“Good-morning, Mrs. Allen,” a man said. “May I speak to your husband?”
“Yes. Just a moment.”
The voice was familiar. Mellow, pleasant, friendly, yet whenever Bob received a message from this man, whom she did not know, his fear reached a pitch which drove him almost to frenzy. But she wasn’t going to quarrel with Bob again, he wasn’t well—neither physically nor mentally well.
“It’s for you,” called Barbara.
He came into the hall, staring hard at her, and drew back, as if he were going to refuse to take the call. Then he moved forward, limping noticeably, and took the receiver from her.
“Allen speaking,” he said gruffly.
He stood still, looking blankly at a black-and-white drawing of a thatched cottage on the wall. Barbara saw the naked fear in his eyes—and noticed the little pulse beating in his neck.
“Yes,” he said; the word came out sharply.
A pause, and then: “But surely Saturday——”
He broke off. Barbara could just hear the other man’s voice coming from the receiver, but she could not distinguish the words. Bob’s left hand was clenching and unclenching. It seemed a long time before he replaced the receiver, after a reluctant: “All right.”
He turned back to the sitting-room.
“Bob,” said Barbara.
“Oh, don’t pester me!” he snapped.
She tried to stifle the little catch in her breath, almost a sob, but didn’t succeed, and Allen paused in the doorway and looked round. His eyes were haunted. His face was so thin and long, there were dark patches beneath his eyes; his mouth, wide and generous and droll at ordinary times, was set tightly. He paused as if to speak to her, but changed his mind. He didn’t close the door.
Barbara composed herself and went into the small kitchen.
She’d known happiness reach a point of ecstasy here; and despair; and contentment. She had been standing by the sink when the telegram had arrived announcing that her husband was missing—from a flight in Burma. She had been taking some rock cakes out of the oven when another telegram had come—only three months ago, many years after he had been “lost” and “presumed dead”. It had read:
Ecstasy . . .
And now she despaired again.
“Alive and well” had been an exaggeration, even then; he had been weak after living for years with natives in an unexplored, inaccessible part of Burma. When she had reached Burma by air and seen him, she had hardly recognised him, partly because he was in the middle of a bout of malaria. But not until they had been half-way home, in the ship, had these fits of fear taken hold of him. She put them down to some evil memory held deep in the dark recesses of his mind; but they had become worse, far worse.
Each day the same man had telephoned.
This was the first time that she hadn’t asked afterwards: “Bob, tell me what it’s about, what’s worrying you,” and thus precipitated a scene. She was determined to wait until he was ready to confide in her; they couldn’t go on like this.
She lit the grill; air got into the gas and hissed, and she turned the tap off. In the little silence which followed she heard a footstep, and looked into the hall Bob’s hand was outstretched, reaching for his hat. When he saw her, he snatched his hat off the peg.
“Bob!” she Exclaimed.
“I’m going out,” he said harshly. “Won’t be long.”
Her good intentions failed her, and she hurried out into the hall.
“Bob, you must tell me——”
“We’re not going into that again,” he growled.
She hated the way he looked at her, and yet she knew he saw something else, not her face, but the thing which frightened him.
She felt suddenly cool, calm and decided.
“Yes, we are going into that again,” she insisted. “If you leave without telling me what that man said, what’s worrying you so much, I’m going to take things into my own hands.”
He fiddled with the brim of his hat.
“Well, what are you going to do about it?” he demanded. She knew that he could hardly speak civilly; he began to tremble, as if another bout of malaria were coming on, but it was only the tension.
“I’m going to the police,” she declared. “I’m going to tell them that you——”
He flung his hat aside and crossed the hall, and she hardly noticed his limp. He clutched her wrists; his fingers were long and powerful and he hurt her. His eyes blazed, as they always did when he flew into a temper. He pulled her to him, and their faces were very close together.
“Don’t say that again,” he rasped. “Don’t you dare go to the police. Understand me?”
She didn’t try to get away, but spoke quietly, keeping unnaturally calm.
