Across the Lagoon Read online

  'I'll go and tell Mr Barrett you're here.' Her head erect with its neat grey bun, the woman went off.

  Carol stood and waited listening to the hollow, metallic tick of a grandfather clock in the corner of the hallway. She could see several other rooms across the chequered space, their open doors showing similar ponderous furnishings.

  A polished wood stairway at the side led up to a landing which bordered the entire hall. Around it, pale alcoves held art pieces, and standing against the walls carved chests gleamed dully. There was no denying that flooded with sunshine, with the scent of summer breezes dancing through it, the house would have a mellow beauty. But at the moment, closed and silent, it emanated only a gloomy orderliness.

  Carol fidgeted in its weighty presence. She was used to family chatter and noise, and rollicking thuds around untidy rooms. The brooding atmosphere began to stretch her nerves. She felt the panic rising within her again. Then a voice was calling from the far end of the hall, 'Mr Barrett will see you now, miss.'

  Thankful for any kind of action, Carol jerked to where the aproned figure beckoned her. She was shown into a large room. With thudding heart she felt the door closing behind her. Along with a blurred impression of book-lined walls, oak panelling and leather armchairs she was conscious of a man sitting behind a heavy desk to one side of the room. She couldn't miss the view out of the big uncurtained window opposite, which was one of rolling tree-bordered lawns and blue sky. Near by an old stone fountain sprayed glistening jets of water within a circle of flowers.

  The vista was lost on the man at the desk, presumably Gray Barrett, who sat, pen in hand, frowning over papers before him. Because he didn't look up, Carol felt obliged to move into the centre of the room if only to attract his attention. He went on scribbling, casting his glance up only for a second to flick it over her with a curt, 'Miss Lindley, I take it?'

  Carol nodded while she searched around for her voice. She needn't have worried. It seemed that nothing - was expected of her—or at least not until several seconds later when the man suddenly looked up again. He fixed her with a sharp eye and rapped, 'Are you the person I spoke to earlier on the phone?'

  'That's right,' Carol replied, a resentment growing in her at his brusque manner. Face to face with him she had a full view of his appearance. He had fleshy, rather angular features toned down to what one might call attractiveness by a head of tightly curling dark hair. His brown eyes reminded her of his house, broody and withdrawn.

  Glueing them on her now, he threw his pen down as though it was a nuisance to him. She thought she detected exasperation in the movement. He rose to a formidable height, his well-cut suit covering an athletic, if somewhat bulky frame, and came round the side of the desk to rasp at her, 'And you think you could take care of a girl of fifteen in a place like Italy?'

  Completely unnerved now by his manner, Carol stood slightly petrified, fighting the pink on her cheeks. She felt like a horse being looked over as he moved around her. His raking gaze taking in her pale straight hair, candid blue eyes and rather thin figure, he commented testily, 'You're little more than a child, yourself.'

  This was enough to trigger off Carol's rising indignation. 'I'm going on for twenty,' she retorted spiritedly. 'And I've been used to helping at home with my six younger brothers and sisters.'

  'My niece is an only child,' the man said with smug implication as though large families were distasteful to him, 'and as such, she has a way of being different.'

  Carol was silenced by his overbearing manner. He took himself back to his desk and sat down heavily, the scowl -on his face deepening.

  'I was depending on you for the job,' he flicked a morose look over her. 'I pictured you with a little more' ... his humourless mouth sloped grimly as he searched for the right word ... 'maturity.'

  Annoyed at the way he was blaming her for everything, Carol was stung to reply, 'I wonder you didn't ask my age over the phone 1'

  'I was relying on your judgement of your capabilities,' he snapped. 'I haven't time to do other people's thinking for them.'

  Carol braved his displeasure to persist pertly, 'I think I'm capable of looking after your niece.'

  He looked at her long and darkly, then swivelling impatiently in his chair he fired his verdict at her. 'Well, quite frankly, I don't. As a chaperone for my niece, you'd only add to my problems.'

  Carol heard his words with no surprise. He had made no secret of his disappointment from the moment he had set eyes on her. She couldn't say she was sorry to be saying goodbye to the idea of haying him for a boss.

