Storm In A Rain Barrel Page 3

  Domine twisted her fingers together. ‘Your—your mother? She’s still alive?’

  ‘Sure. Hell, she’s only about sixty now. My father’s dead, though, my adopted father, that is, and believe me, he was more of a father to me than old Henry could ever have been. Don’t expect too much sympathy, that’s all, from me regarding Henry Farriday! His ideas could never be mine!’

  Domine shook her head, still slightly bewildered. ‘I wonder why he never told me that you were his son,’ she murmured incredulously. ‘We—we even went to see a play of yours once, in Brighton.’ She bit her lip, and James Mannering gave an exaggerated sigh.

  ‘Like I said,’ he murmured, ‘we had nothing in common.’

  Just at that moment Graham arrived to announce that dinner was served, and they walked across the lounge and through to a small dining-room with a circular polished table, and chairs upholstered in buttoned brown leather. A low light hung over the table, and illuminated the crystal glasses and sparkling silver cutlery. Domine wondered what her great-uncle’s feelings had been when he discovered that his son was achieving success. Had he been pleased? Or had the knowledge soured him? The latter, from the course of his attitude in later life, seemed the most likely. Although she had been grateful to him for all he had done for her, she began to wonder what his motives had been for helping her, if indeed he had had any. Was it possible that his reasons for involving himself in her life had been anything to do with his own disappointment in not being able to acknowledge James Mannering, the playwright, as his son, as his own flesh and blood, without causing a great deal of talk and speculation, and possibly even scandal in a place like Hollingford, which she had learned from reference books and maps was not a large place? If that was so, he must have been sadly disappointed that he had died before discovering whether she was to make anything of her life. Even so, he had still kept his son in the forefront of his mind, and it was to him that he had endowed his heritage.

  CHAPTER TWO

  LATER that night, as Domine lay between the sheets of the most opulent bed she had ever slept in, she reviewed the events of the day in detail. It had been such a strange day, and yet she could not now admit wholly to a feeling of unhappiness. Indeed, there was a disturbing sense of excitement running through her veins, a feeling she had never before experienced, and which was preventing her from falling into the dreamless sleep she usually achieved.

  She thought about the girls at the convent, wondering whether they were thinking about her. Susan would be. Susan had seemed intensely interested in her new situation—and her new guardian.

  She rolled on to her stomach as she thought about James Mannering. She had not known many men in the course of her young life, and certainly no one even vaguely resembling him. He was hard, and she suspected he could be ruthless when it came to getting what he wanted, and yet she thought he was kind. There had been a trace of gentleness in his manner with her, and she had appreciated that.

  During dinner he had questioned her extensively about herself, discovering every aspect of her life at the convent, and her subsequent holidays with Henry Farriday. She smiled as she thought that despite his assertions to the contrary he was very like his father in his single-mindedness and purposefulness. Great-Uncle Henry had asked a lot of questions, too. He had always been interested in her accomplishments and it was partially due to his encouragement that she had done so well at school.

  After dinner was over, James Mannering had excused himself, leaving her to Graham’s care. He had a business appointment, or so he said, and she had not liked to question Graham about his employer’s movements. Even so, she had been disappointed when he had not returned by ten o’clock, and Graham had suggested she retire for the night. As she had not then discovered the layout of the apartment, Graham had shown her round, and she had been suitably impressed by the large rooms with their fine appointments. It was a huge place, with four bedrooms with adjoining bathrooms, as well as the lounge, dining-room and kitchen, and a compact study where Mannering worked at his typewriter. Graham occupied a self-contained bed-sitting room which adjoined the kitchen, and which had its own entrance from the corridor outside.

  Domine’s own room was decorated in pastel shades of blue and green, with gold curtains and bedspread, and a bathroom with taps of beaten gold. There was a shower, too, and as she had never taken a shower in her life before she used it before getting into bed. Her cotton pyjamas seemed rather utilitarian beside the cream silk sheets, but she merely shrugged and turned out the light, glad of the anonymous darkness.

  Up here, high above London, there was no sound of traffic, no intruding sense of the outside world, and she thought rather sleepily that it must be something like the cabin of a jet-liner.

