A Kind Of Madness

And so she had planned everything. She would drive down to Cheshire three days ahead of her parents’ departure so that she could familiarise herself with their routine, and make sure that Carter knew that any interference on his part would not be welcome.

It was a pity that he was living in the area while he looked around for a suitable property of his own, but if he turned up at her parents’ smallholding she would make it more than plain to him that, in their absence, he was not a welcome guest.

As she listened to Peter telling her about his latest case, she smothered the uncomfortable feeling that if her parents had made Carter welcome in their home as a member of the family, they would be highly embarrassed if she refused to do the same. She reflected crossly that it was high time she overcame these rebellious and unwanted weaknesses which more properly she ought to have left behind her when she’d left home.

Her parents were a warm-hearted couple, whose naïveté about the realities of life and the human race were all very well in the context of a small rural village where they had been known all their lives, but the world had changed dramatically since her parents were young, and it frightened her sometimes how little they seemed to realise that fact.

Take the time she had got off the London train in Chester, only to discover that her mother had befriended a solitary and extremely hairy young man who had got off an earlier train, and even worse that she had practically invited him home for the weekend. One only had to pick up a paper to realise the danger of befriending strangers.

Not that Carter was a stranger precisely, but his motives were very suspect, as Peter had wisely pointed out to her. In fact Peter had rather chided her because she herself had not seen that danger immediately.

Truth to tell, she had been inclined to become more indignant about the way Carter seemed to have wormed his way into her parents’ affections and become an established part of their lives—so much so that the last time she had gone home, when mercifully he had been away visiting friends for the weekend, the parrot had shrieked unrelentingly, ‘Where’s Carter? I want Carter. Now there’s a man,’ accompanying this statement with a barrage of wolf-whistles and other equally unsavoury remarks.

It was not Jasper’s fault, her mother had apologised. The parrot had had three homes before being dumped on her parents; one of these being a Manchester pub, no doubt frequented by the kind of men who thought nothing of whistling at women and making fulsome remarks about their physical endowments.

Peter had remarked on their return drive to London that he sincerely hoped the bird would have met its demise by the time their children came along. ‘It’s that kind of thing that exerts the worst possible influence on young children,’ he had informed Elspeth.

Even worse, as she cringingly remembered, had been the reaction of Peter’s mother when he had described the parrot’s excesses to her the following weekend.

Peter was scrupulous about making sure that they never visited one set of parents without visiting the other, and if sometimes she had the unnerving feeling that he was doling out these duty visits with more parsimony than real emotion, she kept these unwanted thoughts firmly subdued.

Peter’s parents were nothing like her own. Peter’s mother was a wonderful housewife. Her furniture gleamed with polish, her kitchen floor could literally be dined off, and if Elspeth sometimes noticed the stiff formality of her visits there, the immaculate tidiness of the small sitting-room with its furniture that was both uncomfortable and almost too tidily arranged, she smothered her feelings and concentrated instead on reminding herself that once they were married Peter would no doubt expect her to maintain the same high standards attained by his mother.

That would be a challenge, but Elspeth reminded herself that the modern career woman thrived on such challenges, skilfully balancing the needs of career, home and family, and in doing so winning the admiration of everyone around her.

Mrs Holmes did not really approve of wives who worked. In her day making a home had been enough to keep any woman contented, but on the other hand she agreed with Peter that the additional income Elspeth earned would contribute welcomely to the family budget. There had even been a moment when Peter’s mother had suggested that when their children came along it might not be unfeasible for her and Mr Holmes to move to London, so that she might be on hand to take charge of her grandchildren’s upbringing.

For no good reason she could understand, Elspeth had experienced a very fierce and surprising shock of dislike for that suggestion. Into her mind had come mental images of her own childhood, of the farmyard and its inhabitants, of her mother’s kitchen with its good smells and its untidy bustle, of laughter and sunshine, of love and warmth, and she had known instinctively that she would never ever allow her prospective mother-in-law to bring up her own children.

Disturbing though these thoughts were she had managed to subdue them, chiding herself for being over-sentimental, reminding herself of how ill-equipped her own childhood had left her for the hard realities of life and people. And yet…

‘Elspeth, you aren’t listening to a word I’m saying. Really, I don’t know what it is about your family, but they do seem to have the most unsettling effect on you. If it weren’t for the fact that someone ought to check up on what this man is planning, I’d have serious doubts about the wisdom of your spending so much time in Cheshire. Both apartments need decorating. You could have made a start on the painting while you were off.’

Elspeth focused on him, wondering why she didn’t feel more enthusiastic about his suggestion, why she felt an almost sneaking sense of relief that she was committed to going home.