  'It was a last gamble, trying the local paper for one afternoon,' he said grouchily, picking up his pen. 'As I've no more time to waste on the matter I shall have to make do with my housekeeper.' He settled down to work again, shooting Carol a glance to add finally, 'I will of course be glad to refund your train fare.'

  'Please don't bother,' Carol said, her cheeks reddening haughtily. 'I'm not that hard up.'

  'Very well,' he dismissed her with a nod towards the door, 'Mrs Vernon will show you out.'

  Carol turned away. Her legs trembled beneath her as she made her way out of the room. The housekeeper was on hand to show her to the front door. Once out on the drive she wasted no time in putting as much distance as she could between herself and Rowan House.

  Well! Her cheeks were still on fire and her eyes had an embarrassed brilliance about them as she gazed blindly ahead. She wouldn't want to go through that again! What an awful man! She could consider herself lucky that he hadn't accepted her for the job. There was no telling what she might have let herself in for if she had allowed herself to come under his iron hand.

  And imagine! Dragging her all the way out here, then calmly telling her she was too young for the job 1 Just because he was busy, she was supposed to know that he wanted someone at least a hundred years old!

  She fumed all the way to the station, but once on the train, amidst crested-blazered schoolchildren bouncing around the seats and flicking rulers at one another, she resolved smartirigly to put all thoughts of the detestable man out of her mind. She hoped his summer in Venice would be a wet one, that he would trip up into a canal or something. And she never wanted to hear the name Gray Barrett again.

  From the station she caught the bus into town. Walking up the side of the Common she saw her two young sisters tugging at a toy handcart up the path between the lawns. 'Hey, Carol!' they called, waving vigorously. 'Come and give us a pull!'

  'Not just now,' she smiled good-humouredly. 'I want to get home.'

  When she arrived her mother was hoovering the hall carpet. A duster round her head, her harassed though good-natured features dark with concentration, she looked up to shout over the din, 'How did the job- hunting go? I saw the paper by the phone.'

  'Oh, it was nothing much,' Carol called off-handedly. 'The man thought I was too young for the post.'

  'You'll have that trouble wherever you go.' Her mother switched off the electric current and set her lips knowingly. 'Seems to me there's nothing wrong with being a salesgirl.'

  'I have a feeling that's what I'll be doing again— being a salesgirl,' Carol said wryly. 'That's about all the towns got to offer.' She didn't say that this afternoon's ordeal had somewhat soured her ambitions to look for something out of the ordinary. She had no wish to repeat the experience. Comparing the gloom of Rowan House with her own bright sunny world since stepping off the bus, she had, still nursing her bruised feelings, quickly given up the idea of trying to get out of her rut. If anything now, she was grateful for it. After what she had been through at the hands of a certain despotic would-be employer, the job of selling lampshades seemed blissfully safe and uncomplicated. She was thankful, almost relieved, to have something like this to return to.

  'They're paying good wages at Rankworths,' she said, going up the stairs. 'I'll probably take the rest of the week off, then start there on Monday.'

  'I think that would be very sensible.' Her mother returned to her work with
prim approval.

  Upstairs in her room Carol tossed her handbag on the bed and flopped down beside it to gaze at the sun- washed ceiling. Life wasn't too bad, when she thought about it. Her new salesgirl job would pay more money for her holiday with the family in September. And on top of that she had a whole week now to do as she liked. The weather was good. She could go to the beach every day if she wanted to. Feeling light as air again, she changed into old slacks and tee-shirt and went to join her sisters on the Common.

  The next morning she packed enough sandwiches for the day and took herself off early to the beach. It was idyllic lazing amongst the holidaymakers pretending she was one of the idle rich.

  On Wednesday, on her mother's advice, she went to make sure of a position at Rankworths, the big store in the centre of town. There were no problems. She was experienced and they were crying out for salesgirls to cope with the summer rush. Carol wished she could have felt a little more enthusiasm as she was shown round the huge pillared sections.

