Kitabı oku: «The Keepsake»
The Keepsake
Sheelagh Kelly
For my dear daughter, Gayle.
Epilogue
Neither woman felt in the mood for a party. It was impossible to concentrate on the trivia of bunting and buns for the Peace Celebrations after four, almost five gruelling years of shortages, the agonising worry over one’s husband, one’s son, yet Etta and Aggie had decided they should make some sort of effort for the children’s sake. Dressed in black, each was silent, going over the business of sandwich-making automatically, scraping knives across bread, their thoughts otherwise engaged by memories. The room was silent, its only other occupant fast asleep in his fireside chair, pipe on chest, his nose and cheeks burnt bright red after an accidental nap under a blazing sun.
‘Marty used to like these when he was a boy,’ murmured Aggie, even in her best attire looking haggard as she stacked another round of condensed milk sandwiches on the plate with its paper-lace doily. ‘Of course, that was before he developed expensive tastes. Nothing was ever good enough for him after that.’
Etta gave an absent smile, deep in her own thoughts as she sawed and sliced, contributing to the pyramid of sandwiches. It seemed like a lifetime ago that, after being let out of prison with all charges dropped, she had staggered back into this kitchen, thrown herself into Aggie’s arms and sobbed out her misery, to be just as dramatically assuaged by a letter which told of the petition to the Commander in Chief, organised by her mother, her meek little mother who had never uttered a defiant word in her life but had rallied her influential friends to save her daughter’s husband. Whether this had swayed Sir John French’s decision one could not say, but, with a telegram to confirm the reprieve, it had not mattered. For whatever reason, Marty had been spared execution. Had Etta but known it then, that even in such wondrous moment of relief there would be three more years to suffer…
‘God!’ An agitated Aggie paused abruptly in her task to rest her hands on the table and to shake her head, her face grim. ‘I know I said I wasn’t going to mention it and spoil the children’s party, but I don’t think I’ll ever get over the shame. That boy…’
Etta paused too, looked at her sympathetically and parted her lips to speak, but her mother-in-law announced, ‘No, don’t say a word! I don’t even want to think about it, not today.’ And she got on with her frivolous chore.
‘Any more plates, Granny Lanny?’ fourteen-year-old Celia tripped in to ask.
‘I’ll give you Granny Lanny!’
The young woman laughed coquettishly, and, carrying the plates that were thrust at her, returned to the tables that had been set up in the street, from where others’ happy laughter could be heard.
‘I suppose we’d better join the party then,’ sighed Aggie, smoothing her grey hair and casting a harassed glance at Red still asleep in his fireside chair, then at the empty one opposite. ‘Much as I don’t feel like it. Seems disrespectful to be kicking up our heels just after a wake.’
Etta sanctioned the need for them both to have fun. ‘I don’t think anyone would begrudge us after the hardship we’ve been through.’
Red woke up then with a grunt, cast his glowing face about him in mild surprise, before picking his pipe off his chest and puffing it back to life.
‘I should buy you a lace waistcoat,’ his wife chided him sourly. ‘’Twould save you the trouble of burning the holes in it.’
Red gave a philosophical brush at his chest. ‘Have I missed the party?’
‘No, we’re still waiting on himself,’ replied his wife, looking somewhat aggrieved.
All looked round as the back door opened.
‘Oh, here you are at last,’ chided Aggie. ‘I thought I’d have to come and dig you out.’
‘I can’t help it, it’s what you do go feeding me!’ A grumbling Uncle Mal shuffled in at the speed of a tortoise, his twig-like hand upon a stick, having to summon help from Etta in negotiating the shallow step up from the scullery.
‘My feelings exactly!’ A younger male head poked itself round a different door and a voice chipped in, ‘Is there nothing more interesting to scoff? Christ, I was stuck on condensed milk and bully beef for four years – this is meant to be a celebration, ye know, Ma.’
A grossly indignant Aggie put her hands on her hips and beheld Etta. ‘Didn’t I tell you he always wants what he can’t damn-well have?’ Feigning violence, a sparkle in her eye, she advanced on her grinning son.
‘Call her off, Da!’ begged Marty, but at the first sign of laughter Red fell instantly asleep, awaking every few seconds to issue a brief spurt of amusement before falling asleep again and again and again. ‘I was only asking, Ma!’ Marty yelped.
‘And I’m only telling!’ She smote and jabbed him. ‘I haven’t the money to waste on you after emptying my purse on the wake!’
‘Nobody said you had to,’ objected her son, laughingly trying to fend her off, bending this way and that to avoid her flailing hands.
Aggie pressed forth the mock attack, poked and prodded him till he shrieked for mercy in a boyish falsetto, whilst her blue eyes sparkled with delight at having him home. ‘I’m damned if I’m having your Aunt Joan, God rest her, sitting up there in her heavenly abode complaining to Uncle John that I didn’t give them the very best send-off!’
‘So we have to make do with a crummy shindig!’ taunted Marty, green eyes twinkling as, having left off, his mother now came back to re-launch the assault. ‘Ah, don’t just stand there, Ett, save me, save me!’ And for the benefit of his amused audience that now included little William, who had just come in and joined the game by helping Granny smack Father, he danced this way and that to avoid her blows.
‘I shan’t lift a finger,’ announced Etta loftily, maintaining a steadying hold of Uncle Mal’s arm. ‘I thoroughly agree with your mother.’
‘Oh, fine wife you turned out to be!’ accused Marty, finally allowed to escape from Aggie’s clutches, but his eyes were warm as they locked with Etta’s dark brown ones. And for a moment they were to remain like this, each sharing the same thought, silently wondering what it had all been for, those years of suffering, when here they were in this little house as if he had never been away? Was Marty returned to a better world? A world fit for heroes? Different, certainly, but better? With all his heart he prayed so, not from any selfish desire for, unlike many, he had walked straight into a job that enabled him to rent a modest house, and so he didn’t have to rely on his parents, and could feel like a man. No, his prayer, his fervent hope, was that his less fortunate comrades had not been trodden and pounded into the French earth simply to add to its fertility…for a second the nightmarish memories that he had managed to suppress for today’s celebrations now came rushing back, the thunderous bang and whistle of artillery, the smell of burnt flesh, the pitiful cries of the dying that would ever reverberate…
But he fought them, for he was not dead, he was here, alive, with his dear, brave wife and his beloved children and his parents and siblings and his brothers-in-law, all of whom had survived – few families could boast that – and here he would be, forever. Just in time – for Etta had gauged his flicker of despair causing her smile to falter – the warmth of contentment flooded back into his gaze, he and she composing their smiles as a more serious outpouring came from his mother, who undid her apron and tidied her hair for the party.
