A Mistletoe Kiss (5 page)

‘Sorry, Mother; I was kept late at the library,' Agatha Preece said, crossing her fingers behind her back. She did not like to admit that sometimes she stayed at work after closing time for the sheer pleasure of the peace and quiet to be found in the company of books.

Mrs Preece snorted and eyed her daughter up and down as though she were about to find fault with her appearance. Instead she said accusingly: ‘You didn't hurry yourself, did you? Here am I, alone all day, dying for a cup of tea …'

‘Mother!' her daughter exclaimed. ‘You know very well Mrs Simpson comes in at least twice a day. She makes you a nice lunch at around noon, then gets you a cup of tea and a piece of cake at four o'clock. And she's always telling you to knock on the wall if you need her.'

The old lady sniffed. ‘Oh, she pops in, I grant you that,' she said disagreeably. ‘But what's five minutes, twice a day? I know you'll say I've got the wireless, but I don't understand these new-fangled things. What I want is a bit of human company. Any other daughter would hurry home to tell me about her day, what she's
done and who she's seen, but not you. Oh no, you'd rather hang around that great conceited Gower fellow, hoping for a word of commendation for working late. You don't give a thought to your poor old mother, alone in the house for hours at a time and counting the minutes to your return. Why, my poor old bones have been so bad that I've not moved out of this chair all day, just you imagine that!'

Miss Preece tightened her lips but knew better than to try to argue. She crossed to the sink, filled the kettle, put it on the stove and lit the gas. She knew very well that it was Mrs Simpson who had prepared the vegetables, knew also that their fat and friendly neighbour would have spent a good deal longer than five or ten minutes with the old lady, but once again previous experience told her that it would be fatal to say so. She paid Mrs Simpson to spend an hour, morning and afternoon, with old Mrs Preece and knew that, if anything, Mrs Simpson would stay longer, and would never dream of hurrying away before her time was up. However, her mother's irascible temper could never stand contradiction or argument; if Miss Preece wanted a quiet life she would simply agree with every word the older woman uttered and get on with preparing the meal.

She put the saucepan of vegetables on the stove and then checked the meat safe in the larder. She found two small pork chops beneath the wire gauze cover, slid them into the roasting dish which their neighbour had left standing ready and returned to the kitchen to put the dish into the oven, reminding herself that
it was her mother's state of health which made her so difficult. For many years now, Mrs Preece had been a martyr to osteoarthritis and if it had not been for their family doctor, a young and energetic man who was a great believer in encouraging his patients to help themselves in every way possible, Mrs Preece would probably have become bedridden years before. As it was, though she grumbled and constantly complained that the younger woman was both cruel and selfish, her daughter helped her up and down the stairs morning and evening and refused to let her remain in bed unless some ailment other than the arthritis attacked her.

‘If she once takes to her bed for a lengthy period, her limbs will speedily become immobile and she'll be stuck in that bedroom for the rest of her life,' Dr Browning had warned Miss Preece. He had run a hand through his untidy, hay-coloured hair and grinned at her. ‘You don't want to spend the rest of your life traipsing up and downstairs, because your mother won't get easier as her pain increases. I know movement is painful, but at the moment she can potter about, make herself a cup of tea, push the Ewbank across the carpets, and even prepare vegetables for your evening meal. She may not realise it, but it's little tasks like that which give meaning to her life, so we will both discourage any suggestion of Mrs Preece's taking to her bed.'

Miss Preece had thanked him from the heart, for what she dreaded more than anything else was having to give up her job. She had worked very hard to acquire
the necessary qualifications and had gone to university to obtain her degree in the teeth of her mother's objections, which had been frequently voiced even in the days when Mrs Preece had been pretty well, with only an occasional twinge.

Thinking back to that delightful time, for she had been very happy at university, Miss Preece smiled to herself. She had made several good friends during her years there, though she had never been able to share her friends' social life, being far too conscious of her club foot. Many fellow students had urged her to go with them to dances and parties even if she could not participate, but she had resolutely refused to do so. She was an only child and not at ease with young men, considering them rough and unreliable. At school, boys and girls were strictly segregated and naturally she had gone to an all girls' college to gain her degree. She had watched with horror as friends climbed out of the dormitory window in order to go out with young men, and even when she was fully qualified and working at Everton library she seldom managed to act naturally towards Mr Gower, the reference librarian, though she admired his scholarship and if any man entered her dreams it was he.

