The Whispering Grove Read online

  ‘You’ve been rushing around seeing to things. Come and sit down by the window. I’ll get you a drink.’

  ‘I’m all right,’ she protested, nevertheless thankful for the excuse to draw away from the crowd. It was almost midnight. How long before it was over? Before the festive room became an untidy smoke-laden place littered with empty glasses and overflowing ashtrays? And the die-hards who never knew when it was time to go home called their final good night?

  She sipped the drink Kit Manton brought her and watched the sluggish movement in the room, still unable to break out of the strange feeling of numbness which had overtaken her.

  Conversation lapsed suddenly into one of those sags most parties suffer when inventiveness is exhausted, and Norene drifted over to the record player, to riffle through the untidy heap of records.

  ‘We’ve played them all,’ she said.

  ‘Play them again,’ someone suggested.

  ‘Why not put on some of the old ones?’ Marise said gaily.

  ‘They’re all music,’ she added with the carelessness of one indifferent to what kind of sound made up the background accompaniment.

  Toni was only vaguely aware of the little exchange. All she longed for now was for the party to be over so that she could escape to her room and try to sleep away in darkness all the memories Lisa’s letter had evoked. She sighed; how vain was her belief that the ache was beginning to fade, that she was beginning to forget at last ... Was she never to escape this longing for the wonderful enchanted world of the past? The dance ... joy ... first love ... They were as inextricable and unforgettable as the melody which linked them together in every fibre of her being. Unbidden they were with her; she felt the gossamer lilt of the music, the floating veils of gauze, the soft resistance of ballet-shoe pointes glissading across the stage ...

  Suddenly she put her hands to her ears. The melody was real! The haunting liquid cadenzas of Swan Lake were swirling into the room, unmistakable, heartbreaking.

  Her wine glass tipped across the little table, its contents cascading in cold drops over her arm as she snatched at her handbag and thrust at the half-open window. She could not bear to listen to that music.

  She did not hear the startled exclamation from Kit Manton, making his way across the room towards her, nor hear his muffled oath as he stepped on the fallen glass. She knew only the need to seek sanctuary from eyes and consoling hands which could never understand. The music faded with the lights of the villa as she sped into the night.

  But there was no escape from herself. The melody of the adagio coursed through her head, matching to each thistledown light movement once danced under the golden haze of the limes. Never again; never to soar on the wings of delight ... She clasped her hands to her head to blot out that throbbing melody. Why had it happened to her? Why, why, why ...?

  The silver sand of the grove was soft and secret underfoot, faintly luminous in the light of an opal moon and utterly alien. She stared up at it and felt the dark silence press closely about her. Sudden panic flared. What was she doing here? She didn’t belong here in this hot lazy island under tropic skies.

  The anguish racking her was almost beyond control, and a warning stab in her foot brought her to a dazed standstill. She leaned against the bole of a tree and pressed her face against the rough bark, striving to overcome emotion and desperately repeating the formula learnt by heart. You have to accept it; you faced this three months ago. You can’t go back. Your career is over, don’t you understand? There aren’t any miracles - only time can heal. But the hurt and despair were suddenly as raw again as on that dreadful day when she had looked up into the face of the

  surgeon and read what was written there ...

  ‘The party over?’

  ‘Oh!’ Toni started violently at the lightly spoken words and spun round, eyes dark with shock as they sought the source of the voice. The glowing end of a cigarette sparked vividly and a shower of miniature sparks rained through the darkness, then Justin said: ‘What’s the matter?’ on a note sharpened by alertness.

  ‘I - I—’ she began to stammer at the tall figure moving towards her, then to her horror her voice cracked uncontrollably and the black shadows against silver blurred in a stinging mist of tears. ‘N-no!’ she gulped, thrusting out one hand and backing to escape.

  ‘Not so fast.’ Justin moved with deceptive speed and his hand closed over her wrist. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing ... please ...’ She tried to evade him, averting her face and the shame of tears.