‘As if I haven’t enough expense with that blessed brother of yours rushing a wedding upon us – Holy Mother, I’ll never get over the shame, never!’ Aggie stopped in her tracks to press her cheeks in horror at the thought of Jimmy-Joe’s impending fatherhood. Then her eyes were all of a sudden directing fake malevolence at Marty again. ‘And I swore I wasn’t going to let it worry me today, and now you’ve gone and reminded me of it, thank you very much!’ And in an unstoppable attack she began to drive him towards the front door. ‘Out, out with ye now, and not another word of complaint – go and have a party in your own street if this one isn’t good enough for ye!’
‘It’s good enough!’ cried Marty, covering his head and backing away, trying not to trip over a giggling William. ‘Please don’t hit me, Ma, I’m begging ye!’
‘My God, he’ll have the –’ Red crashed into a few seconds of unconsciousness before finishing his sentence – ‘polis on us with his daft goings-on.’
‘Are we off then before all the food’s gone?’ croaked Uncle Mal.
A happy Etta shook her head laughingly, then slowly and patiently began to guide the frail nonagenarian towards the front door.
Managing to control his affliction, Red arose to shuffle after them, an expression of disbelief upon his burnt face. ‘’Tis a fine thing if you’ve only your belly to worry about, and you nudging your century!’ And to Etta, ‘If I’d known he was going to live so long I’d never have taken the ould bugger in. I can’t believe he’s still walking round with this flu knocking people off right, left and centre, like poor Johnny and Joan.’
‘Neither can I,’ marvelled Etta, and to her charge, ‘Tell us your secret, Uncle Mal.’
With painful slowness, the old man cupped his ear with a bony, liver-spotted claw.
‘What’s your secret for a long life?’ she repeated in louder tone.
‘Keep breathing,’ said the ancient, with a mischievous grin.
And to fond laughter, the Lanegans moved out into the sunshine, to join in the Hope Street celebrations.
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Epilogue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
About the Author
Also by Sheelagh Kelly
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
Marty Lanegan was skylarking his way along a corridor of the grandest hotel in York, lolloping like an ape for the entertainment of a workmate to have him double up in laughter, when his antics were stalled by a furious argument. Abandoning his audience, he paused to listen and to grin at the choice insults which jarred with this Edwardian elegance, that were hurled like clubs between father and daughter. He knew this to be the relationship for he had witnessed the arrival of the scowling but very handsome young lady and her papa late yesterday afternoon, and had opined to the rest of the staff that she looked a proper handful.
‘You mean you’d like a handful,’ the page had leered.
Well, that was no lie. She was the most stunning girl Marty had ever seen: hence his unusual keenness for work this morning. He was about to put his eye to the keyhole when the door opened, forcing him to leap back or be bullocked aside by the angry gentleman on the point of exit.
The boot boy sought to explain his proximity. ‘I’ve just come to check if there’s any shoes need cleaning, sir!’
This was met by suspicion, the man’s cane held at a threatening angle. ‘Somewhat late in the day for that, isn’t it?’ It was well after breakfast.
Marty’s reply displayed just the right blend of courtesy and helpfulness, delivered with the faintest lilt of Irish brogue. ‘Some guests forget to leave them out, sir, so I make constant trips up here. I like to provide good service.’
‘If it was that good you’d be aware that you’ve already done ours,’ growled the man, who, with his bearded face, corpulent build and eyes that bulged with rage, was the spitting image of the King, though his manner was anything but royal. Ramming on his bowler and shoving the cane under his arm, he turned his back on the servant, locked the door and marched to the stairs, but not before both he and Marty heard the sound of a heavy object hitting wood.
Struggling to contain his mirth, the boot boy appeared to go obediently on his way. But a crafty glance over his shoulder told him that the other had descended and, upon hearing noisy sobs, he crept back to employ the keyhole. Maybe he could be the one to comfort her…
They were not the feeble kind of tears but loud wails interspersed with frustrated yelps and thuds, as if she were punching some substitute for the one who had angered her. He was still bent over trying to catch a glimpse of anything other than the bedroom wallpaper, when someone nipped his trim, uniformed buttock, shocking him upright.
The culprit stifled a giggle as her victim swivelled in dread. ‘What’re you up to, Bootsie?’
‘Ye daft mare!’ He scolded the chambermaid in a forced whisper, and then grabbed her to tussle and tickle her, chuckling good-naturedly. ‘I thought ’twas her daddy come back.’
Annoyed to learn that his attention was for another woman, Joanna’s laughter dissipated in a blunt Yorkshire response. ‘You lecher! Spying on that swanky lass – I might have known!’
‘I’m just checking she’s all right, that’s all!’ The tone was innocent, but the cheeky sparkle in Marty’s eyes showed otherwise. ‘They were going hammer and tongs at each other and then he left in a hurry and locked her in.’ Keeping his voice low, and oblivious to Joanna’s jealousy, he shoved his cap to the back of his head and bent to the keyhole again. ‘Maybe he hit her – she’s still bawlin’.’
Smarting over his ignorance of her own feelings, Joanna hissed, ‘Why don’t you just knock and find out?’ And with that she rapped briskly on the door before hastening away with her trolley, leaving him to panic.
He was set to run but the occupant was already at the door, her crying stopped and her voice eager with enquiry. ‘Who’s there?’
Still unnerved by Joanna’s action, Marty gave rapid apology through the barrier. ‘Sorry, miss, I didn’t mean to distur—’
‘Don’t go!’ Her entreaty was swift but polite, its melodic tone permeating the wood to spellbind him. ‘Could you possibly help? My father’s gone out and taken the key in error. I’m locked in.’
Marty knew it was no error. He would be in deep trouble if he got involved in this. ‘I’m only the boots, Miss er –’ He broke off, not privy to her name. But her voice sounded lovely, stroked him persuasively as she begged again.
‘Oh please! Couldn’t you find a spare key and let me out?’
Wanting to assist, his face contorted with indecision, he glanced along the corridor to where a bad-tempered Joanna was darting in and out of a room changing the bed linen. She would have a key. Still, he dithered for a second, playing with his chin. Why had the girl’s father locked her in? It was too impertinent to ask, but he did not like the man who, gentlemanly attire or no, looked an arrogant brute. Thus decided, he straightened his cap and said, ‘Hang on, miss, I’ll just go see what I can do.’
Hurrying to accost the maid he explained the situation. ‘We have to help her, Jo.’
