry cushion I can’t answer for the consequences. Luckily he was out a lot so I was left for hours with nothing to do but read this dreadful book about a girl who goes to Hollywood and gets hooked on drink and drugs. She dies in the end, and a good thing too. Anyway, this morning Dimitri said he was going to be away all day. He said he’d bring me a fur coat and jewellery, but I must be nice to him when he got back because he was tired of threatening. I knew I had to escape, then or never. So I seduced Chico, one of the bodyguards. I’d seen the way he looked at me when he brought in sandwiches and things. I expect he’d indulged in quite a few fantasies sitting outside the door, listening to Dimitri yodelling like an alpine goatherd every time he had an orgasm. I told Chico I was so sore he’d have to take all his clothes off so as not to rub against the bruises. Ugh, God …’ Portia clutched her head and shuddered. ‘The smell of sweat and garlic and the blubber, possibly worse than Dimitri’s blackheads and dandruff – except he came at once, thank God. Then, afterwards, he sort of drifted off for a bit, you know how men do. Well, when he was lying there, all passion spent, I grabbed his jeans and jacket and ran. Of course he came after me but he couldn’t move nearly as fast. I ran, stark naked, across fields full of cows and woods full of brambles and stinging nettles until I got to a road. I put on Chico’s clothes, and the first lorry I put up my thumb to stopped. He was coming into London and dropped me in Camberwell. I bussed the rest of the way. I told the lorry driver I was a lesbian, just in case, and he was quite interested. Actually it isn’t at all a bad idea. Thanks to Dimitri, I’ll probably be frigid for the rest of my life.’

‘Hello, Portia.’ Bron came into the hall. ‘Where have you been? What do you think of my coat?’

‘She’s been kidnapped by a homicidal sex maniac!’ I was so upset by Portia’s recital that I had forgotten about being an outcast.

Bron gave me a glacial look. ‘I call that a joke in poor taste.’

‘No, really, she has been! We must ring the police and a doctor.’

‘Oh, no you don’t!’ Portia snatched back her hand, which I had been holding. ‘If you think I’m going to go on talking about it to a lot of prurient busybodies, you must be crazy. All I want to do is lie in a hot bath for a very long time and then go to my own chaste, sweet bed and forget it ever happened. I’ve never been so tired in my life.’

‘But, Portia! You must see a doctor! Supposing you’ve got a horrible disease? Or you’re pregnant?’

‘What a comfort you are, Harriet.’ Portia, in her turn, began to look coldly at me.

‘You must, at any rate, report it to the police. If he isn’t stopped, Dimitri will find some other unsuspecting girl.’

‘That’s her lookout. If I’d known you were going to be so community-spirited I wouldn’t have told you. I thought as my sister you’d be concerned for me. It seems I was mistaken.’

‘Don’t be angry.’ I tried to take her arm but she shook me off, her mouth turned down mulishly. ‘All right, whatever you say. I still think we ought but – well, never mind. Dear, dear Portia, I’m so glad have you back. Come on, I’ll run the bath for you and bring you up some supper.’

‘Promise no officious telephoning?’

‘Promise.’

Portia was mollified sufficiently to let me accompany her upstairs. When I saw her without clothes on, I was tempted to break my word, there and then. She was covered in blackening bruises and red weals. Despite her attempts to be insouciant, I was sure she must be suffering the aftereffects of extreme fear so I decided to say nothing about Pa for the moment. Fortunately, she seemed to have forgotten about the cameras outside the front door. While she bathed, I sat on the laundry basket and we talked and made silly jokes as we always did. But there was an atmosphere of strain.

Dirk was a useful distraction, trying to get into the bath with Portia, then attempting to eat the sponge. Portia was not particularly fond of animals but she admitted that he had a wayward charm all his own. She ate very little of the supper I brought her, saying she was too tired to be hungry. I left her tucked up in bed, her hair stretched across the pillow, her damaged face very calm. I thought she seemed remarkably composed in the circumstances.

But during the night I was woken by Dirk, whining and scraping with his paw at my pillow. Before I could tell him to be quiet I heard a blood-chilling scream from Portia’s room, which was directly below mine. I raced downstairs, my heart puttering with fright. She was sitting up in bed, shrieking, her eyes and mouth wide open.

‘What’s the matter with her?’ Cordelia, her face white from sleep, came in with Mark Antony in her arms.

‘Will whoever’s making that infernal racket kindly shut up?’ called Bron’s voice from across the landing.

‘She’s having a bad dream.’ I went over to Portia and spoke soothingly. ‘It’s all right. You’re at home. You’re quite safe. I’m here, darling.’

Portia closed her eyes and then opened them again. ‘Hat? Oh, thank God! I was dreaming – horrible – horrible!’ A tear slid from one eye. She closed her eyes again and took hold of my hand. ‘Stay.’

I could have wept myself at this admission of need from my most dauntless, spirited sister. I sent Cordelia back to bed. Pulling up a chair, I sat beside Portia and made her lie down. After a while Dirk settled on my feet and I was grateful for the warmth from his body for slowly the house became very cold. Portia slept again but badly, turning her head from side to side and grinding her teeth, her eyes always a little open as though she could not trust the world enough to relax her vigilance even in sleep. More than once she sat up and cried out. When she heard my voice, she lay down again, muttering things I could not decipher.

The imp of anxiety that had taken up tenancy in my stomach chewed away. When I wasn’t worrying about Portia being permanently affected, physically and mentally, by her appalling experience, I worried about Pa. Luckily the nuns at St Frideswide’s had made us learn large tracts of poetry by heart. By the time I had got through a good chunk of Goblin Market, I felt exhausted and numb. I fetched blankets from the linen cupboard and made myself comfortable. Gradually the night wore away and I dozed, off and on. Towards dawn, when she seemed to be sleeping more peacefully, I crept upstairs to my own bed. I thought Portia might not like to find me beside her when she woke, a reminder of the terrors of darkness.