  It must be awfully late, she thought suddenly, when there was a slight sound outside her door, and she realized someone had entered the apartment. Leaning over, she switched on the bedside lamp and looked at her watch before hastily switching the lamp off again. It was after two o’clock! She lay back on her pillows staring up at the ceiling. It was very late for anyone to be conducting a business appointment, she thought reluctantly. Obviously, that had only been an excuse to escape from her presence for a while. Perhaps he had a girl-friend, some special woman he was hoping to marry. She frowned. Somehow, since meeting him, since having him take the time to come and collect her from the convent, she had begun to think of him in rather the manner she had thought of Great-Uncle Henry. Almost as though she was important to him, just as he was important to her. How silly she was to imagine that a man like James Mannering, rich, famous, powerful, and physically attractive should consider her anything more than a child he was temporarily responsible for, and who must indeed be nothing but a nuisance to him. Indeed, hadn’t he said earlier in the evening that she was just that?

  With a grimace, Domine punched her soft pillow into shape and flung herself down upon it, wondering why the excitement she had felt earlier had somehow dissipated.

  When she awoke, a faint filtering of light was trying to pierce its way into the room through the slats in the venetian blinds, but it was a dismal light, and from the steady beating against the windows she gathered it was still raining.

  Sighing, she slid out of bed and padded to the window, pushing the slats of the blind apart and peering out. It was a grey morning, the sky still heavy and overcast, and as it was only late October she thought it was going to be a long winter if this was anything to go by. She shivered, but not with cold, the apartment was already warm and comfortable, but the apprehension she had felt the previous day had returned, and she wondered whether her opinion of James Mannering would undergo any changes today.

  She glanced at her watch, and gasped. It couldn’t possibly be after eleven o’clock! She stared at the tiny pointers aghast. Good heavens, what would James Mannering think of her, sleeping till this hour? At the convent she would already have been up four hours!

  She hastily entered her bathroom, sluiced her face and hands, cleaned her teeth, and with unsteady fingers unplaited her hair. Brushing it vigorously, she quickly re-plaited it again, and then went and dressed again in the uniform outfit she had worn the previous day. When she emerged from her bedroom, the lounge was deserted, and she looked about her doubtfully, wondering what she ought to do to attract attention to herself.

  However, she was saved this anxiety, by the arrival of Graham. He was carrying a vacuum cleaner and looked rather disturbed when he saw Domine.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Grainger,’ he said, with a smile. ‘I’m sorry—did the vacuum wake you up?’

  Domine smiled rather tremulously in return. ‘I don’t think so, Mr. Graham. At any rate, if it did, I’m glad! It’s terribly late! What must Mr. Mannering think of me?’

  Graham shook his head. ‘First of all, my name’s Graham, just Graham, there’s no need for formalities,’ he said kindly. ‘As to the other—well, Mr. Mannering himself told me to let you sleep on. He said you would probably be tired. Overwr
ought, perhaps.’

  Domine sighed. ‘But—but I thought Mr. Mannering wanted to drive up to Yorkshire today,’ she exclaimed.

  ‘So he does,’ replied Graham, frowning. ‘There’s plenty of time. Mr. Mannering doesn’t need the whole day to drive up to Hollingford.’ He began to walk towards the kitchen. ‘I’ll just put these away,’ he nodded at the vacuum cleaner and dusters, ‘and then I’ll see about getting you some breakfast.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Domine put out a hand protestingly. ‘I—I’m not hungry, thank you.’

  Graham looked at her slim figure. Although she was above average height she was very slender and privately he thought she needed plenty of good food inside her. He bit his lip, and then said: ‘You must have something. Lunch won’t be ready for a couple of hours yet. How about a nice light omelette? Or some toast—or pancakes?’

  Domine shook her head definitely. ‘Oh, no, really. Per—perhaps a biscuit—and some coffee.’

  Graham sighed. ‘All right. Sit down, make yourself at home. I’ll bring you a tray.’

  ‘In here?’ Domine glanced round expressively at the elegance of it all.

