The Black Mountains (25 page)

Tears pricked her eyes as she imagined him waiting for her, then realizing she was not coming and going away again, despising her. It was awful, she couldn't let it happen, but how? How?

“Please, God, let me think of something!” she prayed, slipping a candle into position in its tiny basket on the tree, and she went on praying until she had finished the decorations.

Next morning at the service at St Mary's, Withydown, she still had no solution.

“Hark the Herald Angels Sing!” sang the congregation, and Rebecca's lips mouthed the words. But inside she was still whispering, “I must see him. Oh, please, let me think of something!”

It was as they left the church that she saw a notice that seemed the answer to her prayer. Hillsbridge Girls Friendly Society were giving a carol concert—and it was to be held on Tuesday! Rebecca's eyes went round with awe. Fancy God hearing her and putting an excuse in her path that way! It must mean it couldn't be so wrong to deceive her father after all. But still it was only half the battle. She would never be allowed to go on her own. If she suggested it, either Winifred or Alfred himself would take her.

No, there was only one person who could give her an excuse and that was Marjorie Downs.

Before moving to Hillsbridge, she had never known anyone quite like Marjorie, who was gay and pretty and never seemed to worry about anything. She was a flirt, and she “ told stories,” embroidering her accounts of everything that happened to her to make them more interesting, but there was no malice in her.

Alfred liked her, too, and this puzzled Rebecca. She did so many things he was always ready to condemn: walking out with boys, and even letting them kiss her, going to picture shows and concerts at the Palace, and working as an apprentice at Fords, the big drapers shop in South Hill. Yet whenever she came knocking at the door, Alfred seemed pleased, smiling a strange smile that turned his mouth down at the corners instead of up, and narrowing his eyes until they were half-closed. Sometimes he patted her on the shoulder, or put his arm around her waist, his hands lingering as if he were fond of her. And when he spoke to her, his voice was low and full of hidden depths.

Yes, if there was anyone who could get around Alfred and persuade him to allow her to go to the G.F.S. concert, it was Marjorie. And after the way Marjorie had let her down and left her stranded after their last outing, perhaps she would be willing to make amends. But Rebecca knew she would have to see her and explain, and with her father home all over the Christmas it wouldn't be easy.

As they walked home along the wintry lanes, Rebecca decided to broach the subject.

“Can I go round to wish Marjie a Merry Christmas?” she asked as they reached the track leading to their two houses.

Alfred's face darkened. He had been hoping Marjorie might come around to wish Rebecca a Merry Christmas. “Your mother will need some help in the kitchen,” he objected.

But Winifred patted her daughter's arm. “Not for a bit, I won't. The vegetables are all done, and the turkey's in the oven. You go and see Marjie if you like.”

Rebecca nodded, her heart thudding as she ran down the path to Marjorie's house.

Marjorie was one of a big family. It seemed to spill into every room, and although she usually enjoyed their company, today Rebecca began to despair of ever getting her friend alone. At last she managed it, and she quickly outlined her plan before they were interrupted.

When she had finished, Marjorie laughed delightedly.

“Well, I am surprised at you, Becky! And I always thought you were too good to live!”

Colour flooded Rebecca's face. “ Oh, please, Marjie! I don't know how I can get there if you don't help me. You know what he's like—he'd never let me go.”

“You don't handle him right,” Marjorie said wickedly. Then, seeing Rebecca's worried look, she laughed again. “Oh, all right, I'll help if it means that much to you. What do you want me to do?”

“Could you ask him for me?” Becky said eagerly. “He wouldn't be so likely to suspect anything if he thought it was your idea. Come back with me now—say we've been talking …”

“What did you say it was—a G.F.S. concert?”

“Yes. On Tuesday. Oh, please, Marjie!”

“All right. But what am I supposed to do while you go courting?”

“Oh!” Becky's face fell. “I hadn't thought …”

“Never mind. I'll think of something,” Marjie said impatiently. “You worry too much, Becky. You want me to come round to see him now?”

“Oh, please, Marjie.”