In some peculiar way, her mother seemed to have realised that her liking and respect for Mr Gower went a good deal deeper than the surface and to Miss Preece's horror the older woman frequently brought his name into the conversation. She had actually told Mrs Simpson that her daughter had a crush on some fellow at the library, causing Miss Preece agonies of
embarrassment. Naturally, as soon as she got Mrs Simpson alone, she had explained that this was ‘some of the old lady's imaginings', but Mrs Simpson had merely chuckled and patted her hand. ‘Your mam can be that spiteful she'd turn milk sour,' she had observed. ‘And why shouldn't you admire your boss, for heaven's sake? It ain't as if you're a young gal what's on the catch for a husband … tell me, queen, is your boss married?'

‘I haven't the faintest idea,' Miss Preece had replied coolly, if untruthfully.

She knew very well that Mr Gower was unmarried and likely to remain so. He had once confided, as they ate their sandwiches in his small office, that he was supporting his mother. ‘She has a pension, but it's a tiny one, so my salary is stretched to its limit. That is why I've agreed to do the greengrocer's books,' he had said rather stiffly, and Miss Preece had realised he had only told her because he had seen her eyeing the ledgers spread out upon his desk. Nevertheless, she told herself that he would not have mentioned the matter had he not trusted her, and the thought gave her a good deal of quiet pleasure.

Now, Miss Preece made the tea, poured two cups and handed one to her mother, who received it without a word of thanks. ‘Did you put two sugars in?' she asked suspiciously, staring at the brown liquid in the cup.

Miss Preece sighed. ‘Of course I did,' she said wearily, and then her annoyance got the better of her. ‘I've been
making you cups of tea for most of my life, so I'm not likely to forget that you like two sugar lumps,' she said almost crossly. Then, seeing her mother's mouth drop open, she hastily continued. ‘Would you like a ginger nut? I bought some yesterday. And I got some squashed fly ones as well since I know they're your favourites.'

‘No thank you,' old Mrs Preece said frostily. ‘The tea will do nicely.'

‘Well, I wouldn't mind a biscuit, since supper won't be ready for another half-hour,' Miss Preece remarked. She went over to the larder, fetched the biscuit tin and opened the lid. ‘Are you sure …' she began, then stopped short, staring wide-eyed at her mother. The tin, which she had filled with ginger nuts and Garibaldi biscuits only the previous day, was empty.

For a moment, sheer puzzlement kept Miss Preece open-mouthed but silent, then a smile curved her lips. She simply couldn't help it. Her mother, claiming to be unable to move from her chair, had managed to cross the kitchen, open the pantry door, go inside, and eat not just one or two biscuits, but the whole lot. Unable to prevent herself, she gazed accusingly at the older woman. ‘Mother, did you …' she began, then stopped short.

Mrs Preece, without so much as a groan or grumble, had risen to her feet and was making for the door. Over her shoulder she said: ‘I got peckish. Mrs Simpson was late with my lunch … and come to think, I gave her some biscuits for her grandchildren. They're spending
the day with her tomorrow so I thought it would be a kindness …'

‘Mother! If you …' Miss Preece stopped speaking because she was doing so to a firmly closed door.

Although the incident with the laundry money had left her somewhat shaken, Hetty would not have dreamed of admitting it to either Miss Preece or Gareth. Gareth would jeer and tell her cousins that she was a little ninny, and the librarian might withdraw her offer to let Hetty use the Reading Room. After all, the librarian had intervened before the three lads had had a chance to do more than thump her on the side of the head. With a couple of boy cousins such blows were by no means unusual, and Hetty had learned to give as good as she got. But her attackers had been unknown to her, and a good deal brawnier than either Bill or Tom – brawnier than Gareth too, come to that – and she had no desire to find herself the object of a vendetta. Large lads who had been vanquished by a middle-aged librarian, and furthermore one with a limp, would not relish the news of their defeat getting around, so might take steps to ensure that their victim did not tale-clat.

