The Bright One (49 page)

When the last one had left, George Soames returned. ‘Have we time for a quick coffee?' Opal asked. ‘And then I want to go around and speak to as many people as I can. I'd like you to go with me. I want to make it clear that though they'll see me from time to time,
you
are the one in charge.'

‘If you hadn't suggested I accompany you,' George said, ‘I'd have done it on my own. It's been a difficult time over the last few weeks, and on the whole people have been quite co-operative. I also think it would be a good idea for Graham to do his own tour. Christmas greetings and all that.'

‘Fine!' Opal said. ‘Are you pleased with him?'

‘Very pleased. He's shaping well, learning fast. It was good thinking on your part to take him on.'

From the pleased and surprised reception the two of them received as they went around, Opal formed the opinion that such a thing had not happened before. ‘That went down well,' she said to George afterwards. ‘I was particularly impressed by how many names you knew! I can't hope to catch up with you on that.'

‘I've still a number to learn,' George admitted.

Opal crossed to the coat cupboard and took her coat from its hanger. George held it while she slipped her arms into it. It was the pride and delight of her life, this coat; black Persian lamb with a dark mink collar. At the same time, she felt it a great extravagance to own such a coat even though she told herself she had earned it. She had worked long and hard for this luxury. She pulled it around her, snuggled into it. ‘I'll be off, then,' she said. ‘I think those who have to go back to Leasfield shouldn't leave it too late. The weather forecast is bad.'

‘I'll see to it,' George promised.

‘Right! Then we'll expect you and Mary for Christmas dinner!'

Breda snatched a word with Graham in the brief interval she took at midday to eat her sandwiches.

‘Do you think we'll get away on time?' she asked anxiously. ‘I don't want to be late. I promised to give Auntie Josie a hand with the Christmas preparations.'

Graham was to go home with her and stay the nights of Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. The latter was on a Saturday, but although Boxing Day was officially on Monday they had promised, along with some others, to go into work that day.

‘I don't see why not, sweetheart,' Graham replied.

Breda's face creased into a smile. ‘You're not supposed to call me “sweetheart” in working hours!'

‘It's your dinner break,' he said. ‘I can call you anything I like – sweetheart, gorgeous, beautiful, darling!'

Breda glanced around nervously. ‘Stop it! Someone might hear you. Can we catch the six-thirty?'

‘I expect so,' Graham said.

He had received an imploring letter from his mother, asking him to go home for Christmas. He was glad to have the excuse that, in the circumstances, he couldn't take enough time to make it worthwhile. In fact he would not have gone whatever the position in Hebghyll. He did not plan to make another visit to Reigate before he and Breda were married. Sometimes he wondered, with a degree of impatience, when that would be. He couldn't understand the delay, saw no reason for it. It all seemed quite simple to him.

Just before two o'clock the snow started to fall. It fell in great, heavy flakes, staying where it fell, except where it was blown into drifts by the sharp wind. Customers coming into the store for Christmas Eve shopping appeared like snowmen, hats and coats covered in a layer of thick flakes. By three o'clock the stream of customers had thinned to a trickle.

Graham looked out from his office window. It was coming down as fast as ever, falling onto a silent and now largely deserted street. Only an occasional car went carefully down the hill. He watched a solitary pedestrian slithering and sliding on the opposite pavement. Then he went in search of George Soames. ‘Have you seen what it's like, Mr Soames?' he asked.

‘I have! It doesn't look good, to say the least. I'm thinking I'll send home at least half the staff, those who live farthest away. But we can't shut the shop until closing time, half-past five.'

‘I doubt we'll get anyone in, sir,' Graham said.

‘Probably not. But we must stay open. Come with me and we'll go round and see who we can send home.'

By four o'clock two-thirds of the staff had been despatched and there was not a customer left in the store. Graham was ordered to make a thorough check in every department.

‘There's no-one except staff,' he reported. ‘The maintenance man is trying to clear a path from the pavement to the main door but as fast as he shovels, the snow comes down and covers the ground again.'

