When the Lights Come on Again (15 page)

‘Information sheet, application form - and consent form.’

Liz’s blood ran cold. ‘Consent form?’

‘In view of your age, my dear, we must get your father’s permission. You too, Miss Brown,’ she said, handing Janet a copy of the form. ‘Well then,’ she said brightly, ‘I’ll look forward to receiving your completed forms as soon as possible.’

She swept off. Neither Helen nor Janet spoke. It was Helen who broke the silence, her voice full of sympathy.

‘Och, Liz,’ she said. ‘Och, Liz.’

Twelve

He had touched her. His hands were on her body. He had crept up behind her while she was standing sorting out some papers on her desk and she didn’t hear him until it was-too late - when he slid his arms around her from behind, pushing her lacy jumper up over her petticoat.

Liz jumped and tried to turn around, but he was holding her too tightly, one arm and hand clamped round her waist. His other hand slid upwards, tightening over her breast.

She tried to say,
How dare you?
but her mouth had gone dry. She couldn’t get the words out. She struggled, and felt his mouth at her ear.

‘Stop pretending you don’t want it,’ said Eric Mitchell. ‘You little temptress.’ The softness of his voice terrified her. She struggled some more. That only made matters worse. His hands squeezed harder, pulling her into his body. He laughed at her futile attempts to resist the contact.

‘Can you feel me, little Lizzie?’ he whispered. ‘Is it nice?’

She moved her head from side to side in frantic denial, feeling the strands of her hair passing over his face.

‘Let me go.’ She was so panicky she could hardly get the words out. The blood was whooshing through her ears and her skin was hot and clammy. She felt as if she was going to be sick. The pressure of his body repelled her. Oh, dear God, how was she going to get out of this? A prayer to St Jude? Helen had taught her about that.

‘If ever something seems really desperate and you can’t see any way out of it, then send up a wee prayer to St Jude. It always works.’

She had laughed all over her pretty face when an anxious Liz had asked if a prayer to a Catholic saint would work for a Proddy. Liz didn’t hesitate now. Anything was worth a try.

The patron saint of lost causes was clearly not at all prejudiced against Protestants. Liz’s body grew limp with relief as she heard footsteps in the corridor outside the door to the outer office. With a muttered obscenity, Eric Mitchell released her, moving swiftly back to his own desk.

Liz pulled her jumper down just in time. The door opened. She had been expecting to see the sharp features and cheery grin of the office boy. Instead, a young woman was coming into the office - closely followed by Adam Buchanan. What on earth was he doing here?

His open face lit up with pleasure when he saw her, and he came forward with his hand outstretched.

‘Why, Miss MacMillan, what a surprise to see you again! Although a very pleasant one,’ he added gallantly. ‘My mama must be right. She always says that Glasgow’s a village. How delightful it is that we keep bumping into each other!’

‘Delightful,’ agreed Liz. Reeling from the shock of what Eric Mitchell had done, it was a miracle she could get any kind of coherent answer out - even one consisting of only one word.

Adam Buchanan introduced his dark-haired companion. ‘Miss Elizabeth MacMillan - the Honourable Miss Cordelia Maclntyre.’

The girl turned a laughing face up to him. ‘Cordelia Maclntyre will do fine, Adam. These courtesy titles are a bit ridiculous in this modern age. She looked at Liz, her discreetly made-up mouth grimacing in rueful distaste. ‘Don’t you think so, Miss MacMillan?’

‘I’m sure I couldn’t say,’ said Liz, dropping the girl’s hand as soon as she reasonably could. She’d remembered where she knew her from. She was the young lady who’d made the disparaging comments about Clydebank the night of the Red Cross enrolment.

Eric Mitchell had never done anything as bad as this. Her skin crawled at the memory of his hands on her body, the way he had pulled her against him, the feel of him... What in the name of God was she going to do about it?

She wasn’t in any fit state to be standing here making small talk with Adam Buchanan and his fashion-plate companion. The Honourable Miss Maclntyre was pencil slim, but shapely with it, her dark hair, long when Liz had first met her, now fashionably waved and cropped close to her head like an elegant cap.

‘Oh, come on, Miss MacMillan,’ said Adam Buchanan, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Tm sure you’ve got an opinion on the matter. You don’t strike me as a young lady who’s backward about coming forwards.’

Cordelia Maclntyre laughed and looked expectantly at Liz, eager to play the game. Something snapped in Liz. She could have sworn she heard it: like the crack of a dry and brittle twig breaking as she put her foot on it.

Eric Mitchell, her disappointment about the Voluntary Aid Detachment, the country careering towards war. Yet you still got people like this pair - have another cocktail, go to another party, bury your head in the sand and it’ll go away. They found life so frightfully amusing.

‘All right then,’ said Liz. She folded her arms across her chest. ‘All titles - and the whole rotten class system - are the ruination of this country. We’re in the modern age. People say that man will even travel to the moon this century.’

The people who said that were largely Dominic Gallagher, but Liz was sure he knew what he was talking about. She lifted her chin.

‘Every day it looks more and more likely that there’s going to be another war - in which we’ll all be expected to participate and do our bit. Yet we’re hidebound by an utterly stupid class system which exercises a complete stranglehold on society - where privilege and birth count for more than intelligence and common sense.’

It was an impressive speech. She should probably have stopped there. She didn’t, her cool grey-green gaze sweeping contemptuously over the two of them.

‘Do you have any idea of the sort of poverty some people are forced to live in? Do you realize what a waste of potential that is?’

