Lightning Encounter Read online

  She tapped the table, with a poke of aggression she said: ‘Let me tell you, men think my type are easy game. They seem to think they are paying us a compliment!’

  ‘Horrible creatures, men!’ he quipped, trying to jolly the conversation into less dangerous channels.

  Her eyelashes descended. He noticed they had golden tips, soft and feathery. When they lifted a thoughtful moment later, he saw that the eyes were forgiving. He thought it would be nice to know what miscalculation of thought or deed he was being forgiven. It was safer not to ask. Safer to say: ‘Do you find England strange after so many years abroad?’

  ‘Strange, disturbing, beautiful. Oh yes, despite the weather.’ Her humour readily asserted itself. ‘Perhaps because of the weather! The air feels so soft, and everything is so green. But,’ her smile was displaced as she was swept with melancholy. ‘There’s always a but, isn’t there? I didn’t want to come like this. I didn’t want it to be this way.’ She looked down at her hands, clasped tightly together to almost endanger circulation.

  ‘You know, I can’t help thinking if I’d been younger things would have been different.’

  ‘In what way could they have been different?’

  ‘I don’t know, really. Yes I do. I reminded them too much of the gap in their ages. If I’d been about eight they might not have noticed me.’ Her voice took on a wistful note. ‘I wish I could be eight again. I’d give everything I possess, including Darling Ugly, to be able to put the clock back.’

  ‘Who, or what, is Darling Ugly?’

  ‘My troll doll. And good luck mascot. He’s so ugly, nobody could love him.’

  ‘Except you.’

  ‘Except me.’ Her glance travelled to the bulge in the pocket of her coat, gently steaming near the radiator. ‘He goes everywhere with me. My father gave him to me one birthday, oh ages ago, and I’ve treasured him ever since. I don’t think he’s brought me much luck. But I have the feeling that if I lost him, through carelessness, some dreadful disaster would befall me.’

  Was he laughing at her? No, but he looked stern and displeased.

  ‘It’s a bad thing to be ruled by superstition,’ he said. ‘But I suppose your environment played some part of that.’ For the first time he was in accord with her father. She hadn’t come home a moment too soon.

  ‘Have you ever wanted to put the clock back?’ She pushed an agitated hand through her hair, but in fact she wanted to poke a way through his impregnable manner of cool assurance. His reply was perfectly in keeping and the one she expected.

  ‘No, I can’t say that I have.’

  ‘But at some time or other you must have come up against a tough situation. One you couldn’t bear to face.’

  ‘Yes.’ His mouth and his eyes and even the angle of his chin, rebuked.

  ‘But putting the clock back wouldn’t solve anything. It would only put off,’—he deliberately refrained from saying, the evil moment, and said instead, ‘The situation you thought you couldn’t bear to face. Eventually you would have to shoulder up to it.’

  ‘Yes, yes I see. You’re saying that some day I would have to let go of my father’s hand. And better today than tomorrow.’ This one should be up in a pulpit, yes even with those fiendish eyes, she thought. Her smile had been trembling near the surface for the past few seconds, now it trampled the barrier of good old honest indignation and the sudden, delightful lift of her mouth exploded the myth of plainness once and for all.

  ‘Thank you. You’ve been a regular,’—she hoped she didn’t sound too sarcastic—‘what’s the word?’

  ‘Samaritan?’

  ‘Yes, samaritan. Now, how many pesetas worth of food do you think I’ve eaten?’

  ‘None,’ he said drily. ‘Haven’t you any English money?’

  ‘Of course. I might be confused. But I’m not insolvent!’ Blast the man. He was laughing at her again. And did he always have to put her in the wrong!

  He reminded himself that she wasn’t his responsibility, but right away asked:

  ‘What are your plans? I assume you have something mapped out?’

  ‘Oh yes. Right now I intend to take myself off to the station to board a train to Weighbridge.’

  He didn’t usually double his mistakes and assuredly it was a mistake to ask: ‘What’s at Weighbridge?’

