Proud Harvest. Anne Mather
you do or whether you don’t is immaterial,’ he retorted. ‘But like I keep telling you, Jeremy is my son. I haven’t forgotten that, even if you have.’
‘Oh, I haven’t forgotten,’ she exclaimed bitterly. ‘What part has my mother been playing? Watchdog? A spy to let you know if I went out with another man so that you could gather a case to take Jeremy away from me? Your mother would like that, wouldn’t she? She was always jealous that there was one person who preferred me to her!’
‘Stop it!’ His jaw had hardened angrily. ‘I expected you’d have grown out of such childish ideas by now. Why bring my mother into it? This is between you and me.’
‘Oh, no.’ She shook her head. ‘It was never just between you and me. She was always there to take your side, to assure you that you could do no wrong.’
‘Oh, God!’ He raked back his hair with long impatient fingers. She noticed it was longer than he used to wear it, brushing his collar at the back, but still as thick and straight as ever. He had never worn a hair dressing, and she had loved to slide her fingers through it …
Now, he controlled his features, and said: ‘The fact remains that I stayed out of Jeremy’s life when it seemed that you could do most for him. Coming down to London to see him wasn’t a satisfactory arrangement, and you know it. So I decided to wait—–’
‘Like a vulture!’ she muttered, but he ignored her.
‘—until he was older and could be told the truth.’
‘And you think that time has come?’
‘I don’t know. All I know is, your mother wants out of the present arrangement. So far as I’m concerned, the boy can come for a holiday and nothing need be said. It’s up to you.’
Lesley’s mouth felt dry in spite of her steady sipping of the Campari and soda. ‘Let—let me get this straight,’ she got out unsteadily, ‘you’re saying that if I let Jeremy come to you for the holidays, you’re prepared to take it no further?’ She put a confused hand to her head. ‘What do you intend to tell him?’
‘I’ve told you, that’s up to you.’
‘Oh, no.’ Lesley moved her head slowly from side to side. Raventhorpe meant Mrs Radley, and Mrs Radley would not be prepared to say nothing. ‘Your mother would see that Jeremy was told exactly what a poor substitute for a wife I had been. Somehow she’d make him believe that I was the guilty party.’
‘And weren’t you?’ demanded Carne violently. ‘I didn’t walk out on you—take your son away from you!’
Lesley shifted uneasily on the banquette. ‘You know, this is getting us nowhere …’
‘I agree.’ He finished the liquid in his glass, and summoned the waiter. ‘I suggest you consider the alternatives. Either you give me the temporary custody of my son willingly, or I’ll take you to court and prove that I can give him a better home life than you ever could!’
THE menu was not large, but it covered many of the traditional dishes of Italian food. Lesley chose a chilled fruit juice and lasagne, although she doubted she would be able to eat any of it. Still, the waiter was not to blame for her present predicament, and she hoped he would not blame her if she did not do full justice to the chef’s ability. Carne ordered spaghetti with a bolognese sauce, and then studied the other diners indifferently as Lesley sought to open the conversation again.
She would not have believed he could present her with such an ultimatum. Either … or … How could he be so dogmatic after all this time? For over two years now, she had had complete charge of Jeremy’s welfare. He couldn’t opt out like that and then opt in again just because it suited him.
Clearing her throat, she said: ‘I—I don’t want this to degenerate into a slanging match, Carne, but I doubt a court would approve of your abandoning Jeremy for more than two years …’
‘Damn you, I did not abandon him!’ he exclaimed, turning to glare at her. ‘I’ve told you. I corresponded with your mother. I was aware of what was going on.’
‘Then why did you let me send him to school? Why didn’t you step in before he started his education?’
Carne sighed. ‘Last year—last year there were problems.’
‘How convenient!’
‘No, it wasn’t convenient at all, as it happens.’ His mouth tightened. ‘But what we’re talking about right now is this year, these holidays.’ He paused. ‘What are you afraid of?’
Lesley gasped. ‘I’m not afraid of anything.’
‘Then why don’t you want me to see the boy?’
‘You can see him any time you like.’
‘In your presence—I know.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘Everything.’ He waited until the waiter had set Lesley’s fruit juice in front of her, and then continued in a low voice: ‘Let’s put the record straight, shall we? You had a hard time having the boy, I accepted that. I also accepted that you found it hard to recover your strength after you got back to the farm. It was a hard winter, I know. It wasn’t conducive to recuperation. But I did everything I could. I gave you a room to yourself—I even kept away from you because I knew you couldn’t bear me to touch you—–’
‘That’s your story!’ she burst out hotly, and he heaved another sigh of resignation. For several seconds he continued to stare at her and then, with a gesture of defeat, he left her to drink the glass of orange juice.
Lesley tried to calm herself. At every turn he was able to disconcert her, forcing her into reckless retaliation, destroying the façade of composure she was trying so unsuccessfully to maintain.
She swallowed the fruit juice and the waiter removed her glass. If he wondered why his two customers should be talking so earnestly one minute and then so obviously estranged the next, he was too professional to show his curiosity, but Lesley sensed the sympathetic looks he cast in her direction.
Realising it was up to her to say something, she murmured: ‘How serious do you think my mother’s condition is?’
It was an effort to get him to respond to her again, and she could tell by his expression that he knew that as well as she did.
‘All heart conditions need to be taken seriously,’ he retorted shortly. ‘I suppose it depends on the age of the person and how strenuous a life they lead.’
‘Well, Mother doesn’t have a particularly strenuous life,’ Lesley ventured consideringly. ‘I mean, she has Mrs Mason come in three mornings every week to do the housework, and I usually prepare dinner when I get home. She doesn’t bother with much at lunchtime, unless she’s having a friend over for the day, and occasionally she goes out to play bridge.’
‘Until Jeremy comes home,’ Carne put in dampeningly, and she was forced to concede that this was true. ‘Which brings us back to the point of this meeting,’ he continued coldly. ‘Well? Are you going to fight me?’
Lesley’s brown eyes, so unusual with her fair colouring, flickered upward. ‘Fight you?’
‘Didn’t you always?’ he retorted. ‘God knows why you ever married me! God knows why I was fool enough to ask you!’
The lasagne lay in thick tomato sauce, a meaty filling between thin slices of pasta. Looking at it, Lesley wondered how she had ever imagined she could taste it. She felt sick, and her fork moved it sluggishly round her plate. It even made a sickly sound, and she pressed her lips together and