A Mistletoe Kiss (28 page)

Agatha jumped. She had never actually admitted that the letters from Spain, which arrived so infrequently,
were from a man, let alone someone who was interested in her; why should she? After all, it was possible, despite his affectionate words, that the professor merely wrote to her in order that someone knew what was happening in Spain. She opened her mouth to tell her mother she had got the wrong end of the stick, but the sight of the much-handled envelope, propped up against the marmalade jar, drew her like a magnet. What did it matter if the professor only regarded her as a friend? What mattered was that the letter would prove he was alive.

She reached for the envelope, but her mother was before her, handing her a cup of tea and picking up the envelope. ‘Just sit down and have a sip of your tea,'the older woman commanded. ‘Then you shall have your letter. And if you wonder how I know that it's a man who's been writing to you, and a man of whom you are already rather fond, then you shouldn't keep his letters in your underwear drawer.'

Agatha, in the very act of opening the envelope, stopped short to stare. ‘Mother, how dare you read my letters!'she exclaimed. ‘What were you doing, searching through my underwear? Really, I thought better of you.'

Mrs Preece bridled. ‘Daughters shouldn't have secrets from their mothers,'she said defensively. ‘Anyway, I wasn't searching for anything. I was putting away the clean linen which Mrs Simpson had just ironed when something rustled. Of course I didn't realise it was letters, I thought the lining of the drawer
had got caught up in one of your petticoats, so I went to smooth it down, and …'

‘And took one letter, at least, out of its envelope and no doubt read every word,'Agatha said. She knew she should have been furious, but all such emotions were cast aside in her eagerness to read the missive in her hand. ‘Well, if you've read the letters, you must realise that the professor and I are just good friends. And now be quiet and let me read this one in peace.'

Mrs Preece gave a cackle of amusement. ‘Just friends indeed!'she said scornfully. ‘Oh, they ain't love letters; how could he write love letters when he must have known he could be killed at any moment? But if you read between the lines …'

‘Shut
up!
'Agatha almost screamed. Her eyes scanned the page swiftly then rose to meet her mother's enquiring gaze. And when she spoke her voice was high, like a child's, and tears ran down her cheeks. ‘They're alive!'she said. ‘Oh, Mam, they're in France and will be home just as soon as they can get to a Channel port. Oh, thank God, thank God!'

‘I guessed as much,'Mrs Preece said placidly; and untruthfully, Agatha thought, but was too happy to say so.

She put the letter down beside her untasted tea and rose to her feet. ‘I don't want any breakfast, I'm too happy and excited. If I hurry, I can get to Salisbury Street and tell Hetty the good news before the library's due to open.'She rushed round the table and gave her mother
an exuberant hug. ‘I forgive you for reading my letters and being such a bossy old woman,'she said. ‘Why, I dare say Max and his brother will be back in England next week, or the week after. And he's promised to come up to Liverpool just as soon as he can, so you'll meet him and can judge for yourself what sort of man he is.'

‘He's a brave one if he's courting you,'her mother said, but her eyes were twinkling. ‘When will you realise, Agatha Jane, that you're really a very pretty woman?'

Her daughter bent over to kiss her cheek and Mrs Preece pushed her away. ‘Get on with you!'she said with pretended annoyance. ‘And since you're going round to Salisbury Street, you might tell young Hetty I've a fancy to go shopping this morning, if she's free.'

Agatha, taking her light coat off the peg and beginning to put it on, had her fingers on the door handle when a thought occurred to her. ‘Mother, I want you to promise me, on your word of honour, that you won't say anything to anyone about Max and Michael coming home, and please don't air your opinion that there's more between Max and myself than friendship. Will you give me your word?'

Mrs Preece chuckled. She held up a finger, licked it and drew it across her throat. ‘See this wet, see this dry, cut my throat if I tell a lie,'she said. ‘I won't say a word, except to Hetty of course. I take it I may mention the matter to her?'

‘Well, I suppose I can't stop you discussing when and how he'll get home, but please don't fill Hetty's
head with a lot of nonsense about Max being more than a friend,'Agatha said. She opened the door and slipped into the hall. ‘I'll see you this evening, and don't forget your promise.'

