Follow Thy Desire

‘Yes, Mrs Fox.’ Helen swallowed her embarrassment, and seated herself beside the low table where Mrs Parsons had already placed the tray, just as Barry and his stepfather came into the room. Barry came straight across to her, seating himself beside her, and she gave him rather a nervous look before asking Mr Fox how he would like his coffee.

‘Oh, black, please,’ declared the older man, slipping his arm about his daughter’s waist as she came to stand beside him. Then he bestowed a teasing look upon her. ‘I suppose you’ll be next,’ he remarked, squeezing her affectionately. ‘I wonder who the lucky man will be?’

‘Don’t you mean the unlucky man?’ remarked Barry sarcastically, and Susan pulled a face at him.

‘Well, when I do choose to get married, it won’t be to some stuffy civil servant!’ she retorted. ‘Why—why, Morgan’s got more guts in his little finger than you’ve got in your whole body!’

Her words were intended to be jibing. Barry and Susan often indulged in this harmless kind of baiting, and neither of them took it seriously. But tonight Helen sensed an underlying note of bitterness, and she guessed Susan’s admiration for her half-brother had added fuel to Barry’s already smouldering resentment. It was perhaps fortunate that Morgan was not around to hear his stepbrother’s savage indictment of doctors who allowed this country to pay for their training and then took themselves off to some more lucrative practice overseas.

‘I hardly think Osweba qualifies in that category,’ Mr Fox interposed quietly, at this unwarranted criticism of his son, and Helen hastily handed Barry his coffee before he could say anything more.

It was with mixed feelings that she saw Morgan coming into the room just then, but as Helen’s hands were occupied with her own coffee, Susan took the opportunity to pour Morgan’s coffee herself.

Barry replaced his empty cup on the tray with a decisive clatter, and then said shortly: ‘Well?’

Helen, who had been expecting this, made no attempt to evade the question. ‘If you mean what I think you mean, then aren’t you being a little small-minded?’

‘Is it small-minded to object if my fiancée makes eyes at my stepbrother?’ he snapped, and Helen gasped.

‘I—I didn’t!’

‘What would you call it, then?’

‘I—we—we spoke half a dozen words together, that’s all.’

‘I’m not objecting to what you said!’

‘Oh, Barry…’ Helen replaced her own cup now, glancing about them uncomfortably. But fortunately no one seemed to be paying any attention to them and she turned reproachful eyes upon him. ‘Can’t I even look at another man? Heavens, he’s your own brother!’

‘Stepbrother,’ Barry corrected briefly. Then he scuffed his toe against the leg of the coffee table. ‘Oh, what the hell! There’s nothing I can do about it.’

Helen sighed. ‘There’s nothing to do!’ she said imploringly, fiddling with the coffee pot. ‘Would you like another cup?’

‘No, thanks.’

Barry shook his head, but Helen was relieved when his mother came to join them and conversation became general. Naturally the wedding came under discussion, and those final arrangements that were still left to make. Talking about the white Mercedes he had hired for the occasion, Barry came out of his black mood, and Helen relaxed as her fiancé extolled the virtues of foreign cars. It was a favourite topic with him, and she allowed her head to rest against the back of the sofa and her thoughts to drift.

Almost compulsively, her gaze moved round the circle to rest on Morgan Fox’s unusually light hair. It was thick and straight, with a side parting that left several heavy strands to fall across his forehead. From time to time he pushed them back, his long brown fingers combing through his hair and occasionally resting in a curiously weary gesture at the back of his neck. His hair was shorter than Barry’s, barely brushing his collar at the back, and he didn’t wear the long sideburns Barry effected and which gave her fiancé’s face a rather artistic appearance. She thought he looked rather tired, and this knowledge brought a wave of unwilling anxiety sweeping over her. Yet what did it matter to her if Barry’s stepbrother needed some sleep? Why should she be concerned? Anyone who had just flown five thousand miles would be tired, particularly bearing in mind the time change.

Realising she was staring at him again, she quickly looked away, relieved to see that no one else had observed her betraying appraisal. But even though she concentrated on the delicate pattern of the coffee cups, she could still see his face and the sensual fullness of his bottom lip.

