Memories of You (24 page)

Perry didn't look back, neither did he approach Elise again that night, but Tom knew the damage had been done. He had observed the way Elise looked at Perry while he walked away and he had seen that rather startled expression as if she had suddenly become aware of some emotion within herself. Some emotion she did not quite yet understand.

 

When Elise arrived home at one o'clock in the morning her mother was waiting for her by the fire in her own little sitting room. She smiled up at her and then asked the maid to bring them hot milk and biscuits for them to enjoy while they had a little chat. Elise didn't want milk and biscuits but she took them and said thank you because she didn't want to disappoint her mother.

‘Your poor old father has gone to bed,' Selma said when they were alone, ‘but I wanted to wait up for you. Did you have a lovely time?'

‘Yes, I suppose so.'

‘Only suppose so? What's the matter? Are you tired? I mean, I know this is late but Shirley's mother did want you all to stay for what she calls the “witching hour”.'

‘No, I'm not tired. It's just that . . .'

‘What is it, then?'

Selma's tone was impatient and Elise looked at her just in time to catch a flash of irritation in her eyes.

‘No, really, it was fun. Mrs Chapman always goes to great lengths to entertain us. But this party was the same as every other Halloween party I've been to at that house.'

‘And that's not good enough?' Again that slight impatience.

‘Oh, yes,' Elise assured Selma. ‘Nothing but the best at the Chapman house.' She smiled, hoping to make her mother smile in response.

‘But? I sense there's a “but” coming.'

‘Well, blame the witch, the ghost and the mummy!'

Elise looked anxiously at her mother and saw with relief that she had caused her to smile.

‘You'll have to explain.'

‘It's the games we play. Pin the wart on the witch, Guess the ghost, Wrap the mummy, and the scary stories that aren't really scary. The same old games as last year and the year before that and the year before that . . . and well, they're kid's games, aren't they? Honestly, Mum, we're not kids any more, are we?'

Her mother's smile vanished as quickly as it had come. She put her mug of warm milk on the tray on the small table. Elise noticed that she hadn't drunk any of it and a skin had formed on top. ‘No, Elise,' Selma Partington said thoughtfully. ‘I don't suppose you are.'

 

Thoroughly unsettled by her dissatisfaction with the party and disconcerted by her mother's strange mood, Elise took a long time to get to sleep. She tried to think of nice things – new clothes, days out with her mother; that sort of thing usually worked – but this time it was half-forgotten images that came to mind: a witch's hat made from rolled-up paper, a cloak which had once been a curtain, and a turnip lantern swinging, the cut-out pattern of its face chasing across the pavement as she ran down the street saying ‘Boo!' to anyone who might be lurking in the shadows.

 

 

When Matthew got back to his parents' house he found his sister Patricia waiting for him.

‘Shouldn't you be at home making a meal for your new husband?' he asked.

‘George is working late. And in any case, I've prepared everything. Only got to throw it into the pots and pans and light the gas.'

‘Efficient as ever.'

‘That's me. Mum and Dad aren't back from the matinee yet, so come into the kitchen, sit down, have this cup of tea I'm just about to pour for you and tell me what happened.' Patricia placed his tea in front of him, poured one for herself and took the chair facing him. ‘Now, then. Talk.'

‘And just as bossy,' Matthew said.

‘Matthew! I'm serious. What happened at work today?'

‘They've agreed I can come back to work – so long as the doc agrees – but I won't be travelling very far for a while.'

‘I should think not. No more globetrotting for you, young man. So what will you do?'

‘Well, they seem to think I'm a pretty good reporter.'

‘Of course you are!'

‘And the only reason I can't go abroad is because I still have to report to the hospital.'

‘I'm not going to like what's coming next, am I?'

‘Jim Dacre is just about to retire.'

‘Jim Dacre?' Patricia frowned and when her brows cleared she looked anxious. ‘Jim Dacre is a crime reporter. Isn't that another dangerous job?'

‘Maybe. But I'm not so likely to stop a bullet here in London.'

‘Oh, darling brother, that's not true. You may not have to consort with rebellious tribesmen who are armed to the back teeth, but some of the criminal fraternity in London here are just as dangerous if not more so.'

‘It's not all like that, you know.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘A lot of the crimes I'll be covering will be the petty stuff. Thieves, fraudsters, men who murder their wives when they come home and find their dinner isn't ready.'

He grinned and Patricia shook her head. ‘Go on, make a joke of it. But I don't know what the old folks will think.'

‘Father will accept that it's what I want to do and Mother will go along with whatever he says.'

Patricia put both hands on the table and pushed herself to her feet. ‘You're right. And I'm not going to nag you because I can see that whatever was said today it has made you happy. You know you've been like a bear with a sore head since you came home?'