The Lake of Darkness by Ruth Rendell

note of thanks or phone. Dr. Ghopal had phoned the office during the afternoon to say that the great heart specialist was prepared to operate in the week immediately preceding Christmas. No further time should be wasted when a condition like Suma’s was in question. Would Martin buy the air tickets himself and arrange a hotel for Mrs. Bhavnani? Martin had agreed to do this, but he had felt unable to make enquiries about the flowers, especially as he was going to see the pretty dark-haired girl that evening.
    He saw her when he was still on the other side of the road, outside the post office. She was taking in boxes of cut flowers and poinsettias in pots from the pavement. He waited for the lights to change and then crossed the street. The shop, which was very small, had a red bulb in one ofits hanging lights, and the orangey glow, the mass of fresh damp glistening foliage, the red-velvet long-leaved poinsettias, gave to the place a festive air, Christmasy, almost exciting. It was dark and bleak outside. The shop was alight with reds and yellows and jungle greens, and the girl stood in the middle of it, smiling, her arms full of carnations.
    “Oh, I was so sure you wouldn’t come!”
    She checked herself, seeming a little embarrassed. The colour in her cheeks had deepened. It was as if-he couldn’t help feeling this-she had actually looked forward to his coming and had then resigned herself to-disappointment? She turned away and began putting the carnations in water. He said in a voice he recognised as typically his, a hearty voice he disliked,
    “Did you happen to find out who was the kind person who sent my bouquet?”
    It was a little while before she turned round. “There, that’s all done.” She wiped her hands on the brown-and-white-checked apron she wore. “No, I’m awfully afraid we couldn’t. You see, the person who came in didn’t give her name. She just wrote that card and paid for the flowers.”
    “You wouldn’t know if it was an old woman or a young one, I suppose, or if she was-well, white or Indian or what?”
    “I’m afraid not. I didn’t see her, you see. I
am
so sorry.” She took off her apron, went into the little room at the back and reappeared wearing a red-and-blue-striped coat with a hood. “If you’re worrying about thanking them,” she said, “I’m sure you needn’t. After all, the flowers were to thank
you
, weren’t they? For something you’d, done. You can’t keep on thanking people for thanking you backwards and forwards, the next thing would be they’d, have to thank you for your thank-you letter.” She added, the pink once again bright in her cheeks, “Of course, it’s nothing to do with me. I don’t mean to interfere.”
    “No, you’re quite right.” He went on quickly, “If you’regoing to close the shop now-I mean, if you’re leaving, can I give you a lift anywhere? I have my car.”
    “Well, you can. Oh,
would
you? But you’re going home and I have to go to Hampstead. I always go to see my friend in Hampstead on Monday evenings, and you’ve no idea how awful it is getting from here to Hampstead if you haven’t got a car. You have to go on the 210 bus, and they either don’t come at all or they hunt in packs.”
    Martin laughed. “I’ll go and get the car and pick you up in five minutes.” To make it as fast as that he had to run. When he pulled up at the lights she was waiting, scanning the street, looking lost.
    “You’re very very kind,” she said.
    “Not at all. I’m glad I happened to mention it.” He was already aware that she was the kind of girl who makes a man feel manly, protective, endowed with virile power. Sitting beside him, she smelt of the flowers she had been with all day. She pushed back her hood and felt in her hair to release some slide or comb which held it confined, and the dark silky mass fell down over her shoulders like a cape.
    At Highgate High Street, waiting in the traffic queue to turn up past the school, he