Shadow Play by Frances Fyfield Read Free Book Online Page B

distinguish between the deficiencies and the necessities of their existence, could not see where they should go from here, only where they had been. He was humbled by the conclusion which had formed over the last twenty-four hours and found it difficult to articulate. Helen might have been relieved at the prospect of his enforced absence, but he did at least now know that she was not the only one. He was relieved too, even though she was in the crook of his arm, dressed in nothing but a shawl, her small athletic limbs bare beneath, enough to make a man forget his pain, the absence of dessert and the dry fish. Clinging to him, but with so light a clinging her finger’s touch had all the weight of a feather.
    â€˜I forgot,’ she said, deliberately drowsy. ‘Do they let you out from Bramshill every weekend, or once a fortnight?’
    â€˜I don’t know,’ he replied, restive with the lie. ‘I’ll only know when I get there tomorrow.’
    â€˜I’ll miss you,’ she said, simply. Nothing more. He was not sure what he had hoped for. Remembered the hymn singing of his childhood. Oh, thou who changest not, abide with me.
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    D own the hill, far beyond the wilderness which was in turn far beyond the reaches of the football stadium, lit by arc lights still although the crowd was gone, Rose Darvey ran. She bore in her stride nothing but the encumbrance of her short skirt, her brutal shoes, a quantity of vodka and the dizzying effect of a light bulb swinging across her eyes. She knew she was pursued, knew she should not have stopped once to hide and howl quietly, should have known better than to give way to her fear of the dark. The car lights hit her full beam on the corner: the man who pursued her had gone round the back. She shrank into one of the hedges which skirted the tiny front gardens. Waited. A car door was shut carefully, with the deliberate movement of someone who was preoccupied. She breathed easier. Then footsteps came in her direction, hesitated, moved past with unerring pace, stopped, came back. If he had slammed the door, she would have maintained her hope: she was accustomed to such sounds, but the quiet precision made her want to scream. ‘Come out, will you?’ A voice equally careful, but harsh. ‘I know where you are. Come on out. Don’t be silly.’
    When she moved, though, obeying him slowly, he caught his breath. He had expected a hard-bitten face and saw instead the beautiful eyes of a haunted child.

C HAPTER T HREE
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    M rs Mellors reached out her hand and stroked the head of the blond child who stood in front of her as they waited for the bus. She did so because she could not resist it. The child shook her head as if to dismiss a troublesome fly, then clapped her hand to her golden locks as the stroking continued, turned round, ready to be angry. When she saw who it was she grinned instead, the toothless smile of a six year old who had lost the top set of milk teeth early and was waiting for their replacements. She was an ugly little cuss, apart from the hair, a screamer and yeller, the kind Margaret Mellors particularly liked because there was something in Margaret which always applauded a talent for noisy hysteria. She didn’t want to emulate it and besides, it was too late now to change the gentle habits of a lifetime, where the only vice was two drinks a night when she got the chance, but she still had an artless admiration for those born rowdy. Her own extraordinary patience with awkward children was one of many reasons to explain her popularity with the young parents in Legard Street. Yuppies did not live here. The newly partnered who started their dynasties in these tiny houses were not those who could employ nannies: they catered for their broods and their mortgages via more hazardous routes. There was the occasional father at the primary school gate, but mostly it was a question of babes in arms being ferried hither and thither by