‘Right!' George Soames said. ‘I'll now send everyone home except one person in each department, and if no customers come in the next half-hour, that's it. We'll close.'

No-one came. Outside the warm, brightly lit store, with its stands and shelves and counters filled with gaily coloured offerings, the world was another place; strange, alien. There were no sounds at all now, everything was deserted, even the footprints and tyre marks which had shown in the snow a while ago had been obliterated, as if no-one had ever passed that way.

‘We'll lock up,' George Soames decided. ‘Tell everyone to leave as quickly as possible, and where they can, to go in twos and threes. And when you've done that you and Breda had better get off. Leave the rest to me.'

The station was no more than a quarter of a mile off, although the way looked impenetrable as Graham and Breda set out, arm in arm.

‘You should perhaps have left earlier, with the rest of the Leasfield lot,' Graham said to Breda. ‘It would have been easier for you.'

‘I wouldn't have gone. Not without you, and I knew you couldn't leave. Never mind, once we get on the train we'll soon be home – though we don't know what it'll be like in Akersfield, do we?'

And they were not to know. Waterloo Terrace was not to see them for Christmas. A solitary porter emerged from the station office. ‘Sorry, sir! No trains at all getting through. There's deep drifts on the line in both directions.'

They stared at him in disbelief. ‘No trains?'

‘That's what I said, sir. And none tomorrow, it being Christmas Day – even if they clear the line.'

‘What shall we do?' Breda asked Graham.

‘Only one thing
to
do,' Graham answered. ‘We go back to my digs and see if Mrs Wharton can find you a bed for the night!'

‘And if she can't? What then?'

Graham smiled. ‘You can always share mine!'

Mrs Wharton looked doubtful when a room was requested. ‘I can't honestly say there isn't an empty bed in the house, because it wouldn't be true. There is, but by rights it belongs to Miss Evans. She's a teacher and she's gone home for Christmas.'

‘Do you know anywhere else I could try?' Breda pleaded.

‘I don't. And it's a night not fit to turn a dog out. So I'll take it upon myself to let you have Miss Evans's room for tonight and tomorrow. She's a kind lady. I reckon she'd understand.'

With Graham following, she showed Breda to the room. It was clean and bright, but cold. ‘There's an electric fire you can switch on,' Mrs Wharton said. ‘But I'll ask you not to leave it on when you're out of the room. It comes a bit expensive.'

‘I'll be careful,' Breda promised.

‘This is very good of you, Mrs Wharton,' Graham said. ‘We both appreciate it.'

‘Well, if you'd like to come down in about half an hour I'll make a bite to eat, though I don't promise what it'll be. I'm up to the eyes. And in the meantime, take off your wet coats and I'll see to them drying. We don't want them dripping over the carpet, do we?'

‘I'll carry them down,' Graham offered. ‘And our shoes, though Breda doesn't have a change.'

Mrs Wharton looked at Breda's feet. ‘I reckon you're about the same size as Miss Evans. I dare say in the circumstances she wouldn't mind if you borrowed a nightgown
and
her slippers. She's sure to have some lying around.'

She had. There was a pair of fluffy pink mules under the bed, not at all the kind of thing Breda would have chosen, but when she took off her wet shoes and stockings and thrust her cold feet into the slippers it was heaven.

Graham was back in five minutes. He came into the room and immediately took Breda into his arms. She relaxed against him, the warmth of his body seeping into hers as he held her close. He was kissing her, deep, passionate kisses, while his hands moved over her body. She returned his kisses, pressing her body hard against his. She stroked the back of his neck, ran her fingers through his hair, pulled his head down towards her, until he was kissing her neck, her face, her closed eyelids. Without a word, he began to push her towards the bed, and she was lying down and he on top of her. She shifted under his weight, turned her face away from him. ‘No! I can't! You mustn't!'

‘I must,' he said. ‘I want you. I can't wait. I can tell you want me.'