However, Hetty had no illusions about her personal appearance. She was small, plain and unremarkable, so having thought the matter over she decided that she was safe enough. She realised that if she met any of her attackers again she would not know them from
Adam, and was pretty sure they would not know her either. Accordingly, she trotted along beside Gareth, telling him of her day, though with certain omissions, for she supposed, rightly, that he would not understand her urge to join the library or her pleasure when Miss Preece had agreed to let her study the books on the premises and would immediately call her a stupid little swot, or teacher's pet.

What he did understand, however, and wanted to talk about, was her grandfather's barge, the
Water Sprite
. ‘There ain't no job I'd enjoy more,' he said, his greenish-grey eyes wistful instead of mocking. ‘Imagine it! Carryin' excitin' cargoes all the way from the Liverpool docks to the other side of them hills … what's they called?'

‘The Pennines,' Hetty told him. ‘Not that the cargoes are excitin', not really. My grandpa takes all sorts, but mostly it's grain, or wool, though sometimes it's what they call a mixed cargo. That means calling at all the villages along the way; I like that best. It means a lot of stoppin' and startin', and carryin' stuff up from the canal and into the villages themselves, but you get to know the locals, same as me grandparents does.'

Gareth sighed enviously. Hetty wondered why he was sharing his interest in the canal with her, a despised girl, but then she put two and two together and knew the answer to her unasked question. Gareth would be looking for work when he left school. He had hoped to go to the technical college to pursue his dream of becoming an engineer, but had had to give up that idea since his father had been injured at a football
match and could no longer work full time. She thought that most boys must think life aboard a canal barge fascinating, but she knew better than to advise him to try the Company, or indeed any of the other barges owned by their Number Ones. Folk worked the canals for generations, son succeeding father, and newcomers were rarely employed. Indeed, had she been a boy she would have taken it for granted that, upon leaving school, she would have a permanent place aboard the
Water Sprite
, but since she was a mere girl she doubted that she would ever be considered for a berth.

‘Hetty? Did you hear what I said? Would you purrin a good word wi' your grandpa for me? I'm real strong and I've been hangin' about down by the wharf, helpin' to load and unload the barges when they tie up. Honest to God, I'd work for me keep alone until they thought I were worth a wage.'

Hetty grinned at her companion. ‘How polite you are when you want something,' she said. ‘As for working on one of the Leeds and Liverpool barges, you have to be jokin'. Why, Gramps could take his pick of fellers who've spent their perishin' lives aboard. If I were you I'd forget it.' She felt mean, but it would not have been fair to encourage him when she believed his cause was hopeless.

‘You're just sayin' that because you don't like me,' Gareth said, suddenly moody. ‘You're just a stupid little kid what don't know the first thing about work. Forget I ever mentioned it, why doncher?'

Hetty tightened her lips but spoke with all the patience she could muster. ‘I wish I could help you,
Gareth, honest to God I do, but it wouldn't be no manner of use me tellin' Grandpa you were after a berth aboard the
Sprite
. He'll be wantin' another hand as he an' Gran get older, but that won't be for a while yet. Of course, if they had the old
Sprite
converted from horse-drawn to engine they'd be lookin' for someone who understands engines as well as someone who knows the Leeds and Liverpool canal backwards, but Grandpa says that will be over his dead body.'

Gareth cast her an unfriendly glance from beneath his eyelids and heaved a disappointed sigh. ‘Me older brother, the one what moved out five years back, has a motorbike; I'm going to get him to show me how engines work,' he said, and Hetty realised that he was still hoping to find a way of joining a canal barge as a member of her crew.

However, it would not do to say so; instead she glanced into the nearest shop window, pretending an interest in the display therein. ‘That's a real smart dress,' she said. ‘Why not learn all you can from your big brother? If you truly get to know how engines work, there's all sorts of jobs you could try for, apart from canal barges. Why, only the other day Bill was talking about joining one of the armed forces. He says they teach fellers to drive and service the vehicles and so on. You might have a go at that, Gareth.'