Duplicity (21 page)

Roselle, of course, couldn’t understand why he wanted to move, even when he said it would lead to promotion, probably as branch manger, and, hopefully, eventually to manager of the main Aberdeen branch. When she saw the house, however, she was much happier about it, a larger, airier, more modern villa in the quaint seaside village, where the children loved their new school and there were several neighbours of her own age.

Dilly and Roddy, soon settled down, making friends in the easy manner of ten-year-olds, and, although for the first few weeks, they sometimes mentioned their ‘Auntie Helen and Uncle Frank’, the gaps between lengthened until it seemed that the Milnes were completely forgotten. Their mother felt saddened by this, but being aware that her husband had never taken to Helen, had always regarded her as nosey and wanting to pry into their private lives, she said nothing.

When it came nearer to Christmas, she decided to send a card to Helen, to let her know that she still thought fondly of them. She wouldn’t give any address, so there couldn’t be a card sent in return, and Brian would never know.

The greeting duly sent, Roselle felt quite guilty for deceiving her husband, but glad that she had made the effort. At least Helen would know she was thinking of them.

‘Roselle’s surely forgotten to give us her address,’ Helen observed plaintively, having thoroughly examined the front, inside and back of the communication which had been delivered with some other Christmas mail. ‘I can’t send a card, and she’ll think I don’t want to keep in touch.’

Realising how upset his wife was, Frank Milne laid down the morning paper. ‘She won’t want Brian to know she’s written. You knew he wasn’t happy about you always asking her questions.’

‘I didn’t mean any harm … I was only trying to help her.’

‘That’s what’s wrong, as far as I can see. He doesn’t want her to remember.’

‘I’m sure he’s got something to hide. He’s done something he shouldn’t, or committed some kind of crime.’

‘Ach, woman, your imagination’s running away with you. What kind of crime could a man like him have committed, I ask you? He’s an honest, hard-working, family-orientated man who wouldn’t hurt a fly. It’s just … well, you got up his wrong side the very first day you met him. He thought you were just a nosey old woman.’

‘I was only being friendly.’

‘You know that, and I know that, but he didn’t. Whatever happened to Roselle to make her lose her memory must have been really bad, and he’s only trying to protect her. He thinks she’ll lose her mind altogether if she ever does remember.’

‘But remembering it might help her to get over it.’

He heaved an exasperated sigh, but his voice was tender as he said, ‘All those doctors had been trained to deal with disturbed minds, Helen, so just leave things alone.’

‘I can’t do anything, anyway’, she sniffed. ‘All I know is the envelope is postmarked Peterhead.’ After a moment’s silence, she added hopefully, ‘Peterhead’s not that big …’

‘Don’t even think about it, madam. You don’t know what you might stir up if you start making inquiries. It could be like opening Pandora’s Box. If Roselle had wanted you to know where she is, she’d have given you the address. At least you know they’re all right.’

Her lips gripped angrily, his wife said no more. Knowing they were all right just now, didn’t mean that they’d always be all right. But like Frank pointed out, she could do nothing - except hope that a Christmas card would arrive every year.

Chapter Four

Despite missing the first few months of her schooling, Dyllis had caught up very well, and was now on a level peg with her twin. They were not at the top of the class, neither were they at the foot, but floating around the best quarter. They were very popular, still only interested in their own sex, and enjoying all their seasonal interests -football and marbles mainly for the boys and, for the girls, skipping, playing houses or hospitals, and in mixed groups, playing tick and tack, hide and seek, leapfrog and so on. Of course, out of school, the harbour was often where the play landed, or the sandy beach. Although her children often came home with pockets full of seashells or small rounded pebbles that had been washed up, and worse still, left small heaps of sand all over her floors, Roselle didn’t mind. She was glad that they were happy, glad that Brian was happy, glad that she, herself, was happy, talking to her neighbours, exchanging recipes and knitting patterns. Only when the other young women talked about their own schooldays and teens did she feel out of it. Give them their due, not one of them had quizzed her, or tried to get her to speak about her own early life. She had told them that she had lost her memory because of something that had happened, so it was quite surprising that they didn’t push her for answers. She was almost sure that, being an incomer, they regarded her as an outsider, yet they did not treat her in any way differently from the way they treated each other. She had, however, found out that most of them were not natives of Cruden Bay either, their husbands, like hers, commuting to Aberdeen.

