A Mistletoe Kiss (23 page)

‘Yes, I think you're right,' Hetty said, after some thought. ‘But wait until I tell you his parting shot! It's that which makes me wonder if you can guess who he was.'

However, when she came to the last part of her story, where the young man had said, ‘Tell your grandpa I were asking for him …' she could tell at once by the expression on her listeners' faces that they were no wiser than she.

‘Could it have been Jez?' Gramps suggested. ‘We've not set eyes on him for years, so I suppose he might well ask after us. But then so would Gareth – and he's Welsh, and wanted to get work in Wales if he possibly could after his parents moved away from Liverpool. Or there was Jimmy … or Frank; you were pally with them at one time. Goodness, Hetty, it could be almost anyone!'

‘I s'pose it wasn't Harry? The fellow who walked
out on us without giving us so much as a hint that he meant to leave?' Gran put in rather timidly. ‘Honest to God, queen, with so little to go on, I wouldn't like to hazard a guess. But does it really matter? If he didn't want you to know who he was, I imagine he had a good reason. Didn't you say he had come to the village to take a girl called Cerys back to the next valley? If Cerys is his girlfriend, then he might not want her to know that he had given you a lift all the way back to Liverpool. Some girls can get really jealous over the tiniest thing.'

‘Or he might be married,' Uncle Matthew chimed in. He was a small, gnome-like man, totally bald but with bushy side-whiskers, a moustache and a small pointed beard. Because of his many years on the canal he was brown and wrinkled as a walnut, and now he grinned at his great-niece, looking as mischievous as the gnome he resembled. ‘If he's wed to some pretty young Welsh lass, I'd say your gran's guess is right and he wouldn't want you putting it abroad that he'd brought you all the way back to Liverpool and not accepted a penny piece, in case it got back to his lady wife.' He chuckled wheezily. ‘There's the answer to your puzzle … and if he truly recognised you, why did he call you Miss Liverpool and not Miss Gilbert? And most gals of your age have grandparents; I tek it he didn't say “Gramps” did he?'

‘No, of course he wouldn't, because Gramps isn't
his
grandfather,' Hetty said, giggling. ‘But I suppose you're right; if the chap didn't want to be recognised then trying to find out begins to seem like – oh, I don't
know, like prying.' She turned to her grandparents, both of whom, to her secret amusement, were nodding and smiling and looking just like Tweedledum and Tweedledee from
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland
. ‘You agree with Uncle Matthew, I can tell.'

‘That's right, sweetheart,' Gramps said at once. ‘You don't want to get obsessed with finding out something that isn't in the least important. Otherwise, when next year comes and you're taking your school certificate, you'll find yourself studying the faces of your fellow students instead of answering the questions.'

Hetty giggled again, but Gran trotted round the table and gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze. ‘If you're meant to find out who rescued you, then find out you will, in the fullness of time,' she said. ‘It's a bit like that old adage, though – a watched pot never boils. Just you put the whole episode out of your mind and the solution will come of its own accord. You see if I'm not right.'

Hetty agreed to do this, and was glad she had decided not to mention that the young man had kissed her just before they parted. She had told no one this, not even Agatha Preece, and since she had now decided to put the whole matter out of her mind she was glad of the omission. Her rescuer's kiss had been, she knew, a teasing kiss, not a proper one at all, a kiss meant to make her even more curious as to his identity. Well, Mr Mystery, you've fallen down on that one, she told him inside her head. Because I dare say you just guessed that most girls have grandparents, and
drew a bow at a venture, as they say. So I won't think about it any more, I won't, I won't!

Determinedly, she began to ask Gran how she liked living in a proper house instead of a barge, and presently Gramps took her outside to see his vegetable patch and to pick a bag full of apples from the trees at the end of the garden. ‘They're Bramleys, cookers, which means that Phoebe can make a nice apple pie with 'em,' he instructed his granddaughter. He led her to another tree and stretched up to gather some of the rosy, sweet-smelling fruit. ‘And these are Coxes, which you can eat just as they are.'

