The Dark Shore Read Free

abandonment of all his prospects in the City ... Looking back, she wondered bitterly who had been the angrier, her first husband or herself. Not that Jon had cared how angry they had been. He had merely laughed and turned his back as if his parents had meant even less to him than the future he had so casually discarded, and after that she had hardly ever seen him.
    The memories flickered restlessly through her brain: her refusal to accept his wife, Jon’s retaliation by moving to the other end of England; after his marriage he had only contacted his mother when it suited him.
    When Sophia was dead, for example. He had contacted her then soon enough. “I’m going abroad,” he had said. “You’ll look after Justin, won’t you?”
    Just like that. You’ll look after Justin, won’t you? As if she were some domestic servant being given a casual order.
    She had often asked herself why she had said yes. She hadn’t intended to. She had wanted to say “Find someone else to do your dirty work for you!” but had instead merely agreed to do as he wished, and then all at once Justin was with her and Jon was in Canada ... And he had never once written to her.
    She hadn’t believed it would be possible for Jon to ignore her so completely. She had not expected to hear from him regularly, but since she had taken charge of his son for him she had expected him to keep him in touch with her. And he had never written her a single letter. She had refused to believe it at first. She had thought, There’ll be a letter by the next post; he must surely write this week. But he had never written.
    The tears were scalding her cheeks, and she turned swiftly back to the dressing-table again in irritation to repair th e make-up.
    “It’s because I’m so angry,” she said t o herself as if it were necessary to vindicate herself from any accusation of weakness. “It’s because it makes me so ang ry.” It wasn’t because she was upset or hurt or anything foolish. It merely made her so angry to think that after all she done to help him he had never even bothered to write to thank her.
    She glanced at her watch . Justin would be home soon. With unsteady , impatient movements she obli terated the tears with a paper tissue and reached for the jar of powder. Speed was very important now. Justin must never see her like this ...
    As she concentrated once more upon the task of make-up she found herself wondering if anyone had ever heard from Jon once he had gone to Canada. Perhaps he had written to Marijohn. She had heard nothing more of Marijohn since the divorce with Michael. She had not even seen Michael himself since the previous Christmas when they had met unexpectedly at one of the drearier cocktail parties someone had given at that time ... She had always been so fond of Michael. Jon had never cared for him, of course, always preferring that dreadful man—what had his name been? She frowned, annoyed at the failure of memory. She could remember so well seeing his name mentioned in the gossip columns of the lower type of daily paper ... Alexander, she thought suddenly. That was it. Max Alexander.
    From somewhere far away, the latch on the front door clicked and someone stepped into the hall.
    He was back.
    She put the finishing touches to her make-up, stood up and went out on to the landing.
    “Justin?”
    “Hullo,” he called from the livingroom. He sounded calm and untroubled. “Where are you?”
    “Just coming.” He doesn’t know, she thought. He hasn’t seen the paper. It’s going to be all right.
    She reached the hall and moved into the livingroom. There was a cool draught of air, and over by the long windows the curtains swayed softly in the mellow light.
    “Ah, there you are,” said Justin.
    “How are you, darling? Nice day?”
    “Hm-hm.”
    She gave him a kiss and stood looking at him for a moment. “You don’t sound too certain!”
    He glanced away, moving over to the fireplace, and picked up a package of cigarettes