  ‘Nothing?’ His grip was implacable. ‘What happened to cause this? Has somebody—’

  ‘No! Nothing happened - I can’t explain,’ she cried wildly. ‘Just let me go. You’ll never understand. Nobody can ever—’

  ‘Toni!’ Imperceptibly his tone had hardened and the spoken name was a command. Without effort he swung her to face him and held her there, his hands hard on her shoulders. ‘Listen, Toni, you can’t run away for ever. You have to face up to this - this thing.’

  ‘That’s what they all said,’ she choked, ‘but it - it isn’t as easy as—’ The words stammered brokenly into silence, and suddenly she was trembling violently. Her limbs felt numbed and her hands icy, and fear sprang to life, increasing the tremors she was powerless to control. She made a further despairing attempt to elude him and heard him say harshly:

  ‘There’s nothing to be ashamed of in weeping. For heaven’s sake why not get it out of your system, once and for all, instead of—’ With an impatient exclamation he suddenly reached for her and lifted her bodily into his arms. Shock stunned her for a moment, then she moved convulsively as he strode forward into the darkness.

  He said softly: ‘Don’t fight me as well. Try to trust me for a little while.’

  Above her his profile was etched clear and strong in the pearly glow of the moon. A dark streak of thick hair had fallen across his brow and beneath it his eyes were watchful of the path ahead.

  The gate to Villa Mimosa swung inward before his thrusting knee and closed behind them with a soft brittle click that held an odd note of finality. The villa was utterly silent and Justin Valmont’s steps sounded unnaturally loud as he crossed the veranda. With a characteristic lack of fuss and the careless assurance of effortless strength he carried her into the lounge and leaned over the back of the studio couch to deposit her full length

  along the cushions.

  ‘Stay there.’

  Still breathless and unsteady, she stayed unmoving, listening to his steps towards the lamp in the corner. His tall form passed through the shaft of light spilling in from the hall, then the soft glow of the lamp sprang on and illuminated his face as he moved towards the carved wood cabinet. Glasses clinked and he came back to her. ‘Drink this and don’t try to talk.’

  She took a mouthful, gasped, and then sipped the potent spirit more cautiously, soft pink tints gradually creeping back into her ashen cheeks. He watched her, not speaking until she handed back the still half-full glass and took a deep, unsteady breath.

  ‘Thank you. They talk about a woman’s unfailing panacea - tea,’ she said with an attempt at lightness, ‘but a man always rushes for the brandy.’

  ‘A man believes in stronger measures.’ He looked down at the glass, then abruptly drained the remains of its contents. ‘Pity to waste it.’ His smile flashed briefly before he perched on the broad arm of the couch and regarded her with grave eyes. ‘Now what triggered off that little upheaval?’

  She glanced down and tugged at her disarrayed skirt. ‘Nothing, really. I - I was just being silly and let myself get a bit upset.’

  He did not immediately respond, and she sat up. ‘I’d better be getting back. They’ll be wondering why I ran out. It was kind of you to ... but you didn’t need to go to this bother over ... I - I’m sorry I ...’ Something in his expression silenced her and her hand trailed down from a nervous smoothing of her hair.

  ‘Why are you sorry, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘
To be like this!’ She avoided his eyes. ‘I thought men hated tears.’

  ‘Oh, that! Embarrassed would be an apter verb,’ he emended dryly. ‘It is the element of emotional blackmail in a woman’s tears that men dislike.’

  She recoiled and lashed out with instinctive defence. ‘You didn’t have to be there. You could have gone away.’

  ‘From my own grounds?’

  ‘I didn’t ask you to bring me here,’ she said stubbornly.

  “You were hardly capable of asking me anything.’ Abruptly he was standing and barring her way. ‘Did you expect me to walk away and just leave you to your distress? Heavens! Credit me with a little sympathy and understanding.’

  Her brief flash of defiance ebbed and she sank back wearily. ‘Believe me, I had no desire to indulge in emotional blackmail. I hate anyone to see me weep.’

  ‘I realize that. My remark was careless and ill-timed. I’m sorry.’ She heard the metallic click of his cigarette case opening, and his hand crooked round her shoulder, proffering, and she shook her

  head mutely.

