Anne Mather - Scorpion's Dance

Miranda’s breathing was harsh. ‘He—he didn’t mean it.’ If he did, she didn’t want to admit it. ‘He was drunk—enraged! His mother saw to that.’

‘You’re making excuses for him,’ exclaimed Jaime contemptuously. ‘My God! You’re just like her , aren’t you? His mother! She’s made excuses for him all his life! Well, I wish you well of each other. You deserve everything you get!’

Miranda didn’t know why, but she wanted to crumple up and die. She despised Mark, she didn’t love him. And she despised herself for defending him. But she hated Jaime for making her see herself for what she was.

He was turning away from her in disgust when a low groan reached them. It seemed to come from the kitchen, and with a cry Miranda whirled around and sped along the remaining length of the corridor to where a light was filtering through a crack in the kitchen door. She burst into the room with Jaime right behind her, and then stopped dead at the sight that greeted her stunned eyes.

Her mother was lying on the floor in front of the fire. Mercifully, she had not fallen into the flames, but the flags beneath the polythene tiles were hard and at first Miranda thought she had knocked herself unconscious. But then she saw how one side of her mother’s face had twisted, and spittle was dribbling out of the corner of her mouth.

The sound Miranda made was a kind of choking gulp in her throat, and then Jaime cannoned into her, unable to prevent himself when she stopped so abruptly. The hard warmth of his body dispelled her momentary paralysis, and on shaking legs she moved across the room to kneel down beside Mrs Gresham. But Jaime was there before her, brushing past her and bending to his knees, taking her mother’s wrist between his fingers, probing the rolling sockets of her eyes for any sign of life.

At first Miranda wanted to protest, but then she remembered that he had told her he was a doctor, and she sat back on her heels, staring at him mutely, beseeching him to tell her what was wrong.

‘It looks like a stroke,’ he was saying grimly, when the door behind them burst open again to admit Lady Sanders. But not the Lady Sanders they had left in the hall. This woman was wild-eyed and tearful, lips quivering, hands trembling, a shaking mass of desperation. Grief-stricken fingers tore her handkerchief to shreds, as she cried: ‘Jaime! Jaime! Where are you? Oh, God, Jaime, it’s Mark! Mark ! A policeman’s just been to the door. He’s dead, Jaime, he’s dead! Oh, God, what am I going to do?’

She held out her hands towards him, but Miranda who, like Jaime, had got to her feet as Lady Sanders entered the room, reached him first as she sank into a dead faint for the first time in her life.

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