Tall Poppies (32 page)

‘I'll show you out.'

When he returned he had lipstick on his mouth.

‘Now it's your turn to have a moustache.' She took his handkerchief and wiped it off.

‘There's mistletoe in the hall, I'm afraid.'

‘You don't have to make excuses for her. Bernice put it there in an attempt to make me jealous.'

‘She can be a bit obvious at times. Are you jealous? You needn't be, you know. As far as I'm concerned, it's over, and Bernice knows it.'

‘You have a large ego, Denton Elliot.'

‘Let's leave the complications of the id to followers of Freud. Psychiatry is too involved an art for a tradesman like me to grasp. I'm just a people plumber. Besides, my ego isn't large. I'm just  . . . well, I suppose you could say I have confidence in myself.'

‘If I
were
jealous, I wouldn't tell you. Or I'd tell you I wasn't jealous so you wouldn't be any the wiser. So no, I'm not jealous.'

The fact that she'd like to poke Bernice's eyes out had nothing to do with jealousy and everything to do with  . . . Well, all right. She couldn't think of a better explanation for her need to disable the woman, and she grinned.

So did he. ‘It must be me who's jealous.'

‘Of whom?'

‘Richard  . . . I think. He was such a hero.'

‘Denton, you're fishing for a compliment. Stop being pathetic. You're so very different to Richard, but you're both tall poppies to me. Always have been.'

Someone put a record on and he took the glass of stout from her hand and placed it on the mantelpiece. Eyes sparkling, he gazed down at her. ‘My dancing's just as pathetic, but will you dance with me?'

She couldn't get into much trouble dancing with him, she thought. ‘I warn you, I'm not very good at it.'

‘It's not something complicated, like a tango. All we need to do is shuffle around the floor with everyone else.'

She should have known that she'd fit into his arms like they were meant for each other. Because space was restricted they had to dance closer than was comfortable, which made them more aware of each other. There were interested eyes on them too, looking for little intimacies that might add fuel to the fires already burning around her.

When the clock struck ten Denton danced her out into the hall and arranged her coat around her shoulders. ‘Here we are, Cinders, standing under the mistletoe. Are you going to turn me into a frog, or shall I turn you into a frog?'

His mouth felt nothing like that of a frog, but like that of a lover, and her heart set up such a clamour that the pulse of it beat inside her ears like a jungle drum. The instinct to run away from danger was thwarted by her muscles melting into fondant inside her skin, merely at the thought of loving him in a physical way.

She felt a comfortable rapport with Denton on the way home. She didn't want to part with him, and was tempted to ask him in for coffee. She didn't. ‘I forgot to say goodnight to your parents, and thank them.'

‘I'll do it for you.' His eyes looked into hers with an intensity that was scorching. ‘Will you read my letter?'

‘If I can find the courage.'

‘We'll talk when you have. Call me when you're ready.'

And she would have to tell him no  . . . that she wouldn't marry him. And that would break her heart as well as his.

Inside, she found that her sister and brother were sound asleep. Connie was in her dressing gown, her hands around a cup of cocoa.

Meggie was wide awake, and just beginning to become agitated as her stomach told her it was empty.

‘She's been awake since eight-thirty, so she should be good and tired after she's had her supper.'

‘She wasn't a nuisance, was she?'

Meggie let out an impatient warble at the sound of her mother's voice.

Above it, Connie said, ‘Esmé kept her amused for an hour. She's just beginning to get fractious. Another tooth on the way, I think.'

‘I won't be a minute, my love.'

Livia changed into her nightclothes, by which time Meggie was bellowing to be fed. Livia made her comfortable and put her to her breast. Her mouth nudged frantically back and forth, and the noise stopped abruptly as Meggie attached herself and began to suck strongly. A feeling of contentment and love stole through Livia.

‘Did you have a good time?' Connie asked.

‘Yes  . . . most of the village was there. Denton danced my feet off, and I'll be glad to get to bed. You haven't got to wait up, Connie.'