  The following afternoon she came down to town again to stroll round the shops. Because they all had the same closing hours as her old store there were several that she had never had a chance to browse through. She „ passed a news-stand on her way round the square. She was tempted to buy an afternoon paper and cast a casual peep down the Situations Vacant columns. But she refrained and carried on with her shop-window gazing. Why make problems for herself? She had a perfectly good job to go to. Best leave it at that.

  When she got tired of the bustle of town she went to sit in the pleasure gardens, a strip of green parkland, beautified by cascading trees and brilliant flowerbeds. The paths and lawns were alive with holidaymakers. Children sailed their boats in the stream which flowed through to the sea. The strains of gay military music came from the elevated bandstand set amidst tall pines. Carol lay draped in her deckchair, content just to bask in the leisure.

  On Friday morning she awoke with the feeling that her freedom was fast slipping away from her. Determined to get the most out of the day, she rose quickly and prepared for the beach. Unfortunately she had to be on hand this afternoon to go for a fitting for her store uniform. All the girls at Rankworths wore tailored brown dresses with the name of the store embroidered on the lapels. It was a nuisance and it was cutting into her holiday, but there was nothing to be done about it. At least if she got a move on she would have a nice long morning. She needn't be back until about two.

  The weather was so gorgeous, the sea with the sun warming it such fun to splash in, it was nearer three when she arrived home.

  Damp and glowing from her activities, she turned in at the drive. The house stood bathed in the still afternoon warmth, its silence as she approached it making her guiltily aware that she was the only one not occupied with the work of the day.

  She found her mother patching sheets on the old treadle machine in the living room. She sat and chatted for a while about the holiday scene at the beach, then went upstairs to change. This was no simple task. First she had to get rid of the sand. It was amazing how it seemed to find its way into everything. It was in her towel and in her beach bag and she could feel the grit of it between her toes and on her skin. In the end she decided it would be quicker to take a bath.

  Dried off and smooth-skinned again in fresh underwear, she had just washed the bath out and was drawing her bathrobe about her when the sharp shrill of the telephone pierced the downstairs silence.

  'I'll get it,' Carol called to her mother, shooting down alongside the banister. 'It'll be the store telling me my dress is ready.'

  Carol was well acquainted with the tones of Miss Witherston, the store supervisor, having listened to her singing the praises of working at Rankworths for a full half hour when she had applied for the job. Hurrying to the phone now, she could just see the stout lisle-stockinged woman tapping her pencil with tight- lipped impatience because no one was answering. She lifted the receiver and waited for the hearty contralto voice to come through.

  'Is that Miss Lindley?'

  Carol was too confused to give an immediate reply. All poised as she was to answer Miss Witherston's summons to go for a dress fitting, it was several seconds before her befuddled mind could adjust to the fact that it was a man's voice on the line. And there was something familiar about its harsh timbre.

  'Ye ... es, this is Miss Lindley speaking,' she managed to get out at last.

  'Good. Gray Barrett here.' Before she had time to make any comment he rapped crisply, Tack your things and get on the first train out here. We'll be leaving for Venice on Sunday. Stephanie will have to wait until tomorrow before we can pick her up from school, and you'll have to give her a hand in choosing one or two holiday garments…' The voice faded slightly from the receiver as though he was rooting irritably for something on his desk. Amidst the rustle of papers he added acidly, half to himself, 'My housekeeper has to pick this time of all times to go down with the mumps!'

  He came back close to the mouthpiece and at the silence he asked testily, 'Have you got that?'

  'Yes, I've got it,' Carol replied mechanically.

  'Right. There's a train at six this evening, I believe. I'll see you then. We'll pick Stephanie up on the way to London tomorrow. Don't forget you'll need your passport.' He rang off with a harsh impersonal 'Goodbye' as though hers was only one of a string of phone calls he had to make.

  Her pink mouth curling incredulously, Carol hung up, still unable to believe her ears. She couldn't get over the colossal conceit of the man. Without giving her time to open her mouth at her interview he had turned her down flat for the job. Now when he couldn't get anyone else and he was stuck he thought all he had to do was snap his fingers and she would come running.

