Cynthia Manson (ed) Read Online Free PDF Page A

on again, and the
carriage was just as it had been. People were reading the evening paper as if
nothing at all had occurred. But Fran had crushed the beaker in her hand—no
wonder her legs had smarted.
    The thickness of the corduroy skirt
had prevented her from being badly scalded. She mopped it with a tissue. “I
don’t know what’s wrong with me— I had a nightmare, except that I wasn’t
asleep. Where are we?”
    “We went through Reading twenty
minutes ago. I’d say we’re almost there. Are you going to be okay?”
    Over the public-address system came
the announcement that the next station stop would be Didmarsh Halt.
    So far as they could tell in the
thick mist, they were the only people to leave the train at Didmarsh.
    Miss Shivers was in the booking
hall, a gaunt-faced, tense woman of about fifty, with cropped silver hair and
red-framed glasses. Her hand was cold, but she shook Fran’s firmly and lingered
before letting it go.
    She drove them in an old Maxi Estate
to a cottage set back from the road not more than five minutes from the
station. Christmas-tree lights were visible through the leaded window. The
smell of roast turkey wafted from the door when she opened it. Jim handed
across the bottle of wine he had thoughtfully brought.
    “We’re wondering how you heard of
us.”
    “Yes, I’m sure you are,” the woman
answered, addressing herself more to Fran than Jim. “My name is Edith. I was
your mother’s best friend for ten years, but we fell out over a
misunderstanding. You see. Fran. I loved your father.”
    Fran stiffened and turned to Jim. “I
don’t think we should stay.”
    “Please.” said the woman, and she
sounded close to desperation, “we did nothing wrong. I have something on my
conscience, but it isn’t adultery, whatever you were led to believe.”
    They consented to stay and eat the
meal. Conversation was strained, but the food was superb. And when at last they
sat in front of the fire sipping coffee, Edith Shivers explained why she had
invited them. “As I said, I loved your father Harry. A crush, we called it in
those days when it wasn’t mutual. He was kind to me, took me out, kissed me
sometimes, but that was all. He really loved your mother. Adored her.”
    “You’ve got to be kidding,” said
Fran grimly.
    “No, your mother was mistaken.
Tragically mistaken. I know what she believed, and nothing I could say or do
would shake her. I tried writing, phoning, calling personally. She shut me out
of her life completely.”
    “That much I can accept,” said Fran.
“She never mentioned you to me.”
    “Did she never talk about the train
crash—the night your father was killed, just down the line from here?”
    “Just once. After that it was a
closed book. He betrayed her dreadfully. She was pregnant, expecting me. It was
traumatic. She hardly ever mentioned my father after that. She didn’t even keep
a photograph.”
    Miss Shivers put out her hand and pressed
it over Fran’s. “My dear, for both their sakes I want you to know the truth.
Thirty-seven people died in that crash, twenty-five years ago this very
evening. Your mother was shocked to learn that he was on the train, because
he’d said nothing whatsoever to her about it. He’d told her he was working
late. She read about the crash without supposing for a moment that Harry was
one of the dead. When she was given the news, just a day or two before you were
born, the grief was worse because he’d lied to her. Then she learned that I’d
been a passenger on the same train, as indeed I had, and escaped unhurt. Fran,
that was chance—pure chance. I happened to work in the City. My name was
published in the press, and your mother saw it and came to a totally wrong
conclusion.”
    “That my father and you—”
    “Yes. And that wasn’t all. Some days
after the accident, Harry’s personal effects were returned to her. and in the
pocket of his jacket they found a receipt from a Bond Street shop for