Castles Of Sand. Anne Mather

flinched beneath the withering contempt of his gaze. Of course, she thought bitterly, he must know how she was feeling, but what satisfaction was he getting from torturing her in this way?

      Shaking her head, she tried to recover some perspective. He was here—they were here—to see Malcolm, and somehow she had to accept that this encounter was an accident, nothing more, a cruel accident, for which none of them was to blame. It was not a deliberate attempt to wound her, to crucify her with images of what might have been. Alain must be as shocked as she was, but she knew well his capacity to hide his true feelings.

      ‘I—er—I’ll get someone to take you to Mr Henley,’ she said huskily, knowing she could not do it herself. Not now. Not when Malcolm knew! It would be just too much for her to bear.

      As they stepped into the hall she looked about her desperately, praying for a friendly face, and was rewarded when Mr Norris, the elderly caretaker, came trudging down the stairs.

      ‘Oh, Mr Norris,’ she exclaimed in relief. ‘Mr—er—this gentleman wishes to see Mr Henley. Do you think you could show him the way to Miss Langley’s office? She—she’ll see if Mr Henley is free.’

      ‘Very well, Miss Gilbert.’ Mr Norris smiled. He liked the young English mistress. She was quiet and unassuming, and she wasn’t always complaining when the lights fused or the radiators persistently remained cold. ‘If you’ll follow me, Mr—er—–?

      ‘Gauthier,’ inserted Alain without expression, shunning his title. ‘Thank you.’

      His thanks encompassed both of them, but Ashley was scarcely paying attention. She was looking at Andrew again, imprinting his likeness in her mind, creating an image for all the empty years ahead of her, holding it there with a persistence born of desperation. If only, she thought, as he started obediently after Mr Norris, if only …

      ‘Do not even think of it,’ Alain’s harsh voice decreed, in a tone low enough for only her to hear. ‘He is not your son. He is Hassan’s. He will never be told that his mother caused his father to take his own life!’

       CHAPTER TWO

      ASHLEY arrived back at her flat in a state of extreme nervous exhaustion. She had a sense of unreality, too, as if what had happened was just some awful nightmare, from which she must soon awaken. But although she might wish otherwise, the feelings fermenting inside her were not imaginary, and nor was the raw vulnerability of her emotions. She felt exposed and defenceless, powerless in the face of such a potent adversary, and no amount of objective thinking or cold self-analysis could spare her the agony of losing her soil for the second time.

      As she ground the beans and filled the coffee percolator, all without any conscious thought, she thought how incredible it was that she should have allowed the Gauthiers to take him without a fight. He was her son. She was his mother. She had the most elemental right in the world to look after him, and care for him, so why had she let him go so easily?

      Clattering a cup into a saucer, she knew she did not have to think hard to find the answer. It was because of Alain she had let him go, because of Alain she had not put up a fight; and because of Alain she was now in this deplorable position.

      Leaving the coffee to bubble, she went into the main room of the flat. This was a comfortably-sized living room, with an L-shaped alcove accommodating a round dining table and four chairs. It had taken her three years to graduate to this standard of living, from a room in a boarding house, via a bedsitter, to this two-bedroomed apartment, with kitchen and bath. With care, and careful saving, she had finally succeeded in furnishing it to her liking, and she looked round now at the green velvet chairs and yellow-patterned carpet, in a desperate search for reassurance. But all she could see was a boy’s smiling face, framed by straight dark hair, and a man’s grim, forbidding countenance.

      In an effort to escape the futility of her thoughts, she hurried into her bedroom, unbuttoning the skirt and blouse she had worn to. go to school and donning instead a pair of yellow baggy pants and a brown and green striped smock. Then she loosened her hair from its confining knot so that it spilled like honey-coloured silk below her shoulders. As she brushed its silken length, she realised it was an unnecessary vanity. It would be far more sensible to have it cut, and keep it in one of the short modern styles, which were so flattering to the girls of her acquaintance. But somehow it was a link with the past, an unconscious one to be sure, and only now did she realise that Alain’s influence still reached out to her.

      The percolator was bubbling merrily when she went back into the kitchen, and after pouring herself a cup of coffee she carried it into the living room. It was after two o’clock, she realised with a pang, but she wasn’t hungry, and she determinedly picked up the daily paper and tried to interest herself in the national news. But the events of the morning persisted in intruding, and eventually she gave it up to recapture those moments when Andrew had smiled at her. She allowed herself the pleasure of wondering what he would have done if she had taken him in her arms and told him who she was. How would he have reacted? Would he have been pleased or apprehensive, glad or sorry? Would he have believed her? Or would he have thought she was some crazy lady, claiming a relationship that was totally alien to him? He had been brought up by the Gauthiers. It was a predominantly Moslem household. How could he ever identify with her, particularly after all this time?

      Her coffee cooled as the realities of the situation dispelled her momentary euphoria. They were from different cultures, different civilisations. From an early age he would have been taught to regard women as secondary beings, created for man’s enjoyment and little else, expected always to defer to their masters, and obedient to their wishes. He would know that his grandfather had two wives, and even if Alain’s beliefs had been in opposition to his father’s, who was to say what those beliefs were now, or whether he too had not adopted the sexual morals of the rest of his family …

      Her temples began to throb as she remained there on the couch, her knees drawn up under her, her head resting wearily against the soft cushions. Who would have dreamed when she awakened that morning that by lunchtime she would have suffered such a dramatic upheaval? She had made her life here, such as it was. She had made friends, she had a good job. Yet in the space of a morning it had all been destroyed, and she was left without peace or tranquillity, or hope.

      She thrust the still full coffee cup on to the low table beside her and stretched her legs. Somehow she had to forget what had happened, she told herself severely. She had lived seven years without seeing her son; she might have to live another fifty years without doing so. Of course, there was always the chance that when Andrew got older he might start asking questions his grandfather and his uncle would not be able to answer, and then he might come looking for her himself. But that was an unlikely expectation to say the least, when for all she knew, Alain might have told him she was dead.

      She closed her eyes against such a final denigration, then opened them again when someone knocked at her door. It was a peremptory tattoo, unlike her neighbour’s usual tap, but she couldn’t think of anyone other than Mrs Forest who might call at this time of day.

      ‘Coming,’ she called, sliding off the couch, and padding barefoot to the door. ‘You startled me,’ she was adding, as she lifted the latch, and then fell back in dismay when she recognised her visitor. ‘You!’ she breathed, pressing a hand to her throat. ‘Wh-what do you want? Why have you come here?’

      ‘An unnecessary question,’ remarked Alain flatly, stepping past her without invitation. ‘Why else would I come here, except to see you? Can you honestly say you did not expect me?’

      ‘Yes!’ Ashley strove for breath. ‘Yes,’ she repeated. ‘I can honestly say that. Wh-why have you come here? Why should you want to see me?’

      Alain turned in the centre of the floor, dark and forbidding in his charcoal grey attire. ‘Close the door, will you?’ he directed, flicking a careless hand, on the little finger of which a dragon’s eye ruby glinted balefully. ‘I do not propose to speak with you in sight and hearing of a crowd of inquisitive tenants.’

      ‘You