The War Widow. Lorna Gray

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СКАЧАТЬ pendulum back towards distrust. Although he was being stern it might have been meant as a joke between us. By rights the gesture ought to have belonged to someone who knew me. A friend, perhaps, who might have the right. Only he didn’t and it made me afraid to test the power of his grip and measure it against the rough grappling of those two men. Fear hinted that he wanted me to try.

      Only he didn’t. He must have felt my recoil. I saw him make a rapid reassessment, a jerked withdrawal of his hand, and watched his mind dismiss the moment as nonsense. He was already saying impatiently like a perfectly normal man might, “Why not? Because you’ve just told me you have lately sustained a severe concussion; that you haven’t been resting properly and that you’re absolutely exhausted. That’s why.”

      I struggled out of my seat and past him, dragging my unwieldy coat and bag through the gap behind me, unable to recall any more if this rough attempt at reasonableness really did stand apart in my memory from all the other angry voices that were lodged there now. It felt like something he’d said was an echo of something familiar, something much older than this recent stress, which drifted out of reach almost at the instant that I reached for it. But there was no memory there. It was nothing more than a fresh trick of the tiredness that stalked behind the fear in my mind.

      Because I was tired. I was tired of pretending to be nice. I snapped, “Don’t be silly, Mr Hitchen. I’m quite capable of looking after myself.”

      I saw his lips release from their tight line. They parted slightly. Disbelief, stupefaction, injury; they were all here. I had to pretend I didn’t care. I had to make such a drama out of my exit even when we had just shared such a civilised lunch because the alternative was even worse. The alternative was to cling to him in the way that a lifetime of conditioning urges any frightened female to cling to the first unwitting male who happens to present himself for the part of prospective hero. But I didn’t need the vision of those men at the bus stop to remind me that reality didn’t mirror imagination and I certainly wasn’t going to truly put chivalry to the test by actually getting into a car with one.

      I shuffled out of my seat and past him with a simple farewell as my only concession. He didn’t return it. I hadn’t got many yards down the road, however, before he’d changed his mind and caught up with me. I stopped at the entrance to the station, turning to face him and trying not to bristle, not to give in to weary frustration, and most of all trying not to notice how very forbidding he seemed.

      “Thank you for the lovely meal,” I said with a brightness that jarred. “I truly am very grateful for your offer, but I’d really rather take the train.”

      “Never accept lifts from strangers, eh?”

      His wry perceptiveness shook me more than any temper could. I gave a jerky nod and turned my eyes fiercely to the oblivion of the waiting carriages before doubt could transform into guilt and from there into a confession.

      He stood there, saying nothing and frowning down at me, waiting for my attention to return to him again with perfectly genuine disbelief etched across his face. The frown softened to something closer to his natural level of seriousness and abruptly I realised, conditioning or not, just how much I wished to dare go with this kindly man with whom I’d shared a pleasant lunch instead of hurrying for the crowded train.

      But before I could formulate the thought into words, he was saying heavily, “All that steam whistling, by the way, was to mark the end of the Royal Wedding. But all the same you’d better get on. Looks like it’s about to leave. If you change your mind, I’ll be the one wrestling with the starter handle of that draughty relic of a geriatric car over there.”

      I followed the line of his hand and saw, amongst the modest cluster of blue Morrises and black Austins that still had enough fuel for a scenic outing, a sweet red touring car with soft canvas roof and deep leather seats. It was battered and worn and might have been splendid in summer but was really not very suitable for a November excursion, even when it was a dry day like this one.

      It struck me then, just how sorry I was.

      “Thank you,” I said, very sincerely indeed. He only inclined his head in a short nod of farewell that somehow communicated everything that needed to be said about fiercely independent women and their lunatic decisions, and turned away to find his car. Its plates showed that it had been registered in Brighton.

      Feeling both the wonder and shame of my release in equal measures, I hurried down the platform into the fug of coal smoke with the other passengers. I expected a rush for the seats but they seemed to be all standing about exchanging merry congratulations on the successful conclusion of a state wedding rather than queuing to get on.

      “Miss Ward.” A quick step and a man’s voice appeared just behind me. “We get to have our chat after all. What luck.”

      I was a fool. A complete and utter fool. In my urge to get away I had forgotten about this irrepressible source of cheerfulness.

      Trying to be discreet, I cast a desperate glance at the waiting carriages ahead and then back down the platform past Jim Bristol to the dirty gravel near the road. I could just make out Adam as he rummaged beneath the dashboard for the starter handle. No more than a moment later, he had it in his hand. I looked up to Jim Bristol’s face. He was still smiling, honest, handsome and open; and yet again peculiarly thrilled by the prospect of spending more time with me.

      I blinked at him for a moment and then looked away. In the car park, the engine must have rattled into life because Adam was climbing in behind the wheel.

      “Sorry, Mr Bristol.” I stepped out of the crowd and smiled guilelessly. “I’ve just realised I’ve forgotten something. Would you mind being very kind and seeing if you can find me a seat?”

      I left him nodding eagerly into the space where I had been and hurried back down the platform. I reached the end just as the car roared into life. For a moment I thought I had left it too late and my heart fell as I saw the car swing in a great arc towards the road. But then I was stepping heedlessly out onto the smooth tarmacadam and lifting a hand.

      I thought he hadn’t seen me; I wondered whether to actually place myself in his path. But then, with a hiss of brakes, the car slowed and drew to a smooth halt so that the driver’s door was about a yard from my feet. Adam turned his head; he looked up at me with a mixture of surprise and badly concealed impatience and something else that was obscurely like a quickening into relief.

      I gave a silly flustered smile and spoke through the glass. “I’m sorry, Mr Hitchen, I’ve changed my mind. Might I come with you after all?”

      “I thought we’d settled on Adam.”

      “Adam, then.”

      He hesitated. But then, without another word, he reached across and tugged on the handle to the passenger door. In the time that it took to swing open, I had stepped around the car and then I was climbing in beside this irritated stranger, just as the train gave a formal whistle to indicate that the party was over.

      With a rather less elegant chuckle, the car’s engine rose to match it, smothered it, and then we were away in this Rover 10 that came from Brighton and accelerating along the high winding ridge towards Aberystwyth.

       Chapter 4

      The reason it mattered so much that the car was from Brighton was that it wasn’t from Gloucestershire – or, to be precise, the market town of СКАЧАТЬ