If only he’d come back, even for a wee while, she’d do her utmost to make him see that she was the one for him, that he was the one for her. She had gone out with a few of the local lads since he’d been away, but she hadn’t found one that could make her pain go away. She had loved her father so much, right up to that awful evening when he didn’t come home from the choir practice. She could still hardly bear to think about it. Even when she woke in the night, she pushed it aside and dwelt only on Alistair, assuring herself that even if he had deserted her as well, his absence wouldn’t last much longer.
When he came home, he would understand. He would sympathize, make it all right. He wouldn’t be like the folk that said her father had put Nancy Lawrie in the family way then run off with her. It wasn’t true! It couldn’t be true, no matter what they said!
If she didn’t have her mother to consider, she’d go to London to be with Alistair. His sister would give her the address of his lodgings … she could pretend she just wanted to drop him a friendly note, for old times’ sake. But there was her mother to consider. She had gone steadily downhill since … The doctor was the only one who had done anything to help at that awful time, Doctor Birnie, that was. He had given them both sleeping pills as soon as he came, and had left a small supply to see them through the next few days as well. The police had been useless. They had sworn they were searching for her father, but as far as they were concerned he hadn’t committed a crime, so they weren’t really bothered.
Tam and Nettie Lawrie, Nancy’s parents, had fared no better. It had been glaringly obvious that the police believed the two missing persons were together – though they’d disappeared on different days – and had likely been saying, ‘Good luck to them.’ Poor Nettie had been in such a state, Tam had given up his job and taken her to be beside her sister, but they’d never said where she bade.
They were lucky getting away from Forvit, Lexie reflected, for she was stuck here until her mother’s illness took its final toll. The new doctor – he was still called new though he’d come well over a year ago – had only diagnosed the cancer last summer, and had told her, the daughter, that it was too far gone to treat. Not that there was a treatment for cancer. It was just a case of not letting a soul know what she was suffering from – there were still folk that thought it was catching – and waiting for the end.
Yet, however long it took, however much she came to resent the responsibility and drudgery of caring for her, she would never deliberately cut her mother’s life short, much as she might feel tempted to stop her pain. How could God let this happen? It was a crying shame, that’s what it was. As if the woman hadn’t gone through enough already, with the whole village saying her man had left her for a girl young enough to be his daughter.
Shaking her head at the morbidity of her thoughts, Lexie straightened her back and went through to the house.
Chapter 4
Marjory Jenkins had been waiting, somewhat impatiently it must be said, for her eighteenth birthday, on which day her father had more or less promised, with one provision, to agree to her marriage, but time was just crawling past. One month before her dream would come true, she decided to make sure that all would run smoothly.
‘I was thinking,’ she said to Dougal the following evening, ‘you’re having Alistair as groomsman, and I’m having Gwen as bridesmaid, and they’ve never met yet, so why don’t we get them to come out with us some time soon?’
‘You’re sure your father’s going to let us …?’
‘I’m positive … as long as you ask him for my hand in the approved way. He’s a bit old-fashioned – says a suitor should show proper respect.’
Dougal expelled a silent breath through pursed lips. ‘I’m not looking forward to this, you know. I’ll likely make a right muck-up of it, but I’ll do my best.’
‘I know you will, my darling.’
The endearment, plus the radiance of her smile, made him take her in his arms to tell her how much he loved her – serious sweet talk did not come easily to him but it was well known that actions spoke louder than words – and her earlier suggestion that they should introduce her sister to his pal was forgotten until they were saying good night some time later. ‘Bring Alistair with you on Saturday,’ she murmured, ‘and I’ll bring Gwen. The hotel’s never busy at weekends – most of the reps go home to their families and we’ve only a couple of tourists booked for bed and breakfast – so Mum’s giving Peggy the chance to be on duty on her own, to fetch drinks and things like that.’
He had to gird his senses together to take in what she was saying. ‘Oh … yes, yes. I’ll bring Alistair with me, even if I’ve to lead him by the nose.’
She giggled at that. ‘Is he really so shy?’
‘Maybe not quite as bad as that, but he is shy with strangers, especially girls.’
‘That’s funny. Gwen’s the same … with boys, I mean. She was let down badly a couple of years ago, and she’s scared to trust anybody now. Did someone let Alistair down?’
‘No, it wasn’t that. This girl was making a pest of herself, that’s what scared him off.’
‘Oh gosh, I hope they’re not awkward with each other. I don’t want anything to spoil our wedding day.’
‘Nothing will, they won’t want to upset you. No matter how they feel about each other, they won’t show it.’