  ‘A bridge, I should think.’ Her eyes brightened suspiciously. ‘You know, if Dad hadn’t met Angela, he’d probably be sitting here with us now. We’d planned to come to England on a motoring holiday. Well, just because there’s only me, I don’t see why I should ditch the original plan. My father was very generous.’ She leaned forward, pathetically eager to show her parent in the best possible light. ‘He insisted on giving me all his savings, so that I could invest in a small car and see a bit of the country and still have enough to tide me over until I get a job.’ With touching dignity she took out her wallet to pay her bill.

  Dare he offer to pay it for her? Certainly he had been well entertained. But no, his generous impulse was certain to be misread. She would undoubtedly accuse him of trying to buy her for the night.

  Which one, which one? Teasing promiscuity or total inexperience. It was as well that after today he would not have to see her again. He had complications enough.

  ‘Goodbye.’ She juggled with the conglomeration of suitcase, tartan holdall and cream leather handbag, so that she could put out her hand. It was slim and brown, with unvarnished, almond shaped nails. He felt reluctant to take it. He frowned as a wave of annoyance swept over him. Yet he couldn’t allow himself to get involved.

  All the same. ‘I can see you to the station,’ he said, ungraciously relieving her of holdall and suitcase.

  Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving the air sweet and soft. His long strides gobbled up the deep purple satin sash of road, as if, she thought, doubling her step to keep pace with him, he was anxious to be rid of her. Well, at least he was in fashion, she thought irritably.

  ‘Goodbye,’ she said for the second time, this time at the station entrance; but he brushed her hand aside, saying he might as well buy a platform ticket and see her on the train. Seeing the job through to its conclusion, she supposed with irrational bitterness.

  The train was in. The third, and final, goodbye would be brief.

  ‘I don’t know your name,’ he said.

  ‘Nor I, yours.’

  ‘It’s Ian . . . Ian Nicholson. Here’s my card. If ever you find yourself in serious straits, you must contact me.’

  ‘I will,’ she promised accepting the square of pasteboard. ‘Oh, and I’m Karen Shaw.’

  ‘Karen.’ Quickly, quickly, because time was short, he rolled the name over his tongue. ‘It suits you.’

  A whistle blew. It struck a piercing, imperious note. Doors slammed, people hastened, somewhere a child cried. Voices were of necessity raised to a clamour, which receded, to return with the gathered impetus of a sonic boom, spreading its audible strength to the far reaches of the darkening streets beyond.

  ‘Well Karen, this is it.’

  ‘Yes, this is it.’ Her voice was stiff with urgency. This is it. The sand had run out. There was no more time left for him to infuriate her, amuse, chide and comfort her. Three cheers. Who wanted this smug, arrogant fiend-man with the devil-grin lurking to eat up his super serious mouth. Gosh, he was a bigger challenge than the world of loneliness and uncertainty that faced her. She could handle it; whatever came she must handle it with chin up at the ready. Strong, fearless she was. No problem, surely. Except . . . why did she feel so strange, so shattered? It wasn’t like her at all.

  Her mind turned slowly, meditatively. How could she know what she was like? Truly like? It had been easy to be strong and fearless and quietly resolute with her father’s hand slung carelessly round her shoulders; easy to be brave when faced with a chest massive enough to burrow her head against, her cheek at a tilt to receive his smacking kiss. Her father was an undemonstrative man who always curtailed his emotions, and yet it
was her cherished belief he enjoyed those spontaneous bursts of affection as much as she did. Would he miss the loving soft snuggle? No, because now he had Angela, his Angel as he called her, to satisfy such needs. She wasn’t quite his Angel yet, but she soon would be. Now that he had cast off the appendage of a daughter, he would feel free to woo the lady.

  An appendage . . . a parasitic creature who had to be told it was time to stop hanging on. The hurt of it pricked her eyes and it was suddenly necessary to tug a frantic hand in her pocket for her handkerchief. As the square of lace trimmed cotton travelled speedily upwards, something soft brushed against her legs. She was going to bend down to investigate, when two hands made light captive of her shoulders, and a mouth touched hers.