He moved, giving her a reason to look his way, and her eyes ran over the long muscular legs outlined beneath the dark blue lounge suit he was wearing. She wondered if he was more at home in shorts or safari suits, and guessed he found an excess of clothing uncomfortable after so long in the tropics. This time his eyes flickered over hers, but their appraisal was cool and detached, and she pretended there was a speck of dust on her skirt in an effort to avoid detection of her interest.

The conversation had shifted to Morgan now and Helen listened as he answered his father’s questions about the politics of Osweba. Then, inevitably, his daughter was brought into the conversation and it was with obvious reluctance he produced his wallet and the photograph of the bespectacled teenager everyone called Andy.

Barry barely glanced at his niece, but Helen studied the portrait with avid curiosity, trying to gauge something of the girl’s personality from that small likeness.

‘She doesn’t look much like you,’ remarked Susan, with her usual lack of tact, but Morgan merely smiled.

‘Oh, she is, I assure you,’ he said, pushing the picture back into his wallet. ‘There are more ways than one of resembling someone.’

‘Do you mean she’s brainy?’ demanded Susan, rolling her eyes in mock derision, but her mother reproved her, saying:

‘I expect Morgan means that she likes the same things he does,’ which aroused a contemptuous snort from Barry.

‘What are we supposed to infer from that?’ he enquired unpleasantly. ‘When she can’t even be bothered to turn up for the wedding?’

‘Barry!’ Mr Fox halted the conversation there, and Helen felt as embarrassed as if she had been a party to her fiancé’s outburst. ‘I think we’re all suffering from a bout of pre-wedding nerves, and as I’m sure Morgan will be glad to get to bed, I suggest you take Helen home now, hmm?’

Barry looked as if he would have liked to have said more, but his mother’s disapproval, added to that of his stepfather, kept him silent. Morgan said nothing and it was left to Susan to break the ominous silence that had fallen.

‘Can I come round tomorrow and try on those sandals you said I could borrow?’ she asked lightly, as if nothing untoward had occurred, and Helen rose to her feet, nodding her relief.

‘Of course,’ she said, as Morgan and his father rose, too. ‘It’s Sunday, so come whenever you like.’

‘All right.’ Susan grinned cheekily up at her older brother. ‘You can take me, if you like. You’d like to meet Helen’s parents, wouldn’t you?’

Barry’s face was reddening again, and Helen urged him towards the door. But outside, with her goodnights said and the irritation of Morgan’s polite farewell colouring her tones, she exclaimed:

‘What on earth did you think you were doing? Speaking to your stepbrother like that! Embarrassing everybody!’

‘Embarrassing you, you mean, don’t you?’ retorted Barry moodily, leaving her to close the passenger side door herself and striding angrily around the bonnet. ‘I don’t know what’s got into you!’

‘What’s got into me?’ she echoed, as he pulled away. ‘Don’t be ridiculous! You’ve been spoiling for an argument ever since we got into the car to come here.’

‘Oh, have I?’

‘Yes, you have. And it’s purely jealousy, that’s all. You’re jealous because your stepfather is making a fuss of his own son. His own son! Don’t you think you owe it to him to be polite, whatever your private feelings might be?’

Barry did not answer and they covered the test of the distance between Banklands and her parents’ house in silence. But after he had brought the car to a halt and Helen made to get out, Barry’s hand on her arm stopped her, and in the light from the street lamps she saw his scowl of contrition.

‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered grudgingly, and she knew it was up to her to make the next move.

‘So am I,’ she murmured, and his lips brushed lightly across her cheek and found hers.

For several minutes there again was silence in the car, but this time of a much more satisfying sort. Nevertheless, when Barry’s hand probed beneath the fastening of her jacket, she gently pushed him away and thrust open the car door.

‘We’ve waited this long,’ she reminded him lightly, and he bowed his head in reluctant assent.

‘Okay,’ he said, leaning across to close the door again. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow night? You haven’t forgotten we’re going to Peter and Liz’s, have you?’

‘Tomorrow evening?’ She shook her head. ‘Of course not. What time will you pick me up? About seven?’

‘About then,’ he agreed, and with a smile he left her, the Triumph reversing away noisily into the quiet road.

If Helen’s parents had expected a long discussion about Morgan Fox’s arrival, they were disappointed. After the briefest of explanations about the dinner party and why she should be home by half past ten, which was early for her, Helen excused herself and went to bed, glad that Jennifer was not around to add her voice to the proceedings.