  He said slowly. ‘It’s now — how long? — three or four months since this thing happened to you, and you still wear that numb, closed-in expression I noticed the first time we met. It’s too long to brood on the past, Toni, and what might have been. Too long to stay in that limbo into which you’ve retreated. And the more time that passes the more difficult you’ll find it to break free.’

  The shadowed room seemed very still in the silence after he stopped speaking. She said feverishly: ‘You sound like one of those

  — those head-shrinkers, or something. Trying to break a complex. I - I think I would like a cigarette, please.’

  ‘With pleasure.’ Unhurriedly he withdrew case and lighter from his pocket and closed cool, steadying fingers round her wrist while he held the tiny flame to the tip of her cigarette.

  ‘You’re still trembling.’ He released her wrist and dropped the lighter back into his pocket. ‘Want to talk about it?’

  ‘What is there to talk about?’ She sought an ashtray and saw one already placed on a small table at her knee. ‘I had an accident and had to give up my career. It happens to people all the time. I was lucky. I’m still alive. I can walk and see and hear, and still dance - a little. That’s the worst part of it. To be able to and yet not to be able to. People said I was lucky, I might have been crippled or worse, and I should be thankful. But I’m not,’ she cried bitterly, ‘I can’t see it that way.’

  ‘If you’d been crippled it would have been easier to accept?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She bowed her head. ‘It’s wrong to even think that way.’

  ‘Yes, but in a strange way it’s understandable in your case; your career was rather special, and that’s why it’s gone deeper with you.’ He hesitated. ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘Out of the blue, like these things always do. Just a silly little accident, not in the least dramatic.’ Her voice was low. ‘A child had a puppy that had broken free of its lead and darted out into the road. I was half-way across and I saw the car coming, and I thought the child was going to dash out after the pup. I grabbed the pup and yelled and jumped back for the kerb. It was raining and the road was slippery. Then I heard a yell and saw this errand boy on his bike. I tried to stop, slipped and bumped into him, and fell, hitting my head on the kerb. I saw all the groceries rolling about in the road and heard somebody laugh, then I passed out and when I came round I was in hospital.’ She paused and moved restlessly. ‘At first I thought I just had a sore head, then they told me I’d broken a small bone in my foot and damaged the tendons. They did everything they could, brought specialists when they knew what I was, but they said that it would leave a weakness, that while I’d walk and it would heal all right, normally, that is, it wouldn’t stand up to the strain of constant pointe-work.’

  He was silent a moment, looking at the bowed head with

  compassion in his eyes. At last he said: ‘Do you think it’s right to cut yourself off entirely from all contact with that world you were part of?’

  ‘It hasn’t any place for me now.’

  He gave a small gesture. ‘Yes, I can see how you feel, but even though I’m not conversant with the world of ballet and the theatre I do know that there have been many cases of artists who suffered and overcame disabilities. They did not sever themselves from that which they most loved. Beethoven achieved his most immortal work when he was totally deaf to the music he was creating.’

  ‘It’s different for a dancer.’

  ‘Is it?’ His mouth curved a little. ‘Knowing nothing of a dancer’s life I can’t dispute that. But you have your life before you, and you are a woman. I always thought a woman’s true destiny lay in one special, unique sphere.’

  ‘Marriage?’ She would not look up at him.

  ‘Does it play no part in your future desires?’

  ‘No.’ Her mouth trembled. ‘Marriage is not my answer.’

  ‘Then what do you propose to do with your life? Spend it vainly regretting lost hopes? Vulnerable to every touch on a raw wound, as tonight? When are you going to start living again?’

  ‘That’s why I came here, away from everything that could remind me.’

  ‘It doesn’t appear to have succeeded,’ he said dryly.

  ‘Oh,’ she turned away and stubbed out the cigarette with a restless movement, ‘it isn’t nearly as profound as you make it seem. I may as well tell you. Tonight, just before I - I came out, Norene put on an old record of Swan Lake. I didn’t know she had it, it must have been one of my father’s. It was the first time I’d heard that music since the day it happened. We’d been rehearsing it that morning and I was tremendously excited because I’d been given my very first chance to dance the dual role of Odette-Odile and I could hardly believe that at last I was going to dance it — it’s one of the coveted roles in classical ballet. And then it all happened, and when I came to in hospital I could only think that I had to be at the theatre, that I was going to be late. I tried to get out of bed, and - and-’

  He touched her hand. “Yes, I understand.’

