Rainbow for Megan Page 2

  Before she prepared for bed that evening, Megan sorted out clothes suitable for secretarial work. There was not much choice, for her wardrobe was on the slender side. Practically living in sweaters and slacks, her stock of dresses was woefully low, but at last she found a dress of light cotton material that would suit the purpose. She wondered if Ray Hallett would object

  to her wearing trousers, and did not see why he should.

  Later, as she climbed into bed, she fervently hoped she would like the job and would be capable of holding it down. She also thought of Alain.

  He hadn't even bothered to ring and find out where she was, let alone call in on them. Of course, he was always very busy the first week back, she told herself, he had so many things to catch up on. Still, she thought sadly, he might at least have rung.

  The Foxes was a modern dwelling, and Megan, driving along its shrub-lined drive the following morning, trying to control the butterflies in her stomach, concentrated on the house in front of her. The previous owners who had had the house built, a retired bank manager and his wife, had never fitted in with the villagers. The man had been much too pompous and his wife of the opinion that money could buy anything. It was a help, Megan mused, but it hadn't bought them what they craved—bowing, scraping and servility from those they considered the yokels of the village. Finally they had given the villagers best and, after a few disparaging remarks on the unfriendliness of the locals, had left the district.

  Getting out of the car, she wondered whether Ray Hallett would fare any better. On first showing she doubted it. He had an air of cocksureness about him that would be bound to arouse a certain amount of resentment from a few villagers she could think of.

  Mr. Browne, for instance, on the District Council; a rather touchy character, but goodhearted when you got to know him. Of course, she mused as she walked to the door, Ray Hallett was a very successful man, and it must be very difficult not to let it go to your head. With his looks he was probably very successful in other ways, too. She wondered if he were married, although he had not mentioned a wife. Her thoughts were abruptly terminated at this point by the man himself answering the doorbell.

  `Good morning, Miss Shaw,' he said jovially. 'Do you mind if I call you Megan ?' he asked as he ushered her into the house. 'As we're going to work together, Miss Shaw is a bit formal, isn't it? Do come in, I'll show you to your den.'

  Megan had no objection to his using her Christian name—everybody else did except Alain, who for some unknown reason of his own called her 'Tuppence'.

  She followed him through the hall to a room at the end of a luxuriously carpeted corridor, then he opened the door and stood aside courteously for her to precede him into the room. She noticed that he was casually dressed, in a short-sleeved navy shirt and corduroy trousers. She thought she must remember to ask him if he objected to her wearing trousers, then realised suddenly that he wouldn't, and she didn't know why she had thought that he would.

  The room she entered was a miniature office, a desk

  complete with typewriter and dictating machine. Her eyes were riveted on the latter. She looked back at Ray Hallett. 'I usually copy Father's work from notes,' she said with a sinking feeling. She wouldn't be able to take the job after all, she thought miserably. Why hadn't she thought to ask? Most writers nowadays used tapes.

  He smiled at her. 'Don't look so worried. It's not so difficult, you know. I might be a slavedriver, but I'm also human. I don't expect you to get through much while you're getting the hang of it. My last secretary took about a fortnight. I'm pretty certain you'll halve that time.'

  Megan looked back at the machine doubtfully.

  `Come on, I'll show you how it works,' he said cheerfully. 'The only real necessity with this work is knowing your spelling. Bad spellers are the ones who are really caught out. You'll see what I mean once you start.'

  It did not take Megan long to learn the truth of this. She was able to adjust the speed of the dictation while she practised. His diction was extremely clear and very precise, so was his punctuation. By the Wednesday, she started to get to grips with the work, and the small pile of tapes waiting to be transcribed slowly dispersed. Nothing passed his attention—his office was next to hers, and she was instructed to just ring if she

  had any queries; it would be less tiring than running from office to office.

  As the days went by, Megan found that she had badly misjudged Ray Hallett. She saw he was a kindly, thoughtful man completely engrossed in his work. Remembering his remarks about not being a sociable person, she wondered a little about this. She learnt he had a sister, who had come down from her home in the Midlands to see to the furnishings of the house and make sure her brother was comfortable before returning to her family after he had moved in. She had noticed a photograph of a lovely dark-haired woman on his desk and wondered if that was his sister.