‘I don’t have to do anything!’ Edging her way past him to gather dirty linen, Joanna remained cross, white petticoats frothing under the sober dress as she marched to and fro.
Marty tried to cajole sympathy, leaning his attractive head close to her plain one and nudging her arm suggestively. ‘I always took you for a kind soul. How would you feel if your da locked you in against your will? Bet you’d want me to come and rescue you.’
For once his rough-diamond charm was lost. Ignoring the smell of buttermilk soap, those kind eyes, the winning smile, Joanna condemned him as a faithless friend. ‘It’s not my dad, it’s hers, and we shouldn’t get involved unless we want to lose our jobs!’ She stamped off with her bundle of sheets.
Thwarted, Marty grimaced and returned to apologise to the prisoner. ‘Sorry, miss, I tried to get a key off the maid but she wouldn’t be involved.’
There came a snort of frustration that condemned him as useless and the sound of a body slumping to the carpet. Squinting through the keyhole he caught a wisp of dark hair against the backdrop of pastel wallpaper. ‘Maybe your father won’t be long.’
Her reply was dull. ‘He’ll be out all morning.’
Upon learning this, Marty relaxed somewhat to enjoy the romantic notion that he was helping a damsel in distress. He was intrigued to know why she had been locked in, and difference in status had not prevented him from flirting with female guests before, given the encouragement. Some ladies found him attractive, though heaven knew why; personally he saw a gypsy when he looked in the mirror, a face that lacked the finely chiselled features he himself admired, with eyes that were somewhere between grey and green. When he was happy they appeared green, when sad they were grey – that was, if one could see them under those heavy lids. His hair was of a nondescript colour too; one might be kind and call it brown but it was the insipid brown of dried winter undergrowth and its texture similarly wiry, so that whenever he removed his hat it sprang back into place like trampled grass, no amount of oil able to control it. He disliked everything about his looks. Still, to his favour he had decent teeth and was taller than average, and he had learned that charm compensated for any other lack of attribute.
Leaning against the door, he voiced a bold and teasing statement. ‘Your father took the key on purpose, didn’t he?’
There was a pregnant pause, then the glint of an eye as she tried to assess her impudent Samaritan through the aperture.
Marty felt no need to apologise, but did offer an explanation as to how he had guessed. ‘I saw him leave. He seemed quite aggrieved.’
She fixed her glittering dark eye to his green one.
Concerned that he might have overstepped the mark, he added quickly. ‘I hung around ’cause I felt worried about you.’
‘Did you, really?’ She sounded grateful.
Encouraged, Marty prolonged the bizarre method of conversation. ‘It’s remiss of me to have to ask, miss, but could you tell me whom I have the pleasure of addressing?’
‘I’m Henrietta Ibbetson.’
When he did not automatically introduce himself in return, she prompted, ‘So, who are you?’
‘Oh, like I said, I’m only the boots, miss.’ The quality of her voice had him glued to the keyhole. If the hotel manager himself had come round the corner Marty could not have torn himself away.
‘You must have a name.’
‘I’m flattered you’re even interested, miss.’ Marty grinned to himself – that’s right, lay it on thick.
‘Why, naturally I am!’
‘Thank you, miss. It’s Martin Lanegan.’
‘Martin, I’d love to see you, but even with this unyielding timber between us I can tell by your voice that you’re a very kind person, very likeable.’
His belly tightened at the artlessly seductive tone.
‘And that’s why I feel confident in throwing myself upon your mercy.’
I’d like to throw myself on you, thought Marty, imagining the gorgeous creature on the other side of the door, but he said, throatily polite, ‘I’ll do what I can.’
‘Might you perhaps find a key at the reception desk?’
The lascivious thoughts vanished. He gasped at the very suggestion. ‘That’s more than my life’s worth, miss! If you’re not here when your father comes back –’
‘But I will be! I swear it. It’s not that I wish to run away, but that I don’t care to be caged like an animal.’
He endured mental argument, desperate to ingratiate himself but not so keen as to risk dismissal. ‘I know it’s none of my affair, Miss Ibbetson, but why did he lock you up?’
There was a slight pause whilst Henrietta wondered how much to divulge. He was, after all, just a lowly employee. But it was essential that she lure him to her side. How else was she to keep the arranged rendezvous with her beau at King’s Cross?
Keeping this latter part to herself, she injected her sigh with feeling and made a half-confession. ‘My father plans to marry me off to an individual of his choosing, a man I find utterly loathsome.’ Her tone endorsed this revulsion. ‘Two days ago I ran away to my aunt’s in London…’ It had been during her escapade that she had met a more promising match, one who, upon hearing her story, had vowed to help. She should have gone with him there and then but had thought it wiser to go to her aunt’s and to meet him in a few days’ time. ‘…but she betrayed me and Father came to take me home. We arrived too late in York to continue our journey so he booked us in here. He hasn’t let me out of his sight other than to sleep and to breakfast. He’s killing two birds with one stone by attending some business whilst in the city. We’re to catch the afternoon train home. At which point I shall be condemned.’ But if this dolt would only comply she could be well on her way to her assignation at King’s Cross before her father even returned. ‘I’d be eternally grateful, Martin, if you could find it in your heart to assist.’
Enthralled that his name had never sounded so wonderful than on these lips, Marty came alive to make a bold decision. ‘I’ll be quick as I can!’
A gleeful Henrietta gave herself a congratulatory squeeze.
It was no small task Marty had set himself, for the sentinel on the desk was as keen as Cerberus at guarding his post. Much subterfuge and the assistance of another colleague was required to lure him away and for the boot boy to make his daring foray, knowing that if he were caught with the key he would be sacked without reference. The reward, however, was immeasurable.
The brief preview he had had of Miss Ibbetson could not have prepared him for the full magnificence. Upon his excited entrance to the suite he was dealt a vision of pink candy-striped organdie, a tantalising glimpse of bare skin through a diaphanous sleeve, a figure as sumptuously uphol-stered as the room that was normally forbidden to him…Yet it was not any rich accoutrement that so enchanted. The eyes that had been but a glint through a keyhole now totally impaled him, transfixed him to the expensive carpet that his feet were not permitted to sully, as glittering and radiant as lighted coals in a face that brimmed with intel-ligence – even though at this minute she was gawping at him like some yokel.
Henrietta caught her breath. She had been poised, hat in hand, ready to flee, but upon seeing Martin there came a surge of every corpuscle in her veins, like a spring tide, which swept away all the repressive debris of her previous existence and brought her so overwhelmingly alive that she feared she might choke upon this ecstasy. All reason suspended, utterly immobile with shock, she let the hat fall, unable to perform any task other than to stare at him, totally oblivious that her jaw was hanging open.