But in her room she found that sleep was very far from her thoughts. For the first time, she really began to contemplate the implications of the step she was taking, and to wonder whether Barry would have recovered his good humour so willingly if they had already been man and wife. She had never really considered that Barry might be a jealous person. In truth, she had never ever given him cause to display such feelings, content as always just to be with him, to know herself cared for and protected, the envy of many of her friends. Barry was everything any girl could ever wish for—tall and dark and handsome, with a good job with good prospects, and no financial problems. He had always treated her with gentleness, respecting her rather old-fashioned notions of chastity, realising that if he tried to force her to do something she would regret, he would lose her loyalty and trust.

This evening he had displayed an entirely unknown facet of his character, and why? Because she had shown a quite natural interest in his stepbrother. What had she done, after all? Spoken to Morgan at dinner, and shared a perfectly innocent joke with him. It was ludicrous for Barry to get angry over something so innocent. Good heavens, if she had been found in Morgan’s arms he could not have reacted more positively, short of actual physical combat, and the injustice of his behaviour brought a wave of resentment sweeping over her.

Untying the waistband of her skirt, she tore it off impatiently, tossing it carelessly on to the bed. She should have said more, she fumed, unlacing her jerkin. So why hadn’t she? The answer was as unpalatable as the question, and she pulled her silk wrapper over her shoulders with fingers that were not quite steady. The truth was that deep inside her she knew Barry had had some justification for his suspicions. Not that he could have known that, of course. Her feelings had been well hidden. But she couldn’t deny that Morgan Fox disturbed her in a way that she had never experienced before, and that knowledge had left her feeling raw and exposed. She remembered once, some years ago, a girl she used to go to school with had asked her whether she had ever lost control with a boy. Helen had regarded the girl rather pityingly and replied that she didn’t believe in all that nonsense; that people said things like that to excuse their own inadequacies. The girl had retorted tartly that if that was what she thought, she must be either stupid or frigid, and Helen had never forgiven her for throwing her remarks back in her face. Tonight, however, she felt strangely vulnerable to that memory, as if she stood on the brink of some certain revelation that would put paid once and for all to her sane and ordered existence.

CHAPTER TWO

HELEN was in the garden, helping her father to clear away all the leaves and broken twigs left by the winds of the past week when Jennifer came charging out to tell them that Susan had arrived accompanied by her stepbrother.

‘Barry?’ exclaimed Helen, looking up, and then coloured as Morgan Fox came round the corner of the house.

‘No. Me,’ he announced wryly, as Helen’s father walked to meet him. ‘How do you do? You must be Mr Raynor.’

‘That’s right.’ Helen’s father shook hands, removing his gardening glove to do so. ‘Nice to meet you. How are you finding England after all this time? Cold, I expect’

Morgan’s mouth lifted slightly. ‘Cold, indeed,’ he agreed, as Mr Raynor passed him, indicating that he should follow him into the house, and then he looked back at Helen: ‘Good morning. Are we interrupting anything?’

‘Oh, no. No.’ Helen shook her head quickly, noticing how much better his cream denim pants fitted him, the thigh-length sheepskin jacket accentuating the width of his shoulders. ‘We—er—we were just tidying up the garden. It’s been quite windy this last week and everywhere is covered with leaves.’

‘Hmm, autumn,’ drawled Morgan, making no effort to follow her father through the conservatory and into the warm kitchen. ‘I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to smell woodsmoke on frosty air.’

Helen shifted awkwardly, conscious that her brown chunky sweater had holes at the elbows, and that her jeans after several washings clung to her like a second skin. ‘I expect you’d miss the heat, though, wouldn’t you?’ she ventured, licking her lips. ‘I mean—you must regard Africa as your home.’

His lips twisted then, and his eyes when he looked at her were cold and calculating. ‘Oh, yes,’ he agreed flatly. ‘There’s no chance of me coming back to live in England, if that’s what you’re afraid of.’

‘I—I’m not afraid!’ Helen was indignant. ‘I only meant—–’

‘I know what you meant. I’ve had it from Barry since I got here. I forfeited my right to live at Banklands when I married Pam and went to live in Osweba!’

‘Did he say that?’ Helen was aghast.