  ‘Of course.’ Graham gave a slight chuckle. ‘Don’t be so conscious of your surroundings!’ His eyes were gentle. ‘Mr. James often has a snack in here, when he’s working on some manuscript or reading.’

  Domine inclined her head, and after Graham had gone to see about the coffee, she walked over to a low table where a selection of the day’s papers were strewn rather carelessly. She chose one at random, and sat down on a low chair by the wide window. The view was quite fantastic, although the rain was causing a faint mist to cover the city and she couldn’t see far in the poor light. She concentrated on the paper, flicking through its pages without a great deal of interest. She wondered where James Mannering was this morning. Obviously, he was a very busy man, and she wondered how he could find the time to drive her up to Hollingford.

  Reaching the theatre page of the paper, she scanned the plays currently being shown in the West End almost disinterestedly. Then his name caught her eye. A play of his called The Inventory was being shown at the Royal Duchess theatre. She folded the paper and read the description with avidity. Not that it told her much. It was simply a précis of what several newspapers had thought of the play, without any real criticism being involved.

  She sighed, and turned the page almost reluctantly, wondering whether indeed the play was being a success. According to the article, it had good reviews, but that could mean everything or nothing, that much she knew. She tried to remember the name of the play she had seen with Great-Uncle Henry in Brighton, but her memory failed her. After all, that had been almost a year ago now, during the Christmas holidays. One thing was certain, it had not been The Inventory.

  Graham returned with a tray on which was a jug of coffee, a jug of hot milk, some buttered scones and a selection of savoury biscuits. Thanking him, she took the tray to a low table and seating herself, said:

  ‘Where is Mr. Mannering this morning?’ in as casual a tone as possible, hoping Graham wouldn’t sense her nervousness.

  Graham stood regarding her solemnly. ‘He’s at the television centre,’ he replied. ‘They’re putting out a play of his in a couple of weeks and he has some last-minute rewriting to do. The medium is different, you see. What is acceptable on stage is not necessarily acceptable on television, and vice-versa.’

  Domine listened with interest, and asked: ‘Is this important for him? I mean—is it good to have a play on television?’

  ‘Well, it rather depends,’ replied Graham, warming to his subject. ‘You see, a play going out nation-wide on a television channel reaches a hell of a lot of viewers and consequently having a play transmitted can kill it stone-dead, so to speak, theatre-wise.’

  ‘I see.’ Domine nodded slowly, taking a bite of a scone which was still warm and oozed with butter. ‘And this play of Mr. Mannering’s? Will this spoil it for the theatre?’

  ‘No, not in this case. Actually, lately he’s been doing quite a lot of writing for television for series work and so on. This is a play written several years ago which didn’t have a great impact on the stage. The producer seems to think it will do better without the confines of stage production.’

  Domine poured herself a second cup of coffee and nodded again. Obviously, Graham was intensely conscious of his employer’s immense talent and took pride in his own knowledge of his work. She thought that she, too, might find his writing fascinating.

  ‘Are—are you coming up to Yorkshire with us?’ she asked now.

  Graham shook his head vigorously. ‘No, Miss Grainger. This is my domain. At Grey Witches they have quite enough staff as it is.’

  Domine frowned. ‘I thought perhaps—as you are sort of—well, what was it Mr. Mannering called you? A gentleman’s gentleman!’ She smiled. ‘I mean—I thought perhaps you accompanied him everywhere.’

  Graham looked rather amused. ‘Mr. James is not the kind of man to take kindly to too much attention,’ he replied. ‘My previous employer, Lord Bestingcot, used me as his valet, but I’m afraid Mr. James won’t submit to attentions of that kind.’

  Domine finished her coffee and sighed with pleasure. ‘That was delicious, Graham,’ she said gratefully. ‘I didn’t realize I was so hungry.’

  Graham looked pleased and lifted the tray. ‘Well, it’s almost twelve,’ he said. ‘Mr. James shouldn’t be long. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and see about lunch.’