A brief awkwardness ensued, arising not from difference in rank but from the palpable desire that exuded from both, each embarrassed at having been caught so unawares.
Normally self-assured, Henrietta fought the constriction in her throat and tried to thank him for liberating her, but found herself stricken dumb. The way he was looking at her, his eyelids droopy as if on the verge of slumber, but the look within them tugging at her abdomen, igniting all manner of extraordinary feelings…
Marty noted that she seemed in no hurry to escape now; her eyes still adhered to his face. Something had occurred to change her mind. He could only hope that she felt the same thrilling emotions that bound him captive. What in God’s name was happening here?
Eventually breaking free of his trance, suddenly self-conscious under her probing gaze, only now did he think to whip off his cap before enquiring, ‘What will you do now, miss?’
Henrietta watched the masculine fingers remove the cap, the springy hair beneath, her eyes fixed to the sensual bow of his mouth though barely hearing the words it uttered, whilst her own murmured vaguely, ‘What?’ Then, suddenly aware she had been holding her breath, she exhaled on a note of laughter, a happy sound that rippled his belly with its exquisiteness. ‘Oh…I haven’t the slightest idea!’ Her plan abandoned, she had forgotten all about the one she had promised to meet, indeed could not even recall what he looked like – certainly not so desirable as this green-eyed young man before her. Oh, he was lovely. Lovely! Ignoring the uniform that labelled him minion, her gaze pored over him, constantly lured back to those eyes, which promised kindness yet at the same time danger.
Marty echoed her affectionate laughter and the two stood admiring each other for a while, before she said with a smiling shrug by way of explanation, ‘I’m just desperate to escape.’
Until these words, both of them had forgotten her irate father. Misreading her companion’s hasty grab for the door-knob and his expression as one of self-concern, she prompted him, though not without a tinge of disappointment. ‘Yes, it’s unwise to let him find you here! I’m truly grateful for your assistance but I should hate for you to lose your job.’
But instead of running away as she had feared, Marty shut the door from the inside and leaned with his back to it, a triumphant twinkle in his eye. Secure that his feelings were reciprocated, his reply was gallant. ‘It’d be worth it. I’m not worried for meself, but for you.’
Her beam was so radiantly affectionate that he wanted to snatch her in his arms, to press the whole length of his body against hers. But that would have been just too brazen. Besides, enough was happening in his trousers already. If that was what she could do to him merely by looking…
He mirrored her smile then strolled over to the window, tapping his cap against his leg and appearing to take an interest in the view, though his thoughts were still consumed by the girl behind him. ‘It’s inhuman to treat anyone in such a fashion – outdated too.’ For heaven’s sake, they were four years into the twentieth century. ‘Most fathers are very particular when it comes to the one who marries their daughter,’ briefly, he pictured his own wedded sisters, ‘but they usually take account of her feelings on the matter.’
Henrietta wandered over to stand beside the tall figure, her eyes staring out across the beautifully laid-out grounds in full flower, and beyond the river to the Minster that dominated the city, its ancient pinnacles etched against a summer sky. Considering the hotel’s juxtaposition with the railway this room was very quiet. She wondered if Martin could hear the rapid thudding of her heart. ‘There my father differs, I’m afraid.’ Her face was less vibrant now, her tone hollow. ‘For he sets his entire store on my brother, John; he places no value on my opinions at all.’
Electrified by her proximity, angry on her behalf, Marty tightened his grip on the cap, whacked it against a piece of furniture. ‘Then the man’s not only cruel but blind and stupid.’ That was audacious indeed.
But Henrietta did not appear to judge it thus, merely dealing him a smile that was both sad and happy at the same time, and saying with feeling, ‘It’s the worst thing in the world to be bullied, don’t you feel? Not that someone of your physical stature would be troubled by that, of course.’
Marty bared his white teeth with a rueful chuckle. ‘You don’t know my superior.’
Dazzled by his smile, she matched it. Henrietta had never made any distinction between the ranks. Just because someone was forced to do menial work did not lower them in her estimation. ‘I suppose we all have someone above us. May one ask how old you are?’
Considering her own mature appearance, Marty added fifteen months to his age. ‘I’m twenty-one.’
She looked wistful. ‘So in all things that count you are your own man. You could walk out and find employment elsewhere, go wherever you choose. There are four more years before I come of age – not that it would matter, I should still be at that despot’s command.’
Shamed by her truthfulness, he admitted, ‘Well, as a matter of fact I’ve a few months to go yet – but it wouldn’t make a difference what age I was either, Mr Wilkinson would still dub me a shirker.’ He grinned impishly. ‘Maybe I am or I wouldn’t be up here dallying with you.’
‘Well, I’m very glad you are – here, I mean.’ Now perched on a dressing stool, her eyes having abandoned the landscape in favour of her attractive companion, Henrietta marvelled at how easily she could converse with him. ‘Tell me more about yourself.’
‘I’d hate to delay your escape.’
‘We’ve ages yet. Have you always been a boots?’
‘God forbid!’ He was delighted by the fact that she had said we, as if they were going together. ‘I’ve only been here a year or so. It was a drop in station from my last job, but I’d had that since leaving school at fourteen and was going nowhere, so I decided there was a better chance of promotion in a hotel. It’s hard to put your heart into cleaning boots but I intend to work my way up. I was joking about being a shirker by the way.’
‘Of course,’ affirmed Henrietta. ‘But you must have enjoyed your last job if you had it for five, six years?’
He was about to correct her then remembered he had already said he was nearly twenty-one and fobbed her off with a quick, ‘Thereabouts – but these are lovelier surroundings. York’s a grand place, isn’t it? I wasn’t born here ye know.’
‘I’d never have guessed.’ Her eyes teased.
‘That obvious, eh?’ Marty pretended to be crushed. ‘And here’s me thinking I’d got rid of the accent.’
‘Oh, don’t ever lose it!’ she begged him. ‘It’s so pleasant on the ear.’
‘Some folk would disagree. There’s many can’t stand the Irish.’ He paused to weigh his words before adding a confession. ‘Especially if they’re tinkers to boot. Ach, now I’ve told ye. We only came to live in a house after me grandparents died.’
Seeing his wife open her mouth for another volley, Redmond commanded tiredly, ‘For the love of Mike, leave it, woman!’
And knowing what tiresome repercussions even a tiny argument could bring, she complied, though with bad grace as she repeated primly, ‘Always wanted what you can’t damn well have!’ before getting on with her tea.
