The Forgotten Story by Winston Graham Read Free Book Online Page B

her eyes and found his fixed upon her. She turned sharply away with a gesture of impatience.
    â€˜I didn’t say I was going to – yet. I came here today to approach the matter in a friendly way, to ask you to return to me like an honourable wife. It is a matter of honour, you know.’
    Pat had gone white. ‘ You twist everything round to your own way of thinking.’ She added: ‘Please go now.’
    â€˜May I call again?’ She shook her head.
    Harris rose and picked up his stick. There was a momentary quirk in one eyebrow. ‘No wife. No turbot. A disappointing afternoon.’ He went to the door. ‘I wish you all good day. Including the small boy peering through the curtain.’
    He went swiftly out. Mrs Veal had come from the kitchen at this moment and was standing with short, fat arms akimbo in the doorway. Although she had several times openly favoured his suit, he went past her without a glance. In fact he seemed to withdraw his arm as if to avoid contact.
    Clearly, thought Anthony, he did not consider any of them good enough for him.

Chapter Six
    Two days passed before Anthony had an opportunity of saying anything to his cousin. She had been rather moody since the visit and only brightened each evening when Ned Pawlyn called to take her out.
    Patricia was taking some flowers to her mother’s grave, as she did every Wednesday, and he offered to accompany her. They set off up the hill, at first through working-class streets, then down a hill past some fine residential houses to the cemetery, which was situated upon the hillside overlooking a lake. The lake was in the hollow of the hills and was surrounded by trees; at one end thick rushes grew and at the other a narrow bar of shingle separated it from the sea.
    â€˜What a lovely place!’ Anthony exclaimed. ‘I shouldn’t mind being buried here.’
    Patricia laughed. ‘I’d rather be alive at Smoky Joe’s.’
    The grave was just inside the gate. When the old flowers were removed and the new ones arranged she said soberly:
    â€˜Let’s go down and feed the swans. I always bring something with me.’
    So they clambered down to the lake and sat on its edge throwing bread and kitchen scraps to the big white birds, which knew Pat and came over to her at once.
    An older and wiser person would not have mentioned the fracas of Sunday afternoon; but Anthony’s was a nature which could not rest in peace while there was the possibility of misunderstanding with someone he liked.
    â€˜Look, Pat,’ he said. I’m awfully sorry about – about Sunday. I mean about me peeping through the curtain. I didn’t intend – it was …’ As she did not speak he went on, ‘I’d only just come out of the kitchen, and I heard the noise and …’ He was astonished with himself for telling this lie but was somehow forced into it by her silence and by his desire that she should think well of him. The words had come from him unawares.
    She shrugged. ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter. My affairs are free for all anyway.’
    â€˜Oh, no,’ he contradicted. ‘ They shouldn’t be.’
    â€˜Why?’ she said after a moment. ‘ Do you think I should have seen him alone?’
    Thus questioned, he drew back quickly within himself like a snail which has touched something foreign and perhaps dangerous.
    â€˜I – I don’t know. How can I tell? I don’t know anything about it.’
    â€˜No,’ she agreed moodily. ‘How can you tell?’
    There was silence, while the swans ducked their heads in the water and drank and waited for more food.
    â€˜It’s funny,’ said Anthony. ‘I never even saw your ring, you know. I just didn’t notice it until it was mentioned last Saturday …’
    â€˜Where d’you think I met him?’ she said, taking off her picture hat and letting the wind and the sun play with her