Authors: Frederic Lindsay
'Scandal?'
'I
can't
believe,'
Julian
Chambers
leaned
forward,
bent
the
height
of
his
age
to
her,
'that
there
could
be
any
satisfaction
in
the
longer
term,
however
real
the
injury.
Another
way
of
dealing
with
things?
And,
in
any
case,
there's
more
to
be
said
for
salvaging
than
destroying,
and
that's
an
opinion
derived
from
a
lifetime
of
witnessing
such
matters.
A
relationship
has
so
much
of
value
that
is
lost
sight
of
in
the
heat
of
the
moment.
Concentrate
on
what
is
of
value,
however
real
the
injury.
However
real
the
injury.’
The
dry
passion
of
his
tone
rose
and
ceased.
'I'm
terribly
sorry,'
Lucy
said.
For what? This stupid compulsion to apologise;
laughter tickled
her
and
escaped.
At
the
expression
on
the
old
man's
face,
disgracefully
it
increased.
'I'm
sorry,'
she
gasped.
'I
really
am
so
dreadfully
sorry.’
'Now!'
he
warned
and
rose
from
his
seat.
Dimly
she
apprehended
the
notion
that
his
code
of
the
necessary
might
accommodate
a
slap
to
the
cheek
of
a
hysterical
woman.
For
his
sake
more
than
her
own,
she
struggled
for
control,
afraid
that
the
slap
administered
would
tax
him
beyond
the
bounds
of
their
long
acquaintance.
'I
can't
imagine
what's
wrong
with
me,'
she
managed
and
hiccuped.
'It's
just
that
I
don't
know
what
you're
talking
about.’
'There
was
never
any
intention
of
forcing
a
confidence,'
he
said
and,
to
her
further
surprise,
as
if
she
had
offended
him.
'But
it's
all
right.
I
mean
if
there's
anything
I
can
tell
you
about
Mr
Norman.
If
you
feel
it
might
help
you
to
decide,'
she
said.
'Decide?
Decide
what,
what
is
there
to
decide?'
'About
the
post
with
the
Trust.
I
met
him,
you
see.
He
stayed
with
us.’
'He's
to
be
offered
a
post?
Mr
Norman,
is
that
the
name?'
'But
I
assumed
you
knew.’
'Not
a
word.
And
this
is
why –
only
this –
nothing
else?'
He
pulled
at
his
lip.
She
remembered
that
with
him
as
a
gesture
of
doubt.
What
on
earth
was
there
in
what
she
had
said
to
disbelieve?
The
unwanted
laughter
stirred,
and
as
she
pressed
her
lips
together
holding
it
in,
she
saw
his expression
alter
as
he
watched
her.
Ridiculous
even
only
for
a
moment
to
feel
surrounded
by
mysteries.
Ridiculous
to
feel
afraid. Yet
it
did
seem,
if
only
for
a
moment,
as
if
for
nothing
more
than
the
accident
of
a
moment's
laughter,
that
this
old
dry
man
might
hate
her.
Chapter 4
On
the
Monday
morning,
two
days
before
the
Trust
meeting
was
due,
restless
and
out
of
sorts
she
took
herself
into
Balinter
for
lunch.
She
hesitated
outside
the
restaurant
Maitland
usually
took
her
to
and
then
wandered
on
until
almost
out
of
the
small
town
centre
she
found
a
wine
bar
that
was
new
to
her.
She
began
to
eat,
a
pizza
with
half
a
pint
of
light
lager
to
go
with
it,
and
then
found
she
had
no
appetite.
A
sign
pointed
her
down
a
flight
of
steps.
There
was
a
telephone
booth,
the
standard
street
model
of
an
earlier
time
but
painted
blue,
set
up
solid
and
improbable
outside
the
ladies'
lavatory.
It
seemed
to
her
like
an
item
of
camp
decoration
and
she
was
surprised
when
a
tug
opened
the
door.