Taking his father’s raised voice as a signal to desist, Marty offered not another word, quarrel giving way to the brusque scraping of knives and forks.
Old Uncle Mal, searching for something to divert open warfare, ran his tongue around his gums and announced, ‘You’ll be pleased to hear my diarrhoea’s cleared up, Marty.’
‘We’re overjoyed,’ yawned Redmond, as there was a groan of disgust from his wife and sniggers from the youngsters.
But they were an affectionate family and the bad feeling did not last for more than a few hours, Mrs Lanegan clamping her son’s shoulder as she served his usual supper of bread and tea, and, without resurrecting the topic, telling him quietly, ‘Everything’ll turn out for the best, you’ll see.’
‘Aye, lookit, Marty!’ His face wreathed in ambition, Mr Lanegan displayed a picture of a motor car in the book he had been reading. ‘How d’ye fancy driving along Walmgate in that? ’Twould get the neighbours talking sure enough. Aye,’ he gazed longingly at the picture, ‘we shall have one of those some day.’
Marty dealt him a fond but half-hearted smile, knowing it was just his father’s way of taking his mind off Etta. As if it would.
Apparently this was to remain a concern to his parents, for as Marty finished his supper and was on his way to bed he overheard his mother trying to reassure her husband, ‘Don’t go fretting yourself about it, dear. ’Twill be just another of his passing desires. She’s gone from the hotel, so there’s not much he can do about it. You know what he’s like. In a few days he’ll have set his sights on something or somebody else and forgotten all about her.’
No I won’t, thought her son grimly as he continued up the stairs. I won’t even be able to sleep for thinking about her. And he was right.
The next morning, exhausted and grumpy, Marty was ready to bite the head off the first person who crossed him. As this turned out to be the head porter he held his tongue and was glad he did, because after being upbraided for having his mail directed to the hotel, a letter was shoved into his fist.
Knowing immediately who it was from, he tore it open, receiving a jolt as he read the grand-sounding address of the correspondent: Swanford Hall. The note was brief and obviously scribbled in a hurry, but its content was wonderfully explicit. Etta wanted him.
2
Regarding it as too chancy to commit his intentions to paper, besides not being much of a letter-writer, Marty’s only option was to roll up at Etta’s address on his first afternoon off and hope to encounter her. Sadly, his optimism was outweighed by reality. Not daring to venture as far as the mansion he hung around its imposing gates until nightfall, waiting so long that he missed the last carrier and had to walk the fifteen miles home alone in the pouring rain. Thankfully he had Sunday off too which meant he could sleep in, but this failed to salve the bitter disappointment of not seeing her.
His mother, able to read him like a book, said upon his late-coming to breakfast and the drenched clothes that were steaming over the fire, ‘I hope you’re not up to divilment, Marty Lanegan, out capering till all hours.’
Knowing she would disapprove he felt unable to confide, mumbling into his dripping sandwich that it was the fault of his chum Joe who had forced ten pints down his neck.
But this did not hoodwink his mother. ‘Well, you’re drunk with something, that’s for sure, but it’s certainly not beer, there’s not a whiff of it about you.’
Ashamed that she knew he was lying to her, that he had pursued Etta when she had forbidden it, Marty dared not look up from his breakfast. However, this did not deter him from doing exactly the same on his next day off.
To his utter devastation, this attempt was also to end in another drenched failure, and to make it even worse there was a working day to follow. Consumed by thoughts of Etta, teased by the porter and the page alike for his grand ideas, he sought a feminine ear to air his chagrin.
Although wounded that he failed to detect her own heartache while he spoke longingly for another, Joanna was relieved that his expeditions had not borne fruit and she could afford to be magnanimous. ‘Ne’er mind, Bootsie,’ she comforted gently. ‘Sit down there and have a piece of this chocolate cake with a cup of tea. It usually helps to take my mind off any troubles.’
‘Ah, you’re a good pal.’ Martin showed gratitude and accepted the offer. But he was too obsessed with thoughts of the beautiful Etta to be touched for long by this softhearted gesture. Sipping his tea, his mind far away, he told Joanna, ‘I’m not giving up, though. Next time I’m off right up to the door if I have to.’
Joanna controlled her hurt, murmuring lightly whilst inwardly praying for failure. ‘Oh well, third time lucky.’
True to his declaration, Marty did indeed venture much further on his next day off. Using trees and shrubs as cover, he darted from one to another until there was nowhere left to hide, just an expanse of lawn up to the palatial stone residence. Thank heavens that after three weeks of rain the sun had come out. Crouched behind a huge rhododendron, he peeped around it to look up at each mullioned window, trying by sheer willpower to lure Etta to one of them.
Instead, to his horror, three dogs came bounding over from nowhere, hackles raised. He came instantly upright. They sniffed him excitedly, the hound, the Labrador and the flea-bitten terrier, circling him in distrust, but they did not bite, at least not yet. Encouraged, he voiced a cheery greeting, though he could have murdered the canine intruders; at which point they seemed to decide he was no threat and began to snuffle around the bush instead. Keeping a nervous eye on them, he crouched again behind the foliage, whereupon the Labrador proceeded to thrust its smiling, fish-stinking muzzle into his face. Head averted in disgust, he entreated it gently at first, ‘Good lad, off you go now.’ Then when this did not work, he hissed more forcefully, ‘Bugger off!’ With a hurt expression the Labrador lolloped away, the terrier pelting after it. Martin cast an eye over his shoulder to locate the hound, found it cocking its leg against his back and lashed out at it. ‘Wha – you filthy sod! Take your purple bloody testicles elsewhere. Go!’ Luckily it did not retaliate to his rash outburst but loped after its companions, leaving him to flick disgustedly at his soiled jacket.
In the house, others were under chastisement too.
‘Ow! Blanche, are you trying to assassinate me?’ Etta jerked her handsome head out of reach and rubbed the spot where the hairpin had almost lanced her scalp.
‘Sorry, miss!’ The maid was contrite and paid more attention to her task of getting her mistress ready for her afternoon outing. ‘I was just diverted for a second – the dogs seem to have found something interesting in them bushes over there. I just thought it might be a robber.’ She glanced anxiously again at the window. ‘I’m sure I saw a man.’
Etta was immediately rushing to view the scene, hair only half done. Straining her eyes for a sighting, she fixed them on the bush in question where the dogs did indeed seem to be converging.
Blanche was peering out too now. ‘There!’ She caught a glimpse of the intruder’s face. ‘I knew I saw somebody! Shall I inform the master, Miss Ett?’
‘No!’ An excited Etta grabbed her. ‘He’s come to see me. I want you to take a message to him.’