  ‘Of course.’ Domine nodded. ‘I’ll go and make my bed—’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing!’ exclaimed Graham, horrified. ‘That’s my job. You take it easy. Look, there’s the stereogram over there and plenty of records. Play that! Or find yourself a book to read. There’s plenty on the shelves.’

  Domine compressed her lips and allowed him his way. But she didn’t like to admit that she didn’t know how to work the stereophonic equipment, so she examined the books on the bookshelves, searching for something to take her interest.

  There was a predominance of reference books among the hardback covers, but in the paperbacks there were thrillers and espionage stories, as well as several best-sellers which she glanced at rather tentatively, remembering what the other girls had said about novels that became best-sellers and their contents.

  Then the telephone began to ring. It was a very modern affair in ivory, and as she had never answered a telephone before without being asked, she allowed it to go on ringing. However, after several moments, when it appeared that Graham either could not hear it or alternatively expected that she would answer it, she lifted the receiver and put it to her ear rather nervously.

  ‘Hello,’ she said softly. ‘Who is that?’

  ‘Is that Belgrave 04041?’ asked a woman’s imperious voice.

  Domine hastily examined the number on the centre of the dial. ‘Y-yes,’ she stammered, ‘that’s right.’

  ‘Then to whom am I speaking?’ questioned the woman sharply.

  Domine hesitated. ‘Er—my name is Domine Grainger. I’m Mr. Mannering’s ward,’ she replied. ‘And if you want Mr. Mannering, I’m afraid he’s not here.’

  There was silence for a moment, and then the woman said: ‘I see. Do you know when he’ll be back?’

  Domine glanced round and saw with relief that Graham had entered the room behind her. Putting her hand over the mouthpiece, she said: ‘It’s a woman. She wants Mr. Mannering.’

  Graham frowned. ‘Do you know who it is?’

  Domine sighed and grimaced. ‘Heavens, no.’

  ‘Then ask her.’

  Domine bit her lip and removed her hand. ‘Who—who is calling, please?’ she asked uncomfortably.

  There was a stifled exclamation, and then the woman said: ‘You can tell him it’s Yvonne,’ she said, rather angrily. ‘Is he there? Won’t he speak to me?’

  ‘No!’ Domine was horrified and replaced her hand over the mouthpiece again. ‘She—she thinks Mr. Mannering is here and I’m prev
enting her from speaking to him,’ she exclaimed.

  Graham grinned. ‘It must be Yvonne Park,’ he said, knowledgeably, and Domine stared at him in surprise.

  ‘Yes, she said her name was Yvonne,’ she whispered.

  ‘Then give it to me.’ Graham held out his hand and Domine thankfully handed him the receiver, walking across the room to the window and trying not to take any interest in the remainder of the conversation. But it was difficult when she had already heard part of the conversation and wanted to know the rest.

  Graham handled the situation beautifully, she had to admit, but from his replies it was obvious that this woman did not believe that James Mannering was not in the apartment. However, Graham appeared at last to have convinced her, and affirmed that he would give Mr. Mannering her message as soon as he returned. As he replaced the receiver, he glanced across at Domine ruefully and said:

  ‘That was unfortunate. However, Mr. James won’t be here later in the day if she takes it into her head to come to find him.’

  ‘Who—who is she?’ asked Domine, flushing.

  Graham heaved a sigh. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of Park Textiles?’

  ‘Park Textiles? You mean the manufacturers?’

  ‘Yes. Yvonne is the daughter of Alexander Park, the chairman of the combine.’

  ‘I see.’ Domine sounded awed. ‘Is—is she a friend of Mr. Mannering’s?’

  Graham gave a wry smile. ‘You might say that. At any rate she’d like to be.’

  ‘You mean Mr. Mannering isn’t interested?’

  Graham chuckled. ‘His interest waned about six weeks ago,’ he replied, walking towards the kitchen. Then he looked back at her almost compassionately. ‘There are a lot of things you have yet to learn, Domine.’

  Domine didn’t object to his use of her Christian name. Instead, she sighed and dropped down into a low chair, cupping her chin on her hands. ‘I expect Mr. Mannering has a lot of—well, women friends,’ she murmured wistfully.