  The unexpectedness of it relieved her of coherent thought. Yet even she knew platform kisses were stock. All about them goodbye kisses were given and taken, some prolonged and passionate, others as light as the parting token she had just received.

  They broke away and he bundled her on the gently moving train. Well, now he knew. Not teasing promiscuity at all. She’d been riding him, challenging him, out of curiosity. Inexperience can be very curious, he thought, dimly remembering his own green youth.

  Something disturbed him. Not her actions, it wasn’t the first time a girl had blatantly invited a kiss, the twist, the thought to munch on was his mishandling of the situation. He didn’t know how, or why, but that kiss had been a liberty. His blandness, the quality of assurance she had secretly admired in him, gave way to an inability to reason properly. Because, heck! what’s a kiss in this contemporary age? Not even a kiss, but an innocent peck. So why did he feel guilt-ridden?

  His thoughts checked right there, because it wasn’t only guilt he felt as he viewed the rear end of the fast receding train, but something else. Sharp, with a zealous kick. In a word: dismay.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The heavy carriage door slammed shut. From its slow start the train surged forward like an animal in pursuit of the night, which now wasn’t so very far ahead. Already the gloom of evening was pressing against the windows and the line of cottages, running parallel with the track, flowered, one by one, into light.

  Karen viewed the gathering dusk with feelings of disquiet. It would be dark by the time the train pulled into Weighbridge. She began to wish she’d stayed put, the prospect of looking for overnight accommodation was a gloomy one and she could well do without this hindrance. She tried to estimate the actual time of arrival, but his face kept getting in the way. A tender tyrant with chameleon eyes: kind for a second, satanic and condemning the other fifty-nine. Odd to think they would never meet again. Yet if there had been a possibility of a future encounter she would never have unburdened in that juvenile fashion. It seemed incredible that she had. Normally she was a reticent sort of person, but these weren’t normal circumstances.

  Life used to be so placid. She could remember back to a time when she’d sighed for something out of the ordinary to happen. Nothing dramatic or spectacular, but something to enliven the set pattern of her life.

  Perhaps she’d brought misfortune upon herself by being dissatisfied with her lot. The beginning hadn’t been Angela, as she had led Ian to believe; the real beginning had been the night of the storm. Fate had pointed its finger and said, ‘Let’s teach this Miss a lesson.’ It was one she could not forget, yet found too painful to remember.

  She deliberately turned her thoughts away, seeking a distraction that was pleasant and amusing. That platform kiss had been pleasant and amusing—now she was happily diverted—and instructional and enjoyable. Had he enjoyed it? She was inclined to think he had. He might have considered her a bit of a nuisance, but that hadn’t stopped him finding her kissable. At the actual moment of kissing, her eyes had been closed, so she didn’t know what his face had registered; but afterwards a telling tenderness had driven away his justifiable irritation. Poor man, he hadn’t known what he was letting himself in for when he first struck up a conversation. That would teach him not to let sympathy override common sense!

  Well, anyway, it was nice to know she hadn’t lost her sense of humour. But a sense of humour makes a frail blanket for a cold and weary traveller. She had been up since long before dawn and the hours prior to that had been robbed of sleep by excitement and apprehension. She reached in her pocket for her good luck mascot, her bit of comfort, but all her fingers met was the silk of her pocket lining. Darling Ugly wasn’t there. Then she knew what had brushed her legs in falling on to the station platform. She must have pulled the troll doll out with her handkerchief.

  The hotel she finally decided upon, after a brisk walk down dismal, inadequately lit streets, was red bricked, totally unimpressive. The inside was as unadorned and as depressing as the exterior, but at least it was clean. A dour little man with greying hair, after informing her firmly that the restaurant was closed for the night and she couldn’t hope for a hot meal, showed her to her room.