Blanche was aghast. Warned to keep watch on her mistress after the recent escapade to London, she was not so treacherous, but was nevertheless alarmed. ‘Is that wise?’
‘Do you want me to marry that gormless goblin my father has in mind?’ demanded Etta.
‘Oh heaven forbid, miss!’ Loyal to the young woman, Blanche detested the suitor as much as did the bride-to-be.
‘You’d rather I was with a man who loves me? Well, that man is there. His name is Mr Lanegan and he’s waiting for me to elope with him.’
Blanche gasped, clamped a hand to her mouth and spoke through her fingers. ‘It’s that one you asked me to post the letter to a few weeks back!’
‘Yes!’ Eyes bright with zeal the mistress patted the maid’s fat arms and went on breathlessly, ‘Oh, Blanche, I knew he’d come – now, be quick and finish my hair, then I want you to pack as much as you can into a small valise – we don’t want my father to be suspicious. Take it to Mr Lanegan and ask him to go to the village and wait by the stone cross.’
Of a similar age to her mistress, Blanche was quickly infected by the romance. ‘Ooh, but what will I say if I encounter the master and he asks where I’m off with a bag?’
‘Tell him I’ve sent you on an errand with some old clothes to the almshouses.’ Etta rushed back to the dressing mirror. ‘Whilst you’re doing that I shall set out as if for my afternoon expedition as planned and no one will be any the wiser.’ She hoisted her shoulders to express utter delight.
‘And what’s to become of me, miss?’ With a wistful expression, Blanche inserted a swift collection of hairpins. ‘I mean, I’ve been with you all this time and I know how you like things done, and unless this Mr Lanegan’s got a lady’s maid lined up for you I’d like to be considered…’
‘And I’m determined you shall, Blanche, you’re most valuable to me.’ The girls had played together as children and Etta genuinely cared for her. ‘But for the moment I don’t want to arouse suspicion by us both going out laden with luggage. I promise to send word of my address later, but until then I shall have to manage without your help.’
‘Aw, I’m grateful, miss! But I couldn’t do it without the master’s say so, and he’s bound to ask me where you’ve gone.’ Rather more conservative of nature, Blanche envisioned herself being expelled and bringing shame on her parents, who also worked on the estate.
‘All the more reason that you don’t know what to tell him.’
‘I know the gentleman’s name.’
‘But you won’t divulge it.’ Etta sounded confident.
‘Not if I can help it.’ Blanche handed over a pair of earrings, saying anxiously as her mistress’s excited fingers fumbled in putting them on, ‘I hate to keep putting hurdles in your way, Miss Etta, but what about the coachman?’ The latter would be transporting Etta to this afternoon’s venue. ‘You know, the master’s –’
‘Got his spies everywhere,’ Etta supplied darkly. ‘Yes, I’m all too aware of that. I shall just have to risk it. By the time any tittle-tale reaches my father I’ll hopefully be far away. Now, shoo!’ The command was accompanied by a conspiratorial smile. ‘Before anyone should catch my future husband.’
Swept up in the excitement and anticipating someone far more eligible, Blanche was shocked to discover the individual of modest means behind the bush, and her first thought was that Miss Henrietta had mistaken his identity.
‘What’s your name?’ she demanded rudely.
Thinking the game was up, Marty rose and tugged his jacket straight, hoping she wouldn’t spot the damp patch where the dog had pissed on his back. ‘Lanegan, miss, I –’
‘Oh good grief, it is the right one then,’ muttered Blanche, and her suspicious frown turned to one of incredulity. Nevertheless, she shoved the bag at him and, to his delight, reported Etta’s instructions.
The latter meanwhile was summoning her transport, and, without a backwards glance, hurrying down the stone staircase and into the coach’s leather interior. Only at the gate did her composure slip when she banged on the roof and shouted for the coachman to make a detour from his previously instructed route.
Bag in hand, Marty had barely arrived at the meeting place when the vehicle pulled up and his beloved alighted. It was as if he were seeing her for the first time all over again. He felt he might choke with desire as her face came aglow at the sight of him.
Similarly smitten, Etta wanted to rush to him, but she restrained herself for now, first instructing the coachman firmly to ‘Wait here for me, I shan’t be long’ before approaching Marty at a casual pace.
Her expression told him not to do anything rash, so he followed her lead, initially just standing to admire her accomplished deportment, but especially the sweep of breast and buttock under the pink figure-hugging dress, the froth of white lace at her bosom, privately smiling at the ridiculously large hat, then turning to stroll alongside her as she came past, murmuring to him, ‘Just act as if we’re discussing the weather.’
Parasol aloft, she sauntered down the tree-lined country road, Marty alongside.
‘I thought we’d get the carrier,’ he told her, as they inserted some distance between themselves and the coach. ‘He goes from the village green so we’d best not walk too far. I know to my cost he’s a mean sort and won’t pull up except at the proper stop.’
‘He will for me,’ replied his assured companion. ‘I refuse to turn back for anything.’ She urged him to keep walking, then linked his arm daringly. ‘I thought you’d never come!’
‘This is the third time I’ve been here – third time lucky.’ He could smile now at how long it had taken, for during the interim he had accrued a few shillings. Normally his mother would be the one to benefit from his tips, but lately he had become a miser. In addition he had spent the last three weeks trying to earn money in other ways, though it was still barely enough to fund his elopement.
He dared not look over his shoulder at the straight road behind, but felt the coachman’s eyes boring into his back and said so. ‘Wouldn’t it have been wiser to send him away? He’s seen you with me now.’
‘In retrospect it might have been wiser not to bring him at all but I had to make everything appear normal. If I’d sent him home he’d guess of my intention to abscond and would run directly to my father. By telling him to wait for me I’ve ensured that he daren’t disobey – at least for a reasonable period.’
By the time the carrier came past they were fifty yards or so from the village, but Etta turned out to be right. At the commanding wave of her parasol the driver obligingly halted for the lady and her companion to get onboard, the other passengers shuffling up to make room. Huddled close together on the wooden seat, the horse clip-clopping onwards, she and Marty looked back along the arrow-straight road to where the coachman still waited obediently in the distance.
Marty chuckled sympathetically. ‘He won’t still be standing there in the dark, will he?’
Overwhelmed by happiness, Etta smiled and gripped his hand. ‘Don’t waste your pity, he’ll have none for us when he speeds off to tell Father the moment this vehicle disappears. But at least we’ve gained a head start.’