‘Thanks, Gramps. I'll have a Cox or two on the bus going home,' Hetty said, tucking a couple into her pocket. ‘Isn't it good that you and Gran are so happy, living with Uncle Matthew? And he's happy too; I've never seen him look so healthy and cheerful.'

‘Aye, we do well enough, the three of us,' her grandfather said. ‘And don't forget the advice of three old ‘uns, my dear. Stop thinking about that young fellow with the motorbike and, as your gran says, you'll find out who he is, and why he acted so mysteriously. And when you're ready to go and catch your bus just say the word and we'll walk you down to the stop. We like to take some exercise each day; does us all good. I've talked about getting us a dog, but nothing's come of it so far. Maybe in the spring …'

Hetty and Gramps strolled on, chatting comfortably, but when they returned to the kitchen Hetty gave a squawk of dismay. ‘Look at the time, Gramps,' she said,
pointing to the clock on the mantel. ‘If I'm to catch the next bus …'

‘What's the hurry, queen?' Uncle Matthew asked. ‘You've not visited us for an age, and Dulcie's made a lovely salad and a pile of cheese butties, to say nothin' of a fruit cake what 'ud do for a perishin' weddin'. There's another bus in a couple of hours.'

‘Oh, but I really shouldn't eat all your lovely food, and I've not brought so much as a sugar lump …' Hetty began, but was firmly told not to be so foolish.

‘We miss you even more than we miss the
Sprite
and the
Beetle,
' Gran said rather plaintively. ‘Next summer, you can come and stay with us, can't she, Jim? Of course, we don't have a barge any longer, but we've a nice little row boat; we could take a picnic out into the real countryside … you'd enjoy that, Hetty love.'

Hetty agreed that she would and it was tentatively arranged that she should spend at least a few days at Burscough when next summer arrived.

‘Unless there's a war by then,' Gramps said, but Hetty did not think he was serious. Why should there be a war? True, there were terrible things happening on the continent according to the newspapers, and Miss Preece – I mean Agatha, Hetty reminded herself – had talked about a war in Spain, but that was a long way away and besides, Hetty had not been attending very closely.

So she promised gaily to come to Burscough the following year for a holiday and hopped aboard the later bus when it stopped to pick her up, waved
vigorously to her relatives and sank into a seat, reminding herself that she had vowed to stop wondering about the motorcyclist.

But dreams, of course, were a different matter; no one could control their dreams.

If old Mrs Preece noticed how eagerly her daughter awaited the arrival of the post each morning after her trip to Llandudno, she made no comment, and Agatha was grateful, for it was not until halfway through November that the first letter arrived from Spain. Not that it was the first letter, for the professor – or Max, as he had signed himself – had clearly written several times before, since he referred to previous correspondence. But in a country torn by civil war, Agatha supposed it was scarcely surprising that a great many letters never reached their destination. And at least this one had done so, when she had almost given up hope.

It came through the letterbox accompanied by an electricity bill and a couple of circulars, and Agatha thrust it into her pocket and went into the kitchen with a thumping heart. He was alive! She had told herself over and over that he must be safe because he had no part in that bitter conflict, but everyone knew that innocent civilians were constantly being killed; how could she be sure that he was not one of them?

She entered the kitchen and put the electricity bill and the circulars down on the table. Mrs Preece, sprinkling brown sugar on her porridge, reached for the
envelope containing the electricity bill, slit it open and pushed it across to her daughter. ‘They're very quick off the mark; the man only read the meter last week,' she said. ‘You'd better check it, though I've never known them make a mistake. Shall I pour you a second cup of tea? We're earlier than usual, so if you want to help me dress, you could pop round to Mrs Simpson and tell her she won't be needed until lunchtime. That will save us a few pennies.'

Agatha could have screamed. Not only did she know how much their neighbour relied on the money they paid her, she was also aware that if she hurried, she might arrive at the library before it opened, which would give her time to read her letter in comparative privacy. If she stayed to help her mother dress, however, it would probably be lunchtime before she could so much as glance at her correspondence.