‘Can I get you anything? I've still got to fill our hot-water bottles, so it won't be any trouble, since I'll be going to the kitchen.'

‘A cup of cocoa would be nice. It will help me sleep.'

‘That Doctor Denton  . . . he's a nice man. I always thought he'd taken a shine to you.'

Livia didn't answer, and after a moment the door closed behind Connie. She ran her fingertips through her daughter's dark wisps of hair. She could do nothing to jeopardize Meggie's future. She loved her too much. And she loved Denton too much to ruin his future, too. Better to let him go to Australia. He would meet someone else he could love there.

Later, she took the letter from its hiding place under the drawer lining and gazed at it. Denton's handwriting was strong, but it didn't give her any clues as to the contents. She didn't want to open it – didn't want to read what he'd written from his heart.

The clock chimed eleven. Time was getting on. Hands trembling, she slit the envelope along the top with the blade of the scissors and removed a single sheet of paper.

Livia.

I'm not a man who can write fine and persuasive words. But I do write this sincerely, and from the feelings I hold within my heart for you.

It seems appropriate for me to express my intention this way. I'd be honoured if you would agree to become my wife.

As you know, I'm expecting to further my professional standing, which will ensure a comfortable recompense into the foreseeable future. I will do my best to cherish and keep you, and to care for, and guide, Chad and Esmé until they reach adulthood.

You have given me reason to believe (or hope) that you hold me close in your affection. I am grateful for that small encouragement. I know I'll love you always, and will wait for you. Nothing can change that.

Truly yours,

Denton.

She closed her eyes and held the sheet of paper against her beating heart. Something could change it – the question mark hanging over Meggie's head.

Sooner or later Denton would hear the gossip, and begin to suspect that all was not as it seemed. He was not like Richard, who'd twisted things to suit the situation. He'd possessed the ability to laugh off any scandal with his devil-may-care attitude, and persuaded her to believe it didn't matter, too.

‘Let people wonder,' he'd have said.

But then, the lie had involved his family's reputation, so he'd had reason to handle it, and hush it up in the way he had – the only way.

Richard had lied rather easily. In a social situation he'd sensed what people wanted to hear, and more often than not, agreed with them, whether he had his own opinion or not. That had made him popular.

She wondered now if he'd have married her without the incentive of a scandal hanging over their heads, and doubted if she could maintain the lie when faced with Denton's honesty.

She went to bed, her mind torn between doing what was right for Meggie and what was right for Denton, and not giving any thought as to what was right for herself.

Twenty

Major Henry had decided to escape from the prison camp he was in. He was going home. That morning, after his interrogators had gone, he'd put on his uniform.

Now he threw his greatcoat over his arm, pulled his cap down over his eyes and left the hospital, following a group of visitors.

The prison was short of staff and the male attendant gave him a cursory glance, smiled and tossed him a sloppy salute as he locked the door behind them. ‘Enjoy the weekend, Sir.'

Henry smirked as he marched off, feeling rather pleased with himself.

There was a small amount of money in the coin pocket sewn into his overcoat lining. He took a bus to Waterloo Station, and spent some time in the café, eating buns and drinking coffee, until it was time to board the train. He was looking forward to seeing his wife and son again. Richard had married, he thought suddenly, and didn't he have a grandchild?

He shook his head. He kept getting confused about things. He must talk to Dr Elliot about it.

He boarded the train, taking a seat in the corner of a first-class apartment, next to the window, where he could watch the winter landscape speed by. It was quite a novelty after his time in the prison camp. There was a rather stout woman dressed in black on the opposite seat in their compartment. She smelled of mothballs and kept smiling at him.

He was no longer interested in women. They were full of deceit, and only wanted a chap for what they could get from him.

She leaned forward and tapped him on the knee, her smile smug. ‘Surely you remember me, Major Henry?'

‘Of course I remember you. Mrs  . . . um  . . .'

‘Ada Rothwell.'