  The work she found utterly intriguing. She would avidly follow each chapter and try to work out the villain of the piece. Megan had not had much time for reading in the past, but she slowly became addicted to the detective story, and felt she would like to read Ray Hallett's previous books. At one stage of the story she was sure she had spotted the one vital clue to the killer's identity and told him so. He had smiled and asked her to name the character. She had done so, only to be told with a teasing twinkle in his eye that she had swallowed the red herring. Megan had accused him indignantly of deliberately misleading his public, and he had laughed delightedly. Then she had said curiously, 'I don't believe you know yourself until the last chapter,' which had sent him off into peals of

  laughter and he managed to get out : 'You know, Megan, you're perfectly right,' and left her wondering whether this really was so.

  On Megan's recommendation a housekeeper had been found for him, and a daily help. Megan knew that Mrs. White in the village could do with the extra money and had given her name when her advice was sought.

  It was on the Friday that a few of the questions Megan had pondered on were answered for her. She had asked if she could borrow a copy of one of Ray's books to read over the weekend and had chosen his first. Permission was readily given. 'I think I've come on a bit since then,' he commented with a smile.

  Taking it from the shelf, Megan idly opened the book and the words, To my loving wife, leapt out at her. She closed the book hastily, feeling as if she had intruded on his personal life. Her abrupt action did not go unnoticed.

  `Marie,' he said quietly. 'I lost her a few weeks before the book was accepted.'

  Megan coloured. 'Please, Mr. Hallett, I don't want to pry. If you'd rather not talk about it .

  `I'd be grateful if you'd drop the Mr., Megan,' he said slowly. 'I think we know each other well enough by now for you to call me Ray.' He was silent for a few moments, then said quietly, 'No, I'd like to talk about her if I'm not boring you.'

  Megan looked at him and instinctively knew that what he was going to tell her was going to be painful for him. Her soft heart was touched. 'Please, I'd like to hear about her,' she replied gently. 'And you're not boring me.'

  He gave an odd, twisted smile. 'There are not many people I want to tell,' he said, and gave her a quick considering look. 'You know, Megan, there's a quietness about you and a refreshing frankness not many people possess—or if they did, life has knocked it out of them. I hope that doesn't happen to you. In some ways you remind me of Marie.' He turned away and picked up an old briar pipe and started filling it.

  `In those days things weren't easy. I took odd jobs that gave me plenty of spare time to concentrate on my writing, and Marie kept on working—she had to, or we'd never have survived. My contribution was barely enough to buy the groceries, let alone pay the rent.' He paused while he applied a match to the pipe, then puffed for a second or two and continued. 'At first I was so sure I would be snapped up by the first publisher I approached. It was only a case of finishing the story and sitting back and waiting for the cheques to roll in....' He slowly shook his head. 'Well, I wa
sn't the first and I won't be the last to think that way.

  `The first rejection somewhat brought me down to earth, the second and subsequently the third utterly

  demoralised me. Throughout this time Marie stood by, never complaining, always soothing and reminding me of the struggle other writers had in first getting their work accepted, and urging me not to give up. That first attempt never was accepted. I scrapped it and began another—only, I might add, after Marie's gentle bullying. Eventually the second one was accepted, but only after several more abortive approaches.'

  He applied another match to the pipe, and after a few more puffs he went on, 'When it did come—success, I mean—it was too late.' He shrugged expressively. 'Oh, I'm not saying I wasn't heartened or untouched by it—just that it was too late to really mean anything to me. As I said, Marie was killed in a car crash. A dog on the loose cut across the road. She swerved to avoid it.'

  Megan looked away quickly but said nothing.

  After a second or so, he said, 'All that time, it was her faith in me I wanted to justify. To buy her the things she'd never had.' There was a wealth of bitterness in his voice. Then just as suddenly, the bitterness left him, and his voice now held a tired note.

