Wild Melody (22 page)

Catriona agreed rather forlornly. She wished that the idea of the
ceilidh

could be forgotten altogether, but she realised that the residents would be

disappointed if she backed out now. Their enjoyment and the fostering of a

community spirit among them was surely more important than some future

accusation of attention-seeking from Mrs Henderson, she decided.

She stayed away from the office for as long as she could without neglecting

her work. She did not want to run the risk of overhearing any part of Jason's

conversation with Moira Dane. When she finally went back to her desk, the

room was empty and the only sign of his presence was the half-smoked

cheroot stubbed carelessly out in the ashtray. She wished that emotions

could be stifled in the same way.

She worked late that evening, helping Andrew prepare yet another balance

sheet for yet another trustees' meeting.

'I asked Mrs Henderson if the meeting could possibly be held over until after

the programme had gone out, but she said she didn't see that it could

possibly make any difference,' he said gloomily.

'Oh, Andrew!' Impulsively, she laid her hand on his arm. 'It will make a

difference. It must. Isn't the whole thing slanted to show how desperately in

need of funds the centre is?'

'Yes—Lucas hasn't pulled any punches about that, and the interviews with

the residents have produced some really telling stuff.' He smiled slightly.

'To be honest, I never realised how much they thought of the place. We've

never asked for thanks, or wanted them particularly. Being taken for granted

is just part of the picture—for Jean and myself. But I've been very wrong

about that. The majority of the people here take nothing for granted. It was

something I needed to be reminded about.'

He put the completed sheets into a cardboard folder.

'Thanks for all this. Some of the telly people are still about. Shall I see if I

can wangle you a lift?'

'No.' Catriona shook her head. 'I'm in no great hurry. I rang Sally and warned

her I was going to be late, and I think we're going to make do with a Chinese

take-away meal tonight.'

She collected her handbag and walked out into the hall, only to come face to

face with Moira Dane, strikingly dressed in midnight blue chiffon. She

groaned inwardly as she saw hostility replace recognition in Moira's

narrowed eyes. If she'd had the least idea that Jason was going to meet her at

the centre for their evening together, she would have hidden somewhere, she

thought.

'You again!' Moira's tone was frosty. 'What are you doing here?' She looked

round at the peeling paintwork. 'Is this where you live?'

Catriona held on to her temper with an effort. 'No, Miss Dane. I live with

Sally Fenton,' she said quietly. 'But I work here—in the office.'

'I see.' The curves of Moira's mouth became more petulant. 'I wondered why

Jason had picked on this place. I suppose this was the sob-story you were

feeding him in my kitchen the other night?' She gave her surroundings

another disparaging stare. 'My God, what a dump! It should be pulled down

rather than saved—but perhaps that's what Jason's going to say on the

programme.'

'I don't think so.' Catriona tried to suppress the swift alarm that Moira's

words roused in her. 'He's on our side— the whole crew are ...'

Moira laughed contemptuously. 'The whole crew do what Jason tells them,

my child, and Jason does as he pleases. He's not on—your side, or anyone

else's if it comes to that. He's a journalist through and through, and he knows

a good story when he sees it. If he's taking an interest in this place, it won't

be on philanthropic grounds, I can promise you that. It's because he's

discovered something which will translate well into television

terms—mismanagement of some kind—women and children sleeping in a

potential fire trap—that sort of thing. He wouldn't be bothering with it

otherwise. And whatever it is that he's found, he'll blow the lid right off.'

She looked at Catriona and her smile was pure malice. 'Something tells me,

Miss—er—Muir, that you're going to wish that you'd held your tongue.'

Catriona was very white. She said slowly, 'I don't believe you.'

Moira shrugged. 'That's your privilege, my dear. But don't say you weren't

warned. And I'd get Sally to show you where the nearest employment

exchange is. I think you may need it.'

'What does Miss Muir need?' Jason came strolling from the back of the

house, his coat flung casually across one shoulder.

'A better job than this, I would have thought.' Moira turned to him, smiling

easily. 'Can we go now? My skin simply crawls in places like this.'

He took her hand and carried it to his lips. 'We can't have that,' he said, and

his voice was a caress, Catriona thought miserably. She wanted to confront

him with Moira's insinuations, but she decided it was useless. If Moira was

lying then he would be pardonably angry, but if she was telling the truth, all

he need do was issue a denial. Either way, Catriona could prove nothing.

And if she told Andrew, it would simply burden him with yet another worry,

she thought wearily.

'Darling.' Moira lifted her hand to Jason's cheek in a smilingly intimate

gesture. 'You haven't shaved—really!'

'I'll shave later.' He took her arm and began to guide her towards the door.

'It's going to be a long evening. Good night, Miss Muir. Can we drop you

anywhere?'

Catriona shook her head, too unhappy even to reply. She hung back waiting

for them to get clear before making her own departure and heard Moira's

laugh float back on the evening air.

The anxiety over Jason's motives in making the documentary at the centre

stayed with her during a restless night, and still hung there like a black cloud

as she arrived for work the following day. But she had little time for

brooding. Andrew had gone out and left some work for her, and when that

was completed Jean put her head round the door with an appeal for help with

the preparations for the
ceilidh.