She was closest to her immediate neighbour on the left, Jacqui Donald, and over the five years they had known each other, they had all become very friendly. Brian had been more reserved at first, and had clearly not been at ease when they were invited to visit one evening. Since then, he had accepted that she, at least, did need some time away from the children, and seemed to be quite happy to leave them in the charge of the sixteen-year-old daughter of another neighbour.

Instead of only the two couples, their circle had soon included another two who lived in the same street and developed into one evening a week of playing bridge in each house in turn. Roselle now looked forward to her ‘nights out’ and even to the nights when it was her turn to be hostess, and was glad that Brian got on so well with all of them, entering into the light-hearted ‘criticisms’ of partners and taking any directed at him with a genuine laugh.

This happily contented existence could not carry on. Roselle recognised this fact one stormy night in December. It was too easy, too comfortable.

‘What’s wrong, Ros? Is the wind bothering you?’

‘Yes, Bri, it’s the worst I’ve ever heard.’ How could she admit to what was actually bothering her? ‘I’m sure the roof’s going to be blown off.’

‘Don’t be daft. These houses are really substantial, the builders knew the kind of gales there are here in the winters.’

‘Nothing like this, though. This isn’t just a gale, it’s a … hurricane!’

‘Snuggle up to me, darling. We should be doing something a lot more pleasurable than listening to the wind.’

As his arms pulled her towards him, she tried to give herself up to the joy of his loving, but it was almost impossible, and as his lips met hers hungrily, a deafeningly loud crash made them both jerk up.

‘What the hell’s that?’ He flung back the duvet and jumped to the floor.

Panic tearing at her innards, she screamed, ‘Don’t leave me, Brian! Don’t leave me! I don’t want to die on my own!’

‘You’re not going to die.’ Realising at that moment exactly why she was panicking, his voice lost its anger. ‘It’s likely just been somebody’s garage roof blown off. I hope it’s not ours.’ Although he was desperate to find out what had actually happened, he gathered her into his arms again. ‘It’s OK, darling. It’s OK.’

Another loud gust caused her to shiver even more but the door burst open and Roddy rushed in and jumped on the bed between them. ‘What was that? It woke me up.’

‘It must have wakened the whole street, I think.’ Brian managed to smile as his daughter ran in. ‘It’s all right, it’s all right. Just somebody’s old shed blown to bits, I expect. Come on, jump up and we’ll play some guessing games, until the storm stops.’

The next forty minutes were occupied in ‘I spy’ and ‘The minister’s cat is an A cat.’ and going right through the alphabet to ‘… is a zippo cat’, by which time they were all sore with laughing, although Roselle was still worrying about the amount of damage done by the gale, and to what part of their home? It was a full hour later - with the two children fast asleep in their parents’ arms - before Brian was able to extricate himself and venture outside.

He returned in little more than five minutes, his white face pinched with the cold. ‘My God,’ he muttered. ‘Our garage roof’s been blown away, and so have most of the others in the street, but there’s dozens of slates lying all over the place so I suppose we’re lucky to still have a roof over our heads.’

‘Do you know if anybody’s been hurt?’ Roselle asked, anxiously.

‘There was no word of it, but a lot of house roofs will need to be repaired. I don’t know about ours yet,’ he added. ‘We’ll have to wait until daylight to find out.’

The wind and the damage it had done was the main topic of conversation for residents of Cruden Bay for several long weeks, until all the repair works had been carried out, although some of the payments - insurance as well as private - took much longer than that.

It also took Roselle much longer than that to recover from the terror she had felt. It had been childish, she scolded herself. It was only the wind, the houses were solidly built, so why had she felt as if her insides were being riven apart? As if the end of the world had come? She had been absolutely blind with panic as though she was reliving a terrible experience where her world had almost actually come to an end. Was that what had happened to her years ago? Was that why she had lost her memory?