  ‘Since then I couldn’t bear to listen to the music I’d never dance to again. I couldn’t bear to watch a performance, least of all Swan Lake.’

  He said slowly, ‘But life holds other happinesses, my dear. There can be no black without white. This is not a life sentence. And you’re so young. Youth can surmount immense obstacles. And how can you be sure you’ll never dance again? If the foot has healed normally ...’

  ‘That’s what they all say, except the people who know,’ she cried wildly. ‘Kevin said that. That I’d dance again in the new ballet, to the music he created for me. And now he .’ Suddenly she was weeping, fierce anguished sobs that spilled out all the grief and bitterness so long suppressed.

  For a long while Justin did not move. Then he gently touched the smooth coronet of raven hair and slid a white, unfolded handkerchief into her hand. He said softly, ‘You should have done that ages ago. It’s a natural release. Haven t you ever realized why children emerge from their storms of grief and smile before the tears are dry? Now go and bathe your face while I make some coffee.’

  Feeling drained and curiously light-headed, she looked at him from behind the veiling handkerchief. He appeared and sounded utterly unconcerned at her breakdown, as though distraught girls raining tears all over his home were merely an ordinary run-of-the-day incident.

  Quietly, mindful of the sleeping child, she went to the bathroom and repaired the ravages as well as she could. The fragrance of freshly made coffee came invitingly from the silver tray over which he was bending when she returned to the lounge.

  She sipped it slowly, grateful for his silence and his understanding, and mutely accepted the second cup he offered. Gradually she began to relax and become aware of a strange sense of relief, as though something, exactly what she was unsure, had been resolved. When he lit a cigarette for her and settled himself at the other end of the
couch she knew what he was going to say before he framed the words.

  ‘Yes.’ She sighed and studied the tiny gold monogram on her cigarette. ‘I may as well tell you about Kevin.

  ‘Kevin is a composer. He had the flat above mine and Lisa’s. I met him last year when I was eighteen and he was a couple of years older, still studying orchestral composition. I’d never known anyone quite like him, never had that kind of affinity with a man before. We went everywhere, did everything together, mad and wonderful. When the flat above us became vacant he moved in - I’ll never forget the day his piano came - up all those stairs. He had started on the score for the ballet, though he didn’t know then whether it would be commissioned, and we used to push the table back so that I could dance, and we’d work out movements and themes, forgetting time until it was so dark we couldn’t see and we’d remember to switch on the light.’

  The glow of memory touched her dark eyes and for a moment veiled the lingering sadness, and watching her Justin caught a sudden nebulous impression of that shabby attic room with its great gaunt skylight high amid the rooftops of far-off London.

  She began speaking more quickly now, the phrases of recollection occasionally disjointed, the accompanying gestures excited and expressive, and he could sense the fierce incandescence of that idealistic, youthful fervour for artistic creativity which had glowed in two young people.

  ‘Kevin saw the world as a tired old canvas, weighed down with ancient, evil paint which had to be cleansed with fire to be born anew in the pure colours of a new world He was trying to express this theme through the music for this ballet in which the dancers would represent the colours of the spectrum, and each colour in turn was symbolic of man’s emotions, hatred and love, avarice and envy.’ She paused and smiled sadly. ‘It must sound crazy to you.’

  ‘No. Many of us feel these sentiments but very few of us are gifted enough to translate them into moving and expressive terms.’

  ‘Sometimes he would meet me after the evening show and we’d walk on the Embankment, forever trying to work out new ideas. There was an old man who was always there, and Kevin would ask him to sit on the steps and pretend to be the central figure of the artist, who represented Man in our ballet, and the old man would say Mind you’re not getting me on your stage at my time of life, and we would buy hot pies for him and ourselves and eat the middles out and throw the crusts into the river and watch them drift away on the tide.’