‘In so many words.’ Morgan sighed, and then made a dismissing gesture. ‘Oh, forget it. I have. As it happens, I have no desire to come back to England. My—work is in Nrubi. But there’s still Andrea…’

‘Your daughter.’

‘Yes.’ He glanced towards the house. ‘We’d better be going in or your parents are going to suspect we’re conducting some illicit liaison.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Helen quietly, and then on impulse she added: ‘Why did you mention your daughter? Does she want to come to England? I thought—when she didn’t come with you…’

‘I know. And you’re right. She didn’t want to come, but not because she’s indifferent. She—well, she’s very shy.’

‘But we—the Foxes, that is—they’re her family!’

‘I know that.’ Morgan’s eyes had lost their calculating gleam, but they were still cool as he changed the subject, saying: ‘I’ve asked Barry what you would like for a wedding present, and he says I should ask you. What about it? Have you any ideas?’

Helen scuffed her booted toe in the soil at the edge of the path. ‘Oh, I—anything you like.’

She couldn’t look at him for a few moments, but when she lifted her head his eyes were upon her. Immediately, she felt that unfamiliar weakness inside her, that sense of wanting and need that had nothing to do with the emotion she felt towards her fiancé. She knew an almost overwhelming desire to touch him, to make him as aware of her as she was of him, and as if the thought was father to the deed, she felt her muddy boot slide across the concrete, forcing her to grasp his arm to save herself. She felt the taut muscles beneath her fingers, palpable through the rough skin of his jacket, the heat of his body, as just for an instant she was close against him. And then he had stepped back from her, a muscle jerking betrayingly in his cheek.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her face flaming brilliantly. ‘I—I lost my balance.’

His eyes revealed none of his feelings, but he made a polite gesture towards the house and she was forced to go ahead of him. They walked through the glass-roofed conservatory where her father nurtured his collection of semi-tropical plants, and then in through the kitchen, scented with the smell of roasting meat.

Mrs Raynor was in the kitchen, and Helen introduced Morgan awkwardly, glad to go on into the living room where Jennifer was showing Susan her collection of pop pictures. Mr Raynor was there, too, lighting his pipe, and he smiled when his daughter came into the room, asking her whether her mother had got the kettle on.

Morgan came to join them and Helen thankfully took Susan upstairs to show her the sandals she wanted to borrow. But Susan had not been unaware of how long Helen had spent in the garden with her brother, and she was more interested in that than anything else.

‘What were you talking about?’ she asked, flopping down carelessly on to Helen’s bed and flicking over the pages of a magazine she found on the bedside table. ‘You looked awfully embarrassed when you came in. What was he saying to you?’

Helen’s embarrassment was rekindled. ‘We were talking about autumn, if you must know,’ she declared impatiently. ‘Look, do you want to try these sandals on or don’t you?’

Susan’s expression was resigned, but she obediently pulled off her boot and slipped one of the gold-strapped sandals on to her foot.

‘Hmm, nice,’ she agreed critically, turning her foot from side to side. ‘How lucky we both take the same size.’ Then she tossed it off again, and reaching for her boot returned to the attack. ‘I should be careful if I were you anyway,’ she said seriously. ‘Barry was really mad last night, wasn’t he? Jealous as hell!’

‘I’m sure your mother wouldn’t approve of you using that kind of language!’ retorted Helen severely, hiding her unwilling anxiety in irritation, but Susan was not subdued.

‘You talk like an old maid sometimes, do you know that?’ she demanded. ‘Just because I’m trying to give you a piece of advice, you act like I was a schoolgirl trying to advise the teacher. Well, let me tell you, Helen, I know more about men than you do. You might be older than I am, but emotionally speaking, you’re not even in the running!’

Helen thrust the sandals into their box and held them out to the younger girl. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Take them. And stop trying to tell me how to run my life.’

Susan took the box and stood up. ‘All right,’ she said, moving her shoulders indifferently. ‘But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

‘Warn me?’ Helen couldn’t let that go, although she knew she would regret it later. ‘Warn me about what?’

‘Why, about getting involved with Morgan, of course.’

‘Getting involved with Morgan?’ echoed Helen in disbelieving tones. ‘I’m not getting involved with anyone—except Barry.’