For no reason that she could readily discern, over these last six months she had experienced more and more rebellious moments of startling clarity, during which she had had the unnerving sensation that her relationship with Peter, her life here in London, her work, her scrupulous re-tailoring of her personality, her appearance, even her thoughts, were not an escape from the old childish, trusting Elspeth and her naïve country ways, but a trap—a trap which was gradually but inexorably closing around her.

Which was totally ridiculous, and fostered, she was sure, in some odd and indefinable way by her parents. Not that they would be liable to make those oh, so casual, but nevertheless pointed remarks about Peter this time. At least, not after the first three days, and she suspected they would be far too excited about their holiday to even think of remarking on how odd it was that she should choose to marry such a man.

Elspeth had never quite dared ask what they meant. She preferred to assume that they were simply marvelling at her good fortune rather than criticising Peter.

At precisely one-thirty, Peter summoned the waiter and paid the bill. At the end of the month they would scrupulously divide up the total cost of their total outings for that month, to make sure that such costs had been shared equally between them.

And if just occasionally Elspeth wondered what it would be like if Peter suddenly lavished her with expensive flowers or bought her handmade chocolates, she told herself severely that she was not that kind of dependent, childish woman, who needed to be bought such treats by a man; that if she wanted flowers she could buy her own. But something inside her refused to be totally convinced, making her cross with herself for yearning for such outdated, meaningless gestures.

‘Time to go,’ Peter informed her, standing up.

He said exactly the same thing every time they lunched together. Previously she had always found his predictability soothing, reassuring—but for some reason today it grated on her. She wondered what it would feel like if Peter suddenly behaved like her father, and announced that he had booked them both a surprise holiday, that he was taking her away to somewhere she had always wanted to go. She told herself severely that he would never do anything so thoughtless, that he would realise that it would not be possible for her to drop everything to go to the other end of the world with him. No, if—when she and Peter took a holiday together, it would be one that was meticulously planned and organised, which was just what she would want. She could think of nothing worse than being told that she had less than three weeks in which to prepare for a two-month trip abroad.

Of course her mother thrived on such announcements, throwing herself into them with enthusiasm and as much excitement as a small child. But she was not her mother…No. She had recognised, the day when she’d stood in the doorway to the staff-room of the bank listening to Sophy, that for the rest of her life she would have to protect her parents from people like that. That she must never again subject them to the kind of cruel mimicry employed by her supposed friend.

Just before they parted outside the restaurant, acting on some impulse she couldn’t understand, she leaned towards Peter, inviting him to kiss her.

A look of shock crossed his face. He drew back from her immediately, glancing hurriedly over his shoulder as though to make sure no one had witnessed her lack of self-control. He cleared his throat, avoiding looking at her. He was embarrassed, she recognised, flushing hotly, and no wonder. What on earth had possessed her? She knew quite well that Peter hated public demonstrations of affection.

‘Er—I’m afraid I shall be late in tonight—I’m seeing a client. I’ll ring you at the weekend. When would be a good time?’

Still flushed and angry with herself, Elspeth made an automatic reply, and then, having exchanged slightly guarded smiles, they both went their separate ways.

What a stupid thing for her to have done! No wonder Peter had looked so put out. They simply weren’t the sort of couple to indulge in that sort of thing. Really, she didn’t know what had got into her…

It must be because she was feeling a little edgy about confronting Carter. She had no real fears that she would be able to handle the situation and ensure that he understood that she was well aware of what he was up to—thanks to Peter. Nevertheless—nevertheless, half of her wished rather weakly that Peter were going with her, that perhaps…Not to deal with Carter for her—no, of course not—but just to be there as a sort of back-up—or just to be there full stop, she realised suddenly and rather disconcertingly, as the traitorous thought slid into her mind that for Peter to have parted from her so unemotionally and casually did not really suggest that his feelings for her were particularly lover-like.

But how ridiculous. What did she expect? A passionate embrace in the middle of the street? Of course not. Their relationship wasn’t like that. They were far too sensible for that kind of thing. Their relationship was built of mutual aims, mutual respect, mutual goals. Rather disconcertingly as she headed back to the bank she remembered her mother once telling her nostalgically that she had fallen in love with her father the moment she’d set eyes on him; that she had known he was the one for her when he had rushed out into the road to rescue a kitten from under the hooves of the milk-man’s pony, daring both the milkman’s fury and the amusement of onlookers when he’d presented the rescued kitten to her with a courtly bow of his head and a whispered confession that he rather suspected he had split his jeans during his heroic dive to rescue the kitten, and would she please go and stand behind him so that he could get to his feet without completely losing his dignity.

To envisage Peter in such a situation was beyond the power of the most inventive type of imagination. Peter would have ignored the cat. He never liked getting involved in things which did not concern him. He would certainly never have bandied words with the milkman, and as for wearing old and worn jeans in danger of bursting their seams…A complete and utter impossibility—thank goodness. She would have been mortified in her mother’s shoes, to be aware of being the cynosure of all eyes…She shuddered and closed her eyes. She and Peter were perfect for one another—perfect. She was a very lucky woman—very lucky indeed.