But her mother was looking at her, clearly expecting her to agree to cancel Mrs Simpson, and this Agatha was determined not to do. Instead she said reprovingly: ‘How can you be so mean, Mother! You can't expect Mrs Simpson to always be available if you cancel her on a whim, and anyway, I like to get in to work before the public begin arriving. Besides, you're always telling me that Mrs Simpson has got helping you dress down to a fine art. Last Sunday, you said it took me twice as long as it takes her to get you into your Sunday-go-to-meeting outfit.'

Mrs Preece sighed but capitulated, so her daughter was able to arrive at work and take her place behind her small desk a good ten minutes before the library
would be open to the public. She was disappointed to find that the envelope only contained one small sheet of stained writing paper, but even so, she eagerly prepared to peruse the lines written in the professor's neat hand. There was no address either on the page or the envelope, so she would not be able to reply, but she supposed that it might be dangerous for him to receive a letter from England. She spread out the closely written sheet and began to read.

Dear Miss Preece
,

As I told you in my previous letters, I had had no luck in tracing Michael and was beginning to think the worst, so I'm doubly glad to be able to pass on my good news. As soon as the weather began to improve I set off for the village I mentioned when we met – no names no pack-drill is important here, since I imagine that letters to other countries might be opened and read – and at last got news of Michael. He was wounded some time last year but not badly enough to be repatriated, and is now fighting fit again. So wherever I've gone I've put the word about that I'm in Spain and eager to meet up with him; indeed I hope to do so in the not too distant future
.

Things here are very bad; everything is scarce. The air raids are terrifying. The aircraft fly in at dusk and wreak enormous damage on Spanish cities, which seems madness since at this rate there will be little left for whichever side wins. Not that there is any doubt, as I expect you realise; the Nationalists have everything on their side
.

I understand that only about one in ten letters addressed to England arrives at its destination, so God alone knows whether you will receive this, but I'll write constantly, hoping at least some of my missives get through
.

I think of you often and long for our next meeting more than you would believe
,

Sincerely
,

Max Galera

Agatha read the letter through three times, trying to pick up information between the lines. She could not now remember the name of the little village in the Pyrenees which he had mentioned when they had last met, but it did not matter. What mattered was that he was alive, or at least had been when he had written the letter. He had not put an address on it for obvious reasons – she supposed that he was constantly moving, never in one place for long – but now she saw that it was dated, for there were figures in a tiny cramped hand at the foot of the page, not at the top as one would expect, and she realised, with some dismay, that the letter had been written at the end of July, more than three months ago.

Because of her intense interest in what was happening to the professor, she had begun to read everything she could lay her hands on about Spain and, consequently, understood his reference to the weather, for in common with most English people she had always assumed Spain to be a country of perpetual sunshine; how else could they grow crops such as
oranges, lemons and grapes? Now, however, she knew better. Madrileños, as the citizens of Madrid were known, had a saying regarding their weather: ‘Our city has nine months of hell and three months of winter,' they told anyone who was interested, and the rich who owned the great houses and ran the city were careful to leave it as soon as the weather grew extreme.

I wonder if he's in Madrid now, Agatha thought, folding the letter and popping it into her handbag. No, I'm sure he can't be because we're into November and he says as soon as the weather grew clement he began his search for Michael all over again. And though he hasn't actually found him, he's had news that Michael's alive and well. Oh, how I wish I could help him in some way! He says everything is scarce, which must mean food, clothing, and perhaps even ammunition. If only there was an address to which I could send a parcel; as it is, all I can do is pray for his safety, and that of his brother too, of course. But perhaps now one letter's got through, others will follow. If only there was something I could do to help!

It was a sunny Saturday at the end of July, nearly nine months after Agatha Preece had received the first of the professor's letters, when Hetty bounced into the library, feeling like a prisoner loosed from her chains. She had taken her last examination for the School Certificate in June, term had now finished and it seemed as though the whole summer stretched ahead of her, full of exciting and enjoyable things.