On the Blue Train (20 page)

‘We usually steer clear of such people, on principle,' Mr Jackman added, with a hint of being wicked. ‘We've no interest in being
entertained
, and most definitely not with bridge or whist. One rather goes on holiday to get away from all that. But Yorkshire beauty spots are a different kettle of fish and we're considering it.'

‘Actually,' Mrs Jackman interjected, ‘we'd be thrilled if you'd come. Both of you.'

‘Birk Crag is the more woodsy choice,' her husband supposed.

‘Yes,' she said, ‘but everyone raves about Ripon. Can't think why we've never gone before.'

They were savouring their ambivalence, and life generally, in which there were so many pleasurable things to choose between. What effortless enjoyment.

‘Thank you, but I don't think I
can
tomorrow,' Teresa said. ‘Massage appointment, you know.'

‘Nor I, I'm afraid. I also have an engagement.'

Teresa and Harry had let them down. They were all on to the
boeuf
.

Mrs Jackman rallied. ‘I'm worried something terrible has happened to the lady novelist. I just have this sense of dread about it.' She dabbed at her lips with a serviette. ‘Don't you, Teresa? You saw the piece in
The Times
?'

Teresa swallowed, and said in a contracted voice, ‘I really wouldn't know. I'm rather lazy with newspapers. It's more the crossword puzzles I take them for.'

‘But what can have happened to her? I'll lend you my newspaper if you like.'

‘I did
glance
at the article. She must be a very elusive person.'

‘That's my feeling,' Mr Jackman said. ‘Elusive. But who isn't?'

‘You aren't,' his wife said, smiling. ‘Not to me. No, but I'm afraid she must have been quite desperate, to drive off at night like that. Why would you do such a thing?'

‘She might be—desperate.' Teresa was cutting fervently into her beef.

She was the first to finish eating. Her blancmange had been dealt with when the rest of them were barely beginning dessert. She laid down her spoon. ‘I'm drooping. Think I'll go straight up to bed.'

Harry tried to concoct an excuse for leaving the table after her, but Mr Jackman detained him. In an undertone: ‘I saw the physician this morning, and he mentioned you'd missed your weekly appointment. Asked how you were.'

By the time Harry had promised to fix another appointment and made his escape, she wasn't in the lounge, on the stairs, or in the first-floor corridor. She was still loath to have a tête à tête with him. She felt remorse—disgust?—at what had passed between them. He was bothered and hurt.

He lacked the courage to knock on her door. He left a request with the night hall porter, a discreet round-faced man of about fifty, for the
Daily Mail
to be brought to him the following morning with his tea. He envisaged relying heavily on sherry and Teresa's novels to get himself through another night in limbo.

16

BRAIN FAG AND DEBILITY

But after only two sizable glasses of sherry and a generous dose of Teresa's fiction, the uneasiness that had haunted Harry's day dulled, was quelled, and he was gifted a run of hours' sleep. Consequently, he woke on Friday feeling stronger and much more solid. Almost proud of some achievement in which the merit was his. You see, you're not in as bad a state as all that, my boy. You're a machine that functions. He was roused, not by the door opening—strange, given the usual sensitivity of his sleep—but by tea and newspaper being deposited by his bed. He thanked the ruddy-cheeked, mannerly lad, who got a fire going while Harry arranged pillows and ordered bedclothes so he could sit up comfortably.

He was hardly thinking of Teresa this morning—only softly, obliquely. It was possible after sleep of the better kind for the mind to be so freshened it appeared to have wrested
back control of itself from alien agencies. It merely existed for itself again, at its own leisurely rhythms, naturally and philosophically. What was the problem, again? Anticipating disaster was melodramatic. Things would find some satisfactory resolution, or not, which was the nature of life, wasn't it? All the energy one expended fretting! He wondered whether he'd only
imagined
himself in love with Teresa. Wanting to see Valeria in her, wanting to revive the past. He'd always been prone to hyperbole . . . If this placid condition could be bottled and sold as a tonic, what a mad success it would be!

Once the fire was going, he was left alone. He downed half a cup of tea—properly brewed, hydrating, renewing—complimenting himself on being rather a sane man, everything considered. A sip more, and he unfolded the newspaper. He perused idly.

And came to it.

Five hundred police had gone looking for her. Photographs of the search. People striding across fields in woollens and high-minded expressions.

Comments from the Colonel. They had
not
rowed. (Why say this? Why be defensive?) He'd have no tolerance for tittle-tattle. (What was he worried would be said?) His wife was self-willed, capable, and had on occasion mentioned the possibility of disappearing. She was wont to discuss poisons.

When they had taken her little dog to the site of her vanishing, he had run straight down the hill.

Harry's fears returned. And his emotion for her. He saw her pale eyes, recalled the warmth of her kisses. With searches of this magnitude and such insistence from the press, it couldn't be long until someone here was on to Teresa Neele. He didn't know how, but he had to protect her from that.