  `It took a long time to get adjusted and it was a long time before I wrote another book.' He looked back at the shelf from which Megan had selected the one she wanted. 'Ironically, despair brought out the writing talent. The next book was a bestseller. I never looked back after that. There were too many well-wishers,

  though—at least that was what they called themselves —I had another name for them. Always dropping in.... Oh, you know the sort of thing. Had I lost all overnight, they would have vanished into thin air.' He grimaced wryly. 'Marie and I always kept apart from others. We had each other and it was enough.' He sighed.

  `After a few years, the matchmakers got to work. To my horror I found friends casually introducing single women or widows for my inspection.' He ran a hand over his hair and grinned. 'I think the married men envied my single state and tried to level the score, so like a coward I cut and ran, determined to get a bit and peace and quiet.' He looked at Megan. 'I envy your father, Megan. He's content with solitude, living as it were in the cool shade and out of the limelight. It's that shade I now seek, and with any luck I'll find it.' He gave Megan a conspiratorial look. 'You have my permission to dub me as an unsociable type, a misanthropist if you like. No doubt you'll be quizzed about me.'

  Megan grinned back at him. 'An absolute slavedriver,' she said. 'And I wouldn't stay, only the money's good.'

  He nodded approvingly. 'Excellent,' he smiled,

  know I can rely on you. Now you'd better be off or

  your father really will believe the rumours. I hope

  you like the book, by the way, and have a good weekend.'

  At the door, Megan hesitated. 'Ray,' she said doubtfully, 'what you said about Father—it was true, but he does appreciate company sometimes. I know he'd be pleased to see you if you felt like a chat some time.'

  He smiled back at her. 'You're a very sweet girl, Megan. One day I'll probably take up your offer,' he promised.

  That evening, Iris called on her. Megan was under no illusion as to why she had been so honoured. With Alain home, Iris was not the sort of person to bother about seeking out Megan's company.

  It soon became clear that Iris was extremely put out. 'I know he's been away a year,' she complained, `but he's been away just as long before and never made half as much fuss about the state of the property. He had poor old Mannings shaking in his shoes after he'd been through the accounts.' She threw back her long fair hair, a gesture Megan had often seen her make when annoyed.

  Watching her, Megan's thoughts strayed back to last summer. It must be conceded, she thought, that Alain had paid Iris more than the usual amount of attention. All this Megan could see now, and she wished she had seen it sooner when she recalled how

  she had tagged on in their company. She had always considered Alain her special property and Iris an interloper. Inwardly sighing, she thought how often they must have wished her elsewhere.

  Iris carried on, unaware of the thoughts racing through Megan's mind. 'Every farmer's taken a knocking these days, but Alain's sure he's taken more than his share.' She flung herself down in the most comfortable chair in the room. 'He's spent practically the whole week going over the estate with a notebook,' she continued pettishly, 'jotting down what needs to be done. I offered to go with him and make some notes for him, but he said he wasn't in the mood for any distractions.'

  Megan almost chuckled. She could well imagine the scene Alain's temper when roused was something to be respected; she doubted whether Iris had ever been on the receiving end before. No wonder she was put out !

  `I expect he's worried, Iris,' she said. 'Farming nowadays is one big headache. He was very probably right in what he said about the losses. He's been at college studying the subject for two years, remember, so that the farm can be run more efficiently. It's not as if he's had no experience—farming's been in his family for generations.'

  Iris pouted. 'Well, you'd think he'd have eased off a bit on his first week home. He has all the time in

  the world now to get things straight, no need at all to plunge into it with such fanaticism. Still,' with a note of satisfaction creeping into her voice, 'he did ask me to go to the county farmers' dance on Wednesday.' Then, as if it were something she had just remembered, she said, 'He asked where you were, and I told him you'd got a job. He said it was about time, you'd lazed around long enough.'

  Megan's eyebrows lifted. 'Well, of all the ... Just wait till I see him I' she said, quite forgetting her plan to stay out of his way.

