Images Of Love. Anne Mather

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       ‘Mark!’

      The affectionate calling of his name, accompanied by the sight of an elegant woman in her late fifties climbing out of the back of the vehicle, told its own story. Evidently, this was his mother, come to meet them, and Tobie breathed a little easier when she saw that the only other occupant of the car was black.

      Mark allowed himself to be enveloped in a warm embrace, and over his shoulder Tobie met the strangely malevolent eyes of the woman who had deserted her eldest son when he was little more than seven years old. She had left her home, and her family, to run away with a man more than twice her age, and that was what had created the rift between her and Robert, the rift Tobie had never expected to see mended. Mark was her second husband’s son, of course, but his father was dead now. Mark had told her he had died of a heart attack soon after Marks’s eighteenth birthday, and it was this as much as anything which had turned his interest towards medicine. Robert’s own father had committed suicide. A week after the divorce was made absolute he had hanged himself in the summerhouse of their Kingston home, and Robert had been brought up by a series of nannies, acting under his aunt’s instructions. His own mother had made little effort to see him, too absorbed with her new life and her new baby, and it was only when Robert became famous that he began getting letters from her. Letters he had destroyed, so far as Tobie was aware—until the accident—

      Standing there with the sun beating down upon her head, Tobie tried desperately to relax. She was here now. There was nothing she could do about it. And if Robert’s mother knew who she was, and that was why she was looking at her so hostilely, there was nothing she could do about that either. Perhaps Mrs Newman was merely jealous of her younger son’s affection. But if there was any other reason for her hostility, she would soon find out.

      Mark was freeing himself from his mother’s embrace now, assuring her that they had had a good journey—that he was in the best of health—that he wasn’t working too hard—and that no, he hadn’t lost weight. He was obviously amused by his mother’s insistence, but as Tobie waited somewhat apprehensively to be introduced, she had the feeling that Mrs Newman’s delaying tactics were deliberate.

      At last Mark succeeded in drawing her forward, and with evident pride he introduced her to his mother. ‘Isn’t she lovely?’ he demanded, his arm possessively about Tobie’s shoulders. ‘I told you she was. Don’t you think I’m the luckiest man in the world?’

      His mother viewed Tobie with cool assessing eyes. She was a tall woman, like her son, almost as tall as Tobie’s five feet six inches, with the heavier limbs of middle age. Yet she was quite an attractive woman still, with greying blonde hair and fair skin, that just avoided the gnarled weathered look. If she had had any heartache in her life she disguised it well, and presented the appearance of someone well able to take care of herself. She seemed much more Mark’s mother than Robert’s, and only the inimical gaze of her dark brown eyes reminded Tobie of how Robert had looked when he slammed out of the apartment that fatal afternoon.

      ‘So nice to meet you—er—Tobie,’ she said now, offering a curiously limp hand, and Tobie took it.

      ‘It was kind of you to invite me,’ she said, forcing a tight smile. ‘You live in a very beautiful part of the world.’

      ‘Oh, you must thank my son for your invitation,’ Mrs Newman demurred, her remark verging on discourtesy, and Tobie stiffened.

      ‘I’ve thanked Mark, naturally,’ she said, glancing at him, but his mother quickly intervened.

      ‘I meant Robert, of course,’ she said, ignoring her younger son’s discomfort. ‘Emerald Cay belongs to him, not to us, and it was he who offered the invitation.’

      It was a body blow, but whether Mrs Newman was aware of its significance, Tobie could not be sure. After all, if Robert had not told her about their relationship, how could she know? And yet there was something here, some undercurrent that Tobie sensed but could not make contact with.

      ‘Well, we’re here, anyway,’ Mark observed tautly, his expression mirroring his impatience with his mother. ‘So let’s go, shall we? It’s hot, and I for one could do with a dip in the pool.’

      ‘Of course. I’m sorry.’

      Tobie guessed Mrs Newman really meant it as she gestured towards the car. She was obviously very fond of Mark, but in spite of her comments about Robert, Tobie wasn’t altogether sure how she felt towards him. Yet they must be friends. They lived here together. They shared the same house. There had to be some feeling between them.

      The drive from the airstrip to the villa gave her a little time to assimilate her own position. The news that Robert had offered the invitation required some adjustment in her thinking, and she couldn’t help wondering how he proposed to behave towards her. She had thought if he hadn’t admitted to Mark that he knew her before, he could be relied upon not to do so now, but that was not taking into account his condition, and who knew what quirks in his personality that might have created? She was both apprehensive and uneasy, and her feelings made a mockery of her boast to Laura that she loved Mark, and nothing Robert did could change that.

      The road curved up from the flat stretch of earth that provided a landing strip, climbing towards the hills that formed the backbone of the island. It was a dusty track, rutted in places, where the rains had dislodged the stones that held the track together, but the scenery was so magnificent one could ignore the discomfort.

      As they climbed, beyond the airstrip they could see miles and miles of unbroken sand, stretching to infinity. This side of the island must be uninhabited, Tobie thought, and the lace-edged waters of the ocean were the only intruders on these shores. It was a disturbing concept, and she experienced a moment’s awareness of how ship-wrecked mariners must have felt when faced with their own insignificance.

      The hillside was thickly covered with stunted trees and flowering shrubs, their roots even encroaching on to the road at times. One could stretch out one’s hand and touch them as one passed, and Mark snatched a magnolia blossom to tuck behind Tobie’s ear. She shared his laughter for a moment, and then encountering his mother’s speculative gaze was silenced.

      As if sensing the sudden tension, Mark broke into conversation, asking how Robert was, questioning his mother about his brother’s paralysis.

      Mrs Newman seemed unnecessarily pessimistic about her son’s condition. ‘He says he’s quite well,’ she replied, plucking at the leather on the back of the seat in front. ‘But you know how independent he is. I keep my own counsel. I have my own opinion. I know what his doctors say. But it’s not a subject I’d advise you to discuss with him. At least—’ she paused, allowing her eyes to move to Tobie once more, ‘not in front of—strangers.’

      ‘But he’s—no worse?’ Mark insisted, his hand finding Tobie’s in gentle reassurance, and his mother shrugged.

      ‘Were it not for the lingering amnesia, I’d say he is as recovered as he’ll ever be,’ she responded succinctly, and when Tobie’s head jerked towards her, a mocking smile tugged at the comers of her mouth. ‘Didn’t Mark tell you, my dear?’ she enquired, with what Tobie was almost convinced was malicious amusement. ‘Robert still suffers a mental blackout of everything that happened immediately before the accident. He’s lost six whole months of his life. Isn’t that a shame?’

       CHAPTER TWO

      ROBERT’S villa lay on the south-west side СКАЧАТЬ