His Pretend Wife

CHAPTER SEVEN

AS ONE day slipped into the next nothing happened to disturb their peace. The district nurse called regularly to check Hetta’s progress and confirm that she was doing well. She was a comfortable, motherly woman, and the other two were soon calling her Sally.

‘Don’t be worried if she still needs to sleep a lot,’ she advised Elinor. ‘She’s been through the mill, and it’ll be a long recovery. Take everything at her pace.’

Elinor had found a letter in the kitchen explaining the house’s secrets to her, the use of each key, plus a set of keys that fitted a car in the garage that she could use. To her relief it was a modest family saloon rather than a luxurious vehicle that would have intimidated her. They began taking short trips to a nearby village where there were a few little shops. Elinor would buy a newspaper, and a few grocery items. They would have a snack in a small, rustic teashop, and then go home.

On one of these trips she tentatively put her cash card in the machine, fearing to find herself overdrawn. But the machine cheerfully reported a healthy balance. She stared. Obviously her first salary cheque had been paid in, but it seemed much larger than anything she’d expected.

She tried again, this time requesting a mini statement. Sure enough there had been a credit, which she regarded with disbelief. That much?

Obviously that was a month’s money in advance, but even so.

What was Mr Martin? A philanthropist? Or just slightly crazy?

In a short time Hetta had become so much at ease that Elinor no longer needed to be there when she awoke from her nap. She would simply come downstairs and find her mother in the grounds where she often lingered to enjoy the summer weather.

The extent of those grounds meant that there was no chance to get acquainted with the neighbours, or even see them. Whoever they were, they existed in their own mansions, deep in their own grounds. Apart from Sally nobody came to the house, and they were completely self-contained. It was like existing in a separate world, where there was only quiet, and the chance to heal.

As the tensions drained away, she wondered when in her life before she’d known such total, spirit-healing peace. Not in her wretched marriage to Tom Landers. ‘All teeth and trousers,’ her mother had said angrily. ‘You’re a fool, girl. You’ve been a fool ever since you played fast and loose with the best man you ever knew, or ever will.’

And she’d laid a desperate hand over her mother’s mouth because that had been a truth she hadn’t been able to face, even on the eve of her wedding to Tom.

Before that, the short-lived marriage to Jack Smith. No peace there, only rows and bitterness, and a desperate attempt to cope with his drinking.

And before that…

She shut the thought off. She couldn’t bear it now.

With the money now at her disposal Elinor was able to pay a few outstanding bills, plus the cost of a taxi to bring Daisy for a visit. There was a joyful reunion, Elinor persuaded her friend to stay the night, and when the taxi returned for her next morning she departed with the promise to return again soon.

There was no doubt that her visit had been good for Hetta, who was becoming bored as her strength increased. As she’d told Andrew, she longed for a dog. Failing that, a playmate of her own age. Elinor kept her amused as best she could and the two of them enjoyed the happiest times they’d ever known. But still, there were times when she knew Hetta needed more.

One morning while they were breakfasting and mulling over what to do with the day, there was a noise from the front hall, and she went out to find a letter on the mat, something that had never happened before. Mr Martin’s mail was all redirected, but this one must have slipped through the net. She picked it up and was about to lay it on the hall table when the name caught her eye.

Andrew Blake.

It was a mistake, of course. Andrew and Mr Martin were friends. He’d simply asked if he could have some of his mail sent here.

But why? And in that case why didn’t it say ‘care of’? And why had Mr Martin never called her, as Andrew had said he would? Because there was no Mr Martin. This was Andrew’s house. Of course it was. How could she have been so blind?

Or had she? Hadn’t she at least suspected, and then turned her eyes away from the thought, not wanting to confront the implications?

All this time she’d been living here on his charity. She hadn’t known it, but he had known. Had he enjoyed the thought? Despised her? Laughed at her?

Could she blame him?

Now she could see how cleverly he’d arranged matters, redirecting his mail, having his calls diverted, locking so many rooms. He’d had to take a chance with the neighbours but even there he’d been lucky. They were too distant to pose any real problem.

The air around her head seemed to be buzzing, and it was suddenly unbearable to have this hanging over her. She snatched up the phone, called the hospital and left a message on Andrew’s voice mail. He came back to her almost at once.

‘Is Hetta all right?’

‘She’s fine. I called because some mail arrived for you.’

There was a short silence that would have told her the truth if nothing else had done.

‘I’ll be there this evening,’ he said shortly, and hung up.

She replaced the receiver, and in that exact moment it came over her what a stupid thing she’d done. She could have screamed. By forcing this out into the open she’d made the place too hot to hold her, but she had nowhere else to take Hetta where she would be safe and happy. She should have endured anything rather than spoil things for Hetta. And she would have done, if she’d stopped to think.

I don’t learn, she castigated herself bitterly. Act first, talk first, and think afterwards, when it’s way too late. Just like then.

She could simply have sent the envelope on to the hospital. Andrew would have guessed what she knew when he opened it, but he could have turned a blind eye. Now she’d forced him into the open.

She would have given anything to turn the time back ten minutes.

Or twelve years.

Still in a daze she wandered out into the garden, where Hetta was piling pebbles on top of each other with fierce concentration, until they collapsed.

‘It’s lovely having a garden, Mum. I do like it here.’

So did I, she thought. It was like the Garden of Eden. But now the serpent’s poisoned everything.

‘Let’s go back in,’ she said in a strained voice. ‘You mustn’t overdo it.’

By ten o’clock that night he hadn’t shown up, and there was no message. Ten became eleven. Midnight passed.

It meant nothing. There was an emergency at the hospital.

And he wouldn’t think to call me, she thought wryly. Because he sees only the straight path ahead. No distractions. Why am I such a fool?

The call came the next morning while she was serving breakfast. As she had thought, it had been an emergency.

‘I was going to let you know,’ he said, sounding tired. ‘But things were desperate. I couldn’t call you myself and I-didn’t want anyone else to do it. I’ll be there tonight, if that’s OK?’

She assured him that it was fine. To be on the safe side she went out and bought a newspaper with details of rooms to let. And that evening it was the same, hour following hour with no sign of him. So now she knew where she stood. But why? she wondered despondently. Why be kind and then snub her like this? For the pleasure of it?