Part 32 (1/2)
”If we lost a client as important as that, we'd probably have to re-view our staffing levels. We wouldn't need so many people, would we?”
”I suppose not.”
”But we aren't going to lose them, are we?”
”I certainly hope not.”
”We aren't going to lose them because the managing director of Ladram Avionics isn't going to have occasion to complain about us to Whitbourne ever again, is he?”
H A N D I N G L O V E.
187.
Derek looked at Fithyan and realized the utter hopelessness of appealing to his better nature. The human race was divided in his mind not by race or creed or politics but by whether they mattered or not, whether they wielded power or were wielded by it. On one side of this divide stood Maurice Abberley. On the other stood Derek and his brother. Questions of right and wrong were therefore irrelevant. A man of influence had spoken. And Fithyan had listened.
”Well, is he?”
Derek shook his head. ”No. Absolutely not. If I'd had any idea this would embarra.s.s the company, I'd have-”
”I want this . . . whatever it is . . . dropped. Is that clear?”
”Yes. Completely. And it will be. You have my word.” But, even as he said it, Derek prepared an escape clause for his own reference. A promise given to David Fithyan was as valid as a promise given by him. The great divide might yet intrude.
CHAPTER.
FIFTEEN.
The more distant her childhood became, the more often Charlotte revisited it in her dreams. She did not do so as the child she had once been, rather as the adult she now was, dwelling within her vastly younger body, limited by what it could do and say, yet aware of all the knowledge and sadness that was to overtake her as the years pa.s.sed.
Beatrix was dozing by the fire at Jackdaw Cottage, a book cradled in her hands, a shawl about her shoulders, an expression of perfect contentment on her face. And Charlotte was trying to wake her. She had something to tell her, something very important, something terrible but imprecise which Beatrix would want desperately to know, if only she could be woken. But though she shook her vigorously and shouted in her ear, Charlotte's efforts seemed in vain. Beatrix's eyes would not open. Her expression would not alter. And then, as Charlotte persisted, she felt a hand on her own shoulder and a voice clamouring for her attention.
188.
R O B E R T G O D D A R D.
”Charlie! Listen to me, Charlie. Look at me.”
To turn and look was like wrestling free of a choking but welcome embrace. She did not want to, yet she knew she must.
”Charlie!”
At that she turned. And woke. And froze with horror. Maurice was sitting on the side of her bed, a hand resting on her forearm, a smile flickering about his lips.
”It's all right, Charlie. It's only me.” The smile broadened and Charlotte relaxed by the fraction that was sufficient to free her mind and body. It was the morning following her lunch with Ursula.
Sunlight was streaming through the gap in the curtains. When she glanced at the alarm clock, she saw it was just after half past seven.
And Maurice was there, above and beside her.
”I rang the bell, but you can't have heard. So I used my spare key.
Sorry to have surprised you.”
She would have heard. She was sure of it. Pus.h.i.+ng herself up on her elbows and shaking her head, she stared at him uncomprehend-ingly. Why was he here? What did he want?
”I think you must have been dreaming.” He left the bed and sat down in the nearby chair. He was dressed in a lightweight suit and pale tie and looked groomed and placid enough for this visit to be an entirely normal feature of his journey to work. ”I brought you some breakfast, by the way.” He pointed to a tray on the bedside cabinet.
”Orange juice, muesli and black coffee. Is that right?”
”Yes,” she heard herself reply. ”Thank you.”
”This must seem a strange time to call.”
”Well . . .”
”But I have a busy day planned. So, there seemed nothing for it but to leave home early and take you in on the way, so to speak.”
”Take me in? I don't quite-”
”Ursula told me about your lunch yesterday. About your . . .
request for information.”
”Oh.” Charlotte reached for the gla.s.s of orange juice and swallowed some. ”I see.”
”Do you, Charlie? Do you really? I have the feeling you may not see at all-and that it may be my fault you don't.”
”I'm sorry?”
Maurice stretched out his legs and gazed up towards the ceiling, joining his hands behind his neck to support his head. ”I was fourteen H A N D I N G L O V E.
189.
when you were born. It's a big gap in age. It made me see you as more of a child than a brother normally would. Then again, when your father died, you were only twelve, whereas I was all of twenty-six, so I not only felt responsible for your welfare, I really was responsible.
Everything I've done since then has been intended to benefit you as much as my own family. I've never looked upon you as an outsider just because your surname isn't Abberley. You do know that, don't you?”
”I've never doubted it.”
”Good.” He glanced across at her, then back at the ceiling.
”Ladram Aviation was a disaster until I took over. Your father was a lovely man, but he had no grasp of business principles. My father's royalties were the only thing keeping your father afloat. I don't say that out of resentment. I say it to remind you of the uphill task I had to put the company-and the family-back on its feet. It was when I enquired into our finances and found out how dependent we were on Tristram's royalties that Mother told me the truth about his poems.