A Mistletoe Kiss (33 page)

Agatha smiled but vouchsafed no reply, and even as she hurried across the concourse it occurred to her how she had changed after her day with Max. Normally, she would have snubbed the taxi driver, but that was before she had been kissed. Now, as she went towards the train, which was getting up steam, she told herself that it had just been a mistletoe kiss and everyone knows that a mistletoe kiss means nothing. She supposed in a way that it was a thank you for a day they had both enjoyed; she must be careful not to read too much into it.

All around her, she realised, as she crossed to the still stationary train, people were kissing. Men were going away or coming home, women were greeting or bidding farewell. Clearly, Max's kiss had been very much on a par with a handshake; she would put it out of her mind. Yet even as she limped along, searching for his carriage, she could not quite banish the lovely warm glow that his kiss – his closeness – had lit in her breast.

Presently, she spotted Max and rapped on the pane, thinking how unlike her it was to make a spectacle of herself. He turned his head, saw her and got to his feet even as the train began to move. He was mouthing something, she did not know what, but she limped alongside the train, cursing her clubfoot which never allowed her to hurry, always threatening to turn her ankle, if she tried to move too fast, and deposit her on the ground.

He was breathing on the pane, trying to write a message; then he must have realised she was falling behind and for a moment he disappeared, then appeared again, pulling down the sash window of the door and leaning out to wave. She could see he was speaking, but now he was too far away for her to even guess at his words. Nevertheless she remained on the platform, waving and waving until the train was out of sight. Only then did she force herself to leave.

When she reached the arch she looked up, but could see nothing in the dim blue light which was all that was allowed. She wondered for a moment
how someone had managed to get a bunch of mistletoe up to such a height, then put it out of her mind, because it was not important. She had had a wonderful, unforgettable day, and though she would still have repudiated even the suggestion that she and Max were more than just friends, she hugged the memory of his kiss, and the warm glow which had followed it, to her breast. She would tell no one, not even dear little Hetty, but she was beginning to believe that perhaps she was not just a plain, foreign-looking cripple, but a woman who could be desirable – perhaps really was desired.

She reached the taxi and was rather touched when the driver hopped out and came round to the rear door, holding it open for her. ‘Hop in, princess,' he said grandly, giving her a mock bow so low that his nose nearly touched his knees. He straightened and grinned at her. ‘Find the boyfriend?' he enquired genially. ‘Bet he were surprised to see you, havin' said his goodbyes earlier.'

Agatha, settling comfortably into her seat, said that her friend had indeed been surprised. ‘But this was his embarkation leave so we may not meet for months, possibly years,' she explained. ‘I think it's nice to be waved off when you're leaving for foreign parts.'

The driver nodded sagely, selected a gear and stuck his hand out of the window to indicate that he was drawing into the main stream of traffic. Agatha watched the cars and lorries crawling past, their hooded lights making any sort of speed impossible.

She knew Max had paid the taxi driver to take her to Everton Terrace, and now she gathered her parcels together, for the vehicle was nearing her destination. Then she frowned; there was one parcel too many! Hastily, she checked. She had bought crystallised fruits for her mother and Mrs Simpson, as well as a pretty brooch in the form of a tiny bunch of miniature violets for Mrs Preece. Then there was a scarlet woolly hat and scarf for Hetty, and some fruit which she and her mother would eat over the holiday. Heavens, whatever would she do if she had inadvertently picked up one of Max's purchases along with her own? She would have to post it to his Durham address … which, she realised with dismay, she did not have! Quickly, she checked the parcels again and picked out the one that she could not identify. It was a smallish, square box, wrapped in brown paper and … oh, goodness! Written on it, in Max's clear, decided hand were the words:
Happy Christmas, dear Agatha, and thank you for a wonderful day. Take care of yourself, Max
.

Agatha's hands flew to her hot cheeks. He had bought her a Christmas present and she had not reciprocated … oh, God, she should have realised, should have guessed … but it was too late for regrets. Unless she could rush up to the shops before the library opened next morning and buy something, despatch it …

To where, you fool, Agatha's practical mind asked scornfully. Moments ago, when you thought the parcel might be one that he had inadvertently left
behind, you realised you didn't have his Durham address. Oh, what on earth can I do? It was awfully kind of him to buy me a gift, but I wish to God he hadn't!

