Proud Harvest. Anne Mather
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wouldn’t be in before ten as it was Monday morning, and there was nothing spoiling.
Brushing the crumbs from the skirt of her brown suede suit, she turned to face Mrs Matthews. ‘Don’t you know those things are bad for your health?’ she exclaimed acidly, but her mother merely pulled a face.
‘Why should I worry about my health?’ she retorted. ‘No one else does.’
Lesley, on her way to the door, halted uncertainly. ‘Now what is that supposed to mean?’ Her brows drew together in sudden concern. ‘You’re not—ill, are you?’
Mrs Matthews sniffed. ‘Would you care if I was?’
‘Oh, Mother!’ Lesley glanced helplessly at her watch. ‘I don’t have time for discussion right now.’ Talking about Jeremy had already taken up far too much time. ‘Can’t we leave this until later?’
‘That’s what I mean,’ declared her mother peevishly. ‘You never have time for anything—or anybody. Why, even your own son is a nuisance—–’
‘Mother!’ Lesley’s angry interjection cut her off in full spate. She reached for her handbag with hands which she found to her annoyance were trembling, and slung the strap over her shoulder. Then she looked at her mother again. ‘I’ll see you around five-thirty, right?’
Her voice was cool and although Mrs Matthews inclined her head in silent assent, she did not reply. Lesley hesitated only a moment longer and then wrenched open the door and left the room, closing it with a decided click behind her.
The lifts were all engaged, and she fretted impatiently until one chose to stop at the fourth floor. Downstairs, she barely answered the hall porter’s greeting as he pulled open the door for her, and his eyes watched her doubtfully as she hastened down the shallow steps to the pavement. It wasn’t like Mrs Radley to rush past him like that, and he hoped nothing had happened to that young son of hers. She had looked upset, and his brows drew together in a sympathetic frown. Always cheerful, that was Mrs Radley, always interested to hear about his wife and his family, never too busy to listen, not like some he could mention. That mother of hers, for example. Thought she was a cut above everybody else, she did. Well, what if her husband had been a brigadier? He was long dead now, and she was just plain Mrs Matthews. Her daughter, she was a different kettle of fish altogether. And that son of hers—regular little tearaway, he was. Pity her marriage hadn’t worked out, but that was the way of it these days. Girls weren’t content to stay at home and look after their families. They wanted a career, too. Equality. He grinned wryly. When were men going to be made equal? that’s what he wanted to know.
Meanwhile, Lesley was reversing her Mini out of the underground parking area that adjoined the block of flats, totally unaware of having aroused such strong feelings. Her own feelings occupied her thoughts to the exclusion of everything else, and in consequence she almost ran into the back of a grey Jaguar parked opposite. Jamming on her brakes, she took several calming breaths before making a second attempt to turn, and her delay was heralded by several irate horns from other commuters baulked by her incompetence.
‘All right, all right,’ she groaned frustratedly to herself, as a cream Cortina nudged closer, and most ungentlemanly signs were made to her to move on. ‘What a start to the week!’ she muttered, and glancing in the rear-view mirror bestowed a smile of annoying tolerance on the driver of the vehicle behind.
But as she cleared the garage and joined the press of motorists streaming towards the underpass, her brief moment of stimulation passed and she found herself worrying over the things her mother had said. Perhaps she had been hasty. Perhaps she did expect too much of her mother. But without her assistance, what could she do? She couldn’t afford a full-time nanny, even for holidays. The school fees alone were disastrous, and without Carne’s contribution, Jeremy would have to have gone to a day school, which would have caused more problems. Of course, that was what Carne would have preferred, but she refused to admit that his feelings had played any part in her determination to send her son to boarding school.
Anyway, Jeremy was there now, and had been for almost a year. He hadn’t seemed to take any harm from it. He was certainly a self-possessed little boy, but weren’t all children nowadays? In any case, there had been no alternative, so that particular aspect of the matter was not worth considering. Holidays were something else again.
Lesley chewed unhappily at her lower lip. What would she do if her mother refused to look after Jeremy? Who could she turn to? They had no other relatives, not on their side of the family anyway. And she could hardly ask one of Carne’s sisters to have him while refusing his own father the opportunity. She sighed. She would not let him go to Carne, though. She couldn’t! Ploughing through cow-pats all day long, mucking out stables, rolling about in the hay! His clothes would be ruined in no time, and she had no money to buy him new ones. No—somehow she had to make her mother see that proposition for what it was. Besides—a small expletive escaped her as a taxi swerved across her path and turned his thumb up at her—it was extremely doubtful that Carne would even consider it after not seeing his son for almost three years.
The Mini swept down the underpass and joined the jam at the other side. But it was gradually moving and she dropped down into bottom gear and allowed the wheels to maintain a steady roll forward. In spite of her preoccupation with her own problems, she became aware of someone watching her. Turning her head, she encountered the admiring stare of a young man in an exotic sports car cruising beside her in the next lane. Having attracted her attention, he kissed his fingers to his lips in an extravagant gesture, and she guessed he wasn’t English. But it was good to know that in spite of her harassed feelings she could still attract the admiration of a handsome man, and her fingers went automatically to touch the honey-gold strands of hair that lay over her shoulder. Straight hair it was, but expertly cut to accentuate the oval shape of her face and tilt gently beneath the curve of her jawline. Her lips parted in a faint smile, and then there was a sickening crunch right ahead of her and she realised she had run into the back of the car in front. At the same moment the second stream of traffic surged ahead and her handsome admirer left her to face the purpling countenance of the middle-aged owner with the dented fender.
‘Women drivers!’ he grumbled, as she got out to face him. ‘Well? I’m not paying for this.’
Lesley assured him that it was all her fault and he was somewhat mollified. She gave him her address, and the address of her insurance company, and then examined the damage to her own car. One of her headlights was broken, and her own fender dented, and as the man drove away she reflected that as usual she had come off worst. In addition to which her insurance premium was bound to be increased next time, and she got back behind the wheel wondering whether it wouldn’t be simpler just to use a cab. But one could never get a cab at this hour of the morning, and besides, when Jeremy was on holiday she liked it for getting about …
Jeremy.
Depression swamped her once again. Whoever would have thought that one small boy could cause so much heartache? But she loved him desperately, and she was determined to keep him. Somehow she would make arrangements for the holidays, even if it meant bringing him to the office with her. That wouldn’t go down too well, of course, and it would be hard on Jeremy having to keep quiet for hours on end. But she was confident that Lance would not sack her out of hand, she was too valuable to him, and if it was a matter of one or the other, she was sure he would not object. Eight weeks was not so long, and three of those she would be on holiday herself. She found her fingers crossing on the steering wheel. It might never come to that. Her mother would not refuse to have him. Just because at Easter he had broken her Chinese vase … and poured salt into the sugar bowl … and played Red Indians with her ostrich feathers … and smuggled that disgusting little mongrel into the flat and hidden him under his bed …
Lesley hunched her shoulders. Perhaps he was too high-spirited for a woman of sixty to handle. Particularly a woman who had already worn herself out looking after her own child, or so she said. Lesley sighed. Had she been such a trial? She had quite fond memories of her youth. Of course, her father had been alive in those days and he and she seemed so much alike. Perhaps it was the later years, after her father was dead, when she had