‘I do,' Breda said. ‘All the time I do. But we can't.'

She turned her face away, wriggled her body from his grasp, and sat upright. He rolled over onto his back, his eyes closed, lying there without speaking, without moving. Breda watched him helplessly. She felt wretched. ‘I'm sorry,' she whispered. ‘I'm truly sorry! Please say you forgive me!'

Without a word, without looking at her, he jumped from the bed and walked out of the room.

Breda sat on the edge of the bed. She had seldom felt so deeply miserable, or so confused. He hated her, didn't he, because she had been prudish? Yet she wasn't a prude, she knew she wasn't, and when they were married she would show him that. If ever they
were
married, if he didn't tire of waiting.

Ten minutes later there was a sharp knock on the door and Graham came back into the room. Breda jumped to her feet and rushed to meet him. He held out his arms and she ran into them. ‘Oh Graham, I'm sorry!' she cried. ‘Please forgive me! Try to understand.'

‘I do understand. And we'll forgive each other. We can't spend Christmas at loggerheads. So tidy yourself up and we'll go down and eat.'

He spoke in level tones of reason, as if devoid of feeling, yet Breda felt herself swamped by differing emotions fighting against each other: relief that he had come back to her, her own sexual frustration, which she was sure he did not understand, condemnation of herself that she had hurt him by her denial, and the underlying feeling that it had been right to do so, it had been all she could do.

She crossed to the dressing-table and surveyed herself in the mirror. She looked a mess. The ends of her hair were still damp and she was wearing her working clothes. Moreover, she would have to wear them right through Christmas Day. Hadn't she planned to wear something especially becoming – a red dress she had bought in Opal's, and about which she had told no-one, not even Auntie Josie? She had planned to make an appearance in it for Christmas dinner.

The thought of Christmas dinner reminded her that her aunt would not know where she was, and would be worried.

‘I have to get in touch with Auntie Josie,' she said to Graham.

‘That's not difficult,' Graham said. ‘At least it won't be unless the lines are down. There's a phone in the house.'

The lines were not down. Josephine was relieved to hear from Breda, disappointed that she would not be with them all for Christmas and, by the tone of her voice, though nothing explicit was said, slightly disturbed that her niece would be spending Christmas as good as alone with Graham. But I'm glad I am, Breda thought. Other than spending Christmas as his wife, and in spite of the difficulties of the early part of the evening, she could think of nothing she would rather do.

It was clear enough, after they had eaten, that Mrs Wharton did not want them to linger in the dining room. She had preparations to make for the next day, when her family would be there in full force. ‘Providing they can get here, though they live in Hebghyll, so I suppose they can walk,' she said. ‘And the two of you are more than welcome to join us for our Christmas dinner.'

They thanked her, and went back upstairs. Graham had found a pack of cards, and for an hour they played various games, in an atmosphere fraught with physical longings and frustrations. In the end it was Breda who put an end to it.

‘I'm really very tired,' she said. ‘I'd like to go to bed, if you wouldn't mind.'

Their good-night kiss was chaste and hurried. Breda undressed, got into bed and put out the lamp. In spite of her fatigue, any hope she had of going swiftly to sleep was not fulfilled. She lay awake in the dark, hearing the sounds from downstairs, until even those ceased and the whole house was quiet. She felt as though she was the only person in the world lying awake. Her thoughts were wholly occupied with Graham, until at last she drifted into her first sleep.

It came as no surprise, therefore, when the bedroom door was quietly opened and Graham came towards her. Half waking, half sleeping, she made no demur when he climbed into her bed and lay down beside her. It was not until he began to take off her nightgown, hold her breast, that she became fully awake, and then there was no turning back for either of them.

They made love silently, as if it was happening in a dream, as if it carried no responsibility, no denial. It was simply the most natural thing in the world, as if they had done it for ever. She was aware that at one moment she briefly cried out, but in ecstasy rather than in protest.

When it was over, Graham kissed her gently, and left her.