She decided many times to demand that Brian tell her what had happened all those years ago, if it had been a hurricane or what, but her courage deserted her when it came to the point. But she should know, shouldn’t she? She was a mature woman. She could face up to anything … couldn’t she? On the other hand, maybe her husband suspected that she couldn’t, that learning the truth might unhinge her for good. That would be why he kept the truth from her.

She got over her fears gradually, time, as it always did, healing even open sores that had once seemed incurable. Only very occasionally in the still of the night, with the spaces between them lengthening considerably, did fear stir within her, this fear that she could never explain to herself, and certainly dared not mention to anyone.

Having removed his wristwatch in case he got dirt in it, Frank Milne suddenly realised that time was marching on. He loved his garden so much that he forgot everything else once he got started, but something was niggling at him today. Helen had said she was just going to the post office and then popping in to see old Mrs Rattray, who was always glad of a visitor, but she surely wouldn’t have stayed all this time. His stomach told him it was nearly teatime, and his wife was always home in time to make him a good meal. Of course, he didn’t eat as much as he used to do, but she made sure that he never went hungry.

After laying past the trowel and rake, he washed his hands in the kitchen sink, then looked at the clock in the sitting room. My God! Half past six! What on earth had happened to her?

Or maybe something had happened to the old woman? She must be ninety, if she was a day - a tiny rickle of bones, as Helen said - but his wife would surely have let him know. Well, he would just have a seat for a few minutes, maybe take a quick look at the evening paper and then he’d set the table. He had no idea what Helen had planned for tea, and anyway, maybe she would bring in chips, seeing she was so late.

Almost twenty minutes later, he was startled by the loud ring of the doorbell. He must have dozed off and Helen had surely forgotten her key. What a pair they were, he smiled to himself, as he hoisted himself out of his old easy chair. ‘I was beginning to think you’d …’ he began, but halted in dismay at the sight of the young policeman on the doorstep.

‘Mr Milne? May I come in, please?’

Frank stood aside to let him pass. ‘It’s my wife, isn’t it? What’s happened?’

‘She is in hospital, I’m afraid. She was knocked down by a car as she crossed Rose Street.’

‘Is she badly hurt?’

‘I can’t say, but I’m here to take you there. You’d better put on a jacket, though.’

Forgetting his grubby face, his old baggy trousers, Frank grabbed the first jacket off the hallstand and followed the young PC out. His heart was beating twenty to the dozen with fear for his wife. He and Helen had celebrated their ruby wedding some years ago - it must be wearing on for the golden - and he didn’t know what he’d do if she wasn’t there. She had always been there for him.

He had to wait for over an hour before she was taken back from the operating theatre - an hour in which he imagined the very worst and was sitting chilled with sorrow. It was not as bad as he had feared, thank heaven, but bad enough. The nurse told him that his wife’s left leg was broken in two places, her right knee was smashed and her face was badly bruised, which he could see for himself. She was still under the effects of the anaesthetic so he held her hand until she stirred.

At her first movement, he leaned forward. ‘Helen, pet, it’s me. How are you feeling?’

Her voice was weak, but held the usual humour. ‘How d’you think I’m feeling? Bloody awful, that’s how. But at least I’m still here to nag you.’

‘Oh, God, I’m so glad!’

The nurse made a sign for him not to make her talk, and he sat there for another two hours before he was convinced that she was had fallen into a natural night’s sleep. ‘You’d best go home,’ the young nurse advised him, ‘or else you’ll be our next patient. She’ll be able to talk more at visiting time tomorrow.’

Just wearing his gardening clothes, he had no money on him at all, so there was nothing for it but to walk home.

He was glad in a way, because he knew he wouldn’t sleep anyway.

The walk did help. By the time he reached his house, it was beginning to get light, and he wasn’t in the least surprised to see that it was almost six o’clock in the morning. Too exhausted even to make himself a cup of tea, he tumbled into bed and was asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow.

The sun was as its highest when he awoke, and, his stomach now desperately needing some nourishment, he boiled himself a couple of eggs and made two slices of toast, keeping an eye on the clock as he ate. He didn’t want to miss a minute of the visiting time that a large notice had told him before he left was from two till five in the afternoon, and from seven to eight at night.