So why did she feel so…so on edge?

It was Carter’s fault, of course. If he hadn’t come back into their lives, inveigling his way into her parents’ affections…She had disliked him even as a teenager, feeling intimidated by him. He had teased her, she remembered, making fun of her braced teeth and pulling at her plaits. She at fourteen had been mortified by his reaction to her, and had retaliated by whisking herself out of the room whenever he had walked into it, and refusing to address more than half a dozen words to him during his entire visit.

‘Not like your ma and pa, are you, cuckoo?’ he had tormented her, she recalled.

She had been hurt by that comment…hurt and confused, although she had not let him see it.

Well, this time it would be different. This time she was an adult with no need to feel intimidated. This time he would see how very different indeed she was from her foolish, too trusting parents.

CHAPTER TWO

NOT much further to go now. Only a handful of miles—thank goodness. There had been so many hold-ups on the motorway that the journey had taken rather longer than Elspeth had allowed for. It was still light—just, the sky overhead remarkably clear, the moon and stars just beginning to shine. Thank heaven it was June, with its long, light evenings. She hated driving in the dark, especially down the narrow, winding country lanes that surrounded her parents’ home.

As she pulled up at a set of traffic-lights, another car pulled up alongside her.

It was the sensation of someone looking at her, willing her to turn her head, that made her react instinctively, glancing sideways at the occupant of the other car—and immediately, angrily wishing she hadn’t been so foolish as its male driver grinned back at her.

Elspeth glared frigidly at him. These traffic-lights seemed to be taking forever to change, and she wasn’t used to being grinned at in that overly familiar fashion, especially not by strange men—especially not by a very large, very brown strange man wearing a short-sleeved shirt that was open almost to his waist, and a pair of disreputable shorts which revealed a pair of heavily muscled and extremely brown thighs.

At his age he ought to be beyond the stage of making unwelcome advances to unknown women, she decided bitterly, firmly refusing to give in to the temptation to cast him a second look, just to make sure he knew exactly how angry she was at his familiarity. He must have been closer to thirty-five than fifteen, but then he was obviously a particular type of the male species whom she most disliked: conceited, over-muscled—and boasting of those muscles by his state of undress—and driving one of those eye-catching, sporty little cars with its soft top down, its paintwork a bright and vibrant red. Just the sort of car that drew attention to its driver. Just the sort of car Peter would never ever consider driving—thank goodness. The lights changed and she waited hesitantly, giving him time to pull away. His type always loved to be first off the mark, and she was not anxious to draw up at the next set of lights alongside him. Thank heaven, after that she would be turning off the Chester ring road and heading for her parents’ home village.

But as she waited for the bright red car to move the traffic behind her signalled its impatience at her delay, and she realised that the red car had still not moved.

Feeling uncomfortable and unnerved, she put her own small car in gear, wincing a little as she underestimated the amount of clutch and shot forward in an ungainly and thoroughly inexperienced manner, galling in the extreme to someone who prided herself on her sensible, safe handling of her car.

As she glanced automatically into her rearview mirror, she saw to her horror that the reason the red car hadn’t moved was that its driver was now signalling to pull into her lane right behind her, and that the traffic, caught off guard by her kangaroo-like leap forward, had allowed him to do so.

Indignation rose in her throat. How dared he? Did he honestly think she was the kind of woman to be impressed by that sort of idiotic behaviour? Hadn’t he realised from the look she had given—that look of freezing disdain she had soon learned to hide her real feelings behind after that never-to-be-forgotten occasion when she had walked into the staff-room at the bank with her real emotions written all too clearly on her face? Did he actually think she would be flattered by his obvious pursuit of her?

Things like this simply did not happen in London, where the drivers were far too anxious to get to their destination to play these silly games. And she had never in her wildest imaginings believed that she would be involved in something so juvenile.

Well, he would soon get tired of showing off and pursuing her, once she had made it plain to him that she simply wasn’t interested. And once he realised she was turning off at the next set of lights he would soon return to the main stream of traffic.

By rights a man of that age ought to have far more serious matters on his mind than pursuing unknown women. If she had been of a less strong disposition, nervous and easily frightened, she could almost have been panicked into having an accident by his pursuit of her.

Men like that were a danger to the other traffic. By rights she ought to report him to the police, she told herself in annoyance as a peep in her mirror showed her that he was still behind her.

At least he had some sense, she noticed reluctantly. He was keeping a good safe distance between them, not trying to crowd up behind her.

Just as she approached them the lights turned to red, and, on an impulse she couldn’t entirely analyse, instead of indicating that she was turning right, she did nothing…Let him think she was going straight on. That way she would make sure that he didn’t pursue this stupid game any further. Although she was determined not to look in her mirror, she found that she was doing so. Simply out of habit, she assured herself. All good drivers kept an eye on the traffic behind them.