Agatha and Hetty met on Christmas Eve to exchange presents, and as soon as they left the library and turned their steps towards Everton Terrace, Agatha poured out the story of the gift which Max had given her and which she had been unable to thank him for, let alone reciprocate. The two friends were walking along Heyworth Street, and doing so with caution for the pavements were frosted. Hetty longed to take Agatha's arm, but knew it would be resented, for her friend was very independent with regard to her mobility.

‘That is awkward,' Hetty agreed when she had heard the full story. ‘But the professor must realise that you don't know his parents' address and will understand why you can't thank him for his present, let alone buy him something in return. What was it, by the way? The gift, I mean.'

‘I shouldn't really have opened it until tomorrow, but I did, of course,' Agatha confessed. She fished in her handbag, which she wore school-satchel fashion across her shoulder, and produced a small box which she handed to Hetty. ‘Go on, open it!'

Hetty complied, and gasped. Nestling in tissue paper was the prettiest, daintiest necklace she had ever seen. It was a crystal pendant in the shape of a teardrop
hanging from a slender gold chain, and when Hetty looked at her friend she saw tears shining in the older woman's eyes. ‘Oh, Agatha, it's beautiful, and it does prove he likes you a lot. You should be really proud; if it were mine, I'd wear it all the time.' Agatha sniffed, pulled out her hanky, and blew her nose. ‘But why are you crying, you silly goose?'

‘I'm crying because it never occurred to me to buy him so much as a few sweets,' Agatha mumbled. ‘Oh, Hetty, I don't even know if he likes chocolates, or needs a warm scarf or gloves! Even if I knew his parents' address, I'd be hard put to it to know what to buy him.'

‘You could buy him cufflinks for his shirts, or a cigarette lighter,' Hetty said. ‘That's what I bought for my cousins: a cigarette lighter for Tom, because he smokes, and cufflinks for Bill because he doesn't – smoke, I mean. Or you could simply buy him twenty Players, or some pipe tobacco …'

‘I don't know if he smokes,' Agatha wailed. ‘I don't know anything about him. Oh, I feel so mean.'

‘Don't be so silly. If he's as nice as you think he is, then he won't expect you to buy him anything, so don't you dare let it spoil your Christmas,' Hetty said as they reached Everton Terrace. ‘Hey, I've thought of something! You're on the telephone, aren't you? Ring the operator and ask for his number, and when you get it, ring up, thank him for his present and get his Durham address.'

Agatha thought this a brilliant idea, but it turned out to be a non-starter since Agatha knew neither Max's
father's initials nor his address, and lacking this information the operator refused to give Agatha the number, even though the name Galera must surely be unusual in Durham. She had made the phone call as soon as they entered the house, but by the time they sat down to the meal Mrs Simpson had prepared for them she had decided to take Hetty's advice and put the matter out of her mind. ‘He promised to write as soon as he had his new address,' she said, ‘and as soon as he does so, I shall buy him the very nicest cufflinks available and send them off, along with a letter of thanks for my beautiful Christmas necklace.'

When it was time for Hetty to leave, presents were exchanged and much laughter followed when Hetty exclaimed with pleasure over her scarlet woolly hat and scarf, and Agatha did likewise over the identical set in white which Hetty had bought for her. Then they had to say goodbye, knowing that this time they might not meet for many weeks, perhaps even months. ‘But I'll write just as regularly to you, Agatha, as I will to Gramps and Gran,' Hetty promised. ‘I'll write to Aunt Phoebe as well, of course, but not so often because I know she hates letter writing and will only respond to the longest letter with scrappy little notes.'

Agatha took her coat from the hallstand and struggled into it. ‘I'll walk as far as the corner with you,' she said. ‘And you may be sure that I shall look forward to your letters with real eagerness and will reply at length, because I know you'll be interested in everything that happens in the library.'

