The moon bathed the silent beach in its silver light. A convenient cloud blocked its light for a short moment and seemed to smile when the pink blouse dropped on to the sand for the third time that night….
The next morning, Patrick accompanied Paula to the station. The young woman’s parents were also present. They would be taking the same train two days later to meet up with her in London. The young man didn’t hear their parting words, but he did see Paula smiling at him tenderly through the compartment window. Through the softness of her blue eyes he relived the epilogue to their nocturnal idyll.
‘My Goodness, Patrick, what have we done?’
‘One last act of madness,’ he had sighed. ‘Any regrets?’
Paula, a half-smile on her lips, had shaken her head slowly.
‘Nor I, Paula, I—.’
‘Call me darling. You still have the right for a few minutes more.’
‘I… I’ll never forget this night.’
‘Which will forever remain a dear, sweet secret.’
‘Our secret, my darling.’
They had stopped at the top of the cliffs to exchange a long kiss, which they had sworn would be their last and that their adventure would stop there and then. But they had broken that promise several more times so that, even though the distance from the cove to their respective homes was short, it was three o’clock in the morning when they had called each other darling for the last time.
A whistle blew and the train started. With a curious sentiment he didn’t try to define, Patrick watched it leave.
When it was out of sight, Mrs. Lyle asked:
‘Are you two going to stay there? I’ll go and buy the tickets. No sense in leaving it to the last minute.
Arthur Lyle made a sign of agreement and turned to the young man:
‘Now the women have left, we can talk seriously. I know you were a large influence in Paula’s marriage.’
Patrick opened his mouth to speak, but the other cut him off:
‘Paula was very hesitant. Heaven only knows why. My long experience told me that Francis was a good man in every respect. But women…,’ he said, raising his eyes to the heavens. ‘You always have to point them in the right direction.’
He put his arm around Patrick and continued:
‘You know, my boy, it’s not always easy for a father to talk to his daughter, particularly if she needs convincing about something. Paula told me it was you who convinced her.’ He looked Patrick straight in the eye, with respect. ‘I know you’ve always been a true friend to Paula, a loyal, honest friend. So, as her father, let me thank you for all you have done for her.’
Patrick whistled a tune as he arrived home, in order to maintain an air of composure. But the vicious kick he aimed at an innocent dustbin gave the lie to his apparent good humour.
3
The marriage of Francis Hilton and Paula Lyle took place on the appointed day, and Sarah, Francis’s sister, wed Harris Thorne two months later. At this point, the narration skips directly to the following spring, to the St. John’s Wood area of London, and the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Howard Hilton, the parents of Francis and Sarah.
Looking worried, Howard Hilton watched mechanically as his wife poured him a cup of tea. Dorothy, slightly built and with nondescript features, attracted attention only for the lack of expression in her pale blue eyes. Anyone who knew them well would not have failed to notice how much Howard Hilton had changed in recent months. He still retained the simple dignity and frank and friendly regard which came naturally to him, but his gestures betrayed a suppressed nervousness totally out of character. He’d just lost his job with the small manufacturer of wooden toys where he’d worked all his life and was one of the best employees. It had changed hands following the death of the owner and there was no more place for him. Despite being out of work at fifty-five, the prospect of finding a new job wasn’t what was worrying him, nor was his financial situation, which wasn’t exactly brilliant. His daughter’s wedding hadn’t cost him a penny — his son-in-law had dismissed his offer of a contribution with a wave of his hand — but it was nevertheless there that the source of his worry lay.
Sipping his tea, he looked around the room he’d known for twenty years. While not luxurious, the lounge was comfortable and the two large windows overlooking the garden on which he had lavished so much care provided plenty of light.
‘I know what you’re thinking, Howard: you’re upset at the idea of leaving here. But what choice do we have? And, to tell you the truth, the idea of going to live in a manor doesn’t displease me at all. You don’t seem to realise that we’ll no longer need to count every penny as we’ve had to do all our lives. And the children will be close to us. We’re very blessed to have a son-in-law like Harris.’
Harris. Harris Thorne. Howard didn’t seem able to get that name out of his head, for several reasons. First, he’d married his daughter. Second, he was rich, very rich… too rich. His parents had left him a comfortable inheritance and, at thirty-eight years of age, he was at the head of a successful bicycle manufacturing firm in Coventry, which he directed with competence and authority. His powerful voice, thunderous outbursts of laughter and generosity gained sympathy from all who knew him. Despite his tendency to impose his views, it never seemed to occur to anyone to contradict him, at least openly.
His brother Brian, discreet and silent, didn’t resemble him at all. He lived as a recluse, with a couple of servants, in a manor not far from Cheltenham. He spent most of his time shut up in his room, only leaving it for the occasional country walk, where he wandered aimlessly with his head down and a faraway look in his eye. Naturally, the upkeep of the property fell to Harris, the only one capable of assuming the expense. Since the beginning of the year, the manor had undergone extensive renovation: Harris had decided to make it his principal residence and had invited Francis and Paula and their parents to move in with Sarah and himself. Paula, who had failed to adapt to the hectic rhythm of London, jumped at the idea of a rural life. Francis, who, thanks to his generous brother-in-law had an interesting job with good prospects of advancement, was just as enthusiastic.
As for Howard Hilton, it was, paradoxically, just such a prospect which tormented him. In addition, Harris had made it clear to his parents-in-law that they would be able to lead a peaceful existence, without worries of any sort. And, as a balm to their dignity, he’d asked if they’d help him supervise the staff — in exchange for a decent remuneration, of course.
‘You’re right, of course,’ Howard Hilton said to his wife in a mournful voice. ‘Harris is an irreproachable fellow.’
‘I don’t understand you, Howard, I really don’t. Our situation leaves us no choice. Why hesitate?’
‘I could say it’s because we’d no longer have our peaceful home or our independence, but that’s not it.’ He scratched his chin. ‘Sarah came to see us the other day. How did you find her?’
‘Well, she did seem a bit… But you know as well as I do, she’s always been a very nervous child.’
‘I know, but I’ve never seen her so tense. Didn’t she say anything to you? I saw you in the garden and you seemed to be talking about a serious matter….’
Mrs. Hilton put down the piece of cake which she’d been nibbling.
‘Yes and no. She told me she hadn’t been feeling well recently and that Harris… Well, you know she has a difficult character and the first months of marriage aren’t always plain sailing. She talked to me about Harris, the long hours he puts in, his habits and his temperament… They’ve had a few stormy rows. But nothing to get unduly alarmed about: perhaps you’ve forgotten about the time you stamped on mama’s hat because you were furious about—.’