Catriona was thankful for the diversion. Mrs Lamb and some of the other

women were already hard at work, turning out the big sitting room and

sprucing it up for the evening's festivities. There was laughter and chat and

occasionally ribald badinage with members of the television crew and

Catriona thought that whatever effect the documentarymight have on the

centre and the lives of the people who liVed and worked there, at least it had

brought a feeling of hope, no matter how temporary. The centre seemed to

have taken on a new lease of life, and there was an air of cheerfulness and

optimism which had been sadly lacking when Catriona had first arrived

there.

And for all this, Jason Lord was responsible, she thought bitterly. He had

made these people trust him, made them believe he was there to help, and

now he could just as easily destroy that trust and the spirit of hope that he

had fostered. And if he did, she could blame no one but herself. She had

involved him, after all, ignoring his warnings that his solution to the centre's

problems might not be an acceptable one. She had forgotten that his point of

view would be that of the objective journalist—the man who listened to all

sides but stayed aloof from personal involvement, and whose judgment

might be that the centre was a quixotic adventure, doomed to failure through

the inexperience of its administrators.

She went slowly through to the kitchen where Jean had embarked on a

massive baking session. Catriona borrowed an overall and assumed

responsibility for the sausage rolls. She had always enjoyed cooking and

baking at home in Torvaig and had often wished that space in the flat

permitted more than mere basic meal preparation.

'This is the first party we've ever had at the centre,' Jean said, removing a

tray of small cakes from the oven and transferring them with swift expertise

to a wire cooling tray. 'There's never seemed a great deal to celebrate in the

past, but now--' she gave Catriona a quick smile—'suddenly everything's on

the up and up. Even . . .' She paused suddenly and Catriona was surprised to

see her blushing slightly. 'Oh, why shouldn't you be the first to know,

Catriona? Andrew and I are going to be married.'

'You and Andrew—oh, but that's wonderful!'

Jean grinned at her, her blush deepening. 'Yes, that's what we think. We've

both known for ages, but Andrew wouldn't ask me before because he felt the

future of the centre was too uncertain. But now he feels much happier about

the whole thing, and we can start to make some plans of our own.'

Catriona carefully stood the mixing bowl she was washing on the draining

board. 'But if the worst did happen—I mean, if the centre did have to close

for some reason—it wouldn't make any difference, would it? You would

still marry Andrew.'

'Oh yes, eventually. But I suppose the diocese would transfer him to parish

work and it would be a matter of waiting until something suitable came

along, and I would need to work as well, for a while at least.' Jean was silent

for a moment. 'We will move on, of course. The centre won't be our whole

lives and I don't think it should be. Places like this need regular infusions of

new blood, new ideas. But we would like to see the place safely on its

course before we go-'

'Are you going to announce your engagement at the party tonight?'

'Heavens, no!' Jean's face crumpled with amusement. 'They all know

anyway. Mrs Lamb's been dropping hints for days. But we're not really

having an engagement proper. One of Andrew's friends is part of a team

ministry in this parish and he's going to marry us quietly one day.'

That would be like heaven, Catriona thought, to walk off one day hand in

hand with the man you loved to a nearby church and return as his wife. Her

hands faltered slightly and she dropped a handful of wet utensils back in the

sink with a clatter.

One thing was certain, it would be most unfair to burden Jean at this happy

moment in her life with the doubts and misgivings which were pressing on

her. This would have to be her own personal load of mischief and she would

have to hear it.

Mitch was hunched in her usual place in the office when she got back and

Catriona plunged into one of her monologues with a feeling of relief. She

told Mitch about Jean and Andrew's wedding plans, and described the

refreshments she had been helping to make for the
ceilidh
and then launched

without preamble into a more detailed account of the
ceilidh
itself and the

songs she planned to sing and the part she hoped the others would play.

'And you must come too, Mitch,' she said breathlessly at last. 'And bring

your guitar. I'm counting on you.'

She glanced at the other girl as she spoke, but Mitch seemed to have retired

back into her private world and hardly seemed to be aware she was there.

From the doorway, Jason said drily, 'Do you really imagine she'll come?'

Catriona swung round to face him, her hand going to her throat. He had

occupied her thoughts so exclusively all morning that it was almost

shocking to find him actually there, only a few feet away from her.

Her chin went up defiantly. 'And why not?'

His eyes went reflectively from her to her totally passive companion. 'I'd

like to think you were right. It's an intriguing situation and has all sorts of

possibilities.'

'Within the context of the programme, of course,' she said sarcastically,

quoting a phrase she had heard Lucas use at some of the earlier conference

sessions.

He raised his eyebrows. 'What else?'

'No,' she said quietly.

'Meaning?'

'I won't let her be—used, as you've used the rest of us,' she said.

He was very still suddenly. 'I wasn't aware of using anyone.'

'Perhaps it's so much second nature to you now that you don't even know

when it's happening.'

'Don't run away with the idea that being female gives you some kind of

special immunity.' His voice was low and furious. 'You may be able to hand

it out, lady, but are you sure you can take it?'

'Quite sure,' she said almost inaudibly. Inside, she was screaming

silently—there's no way you can punish me any more. It's enough that

you're here and there's this distance between us. It's punishment enough that

I don't have the right to your honesty, that I can't come to you and feel your

arms round me. She closed her eyes against the pain and when she opened

them again, Jason had gone and she was alone again with Mitch, still silent,

still unmoving, apparently unaware of the tense little scene she had

unwittingly provoked.