  `I thought we'd agreed you wouldn't hang around him,' drawled Iris. 'I shouldn't make an issue of it if I were you, he bit my head off for offering to help. I'd hate to think how you'd fare if you started trailing after him again.'

  Megan's lips straightened. For one moment she was tempted to put a few facts at Iris's disposal. Firstly, and more important than anything else, she had a clear field as far as Alain was concerned. Their friendship was purely platonic, anything else was laughable. Not that Iris would see it that way, she thought sadly. It would be a waste of time trying to prove it to her. As far as Iris was concerned there was no such thing as a platonic friendship with the opposite sex. You either fell for them, or you didn't. She held her tongue.

  `By the way,' said Iris casually, 'is it true that your employer's a famous author ?'

  Megan nodded warily.

  `Young or old?' persisted Iris.

  Megan grinned, for she could see the purpose behind the question. 'Oldish,' she said.

  `Married ?' queried Iris.

  Still smiling, Megan thought Iris was running true to type. It was nice to be able to get some of her own back. 'There's nothing doing in that line,' she chuckled. 'He's not what you might call sociable, and a slavedriver to boot. Honestly, sometimes I wonder why I stick it.'

  Iris's cold blue eyes rested calculatingly on her. `Why do you, then ?' she asked in a voice that said she didn't believe a word of it.

  `The money, of course,' answered Megan promptly. `The salary's fantastic. So I swallow my resentment.'

  Iris got up to leave, her purpose now fulfilled. `Well, we shall soon see how sociable he is, shan't we? I'm making a collection on behalf of the Church restoration fund.' She looked back at Megan. 'He's not an atheist, I trust ?'

  Megan grinned back at her, and asked a question of her own. 'How long have you been associated with that fund?'

  Iris's eyebrows rose haughtily. 'Oh, I help out now

  and again,' she returned coldly. 'What's the best time to call?'

  Sadly eyeing her, Megan thought that she had no sense of humour. 'Would you like me to make an appointment for you?' she asked wickedly.

  Iris stared at her. 'Is he that important?' she queried.

  Megan nodded decisively. 'Oh yes. And he's a stickler for the pro
per procedure. Time is money to him.'

  Iris was impressed. 'Er ... well, perhaps you'd just mention I'm calling on Tuesday morning. What time does he have coffee ?'

  Ten out of ten for trying, thought Megan. 'Well, he has no set time for it,' she said carefully. `I'll tell him you're calling, but don't blame me if he won't see you,' she added with relish.

  That evening, Megan told her father about Ray. `It just shows,' she said musingly, 'how you can get an entirely wrong impression of someone.' She looked at her father. 'Tell me, Father, what did you really think of him when he called?'

  Mr. Shaw smiled. 'What he intended me to think, I'm afraid,' he said, 'a bit pompous.'

  Megan's smile widened. 'It's a deliberate front he puts up to keep people away. Do you know what he said ?' she asked suddenly, her head on one side. 'He

  envies you. He said something about your being content to live in the shade, or words to that effect.'

  `Did he, now ?' murmured Mr. Shaw. 'Well, he's right about one thing. I'm content.' He ruffled Megan's hair affectionately, then sighed. 'The maim-script was returned again this morning '

  Giving him a sympathetic look Megan asked, 'Want me to look out more names for you?'

  He shook his head. 'I've still two in mind. I'll get you to post it off again on your way to work on Monday.'

  CHAPTER THREE

  MEGAN spent Saturday and Sunday catching up on her father's work. He protested, but she carried on in spite of his assertion that there was no rush now. 'I haven't anything else to do,' she said airily.

  `Aren't you going to Clock House ?' he asked. 'I thought you said Alain was home.'

  `I expect Iris is there,' Megan said darkly. 'I don't want to cramp her style—or Alain's, come to that.'

  Her father blinked rapidly and looked at her. `Really, what odd expressions you use, child. What am I to deduce from that remark ?'

  Megan grinned impishly. 'Well, I'm not sure who's courting whom, but someone's courting someone, if you see what I mean.'