He had pulled up right behind her, and as she glanced into her mirror she saw to her fury that he was actually daring to smile at her a second time. A smug, self-assured smile, which said that he was quite sure that his insulting behaviour would be admired and welcome. She had a good mind to get out of her car and give him a piece of her mind. Arrogant, conceited creature…Couldn’t he see that she just was not the type of woman to be flattered by what he was doing? Surely her immaculate, shoulderlength, straight red hair with its sophisticated London sheen and elegance, her thoroughly city-groomed suit and blouse, her discreet make-up, which emphasised her golden eyes and which was delicately balanced on the right side of seriousness, told him that she was a career woman, and simply not interested in flirting with strange men in bright red cars.

A cold glare into her mirror should reinforce that message, if he was so bone-headed that he hadn’t already received it.

This time when the lights changed she was ready for them; deftly turning the wheel and flicking the indicator, she pulled out and away, giving the car just a little more acceleration than she would normally have used, and discovering, as she turned into the quiet B road that led eventually to the village, that rather disconcertingly she was actually holding her breath.

Odious man. His sort ought to be locked up. He probably had a wife somewhere and a family. The poor woman no doubt doted on him. She could picture her now, a pretty, sad-eyed woman, with two quiet, subdued little children, suffering already from their father’s outrageous behaviour. No doubt he never took his wife anywhere but preferred to flirt with other women, leaving his wife at home with his children…He probably kept her short of money as well, Elspeth thought with a scowl. Otherwise how on earth could he afford to run a small bright red car which had never been designed for family use? Why, it hadn’t even had a child-seat in the back. That was how little he thought of his family, that he didn’t even make any provision for their safety.

Carried away by her rising tide of anger on behalf of this fictitious wife and children, it was several minutes before she looked in her mirror again. Not because she had any doubts about doing so—of course not…It was simply that there was no reason. As her glance flicked upwards, she braked instinctively in outraged reaction at the sight of the now familiar red car on the road behind her.

He had actually dared to follow her! The nerve of the man. If the road hadn’t been so narrow, she would have stopped where she was, leaving him no opportunity but to drive past. She hoped when he got home that his supper was burned and that his wife was justifiably furious with him.

It was ten miles to the village, nearer to fourteen if one took the narrow, meandering lane that only allowed for the single width of one car and which involved a dirty and very damp fording of a local river. The last time she had gone down that lane, Peter had been furious. There had been mud all over his newly polished car and, as he had virtuously pointed out to her, if he had not had the windows closed the inside of the car would have been wet and muddy as well.

Well, if the driver of the red car insisted on continuing his futile pursuit of her, she would teach him a lesson that might make him think twice about bothering another woman the way he was doing her. She’d like to see how he explained the state of his now pristine car to his wife.

Far too angry to be afraid, as soon as the turning down the lane appeared Elspeth turned sharply into it, gasping out loud in fury as she realised that her tormentor had followed her.

Ignoring the fact that she was driving much faster than was normal for her, and praying that she did not meet anything coming in the opposite direction, she gritted her teeth, and hoped unkindly that the river was full after the recent spring rains. Her own car, a sturdy Volvo, would have no problem at all with the ford, but his…his…bright red plaything… Savagely she decided that she hoped the river was high enough to bring the thing to a complete standstill.

The mental image of him standing in the ford, having to push his car to the nearest garage, brought her a good deal of satisfaction. She only felt piously sorry for his poor wife, who would no doubt receive the brunt of his bad temper. His kind of man always reacted with bad temper when thwarted. They were so obnoxious that it never occurred to them that their advances were not welcome, that all women did not find them instantly and irreversibly attractive. Look at him now—still daring to smile at her every time she looked in the mirror, although now she noticed his smile was turning to a frown.

Did he realise what lay ahead of them? She certainly hoped so, she decided viciously. It was certainly too late for him to turn round.

She saw the familiar sign for the ford and dropped down a gear in readiness for it. As she had known it would, her sturdy car splashed through without any problems.

Safely on the other side, she watched in glee as the red car followed suit. The ford, muddy from her passage through it, came much higher up the wheels of the red car than it had done her own, and as she had hoped the muddy, gritty water soon marked the pristine scarlet of the car’s over-bright bodywork.

Serves him right, she decided grimly as she pulled away, heading for the village.

The lane ended a few miles short of the village, curving back on itself to meet the main road. As she emerged on to it, Elspeth saw the red car pull up behind her.

To her astonishment, just as she turned out on to the road the creature had the gall to flash her with his headlights. Astounded at his temerity, she missed her opportunity to pull out. She could see a heavy stream of traffic coming towards her and blocking her exit, and as she sat waiting for an opportunity to move she suddenly heard the unmistakable sound of a car door being slammed.