Although the letter had come from France, there had been no address to which Agatha could write, since Max told her that they would be on the move once more as soon as his letter was posted.
But once we're in England I'll be in touch again, hopefully in person
, he had written.
We're going straight to London, of course; various people want to interview us. Spain's attitude to Germany looks like being pretty important if war does come, and I'd say there's not much doubt of it. We'll both volunteer as soon as we may … but that's for the future. Take care of yourself, and we'll be meeting very soon
.

On 25 August, another letter arrived. Agatha read it over her breakfast, then turned a tragic face to her mother. ‘You'll never guess what he's done,'she said bitterly. ‘He's volunteered to join the Royal Air Force, and they've accepted him. Apparently he's had a pilot's licence for several years. But despite his experience he's had to go for basic training and won't get any leave for a number of weeks. Oh, and I've so looked forward to seeing him again!'

‘Never mind, my dear,'Mrs Preece said, with a rare show of affection. ‘At least he's volunteered for the air force and not the army; all that mud and those terrible trenches …'

Despite her unhappiness, Agatha gave a rather watery laugh. ‘That was the Great War, Mother. I think
this one will be very different. Oh, I forgot to say that Michael's volunteered for the air force as well, and he was accepted too. I thought the professor would be too old, but I'm clearly wrong. Come to that, I never asked him his age, and he never volunteered the information, why should he?'She sighed deeply. ‘Well, it's no use fretting; what's done is done. I must just look forward to his first leave.'

Hetty was sitting on the bench outside the Burscough house, with Aunt Phoebe on one side and Uncle Alf on the other. Gran was in the kitchen with Uncle Matthew, making everybody a cup of tea, and Gramps was just emerging through the back door with a plate of buttered scones.

Inside the kitchen, the wireless was playing softly, for today was 3 September 1939, and at a quarter past eleven, Mr Chamberlain was going to make an announcement.

Gramps was holding out his plate of scones and beginning to ask who would like one when Gran hushed him and turned up the wireless set. ‘Someone's just said that Mr Chamberlain is about to make his announcement to the nation,'she said, coming into the garden behind her husband. She set the wireless down on the doorstep and sank into a deckchair. ‘Now listen, because this is going to be important.'

Hetty obeyed, though she felt dismay and even fear when she heard what Mr Chamberlain had to say. His deep, sad voice spoke of Herr Hitler's invasion of
Poland and Britain's demand that he withdraw from that country. However, he went on: ‘… no such undertaking has been received and consequently this country is at war with Germany.'

For a moment, there was complete silence, each one wrapped in his or her own thoughts, for Gran had switched the set off as soon as the announcement was finished.

Now, Aunt Phoebe leaned across Hetty and took her husband's hand, and Hetty saw the affection between them as an almost physical thing. She remembered that Bill and Tom were both in the forces, Bill in the Navy and Tom in the RAF, and that at this moment both her aunt and her uncle would have no thought to spare for anyone but their boys.

And I suppose it's the end of my studying for the Higher School Certificate, Hetty told herself. I'll have to do war work; make aeroplanes or parachutes, or guns, and I can't say I'm sorry because from what Professor Max says in his letters to Agatha Germany is ready and eager for war, and we are neither. If only people had listened to the Republican army and the men of the International Brigade, to say nothing of that politician – what's his name? Oh yes, Winston Churchill. Surely somebody in authority, as well as Mr Churchill, must have guessed when Hitler began annexing Austria and Czechoslovakia that he wouldn't stop there. Gramps said we were ill prepared in 1914;
it seems to me that we never learn and that we're ill prepared all over again. So the least I can do is to help the war effort in any way I can.

She looked across to where her grandmother sat in the deckchair; Gramps was standing beside her, his hand on her shoulder, and once again Hetty saw that in this moment of crisis their love was strengthening them, giving them purpose.

Around them the garden glowed. The bed of brilliant dahlias buzzed with bees, and butterflies fluttered from full-blown rose to bud, whilst above her head the trees still flaunted the dark green leaves of summer. Above them again, puffs of white cloud drifted across the brilliant blue of the sky. Only yards away, the canal lapped lazily against the bank as a rowboat drifted past.