“All right,” said Marjorie, clearly enjoying the whole episode.

As Rebecca had suspected, her father was so pleased to see Marjorie he agreed to her suggestion without much ado. Though when she had gone, Alfred turned to his daughter sternly.

“You see, I am trusting you again, Rebecca—for Marjorie's sake,” he told her. “It would be a pity for your friend to be penalized for your wrongdoing. But I shall not overlook another lapse. I am putting you on your word of honour not to let me—or her—down again.”

Rebecca flushed slightly, guilty at her own deceit, but she said nothing, and presently the discomfort faded. The happiness, bubbling inside her, was too intoxicating to be suppressed for long.

After lunch, the visitors arrived in their brand-new, shiny black motor car—Alfred's second cousin, Kessey Thorne, her husband Donald, and their son, Rupert.

Of all the relatives who came duty-calling at Christmas, they were the ones Rebecca disliked the most. But because Winifred was still upstairs changing into her afternoon frock when the motor drew up at the gate, she had to go out with her father to greet them, and somehow, happy as she was, even they didn't seem as bad as usual.

As they sat in the living room, making polite conversation and inquiring after all the family, Rebecca stole critical looks at them, amusing herself by trying to decide what animals they reminded her of. Kessey, she thought, was like a Pekinese dog, fluffy and fluttery in scarves and feathers. Donald, with his whiskery little beard was like a billy-goat. And Rupert reminded her of a sleek, self-satisfied slug.

Finally Winifred came down, apologizing for not having been ready, and the conversation broadened, as it always did, to a catalogue of the health and fortunes of every member of the family, from Alfred's sister, Amelia, who had done very well in life and was a companion and personal maid with a titled family, the Harcourtes, in London, to a number of distant cousins who were apparently eking out their lives in genteel poverty and surviving one crisis after another. Most of them Rebecca had never met, and usually she sat stupefied with boredom, trying to avoid Rupert's leering glances in her direction. But today she was in a world of her own, glad to be able to curl up on the pouffe and think, and Alfred had to address her twice before she even realized she was being spoken to.

“Why don't you entertain Rupert with a piano solo, my dear?” he said benevolently. “There's a nice fire in the parlour, and I'm sure you two young people don't want to listen to all our family gossip.”

Hot colour flooded Rebecca's cheeks. She did not want to be alone with Rupert, but she did not know how to avoid it.

“I'm not really very good,” she said lamely, but Alfred could not have that.

“Not good? Why, you have a wonderful touch! You'll appreciate it, Rupert, I know you will.”

He stood up, opening the door, and Rebecca had no choice but to go. She led the way to the parlour, and when she sat down on the piano stool he stationed himself in front of the fire, lifting his coat tails to warm himself as he had seen his father do. But she still felt ill at ease alone with him, and to hide her nervousness she began to sort through her music.

“What would you like to hear?”

As soon as she had said it, she realised her mistake. He crossed the room, and leant over her shoulder, his nearness making her stomach churn.

“How about this one?” she suggested, beginning to play the first tune on the page in the hope that he would go away, but he did not. He stayed beside her, so close that her fingers stumbled over the keys.

“I … I've gone wrong, I'm afraid,” she said.

“Never mind,” he simpered, his oily voice making her skin crawl. He reached over to turn the page of music, his hand lingering against hers for a moment. It was always the same with him—when they were alone together, or if he thought no one was watching, he touched her as often as he could, but always in such a way that he had an avenue of retreat should she object.

Now, as on every occasion, his hand was removed before she had any reason to complain, but it left her feeling somehow soiled.

“You don't have to be shy with me, Becky,” he said, faintly reproving. “ We know one another too well for that, don't we?” Then, before she could think of an answer, he had turned the page again. “ How about “Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes”? That's a nice sentiment, don't you think?”