  She had to bite her lip to stop herself from apologizing too profusely for being such a great trouble. After all, it was a hotel. Then she thought, well, perhaps it’s his rheumatism, he walked with a rheumaticky gait, and as he swung open the unprepossessing brown door she flashed him a hoydenish smile. His mouth parted in a toothy grin, which might or might not have been in response to her smile. More likely it was due to the generous tip she pressed into his hand.

  Brown paintwork, fawn linoleum, a top-heavy wardrobe that was old old, not antique. But her eye barely registered the room; all she could see was the bed. High, she almost needed a step-stool to climb in, and then it was like floating on goosefeathers. It was so soft and warm and she was asleep.

  Next morning she ducked out of bacon and eggs and breakfasted on toast and marmalade. During her years of exile she had eaten lightly for this first meal of the day, following the continental custom, and she hadn’t sufficient faith in the hotel to wish to renew old taste habits. After breakfast she checked out and went in search of a garage showroom.

  The little car, which just had to be her little car, was parked temptingly in the forecourt with a price ticket affixed to its windscreen. It was red and she could just see herself behind the wheel, the window wound right down so that the wind would ruffle her hair as she bowled along the open road.

  Carefully she pocketed the necessary documents, M.O.T. certificate and the insurance cover note. After much deliberation she had decided to risk it and insure third party as the difference between that and full comprehensive cover would bed and breakfast her for a few nights. And she wasn’t going to have an accident. She never had and she’d been driving since she was seventeen.

  And yet, because of the unfamiliar driving conditions, at first she gritted her teeth and pressed her foot very lightly down on the accelerator. How green everything looked. Green, green, incredibly green. It seemed to her she had never seen so many variations of this wonderful colour. As she negotiated her first traffic-free country road, she relaxed her grim determination and delighted in so much lush vegetation and velvety greenness. After living in a country where so-called green has a yellowish tint, vegetation is sparse, and each brave blade of grass is frizzled by the fierce heat of the sun, it was as if her starved eyes couldn’t get their fill. And yet she allowed herself only quick sideways glances, which, as things turned out, probably saved her life.

  The road had more curves than a camel’s back; rounding the second successive hump she was confronted by a yellow car, travelling at a fantastic speed. On the wrong side of the road!

  Instinctively she wrenched at the wheel. The car careered across the grass verge; the moment its tail-end was no longer imperilled by the yellow car, she jumped on the brake, but her timing was a split second too late. The vehicle was already shuddering on a precipitous bank, and to her horror it fell away into nothing. It was the most numbing moment of her life. Her hands were ineffectually gripping the steering wheel, when it came to her with sickening clarity, that in a situation such as this, driving
skill counted for nothing. Her fate was, literally, in other, more blessedly competent hands; all she could do was ignore the drumming noise in her ears and pray to remain fully conscious. She mustn’t allow herself the sweetness of oblivion, not yet.

  But, oh! the temptation to let the horrible reality slip away and feel soft, black nothing. She felt so drowsy. If only that hysterical female would stop screaming. Then she realized she was alone in the car and the anguished sound was coming from her own throat. Perhaps she was shocked into awareness, because now she was alert to her plight. She rolled herself into a ball and protected her head with her hands. She remembered reading somewhere that it was important to protect the head. In the event she was ready, and reasonably prepared for the final dull thud as the car’s two front wheels slid neatly and inexorably into the ditch.

  Now that it was over, now that the skyline had stopped chasing the bank, and the car was holding more or less steady, she marvelled that so much agony could be crammed into a few seconds.

  Then she realized it wasn’t over, not with so much petrol splashed around. The smell of it hit her stomach and as she clawed at the door she didn’t know how she managed not to be sick. The door lever went down all right, but the door wouldn’t open. It was jammed. Now, she was not only fighting nausea, but fear. It wasn’t the first time she had known real fear. She thought it unjust, cruel even, that some people are allowed to go through life without incident, whereas she had faced death twice.

  Well, she had escaped it once, if not unscathed, so why not again? Perhaps her worst fear wouldn’t be justified. The petrol tank didn’t have to explode.