Her suitor felt a pang of concern, wishing he had planned this better. After the previously abortive attempts at elopement he had not visualised success this time and consequently had omitted to arrange anywhere for them to live. However, he didn’t tell Etta this, not with a cart full of people eyeing the mismatched couple suspiciously. In fact, under these strained circumstances, they were to say little to each other at all during the two and a half hour journey that followed.
Only when they were finally standing on the antiquated pavement of York and his young bride-to-be looked expectantly at him for direction did Marty confess. ‘Sorry, I haven’t managed to secure us any lodgings yet.’
Etta was unfazed, deliriously happy just to be with him, clinging to his arm and gazing up into his eyes. ‘Didn’t you say your work occasionally involves you having to sleep at the hotel? You can sneak me into the room where you stay.’
‘I’m sure Ned would be delighted.’
‘Who’s Ned?’
‘The bloke whose turn it is tonight.’ Despite the joke, Marty felt inept. ‘Besides, it’s the first place your father will look for us.’
‘I’m afraid I haven’t enough money to pay for accommodation,’ said Etta. ‘I did manage to acquire some since we last met but in my rush to meet you I completely forgot it. I feel terribly foolish.’
‘No, you’re not.’ He patted her. ‘There’s only one thing for it. It’s risky, but if I can find out which rooms are unoccupied I could hide you in one of them for a day or so, until I can organise somewhere else.’
Her eyes sparkled, such intrigue adding spice to the romance. Marty, too, felt not fear but elation as they made their way from the busy Rougier Street, under a carved limestone arch in the Bar Walls, and on to the magnificent edifice that was the Royal Station Hotel. Advising Etta to wait in the sunlit grounds, heavy with the scent of roses, he affected a casual entrance to the hotel via the door marked tradesmen, as if arriving for work, yet his appearance drew amazement from the others. ‘Can’t stay away, Bootsie?’
He dealt them as carefree a laugh as he could. ‘Aye, I love it so much. No, I just nipped in to ask Joe if he wants to go for a drink tonight. Is he about?’ Told that the page was upstairs, he made his way there. ‘It’s Wilko’s day off too, isn’t it? Nobody to catch me then!’
But upon finding Joe there was no mention of beer. Marty used a different fib. ‘I just came to collect something I left behind the other day – busy, are we?’
Joe took the opportunity to slouch against the wall, nibbling a hangnail. ‘Nah, there’s not that many in.’
‘What about that grumbling old sod in eighty-four?’
‘Gone, thank God, and not so much as a farthing tip.’
‘Got somebody better in there now?’
Joe shook his head, winced and spat out the hangnail. ‘Nobody at all, as far as I know.’ He studied his bleeding finger then sucked it.
Not wanting to compromise his friend, Marty merely nodded, whilst working out how to get hold of a key. After chatting a few minutes more he said a cheery farewell to Joe and padded downstairs to the lobby. Having scant luck until now he could scarcely believe it when he saw that the area behind the reception desk was deserted. Knowing it would not be so for long, he dashed in, grabbed the key and was outside pressing it into Etta’s hand before anyone had noticed its absence.
‘You’ll have to do this on your own,’ he instructed, escorting her as far as he dared towards the east entrance. ‘But it shouldn’t be too difficult, nobody’ll dare to challenge someone like you. Just march through as if you own the place and go to room eighty-four.’ He told her where it was.
‘And you’ll meet me there?’ Etta asked eagerly.
‘If I can, but I’m not meant to be at work until tomorrow so if I’m accosted and can’t manage it don’t worry, just lie low till morning.’
For the first time she showed apprehension. ‘But how will I survive alone?’
His green eyes turned thoughtful. ‘Maybe we could buy some food now before you go in.’
She clicked her tongue and dealt him a gentle shake. ‘I meant how will I survive without you? I ran away so that we could be together.’
‘And we will be, always!’ His cheery grin encouraged her. ‘This is only for a short while until I get us somewhere permanent. I can’t stay out all night, my parents will be suspicious. But I promise I’ll try my hardest to spend some time with you.’
‘And what of my valise?’ She pointed to the bag he was holding. ‘Am I to carry it myself?’
Agreeing this might attract attention, his worry soon evaporated. ‘Why, it’ll give me just the excuse I need to come up!’ And he urged her on her way, saying he would follow.
Watching her enter, he feasted his gaze on the hips that curved from the nipped-in waist. That she did not come out was a good sign. After a tense wait for the coast to clear – not just of superiors but of workmates too, for he did not know just who to trust – Marty saw an opportunity, grabbed it and pelted to Etta’s room, tapping urgently on the door until she unlocked it.
Then they were free to indulge their passion, if not to its ultimate conclusion – although Marty certainly tried. With Etta’s breast crushed to his, her lips returning his hungry, grinding kisses, working him into a lustful frenzy, he was positive that she was equally aroused. Hence, whilst one of his hands cupped the small of her back, moulding her groin against his, the fingers of his other hand sought out the buttons at the nape of her neck. To his frustration they were the very devil to undo – and there seemed thousand upon thousand of them. Frustrated but undeterred, he moved his attention to other regions, running his hands around her buttocks, kneading and pulling her into even deeper intimacy. When she did not stop him, but returned his amorous kisses whilst moving her hands as freely over his body, he put one of his feet against hers, and then the other, inching forward, compelling her to walk backwards until she felt the bed pressing against her legs and had no option but to fall back upon it with Marty atop her. After a brief grunt of impact they resumed kissing, his movements becoming ever bolder, grasping handfuls of silken pink material and eventually managing to hoist the hem of her petticoat.
But a farmer’s daughter, even a gentleman farmer’s daughter, could not fail to have learned a little about the facts of life. Though flushed and excited, her eyes glazed with desire, Etta squirmed violently at the more intimate intrusion. ‘Martin, what are you doing? Put that away!’
‘Sorry! I thought you wanted – oh, Etta, I’ll be so careful!’
But she was fighting him now, grabbing his shoulders, straining to lever him from her. ‘I’ve seen the stallion brought to the mares! It’s for one reason only and I’ve no wish to be in foal!’
‘But they say that can’t happen the first time! Please let me, sweetheart. I can’t stop now, you’ve made me want to explode!’ He fell upon her again, planting fervent coaxing kisses all over her face and neck, trying to manoeuvre himself into position.
‘Martin, you can stop and you will!’
Alarmed that her loud protestation would fetch witnesses, her ardent suitor issued a gasp of frustration and allowed himself to be displaced as, with a last growling heave, Etta hurled him to one side and dragged down her skirt, her breast rapidly rising and falling.
There was a moment’s silence during which he lay beside her and sulked. Then, with a scissor movement he leapt up and stalked across the room, his back to her as he adjusted his clothing. ‘I’m sorry I misunderstood – we are to be wed, after all.’