Five minutes ago we were at peace, and now we're at war, Hetty told herself. But the flowers go on growing, the bees still visit the flowers and the fish still dart to and fro in the canal. Yet the war will change all our lives: complicate some, simplify others. Oh, dear God, I wonder how long it will be before it won't just be puffs of cloud up in that beautiful blue sky, but Hitler's Luftwaffe?

She glanced round at her family and felt a rush of love; they were taking it well, assimilating the facts without fuss. Even as she watched, Gramps gave his wife's shoulder a hard squeeze and then bent over her, offering the plate of scones. ‘Come along, Dulcie; take a scone while young Hetty here nips into the kitchen and helps Matthew pour us all a nice cup of tea. No
sense in half starving ourselves and letting good food go to waste.' He grimaced. ‘I dare say we'll be glad of a scone or two once this war gets going!'

It was a chilly December day; the view from the Preeces' kitchen window was blanketed by fog and Agatha, sipping a cup of tea whilst her mother made toast, thought that she had seldom felt more miserable. She had been so thrilled when the professor had arrived back in England, but that had been weeks and weeks ago, and she had still not seen him. Now that he had a permanent address – well, perhaps permanent was not the right word, but at least an address to which she could write – they had exchanged letters pretty frequently, but it seemed a meeting was not yet possible. He was working intensively, for besides his air force training he was being cross-questioned frequently over what had been happening in Spain, and although his most recent letters had hinted that he hoped to get leave quite soon now, he had not mentioned a date. Agatha had reminded him that the library was on the telephone, and he had rung her twice, but on both occasions their conversation had been stilted, since presumably he was as aware as she that others were listening.

‘Agatha Preece, I've asked you twice if you'd like another piece of toast, and all you've done is stare out of the window as though you could see through the fog!' Her mother's voice was sharp with annoyance. ‘Do pay attention, girl!'

Agatha was beginning to apologise, to say that she
would like another piece of toast very much, when she heard the post come through the letterbox. She would have jumped to her feet and hurried to fetch it, but before she could do so her mother put a restraining hand on her shoulder and slapped a slice of toast on to her plate. ‘For goodness' sake, girl, eat your breakfast; I'll fetch the post, unless you want to be late for work that is.'

Agatha sighed but began to butter the toast, knowing that Mrs Preece would bring the letters back to her more quickly than she could do herself. Mrs Preece reentered the kitchen and put a letter down in front of her daughter. ‘Needless to say, it's from your friend; though what sort of a friend he is when he's been in England for two months and still not visited you, I can't say,' she said, and Agatha heard the trace of bitterness in her mother's voice with understanding. She had never had a close friend whom her mother did not know, so it was natural enough that Mrs Preece should resent this unknown man who seemed to have considerable influence over her daughter. She thought of explaining again that Max could not just go wherever he liked now that he was in the air force, but took a bite of toast instead. Perhaps he really is just a friend, she told herself rather sadly; I'm beginning to believe that now he's back in England he may wish he'd never promised to write to me from Spain. However, she reached for the letter and opened it, scanned the single page briefly, then laid it down and turned to her mother, her hands flying to her hot cheeks. ‘He's coming up to Liverpool on a flying visit, a few days before
Christmas,' she said, unable to keep the excitement out of her voice. ‘He'll be on his way to Durham, where his father lives now he's retired. Apparently he and his brother will both have leave then, and they'll have a family Christmas. His mother died years ago and his father remarried, but I've told you that, I'm sure.'

Mrs Preece sniffed. ‘You've told me remarkably little,' she said stiffly. ‘Do the sons not get on with their stepmother?'

Agatha shrugged. ‘I don't know, he's never said. But he does say he has something important to tell me; I wonder what on earth it can be?'

‘Oh, it'll be something to do with the war,' Mrs Preece said dismissively. ‘Nothing happens these days which isn't connected with the war. He'll probably suggest that you should join up, do your bit for your country, as they say.'