The
little
mirror
inside
distorted
her
face
in
its
coarse
grain.
The
phone
was
still
there
and
a
coin
box,
and
when
she
took
up
the
receiver
the
waiting
note
of
an
open
line
buzzed
in
her
ear.
She
could
not
think
of
anyone
to
phone
and
put
the
receiver
back
down,
feeling
silly
and
glad
there
was
no
one
to
see
her.
The
squares
of
glass
divided
outside
into
framed
segments
of
emptiness
trying
to
make
up
a
room:
a
table
with
an
unlit
candle
stuck
in
the
neck
of
a
bottle,
blue
red
yellow
squashed
together
in
gaudy
prints,
the
bottom
steps
of
the
flight
that
went
up
to
the
ground
floor.
She
avoided
the
eyes
of
the
face
in
the
mirror.
The
Tardis
was
a
police
box
not
a
telephone
box
and
it
shimmered
and
vanished
and
that
meant
it
had
flown
off
with
you
into
some
other
part
of
the
universe.
Inside
this
box
it
was
quiet.
She
listened
to her
breath
and
wondered,
if
the
phone
rang,
would
she
pick
it
up?
The
train
jolted
to
a
halt,
clanked
forward
and
settled
to
rest.
Isolated
flakes
of
snow
swam
past
the
windows.
Across
the
tracks
a
black
dog
was
chasing
its
tail.
It
chased
it
into
a
yard,
spinning
and
lunging
one
way
and
then
the
other.
The
train
began
to
move;
she
turned
her
head
straining
to
keep
the
dog
in
view
until
the
last
possible
moment.
It
rippled
like
a
stick
along
a
fence,
the
iron
strokes
of
railings
herding
it
back
out
of
her
sight
into
the
past.
Maitland
would
not
be
home
for
dinner,
a
meeting or
something;
as
so
often
lately,
he
would
be
dining
out.
A
train
to
the
city,
then,
why
shouldn't
she?
Afterwards
a
train
back
to
Balinter
and
catch
the
last
bus.
In
Edinburgh
a
lid
of
clouds
pressed
down
on
the
roofs
and
the
wind
chilled
and
hurried
her
along.
She
studied
the
bright
dressed
spaces
of
store
windows,
but
felt
no
desire
to
go
inside.
The
pedestrian
precinct
in
the
lane
above
Princes
Street
was
swept
almost
bare
of
life,
although
it
was
only
early
afternoon.
The
wind
raked
along
its
length
and
blew
a
man
like
a
pencil
smudge
from
one
side
to
the
other
and
erased
him
in
a
doorway.
In
the
window
of
a
travel
agent,
sand
and
blue
sea,
a
brown
girl
stretching
up
to
catch
the
sun;
she
was
at
the
entry
which
led
up
to
the
offices
of
the
Gregory
and
Rintoul
Trust.
She
stared
at
the
brass
plate,
seeing
the
name
as
if
for
the
first
time.
The
staircase
had
been
painted
yellow,
which
came
as
a surprise.
On
the
first
floor
there
was
an
insurance
office.
Had
that
been
here
before?
On
the
second,
two
blank
closed
doors.
She
went
more
slowly,
confidence
ebbing
as
she
climbed.
There
was
a
passage
beyond
the
Trust
entrance
with
a toilet
and
a
storeroom
and
then
round
the
corner
a
short
corridor
with
three
more
doors
behind
which
were
the offices
proper.
The
whole
suite
had
been
gifted
just
after
the
war
by
a
friend
of
her
father's,
a
businessman
whose
son
had
died
in
the
fighting
round
Cannes.
For
a
time,
money
left
by
him
had
met
the
rates
and
gone
to
defray
the
annual
phone
bill;
more
than
anything,
the
gift
had
kept
the
Trust
going
in
its
worst
years.
Now
everyone
spoke
of
inflation.
Her
thoughts
touched
lightly
upon
Monty
Norman
–
someone
who
would
raise
money
–
wasn't
that
so?