They stepped out into the icy dusk and were at the end of Everton Terrace when, for the first time in her life, Hetty stood on tiptoe and kissed the librarian's cheek. ‘Thank you for everything, Agatha,' she said huskily. ‘And look out for my letters, because every time we moor up, in London or Birmingham, I'll post one off to you and expect to get one in return. Oh, Agatha, I do hope Sally, Alice and myself will be able to manage the
Shamrock
and the
Clover
when there's no older, more experienced person to advise us.'

Hetty was on the tiller, Alice on the butty boat and Sally dealing with the engine when the blizzard hit them. They had been aboard for two complete trips, fully laden in both directions, and had, Hetty thought, managed very well, despite the deteriorating weather conditions. She had been worried at first that she would not remember the procedure which in days gone by she had been able to follow in her sleep, but this had not proved to be the case. Once they were laden and put-putting in the right direction, even Alice, the only true novice on board, had quickly learned most of the essentials.

Even before the blizzard struck they had begun to lose track of where they were, but now, with dusk about to fall and the wind and snow completely hiding their surroundings, they could easily be in deep trouble. The snow was blowing horizontally in their faces, and even when they switched on the headlight, which was hooded as were road traffic lights, all they
could see were whirling flakes. Hetty cast one horrified glance ahead, then raised her voice in a scream. ‘I can't see a perishin' thing through the snow, even with the headlight on,' she shrieked. ‘Sally, can you hear me? I'm going to steer for the bank, because we'll have to moor up until the storm passes.'

Sally's head popped out of the engine room. ‘I heard you. I'll throttle back and give Alice a shout to tell her that we're going to sit out the storm moored up,' she yelled. ‘This perishin' storm's no joke, though; it's so dark it could be midnight, but it can't be more than four o'clock, if that.'

Hetty heard the engine noise drop as she steered to where she hoped the bank lay, and to her immense relief she found it, noting that it was a length of towpath, uncluttered by reeds. She steered her craft carefully until the
Shamrock
's nose bumped the bank, then jumped ashore and tied up whilst Alice did the same for the butty.

By the time they had moored both craft, she and Alice looked like snowmen. Then all three made hastily for the cabin, so that they could discuss what they should do. In the delicious warmth – for they never let the fire in the stove go out – they relaxed for the first time for several hours, rubbing their icy hands and shedding their snow-covered garments as they entered. Quickly, they donned dry jerseys and trousers, then hung their wet things on the rope stretched across the cabin for use when the engine was not running, and looked enquiringly at one another.

They had not intended to moor up for a while, meaning to draw into a particular wharf where a fish and chip van visited on a regular basis. This vehicle kept to a strict timetable and was due this very evening. The three girls had been looking forward to a fish and chip supper, and had done nothing towards preparing a meal. Knowing this, Hetty looked enquiringly at her companions. Since she was acting as Number One for this trip, she felt it incumbent upon her to decide what to do. ‘If the weather wasn't so dreadful, I'd vote for going on,' she said. ‘But if we can't we can't, and I believe that pressing on when I can scarcely see my hand in front of my face is a recipe for disaster. Colliding with another boat might well be the end not only of the
Shamrock
, but of her crew as well. I know it's disappointing, and if the snow clears and the wind drops then of course we'll press on, but in the meantime we can check over our stores and decide what we'll have to eat. Alice, you're the nearest; what tins have we got?'

Alice got up from the bench on which she had been sitting and lifted the seat to reveal storage space packed with tinned goods. ‘There's four tins of soup, two of baked beans and two of spaghetti,' she said. ‘They're the ones on top; stuff like tinned peaches and peas and sardines are underneath; I can't see them but I know they're there. So that means either soup or something on toast. We haven't any eggs, and I know we've run out of milk because we were going to buy it at the corner shop when we stopped for fish and chips. We
could open a tin of conny-onny for anyone who likes a sweet cup of tea.'

Hetty began to agree that something on toast would fill the chinks, then stopped short and gave a groan. ‘We've got no
bread,
' she wailed. ‘Don't you remember, Sally? We gave the last couple of slices – they were pretty stale anyway – to those ducks when we were queuing for the lock.' She heaved a sigh. ‘Still, we shan't starve, but we mustn't forget to stock up when the storm's over. Only if you ask me, it's set in for the night; how the wind howls!'