A High Price To Pay. Sara Craven

her to economise, she wouldn’t have known what he meant. He couldn’t—lean on her when the going got rough. I don’t suppose she even knew he’d been having chest pains for months.’

      ‘No, but then neither did I,’ Alison said quietly, wincing a little.

      ‘He probably thought you had enough on your plate already.’ Melanie began to fiddle with the handle of the poker. She said suddenly, ‘This is going to be my last term at Mascombe Park, isn’t it?’

      ‘The honest answer is, “Probably”,’ Alison admitted after a pause.

      ‘I guessed.’ Melanie’s face was mournful. ‘I suppose I could try and get a place in the local comprehensive, although the course will probably be different. Or would it be more help if I tried to get a job?’

      ‘No.’ Alison shook her head positively. ‘You’re Oxbridge material, Mel. You can’t give that prospect up without a struggle.’

      ‘I don’t want to.’ Melanie gave a faint grin. ‘But something tells me that if we can’t manage the fees, Miss Lesley will give me up without a struggle all right.’

      ‘There used to be bursaries and things,’ Alison frowned. ‘I suppose we could enquire.’

      ‘Mm.’ Melanie gave a slight grimace. ‘It would be hateful, though, going cap in hand. I’m not sure I wouldn’t rather leave.’

      ‘Well, don’t let’s make any hasty decisions,’ said Alison. ‘Mr Liddell’s coming back tomorrow to talk over a few things, and I’ll see what he has to say.’ She hesitated. ‘I would have mentioned it earlier, but I don’t want to discuss personal family things in front of Nicholas Bristow.’

      ‘You really don’t like him, do you?’ Melanie gave a little sigh. ‘I think he’s amazing! I wish I was Hester Monclair, lucky bitch. Of course she’s gorgeous-looking, and sophisticated, and she probably knows exactly how to turn him on in bed …’

      Alison was surprised into unwilling laugher. ‘Mel, for God’s sake! Don’t let Mummy hear you.’

      ‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’ Melanie put her head on one side. ‘But don’t you fancy him, Ally? If you’re honest, in your heart of hearts, just a little? You can’t really prefer boring old Simon.’

      ‘Simon is neither boring nor old,’ Alison said calmly. ‘And I wasn’t aware that my sexual preferences—or Nick Bristow’s for that matter—were on the “A” level curriculum. Stick to Eng. Lit.—it’s safer.’

      ‘What’s safe?’ asked Melanie, getting restlessly to her feet. ‘We’re all going to be living dangerously from now on.’

      With her world visibly crumbling around her, it was a relief to Alison to find that the office hadn’t changed. And nor had Simon, who seemed endearingly pleased to see her. The locality had been buzzing with gossip since the funeral, Alison knew, but Simon, with noble tact, refrained from asking any questions about the disposal of Ladymead.

      He simply said that a smaller, more convenient house was vital, and promised to keep his eyes and ears open for suitable properties coming on to the market.

      She was glad to be back at work. Melanie had returned to Mascombe Park, although for how much longer was anyone’s guess. Alec Liddell had pursed his lips ruefully over the question of school fees, and when Alison had attempted to discuss the problem with her mother, Mrs Mortimer had dissolved into floods of tears.

      It was not an attitude which helped, Alison thought tiredly, as she looked through an assortment of bungalow details. But then her mother’s behaviour generally was giving her deep cause for concern. She wasn’t eating, and hardly ever left her room. Alison had tried to persuade her to take up the Bosworths’ invitation, although she supposed, privately, it was a rotten trick to play on Aunt Beth, but Mrs Mortimer wouldn’t hear of it. She seemed to have it fixed on her mind that if she ever left Ladymead, it would be for ever, and Alison knew that the doctor was as worried about her state of mind as she was herself. He had started talking in guarded tones about the possibility of treatment in a complete change of scene, and the sound of it made Alison’s heart sink.

      ‘Are you saying my mother needs to see a psychiatrist?’ she had asked.

      Dr Barnet had given her a straight look. ‘She’s clearly in a very disturbed state,’ he had returned. ‘Bereavement is usually enough of a trauma for anyone to cope with, but when you add the other losses your mother is suffering …’ He shrugged. ‘Frankly, it’s enough to undermine the emotional constitution of someone with three times her strength. And, unfortunately, she’s become fixated on this house as a symbol of her security rather than you or Melanie. It’s not a healthy situation.’

      He could say that again, Alison thought, shoving the bungalow details back into their folders with scant respect. Nicholas Bristow had said he wouldn’t evict them—but the way her mother was reacting, he might have to.

      ‘It’s my home,’ her mother kept reiterating. ‘My only home. He can’t take it away from me!’

      The fact that they could no longer afford to live there seemed to have escaped her completely, Alison thought wryly.

      She was thankful to have her work to immerse herself in once again, and she and Simon had already tentatively discussed the terms by which she would work for him full time.

      It was a relief to know she would have a wage she could live on, but it didn’t solve Melanie’s problem, as the letter she had received only that morning served to underline. Melanie had had a preliminary interview with Miss Lesley, her formidable headmistress. It had been relatively civilised, Mel wrote, but the question of where the next term’s fees would be coming from had inevitably been raised.

      And that was the problem in the forefront of Alison’s mind as she drove her elderly Mini back to Ladymead that evening.

      As she rounded the last bend in the drive, she was surprised to see another car parked outside the front door. She didn’t recognise the number plate, she thought frowningly, as she switched off her engine and got out, and she certainly wasn’t expecting visitors.

      As she walked into the hall, Mrs Horner appeared. ‘It’s that Mr Bristow,’ she said in an undertone. ‘He’s been here over an hour. Asked for you specific, and not for madam, so I made him some coffee and hope I did right.’

      ‘Quite right,’ Alison said promptly, her spirits plummeting. ‘Is he in the drawing room?’

      ‘He is, miss. I told him madam wasn’t too well, and that you were at work, but it made no difference. Said he’d wait.’

      ‘Oh?’ Alison returned wanly, as she unbuttoned her jacket.

      He was standing by the fireplace, one arm resting on the mantelshelf, as he looked broodingly down into the flames. His head came round sharply as Alison closed the drawing room door.

      ‘You’re late, Miss Mortimer,’ he remarked impatiently. ‘I didn’t know your work included overtime.’

      ‘It doesn’t as a rule.’ She dropped her jacket over the back of a chair, aware of the disparaging glance he sent her plain navy dress. ‘Just as I was leaving, my boss called me back to say he’d heard about a cottage that might suit us.’

      ‘Oh.’ He didn’t appear to receive the news with ill-concealed delight. In fact, he frowned slightly. ‘Where is this place?’

      ‘Far enough away for us to be able to avoid each other,’ she returned composedly.

      His lips tightened. ‘I see. And have you made an offer for it.?’

      ‘Hardly. My mother and I have to see it first.’ Alison touched the coffee pot and grimaced. ‘This is cold. May I offer you some fresh?’

      ‘No, thanks,’ he said. ‘But I’d sell my soul for a large Scotch—it’s been one hell of a day.’

      She