  She flounced along the hall and up the stairs a grim smile on her face. What a hope he had! In her room she jerked about, dropping one job for another. Let him look after his niece himself! That would show him. She swished her hair before the wardrobe mirror. She certainly didn't intend to lower herself to help him out. And anyway, she didn't have a passport.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The train slid smoothly on its way amidst the pines. Pale shafts of fading sunlight slanted across the carriage lighting up the small neat suitcase which rested on the seat. Carol sat and gazed across at it in a slightly dazed way. She still didn't know what had possessed her to toss her things into it.

  Her mother hadn't cared for the idea of her going to Italy. Her father when he came home from work had liked it even less. But she had soothed them both by telling them all about the job and reassuring them that she knew how to look after herself.

  Her pulses thumping now as it hit her what she had let herself in for, she turned to stare out of the window. She thought of Miss Witherston and the job she was leaving behind at Rankworths. Curiously enough she felt no remorse.

  She was so deeply engaged in reflection, the train pulled into the village of Lyndhurst almost without her noticing it. Hastily she swept her suitcase up and made for the door.

  The soft light of evening veiled the countryside as she stepped out on to the platform of the little station. As usual it was deserted, but as she made her way towards the tiny exit, the figure of a man approached her. He was ruggedly tall and well dressed and Carol realised with an acute knotting up of her stomach that it was Gray Barrett.

  As he strode up she felt excruciatingly self-conscious in her simple summer dress, her thin arms wrestling with her luggage, her nose a bright pink from her week in the sun.

  He took her suitcase from her and flicking his moody brown gaze around and over the slim dressing case she carried, he asked, 'Is this the lot?'

  Floundering for an excuse to explain her small wardrobe, Carol stammered, 'I... I had to pack in a hurry*'

  He led the way out. At the barrier the ticket collector touched his cap to the big man respectfully. ' 'Night, Mr Barrett.'

  'Goodnight, Simms,' Gray Barrett nodded absently, and made his way out to his car.

  Carol followed m
eekly. She had never expected to find him at the station to meet her. As he opened the car door for her and she took a seat at the back she reminded herself cynically that he had a vested interest in her now.

  They made the trip to Rowan House in silence. Though Carol tried to give the appearance of gazing dispassionately at the view, she was blazingly conscious of the man seated at the wheel in front of her. It didn't help to know that he was sitting frowning to himself as though he had already forgotten she was there.

  They swung into the drive of the beautiful old house and came to a smooth stop outside the front entrance. Carol stepped out. While Gray Barrett was swinging her bags out of the back, she admitted to him nervously, 'I haven't got a passport.' He breathed a sharp sigh of exasperation. She added brightly, 'But I got my photograph taken in a booth at the station.'

  "That's a help,' he said sarcastically. And then, 'Where is it? I'll have to tackle the authorities and see if we can get one rushed through.'

  Carol had to hand him the washed-out pictures of herself from her handbag. On them she looked pale, lopsided and unreal.

  'The door was opened as they turned towards it by a plump little woman in a bright flowered smock. Something in the warm round features struck Carol as being vaguely familiar. Gray Barrett moved inside and spoke. 'This is Miss Lindley, Emily.' He swung the luggage with him. 'She's going to accompany my niece to Italy in your sister's place.'

  Mrs Vernon's sister. That explained the likeness.

  'How do you do,' Emily recited, a jolly light showing through her attempt at staid politeness.

  Carol found her smile less strained in the woman's presence.

  'Show her to a room,' Gray Barrett instructed. "We'll have dinner at the usual time.' The passport pictures in his hand, he strode away across the hall.

  Carol took her suitcase. Emily reaching for her dressing case seemed to revert with relief to her natural self, once the boss had disappeared. 'Fancy Blanche catching the mumps of all things,' she chattered, chuckling under her breath at the phenomenon, and leading the way upstairs. 'The doctor thinks she picked it up from one of the Johnson children next door to the village shop. Apparently they've all had a dose and the mother hasn't bothered to keep them indoors.'