She began to play again, willing herself to concentrate, but she could not rid herself of the unpleasant sensation Rupert's nearness had on her. There had been a time when she had thought all men would make her feel the same, but now she knew different. Ted Hall hadn't made her feel that way. He had made her warm and excited and happy. And she was going to see him again on Tuesday, whereas if she was lucky she may not have to see Rupert again until next Christmas! The thought cheered her, making her fingers light and nimble, and although he was right beside her, it was not to Rupert that she played “Drink to Me Only.”

The Thornes stayed until after tea, then left abruptly when Donald looked out of the window and saw the frost shining on the paths. He did not want to risk driving his motor on slippery roads. Rebecca, watching them go, felt heady with relief. Not only had Rupert gone, but Christmas Day was nearly over, and that meant one day less until she would see Ted again.

The thought made her nervousness return, and day by day it intensified, so that by the time Tuesday came, it was almost stronger than her desire to go. What was the point? she asked herself as she tried to put up her hair with shaking hands. After tonight she wouldn't be able to see him again, even if he asked. There wouldn't be another convenient G.F.S. concert. And he probably wouldn't ask to see her again anyway. Already he might be regretting having asked her out at all, and perhaps he wouldn't come. She had heard of girls left standing—Marjorie had told her about them.

If it hadn't been for the fact that Marjorie would be calling for her, Rebecca thought she might have given up the idea of going herself! But at twenty past seven, Marjorie knocked on the door. Rebecca's excitement bubbled as she went to answer it, but her father seemed to appear from nowhere and got there first.

“Marjorie, my dear!” he greeted her warmly, and Rebecca's heart sank. A few minutes ago, she had been contemplating not going at all, now, she knew if her father kept Marjie talking, she would be late. Already it was going to be a rush to get there—the G.F.S. concert did not begin until a quarter to eight, so it would have looked odd if they had gone too early.

Rebecca put on her hat and stood buttoning her coat while her father spoke to Marjorie.

“Now, you will make sure that Rebecca stays with you, won't you? I don't want you coming home on your own, the two of you, like last time.”

Rebecca's heart turned over, but Marjorie looked the picture of innocence.

“Yes, of course, Mr Church. That was all a misunderstanding. It won't happen again.”

If only I could be like her! thought Rebecca.

At last they got away, and Rebecca persuaded Marjorie to trot down the hill. “ If he's keen enough, he'll wait,” Marjorie grumbled, but Rebecca was taking no chances.

“What are you going to do with yourself?” she asked breathlessly as they hurried past Farmer Brent's fields opposite the church and followed the road along one loop of the horseshoe of shops towards the town's centre.

Marjorie laughed. “Have you ever heard of Esperanto? It's a sort of universal language. There's a class tonight in the rooms above the bicycle shop. I thought I might go.”

“Whatever for?” Rebecca asked, surprised.

“It would be nice to be able to talk to foreigners. There might not be a war going on now if we'd been able to talk to the Germans,” Marjorie said seriously, then, seeing Rebecca's expression, she laughed again. “ I know you're thinking that doesn't sound much like me, so I might as well tell the truth. I should like to be able to talk to those Belgian refugees that are billeted at the farm at the end of our lane. They're rather good-looking boys, aren't they?”

“You're impossible, Marjie!” Rebecca told her, shaking her head.

Marjorie added, “ So if you want me to cover up for you again, make it a Tuesday or a Thursday. Then you'll be doing me a favour. My mother thinks you're learning Esperanto, too.”

“Just as long as she doesn't expect me to speak it!” Rebecca said, and they both began to giggle. They were still giggling as they crossed the first set of railway lines, and the square silhouette of the George came into view. Instantly, Rebecca was sobered. Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs. Would he be there? And did she even want him to be?

Over the second set of railway lines they went. There were a few people about, but no one who looked in the least like Ted Hall.

“Can you see him?” Marjorie asked.

Rebecca shook her head, unable to find her voice for the lump in her throat. And then a figure detached itself from the doorway of the George, coming across the dark market forecourt towards them, and her nervousness disappeared. It was him. Even in the dark, even though she had seen him only twice before, she would have known him anywhere. She saw him hesitate, puzzled by the fact that there were two of them, and she turned to Marjorie catching at her arm and stopping her.