‘And once we are then you shall have the matrimonial benefits,’ came her firm reply. ‘But I won’t escape from one bully to saddle myself with another.’
Grossly affronted, Marty wheeled about. ‘How can you compare me with him? I adore you!’
‘But you don’t respect me,’ she retorted.
‘I do!’ Then his objection gave way to serious contemplation, which terminated in a grin of self-confession. ‘Well, sorry…I did get a bit carried away.’ He rushed to her side again, stroking and petting her in an unthreatening manner. ‘It’s just that I’ve never wanted anyone so much as I want you, Etta.’ His eyes showed it. ‘I thought you wanted me in the same way.’
‘Oh, Martin, I do.’ Hardly able to breathe through passion, she put a hand to his cheek, holding his droopy-lidded gaze earnestly. When the subject of marriage had first been aired she had asked her mother what to expect. Mother had refused to discuss it, saying that it was all rather horrid but a wife must put up with it. None of her friends could enlighten her either. A determined Etta had finally gone back to Blanche, who had previously refused to be drawn but being of a lower class and the dispenser of bawdy jokes must surely be more conversant with such matters than herself. Despite professing to know little more than her mistress, amid great embarrassment, Blanche had finally been coaxed into detail, and had likened the marital act to what happened amongst the animals. ‘Or so I’m told! I’m dreading it myself.’ Etta had found it repellent too then, but the thought of such a union with Marty was utterly different. ‘But I want to be married first. I don’t think you understand how shameful it is for a woman to bear a child out of wedlock. You see, I’ve witnessed one of our maids being sent packing for such a reason.’
‘Do you realise how insulting that is?’ It was his turn to accuse now. ‘You’re insinuating that once I’ve had what I want I’ll leave you in the lurch!’
‘I didn’t mean that, I know I can trust you. It’s just…’
‘It’s just you think I’m a lying tinker.’
‘No!’ Disturbed, Etta struggled to conjure a plausible answer, hating that sullen frown upon Martin’s brow, eventually admitting in a little voice, ‘It’s…I’m frightened.’
Overwhelmed with love, he hugged her then. ‘Oh, you poor little thing! But I’ve explained to you, nothing awful will come of it.’
‘Is that what you say to all the girls?’
‘No!’
‘There must have been plenty – you seem very experienced.’
‘There hasn’t! Well, only one.’
A small voice. ‘And did you love her?’
He shook his head, ashamed to tell the truth, that the girl had only been someone liberal with her favours and had meant nothing to him. ‘I didn’t know what love was until I met you, Etta. The last thing I want is to hurt you.’ He cradled her dark skull, kissing the top of it. ‘Why won’t you believe me?’
‘I do.’ She suddenly regained her passion, grasping his arms, her face close to his. ‘Oh, we can do it if you want!’
Marty was not so noble as to refuse and his question was academic. ‘Are you sure?’
At her nod he was instantly eager and upon her again, Etta returning his passion, even removing some of her clothing for him and welcoming the intimacy she had refused before. But at the vital moment he sensed that her invitation still veiled a modicum of doubt and he gave an agonised groan. ‘Oh God, Etta, you’re not going to stop me again, are ye?’
‘No, no, go on!’
Still, as he examined her face he saw fear, and, barely able to contain himself, gasped,
‘Oh Christ, look, it’s no good if you feel like that. I won’t go all the way, just grip it between your thighs like this –’
An anxious query. ‘Is that all right?’
‘Yes, yes! Now, stay with me!’ And hanging on to her tightly he set the bed rocking.
It was over quickly and afterwards he remained on top of her, lungs heaving, breath hot upon her neck.
Etta remained slightly stunned. ‘Gosh…I didn’t expect…that was very pleasurable, wasn’t it?’
His body shook in silent laughter and he nodded into her shoulder. Fancy a lady saying that to him!
She tensed. ‘Are you mocking me?’
He lifted his face rapidly to deny this, his eyes warm with love and sated desire.
Still, somewhat guilty for leading him on, she asked tentatively, ‘Did you mind very much that we weren’t able to do it properly?’
‘Ah, God love you, my dear, dear sweetheart!’ Marty dealt her a resounding kiss. ‘That was as close as dammit.’ He moved to give her breathing space, though not too far, their bodies remained in contact. ‘And very pleasurable for me too I might add.’ He could hardly believe that he felt so relaxed as to say such a thing, but Etta felt like a part of himself, always had from the minute they’d met.
‘And you don’t mind that I’m making you wait?’ Her dusky eyes examined him.
Satisfied now, he was able to give a genuinely kind reply, his mouth only inches away from hers. ‘Of course not. Much as I want ye I’m sure I can hang on a few days longer. But I warn you, once we’re married I’m going to make up for lost time.’ He pretended to gnaw on her neck, making animal noises.
Etta giggled and moulded herself to him. ‘Could we just shuffle over a little? It’s rather – is it meant to be so wet?’
‘Ach, sorry!’ He gave an awkward laugh and hauled her across the rumpled bed where they lay contentedly for a while, their lips occasionally touching, tasting, reiterating their love for each other, enjoying the closeness. Then, giving her a last rapturous kiss, Marty patted her, rolled off the bed, adjusted his clothing, and in a happy manner went to retrieve the paper bag he had discarded upon entry, coming back to hand it to her.
Now discreetly covered, Etta sat up expectantly and, with dark hair all awry, peered into the bag. ‘What’s in here?’
He threw himself on the bed again to watch lovingly. ‘Gingersnaps! While I was waiting down there I managed to cadge them from a pal at the station. Sorry, there’s no tray of tea to go with them, I daren’t risk that. Nor will there be anything else until tomorrow morning when I can maybe sneak something from the kitchen. I’ll fetch you some water, though, before I leave.’
Handing him a biscuit and nibbling on one herself, she smiled contentedly, hardly taking her eyes off him all the time she ate, which precipitated another bout of kissing amidst the crumbs. But this could not continue forever. If Martin should lose his job how would he support them? So, reluctantly, they prepared to bid each other adieu.
Coming back to reality, Marty gave a muttered comment on the bed. ‘Good grief, look at the mess we’ve made o’ this.’ And he dragged off the counterpane. ‘Grab the other edge.’ Even as he said it he wondered if she might take umbrage at his order, but she seemed not to mind as she helped to turn it over.
A long night ahead of her, Etta showed reluctance to let him go, hanging on to his coat sleeves in concern. ‘What if Father should arrive in your absence and drag me back – would you come after me?’
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