Cordelia Maclntyre looked very earnest. ‘I do so agree with you, Miss MacMillan.’ She turned to her companion. ‘She’s absolutely right, you know, Adam. We need a better system.’

That was all Liz needed - an upper-class young lady with a conscience.

‘Would you excuse me, please?’ she said coldly. ‘Mr Murray pays me to work, not stand around talking.’

That went beyond rudeness. She knew it did. If Miss Gilchrist had heard her, she’d have been for it. Eric Mitchell, a hateful smile on his lips, was standing aside from the conversation. He knew exactly why she was so rattled.

Helen would have read her a lecture on manners - and she’d have been right. Liz knew she was taking out her feelings of helpless anger and rage towards Eric Mitchell on the wrong people, but she couldn’t seem to stop. She wasn’t going to be very proud of herself when she thought about this later. Adam Buchanan, however, simply laughed.

‘Oh, come on, Miss MacMillan. My Uncle Alasdair’s not a slave driver.’

Uncle Alasdair? So she’d really put her foot in it. Added to which, Adam Buchanan was perfectly right. Mr Murray was by no means a slave driver. He could be strict sometimes, but he was always fair.

The door to the inner office opened and Miss Gilchrist came out. She positively simpered when she saw Adam Buchanan and Cordelia Maclntyre.

‘Miss Maclntyre! Mr Buchanan! How delightful to see you! Why, it must be fully two years since we last had the pleasure. I hope Miss MacMillan’s been making you welcome. Elizabeth, why have you not made some tea for our visitors?’

As she turned to Liz, her expression changed and hardened. Now Liz
was
for it. She wondered if she could have cared less.

Adam Buchanan and Cordelia Maclntyre both started speaking at once. They laughed and Adam made a funny little bow to Cordelia, indicating that she should speak first He had lovely manners. Unlike myself, thought Liz.

‘Miss MacMillan has been making us very welcome, Miss Gilchrist - and we didn’t want any tea. We’ve been drinking the stuff all day. Swimming in it, in fact. Isn’t that right, Adam? It’s all this going around with the begging bowl.’

She smiled at Miss Gilchrist and then turned, including everyone in the warmth of the gesture. So she wasn’t a clype. She had chosen not to mention Liz’s rudeness and belligerent attitude. That was one tiny little point in her favour. It didn’t mean Liz was going to smile back. She had no idea what the girl meant by the begging bowl - a little light charity work, probably.

The two visitors were shown into Mr Murray’s - Uncle Alasdair’s - office. Ten minutes later Cordelia Maclntyre came out alone. Miss Gilchrist leapt to her feet. Cordelia, fastening white kid gloves which buttoned at the wrist, looked round the office and gave another of those all-encompassing smiles.

‘Well, I must be off. I only really came along to say hallo to Uncle Alasdair. I hear you’re doing well at the Red Cross classes, Miss MacMillan.’

Liz, back behind her Underwood, looked up at her stupidly. How did she know that? Adam Buchanan via his mother, she supposed.

‘Yes,’ she managed at last. ‘My friend and I are enjoying them.’

‘They’re good, aren’t they?’ agreed Cordelia, nodding her head enthusiastically. ‘I’m doing one in the West End. It’s so nice to feel that one is doing something useful. Especially for a social butterfly and generally useless person such as myself.’ She laughed gaily. ‘Maybe it’ll be enough to keep me from the guillotine come the revolution, eh?’

‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ said Liz, the words shooting out of her mouth before she could stop them. The Honourable Miss Maclntyre seemed, however, disposed to find them amusing and took her leave of them all with a friendly wave.

The door had barely closed behind her before Miss Gilchrist gave Liz the look and the command. ‘Elizabeth. In front of my desk, now. If you please.’

And whether she pleased or not. The ticking-off which followed - on rudeness to visitors in the office ‘who also happen to be close relatives of Mr Murray’s, young lady!’ - was administered with a smirking Eric Mitchell listening to every word.

It didn’t help that the lecture was delivered by a seated Miss Gilchrist with Liz standing in front of her, arms behind her back like a naughty schoolgirl. Or that having finished berating her, her supervisor stood up, scooped a pile of folders from the filing tray and dumped them in Liz’s arms.

‘You’ll file these before you leave tonight.’

‘But Miss Gilchrist, I’ll be late home!’ wailed Liz, glancing up at the office clock. Not to mention the row I’ll get from Father - especially when he finds out why I had to stay behind.

Adam Buchanan, coming out of the inner office at that moment, must have heard the comment His uncle, following him out, didn’t notice what was going on, but then why should he have? He hadn’t witnessed the conversation which had provoked the reprimand. Adam Buchanan, however, by the faint raise of his eyebrows, showed that he had a fair idea of what was going on.

Alasdair Murray took his leave of his nephew, clapping him affectionately on the shoulder. Then he called Miss Gilchrist into his office. Liz knew they were planning to work late themselves. He was in the middle of dictating a long report to his personal secretary. They’d spent the morning pulling out information from lots of different files, hence the large amount which now needed to be put back into the cabinets.

His visitor came over and stood in front of Liz. ‘Miss MacMillan, I’m heading for Clydebank this evening. Can I offer you a lift home, by any chance?’

‘I have to work late,’ she said, indicating the files. The huge bundle was threatening to slide all over her desk.

‘I’ll stay if you like, Lizzie,’ said Eric Mitchell. ‘Help you put them away.’