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Fourteen
“Oh, there you are, Lynn.” Adela’s voice was brisk and relieved. “I didn’t hear you come
in, darling. Have you been in long?”
“Oh, yes, ages. I was upstairs.”
“I wish you’d tell me when you come in, Lynn. I’m always nervous when you’re out
alone after dark.”
“Really, Mums, don’t you think I can look after myself?”
“Well, there have been dreadful things in the papers lately. All these discharged soldiers—they
attack girls.”
“I expect the girls ask for it.”
She smiled—rather a twisted smile.
Yes, girls did ask for danger…Who, after all, really wanted to be safe…?
“Lynn, darling, are you listening?”
Lynn brought her mind back with a jerk.
Her mother had been talking.
“What did you say, Mums?”
“I was talking about your bridesmaids, dear. I suppose they’ll be able to produce the coupons
all right. It’s very lucky for you having all your demob ones. I’m really terribly sorry for girls
who get married nowadays on just their ordinary coupons. I mean they just can’t have anything
new at all. Not outside, I mean. What with the state all one’s undies are in nowadays one just has
to go for them. Yes, Lynn, you really are lucky.”
“Oh, very lucky.”
She was walking round the room—prowling, picking up things, putting them down.
“Must you be so terribly restless, dear? You make me feel quite jumpy!”
“Sorry, Mums.”
“There’s nothing the matter, is there?”
“What should be the matter?” asked Lynn sharply.
“Well, don’t jump down my throat, darling. Now about bridesmaids. I really think you ought
to ask the Macrae girl. Her mother was my closest friend, remember, and I do think she’ll be hurt
if—”
“I loathe Joan Macrae and always have.”
“I know, darling, but does that really matter? Marjorie will, I’m sure, feel hurt—”
“Really, Mums, it’s my wedding, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I know, Lynn, but—”
“If there is a wedding at all!”
She hadn’t meant to say that. The words slipped out without her having planned them. She
would have caught them back, but it was too late. Mrs. Marchmont was staring at her daughter in
alarm.
“Lynn, darling, what do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing, Mums.”
“You and Rowley haven’t quarrelled?”
“No, of course not. Don’t fuss, Mums, everything’s all right.”
But Adela was looking at her daughter in real alarm, sensitive to the turmoil behind Lynn’s
frowning exterior.
“I’ve always felt you’d be so safe married to Rowley,” she said piteously.
“Who wants to be safe?” Lynn asked scornfully. She turned sharply. “Was that the
telephone?”
“No. Why? Are you expecting a call?”
Lynn shook her head. Humiliating to be waiting for the telephone to ring. He had said he would
ring her tonight. He must. “You’re mad,” she told herself. “Mad.”
Why did this man attract her so? The memory of his dark unhappy face rose up before her eyes.
She tried to banish it, tried to replace it by Rowley’s broad good-looking countenance. His slow
smile, his affectionate glance. But did Rowley, she thought, really care about her? Surely if he’d
really cared, he’d have understood that day when she came to him and begged for five hundred
pounds. He’d have understood instead of being so maddeningly reasonable and matter-of-fact.
Marry Rowley, live on the farm, never go away again, never see foreign skies, smell exotic smells
—never again be free….
Sharply the telephone rang. Lynn took a deep breath, walked across the hall and picked up the
receiver.
With the shock of a blow, Aunt Kathie’s voice came thinly through the wire.
“Lynn? Is that you? Oh, I’m so glad. I’m afraid, you know, I’ve made rather a muddle—
about the meeting at the Institute—”
The thin fluttering voice went on. Lynn listened, interpolated comments, uttered reassurances,
received thanks.
“Such a comfort, dear Lynn, you are always so kind and so practical. I really can’t imagine
how I get things so muddled up.”
Lynn couldn’t imagine either. Aunt Kathie’s capacity for muddling the simplest issues
amounted practically to genius.
“But I always do say,” finished Aunt Kathie, “that everything goes wrong at once. Our
telephone is out of order and I’ve had to go out to a call box, and now I’m here I hadn’t got
twopence, only halfpennies—and I had to go and ask—”
It petered out at last. Lynn hung up and went back to the drawing-room. Adela Marchmont,
alert, asked: “Was that—” and paused.
Lynn said quickly: “Aunt Kathie.”
“What did she want?”
“Oh, just one of her usual muddles.”
Lynn sat down again with a book, glancing up at the clock. Yes—it had been too early. She
couldn’t expect her call yet. At five minutes past eleven the telephone rang again. She went
slowly out to it. This time she wouldn’t expect—it was probably Aunt Kathie again….
But no. “Warmsley Vale 34? Can Miss Lynn Marchmont take a personal call from London?”
Her heart missed a beat.
“This is Miss Lynn Marchmont speaking.”
“Hold on, please.”
She waited—confused noises—then silence. The telephone service was getting worse and
worse. She waited. Finally she depressed the receiver angrily. Another woman’s voice,
indifferent, cold, spoke, was uninterested. “Hang up, please. You’ll be called later.”
She hung up, went back towards the drawing room, the bell rang again as she had her hand on
the door. She hurried back to the telephone.
“Hallo?”
A man’s voice said: “Warmsley Vale 34? Personal call from London for Miss Lynn
Marchmont.”
“Speaking.”
“Just a minute please.” Then, faintly, “Speak up, London, you’re through….”
And then, suddenly, David’s voice:
“Lynn, is that you?”
“David!”
“I had to speak to you.”
“Yes….”
“Look here, Lynn, I think I’d better clear out—”
“What do you mean?”
“Clear out of England altogether. Oh, it’s easy enough. I’ve pretended it wasn’t to
Rosaleen—simply because I didn’t want to leave Warmsley Vale. But what’s the good of it
all? You and I—it wouldn’t work. You’re a fine girl, Lynn—and as for me, I’m a bit of a
crook, always have been. And don’t flatter yourself that I’d go straight for your sake. I might
mean to—but it wouldn’t work. No, you’d better marry the plodding Rowley. He’ll never
give you a day’s anxiety as long as you live. I should give you hell.”
She stood there, holding the receiver, saying nothing.
“Lynn, are you still there?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“You didn’t say anything.”
“What is there to say?”
“Lynn?”
“Well…?”
Strange how clearly she could feel over all that distance, his excitement, the urgency of his
mood….
He cursed softly, said explosively, “Oh, to hell with everything!” and rang off.
Mrs. Marchmont, coming out of the drawing room, said, “Was that—?”
“A wrong number,” said Lynn and went quickly up the stairs.
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