Poisons? She'd spoken of poisons to him, too. Though that could have been related to her literary interests, or her experience as a nurse, couldn't it? Or did she also have to be protected from herself, after all?

He leaped out of bed and dressed hectically, not troubling with a shave.

He rushed down the flight of stairs separating them, almost tripping before he reached the bottom. No one in the corridor. On, down to the ground floor. She wasn't in the dining room. Up again to the first floor.

Fist poised to knock on her door, he stepped back. It was early. He didn't wish to wake her. He retreated to the lounge, where he went to stand before the fire.

After a while, hearing the Jackmans' voices as if the couple were emerging from the reading room, he hurried back up the stairs to the first floor. Down the corridor, finally, and to her room. He was sweating. It was eight thirty.

Before he could knock, the door opened. He drew back. A chambermaid.

‘Oh,' he said, feigning casualness, while no doubt sounding
and looking horribly suspicious. ‘Mrs Neele is awake? I have a message to convey to her.'

‘She's gone out, sir.'

‘What!' He stared. The girl was somewhat startled to see him so shaken. He enquired more docilely, ‘Ah, really?'

‘She said she was going to do some shopping and she'd be back tonight.'

‘It's just that I thought she was feeling poorly, you see. That's why I didn't expect she'd be going out today. Seemed quite well, did she?'

The girl turned side on and resettled the pile of linen in her arms. He suspected this of being a contrivance, a delaying move to help her settle on an answer. ‘When I brought her tea this morning, she said she'd have her breakfast in bed, because she was going out early.'

He nodded. The girl hesitated.

He endeavoured to coax her. ‘So she was quite well, then?'

‘She didn't say, sir. She didn't mention being poorly.'

He could see there was something else that she might have afforded him. She battled with herself. He respected her discretion even as he sought to breach it. He wondered if she were weary, at such an hour perhaps already having worked for some time. ‘However . . . ?'

Her eyes lifted to him, and for a moment their training in blank servility was perforated. She found Teresa Neele curious. She hadn't guessed her true identity, had she? Could
she read? Had she read the newspaper before delivering it and become watchful? He prayed not.

‘Yesterday she was very cheerful, and today she wasn't. I didn't know she was poorly. When I brought her breakfast in . . .'

‘Yes?'

‘Her manner . . .'

‘Her manner was . . . ?'

‘Odd, sir.'

‘Ah?'

‘A bit odd.'

‘I see. Thank you.' He nodded. ‘Perhaps she's not entirely improved, but still felt well enough to go out. I'm glad.'

‘Did you want to leave the message for her?'

‘That won't be necessary. It'll wait.'

He didn't know how to read this. Had Teresa run? Gone somewhere . . . to . . . Was shopping a code word for ultimate nothingness? Or, at best, her departure from Harry's life forever? He mustn't even think these things. He waited for her return, unsure if she really would be back. Cruel process.

He lunched late and reluctantly. The Jackmans were away on their pleasure tour, so he wasn't obliged to talk. He did rather miss them, though. He continued with the last of Teresa's novels.

As he was making for the smoking room, the physician accosted him. He was a burly yet neat fellow, with understanding eyes. Whether that was duty or natural inclination, it was impossible to know. Harry apologised for missing his appointment and mumbled that he'd make another. For this afternoon? Having no excuse ready, he accepted.

When the time they'd set—the amorphous half past three—arrived, he was glad to have somewhere to go. He descended to the basement, reporting to the room where he had lukewarmly visited the physician twice since his arrival at the Hydro.

‘I hope you are well?' the physician enquired.

‘Oh, you know,' Harry said. ‘Yes, pretty well.'

His pulse was taken, and he was appraised.

‘Last week it seemed as if your vitality was coming back. I'd thought we were making good progress.' The professional man smiled delicately. ‘I don't suppose you've been—let's say, living in rather a high fashion? I often see that here. Enjoying oneself is one thing, but we must be careful of excess.'

Harry protested that his living had been tolerably low, except for a little drinking of an evening.

The physician raised his eyebrows, but appeared not unamused.

‘My sleep
has
been irregular. But then that's quite regular for me. Actually, last night I had a particularly good rest.'

‘Hmm. Gratified to hear it.' He uncapped a handsome fountain pen. ‘I think I shall recommend the Chalybeate waters. Just the thing for brain fag and debility.'

‘Splendid.'

‘You
are
taking the sulphur water?'

‘Oh yes. Maybe not with the greatest consistency.'

The physician sighed. ‘You know, we don't advise self-treatment. The guidance of a medical man
is
important.'

‘I set no great store by my own guidance.'

‘Well, we'll do our best,' the physician concluded lightly. ‘Come and see me next week?'