He remembered an Ada  . . . a dancer from the Adelphi. It was not long after he and Margaret had married and he'd been in a bit of a bind. Richard had been on the way and Margaret wouldn't allow him any ease. The Ada he remembered had been a neat little thing in a frilly dress, and he'd had her in the dressing room while she'd sat astride his lap. Surely this stout creature wasn't her?

The door slid open, allowing a ticket inspector to intrude into the compartment on a cold draught. ‘Tickets please.'

The major patted his pocket, feeling confused and distressed. ‘A ticket? I don't think I've got one. I do have a warrant card somewhere. I think somebody has stolen it, though  . . . my money as well.'

‘I'm sorry, Sir. I must see the warrant card else you'll have to pay your fare. If you can do neither I'll have to escort you off the train at the next stop. '

When an embarrassed Henry began to go through his pockets, the woman leaned forward and pressed a pound into his hand. ‘Allow me, Major. You can repay me when you're able.'

He handed the money to the inspector. ‘Will that do, my man?'

He was issued with a ticket and the door slid shut. The inspector gave him a warning look as he moved on.

Mrs Rothwell simpered, ‘I'd heard you were in hospital. Are you home for good, Major?'

So that was the tale they'd put around? The Sangsters wouldn't want anyone to know he'd been in a prison camp, of course. It just wasn't done in his family. One died rather than allowed oneself to be captured. He nodded.

‘I'd heard you'd been ill.'

Had he? He couldn't remember being ill. His eyes narrowed in on her as he wondered if she was one of his tormentors at the prison camp. But he couldn't remember seeing her before.

As the train sped towards Dorset the woman began to prattle. Henry closed his eyes. He was tired and cold, and all he wanted to do was to get home, not make conversation with a woman who was a stranger to him.

Then he remembered what he'd forgotten, and his eyes shot open. ‘Red garters!'

‘I beg your pardon.' She gave a horrified gasp.

‘You wore red silk garters.'

Shock appeared in her eyes. ‘How dare you, Major! I don't know what the world's coming to if a decent woman can't travel on public transport without being accosted. I shall tell my husband. No doubt he'll have words with you about this.'

Henry remembered a grey little man, a browbeaten accountant who dropped food down his front and who wouldn't say boo to a goose. He got very little peace from his wife, Henry imagined.

All the same, it had been bad form on his part to give her garters a public airing, and all he could do was apologize and say something nice. ‘Sorry, m'dear. You had shapely legs, so a bit of titillation for your husband wouldn't have gone amiss.'

A pair of plump feet withdrew under her skirt, like snails retreating into their shell. She sniffed, then gathered up her bag and left the compartment, her body tightly confined by a whalebone corset.

He was pleased she'd gone. Not that she was any temptation to him now. Smiling with relief, he closed his eyes again and listened to the wheels clackety-clack over the rails. After a while he went to sleep.

The major overshot Creekmore Halt. He got out at the next station and began to walk, grumbling a little because he was hungry and cold, and it had come on to rain.

He finally made it to Foxglove House. The lights were out, but smoke came from the chimney. He took the spare key from its hiding place in a crack between two bricks and let himself in.

‘Margaret! Richard! I'm home,' he shouted.

There was no reply.

He went to the kitchen and found some bread and cheese. The decanter was on the dresser. He poured himself a brandy. It was a little rough, and he was tempted to go to the cellar and find something better.

His coat had begun to steam with the heat from the fire. ‘God, I'm weary,' he said. He downed another brandy. It tasted better the second time round. It was strong, but warming. A third one would see him right. He staggered as he made his way upstairs, glass in hand.

He frowned. Everything was covered in dustsheets. It was typical of Margaret to make him feel unwelcome. Swigging back the brandy, he placed the glass carefully on the shrouded dressing table,

He dragged some blankets from the box at the foot of the bed, wrapped himself up and pulled the dustsheets back over. He chuckled. When Margaret and Richard came home he'd give them both a bloody fright, and serve them right.

The christening of Meggie took place after the Sunday service. The twins looked proud as they stood up with Connie and Mr Beamish as godparents, though the reverend had been a little dubious about allowing children to take on such an important role.