‘But don’t pretend you wouldn’t like to,’ put in Susan infuriatingly. ‘You’re attracted to Morgan, aren’t you? But you’re wasting your time. He’s married already.’

‘I think you’d better go,’ said Helen, controlling her temper with difficulty. ‘And please don’t repeat what you’ve said to me to anyone. To anyone, do you hear?’

‘Don’t worry,’ Susan sniffed. ‘I won’t tell Barry, if that’s what you’re afraid of.’

‘I’m not afraid of anything,’ retorted Helen coldly, and led the way downstairs again herself.

Morgan and her parents were drinking coffee in the living room. Jennifer had returned to the study where she was doing her homework, and thankfully Susan went to find her, leaving Helen to face the others on her own. But at least she did not have the ignominy of feeling Susan’s eyes upon her at every turn, and she poured herself some coffee and seated herself almost unnoticed in the corner.

Morgan was talking about Africa, telling Mr Raynor about the tropical diseases he had to contend with in the course of his work and the advances which had been made in vaccination and inoculation. It was fascinating listening to him describing conditions in an African village, the contrasts between the youths who went to the city to get educated and their parents and grandparents who still lived by the tribal customs which had existed for hundreds of years. He talked of the hostility which still existed in some areas between the so-called white man’s medicine and the medicine men of the tribe, who used ritual magic and herbal remedies to effect their cures.

‘But do they get results?’ asked Mr Raynor smiling, as he tapped his pipe against his palm, and Morgan gave a rueful grin.

‘Sometimes,’ he conceded honestly. ‘I suppose faith has a lot to do with it, but occasionally some miraculous recovery comes to light. No one knows why. There are times when I’d say that by forcing a sick patient to drink some obnoxious mixture or applying a poultice made out of chicken feathers and God knows what else to an open wound would be fatal; but then I visit the village again and I find this chap going hunting with his brothers and I realise modern medicine has taken another backward step.’

‘It must be quite frustrating,’ said Mrs Raynor sympathetically, but Morgan shook his head.

‘Not frustrating, no. I’m always glad when a patient gets well, by whatever means. I think perplexed is a better word. I’d like to learn more about these primitive medicines, study them in depth.’ He paused, and Helen saw a strange expression cross his face. ‘But that’s not very likely, I’m afraid.’

‘No,’ Mr Raynor nodded. ‘I imagine these witch doctors guard their secrets closely.’

‘Yes,’ Morgan agreed, but Helen had the distinct impression that that was not what he meant at all.

Soon afterwards, he said he would have to be leaving, and Mrs Raynor took the opportunity to invite him for dinner on Tuesday evening.

‘Could we make that Wednesday or Thursday?’ he asked apologetically. ‘I—er—I have an appointment in London on Tuesday, and I don’t suppose I’ll be back much before ten.’

‘Of course.’ Mrs Raynor was eager to oblige. ‘Thursday, then. If that’s all right with you, Helen?’

Helen nodded. ‘Any night suits me,’ she shrugged, realising as she did so that she sounded offhand. But Susan’s words still lingered, and she half wished she didn’t have to see Morgan again until the day of the wedding.

Helen left her job at the hospital on Tuesday evening. She would be returning after her honeymoon, but it was good to feel herself free for almost three weeks. Not that she didn’t enjoy her work. She did. It gave her great satisfaction to know that she was helping someone recover the use of their limbs, particularly if the patient was a child or an elderly person who had given up hope of ever being able to walk again. But the quality of her work was demanding and this week before the wedding was demanding enough in itself.

Nevertheless, the following morning found her at a loose end, with her parents and Barry at work, and Jennifer in school. During the afternoon she planned to go to the flat she and Barry were going to lease and take along some of the household things they had collected over recent weeks, but the morning was fine and sunny and she didn’t much feel like applying herself to housework. Instead she took herself off into town, and in the paperback book department of W H Smith she encountered the one person she least wanted to meet.

‘Morgan!’ she said, rather dismayed, after practically walking into him round the end of one of the fixtures. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’

‘It’s my usual port of call on visits to England,’ he replied evenly, pushing a textbook on neural surgery back into the rack. ‘I always take a pile of books back with me.’

‘Yes,’ Helen nodded, folding her fingers firmly round the strap of her handbag. ‘Did you—er—did you have a good day in London?’