‘Dougal, I could slaughter you for this!’ Alistair fumed as they made their way to the meeting point. ‘It’s going to be bad enough on your wedding day, if it ever comes off, without having a rehearsal.’
‘It’s not a rehearsal,’ Dougal soothed. ‘It’s just for Marge. She wants to make sure everything’ll be plain sailing. Any road, maybe you’ll like Gwen.’
‘Have you ever met her?’
‘No, but she’s Marge’s sister so there can’t be that much difference.’
Alistair had known several instances where sisters or brothers had entirely different personalities, but he deemed it best not to argue. He didn’t want to worry Dougal, whose mind was bent on making things perfect for his perfect fiancée.
It turned out that, apart from their sylph-like figures, the sisters were almost exact opposites. While Marjory was a curly-headed brunette with a creamy skin, Gwendoline had straight blonde hair and a fair skin; Marge was outgoing and bubbly, effervescent as a shaken bottle of beer, whereas Gwen was quiet and reserved. Despite this, despite his own reservations about the meeting, after five minutes in her company Alistair was talking to her as if they had known each other for years. Her friendly manner, and genuine interest in what his work entailed, encouraged him to describe his customers, give little thumbnail sketches of their lives, marvelling all the while at the compassion she showed for the poor downtrodden women and their families.
‘It’s a shame,’ she murmured, at one point. ‘People shouldn’t have to live like that.’
‘They’re used to it,’ he assured her, ‘to living from hand to mouth. It’s likely what their own mothers had to do, it’s the only way of life they know.’ Noticing that her lovely blue eyes were moist, he felt angry at himself for upsetting her, and changed to describing some of the items Manny found in the street markets.
They had been walking for almost an hour before it dawned on him that he had been doing most of the talking. ‘You’ll be fed up listening to me. Tell me about the hotel,’ he coaxed. ‘You must have some strange characters coming there?’
‘Some,’ she smiled, ‘but not many and not too strange – most of them have been coming to us for years. It’s the lady tourists who … they’ve probably never been in a hotel before and treat us like slaves.’ She gave an imitation of the kind of haughty women she had to deal with, which ended with them giggling together like children.
By the time they reached the point where Dougal and Marge were waiting for them, Alistair knew that Gwen was the only girl for him. He would gladly have lain down on the ground and let her trample all over him if that was what she wanted. Not that she would, fo
r she wasn’t that kind of person.
As he bade Gwen a cordial, and rather reserved, good night at the corner of her street, Alistair wondered if he would ever have the courage to kiss her at all, never mind in the passionate way Dougal was kissing Marge.
‘That went off all right,’ Dougal observed when they were walking back along Russell Square. ‘I didn’t see any sparks flying.’
‘Gwen’s really easy to get on with.’
‘Oh, aye? Would I be right in thinking you’ve fallen for her?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You don’t have to. It’s written all over your face.’
‘I like her,’ Alistair admitted, colouring.
‘Maybe you two’ll be walking down the aisle a few months after us.’
‘I wouldn’t mind if we were, but maybe Gwen doesn’t feel the same way.’
Gwen did feel the same way, although he didn’t find out until almost two weeks later. They had been going for walks together, but on this particular night, because it was raining quite heavily, they went to a small cinema which showed, in its hour-long continuous programme, a few cartoons, an educational short, plus a roundup of world news, and because it was quite late by the time they got there, the only seats available were doubles in the back row. Sitting this close to the girl of his dreams, it still took Alistair ten minutes to slide his arm round her, and another five to pull her towards him. Then without warning, she turned to face him, and her lips were only inches from his.
For the next hour and a half, he was conscious only of her, of the whispered words of love, of the kisses that made his heart race almost out of control. The strains of ‘God Save the King’, heralding the end of the show, brought them both to their senses – they had sat unwittingly through forty-five minutes of repeats – and they ran, hand in hand, as fast as their legs could carry them, so that Gwen could be home before the hotel doors were locked for the night. One last snatched kiss was all they had time for, but Alistair made his way back to Hackney happier than he had ever been in his entire life.
He could hardly credit it. He wasn’t handsome, nor wealthy, nor particularly clever, he couldn’t make jokes like Dougal, so how on earth would a girl – the most beautiful girl in the world – be attracted to him? What could she see in him to love, for she must love him before she let him kiss her like that. He couldn’t believe his luck, and he’d save every penny he could – give up smoking, buy nothing that wasn’t absolutely essential – so that he could make her his wife. But maybe she didn’t love him? Alistair himself could not recognize it, but, even before the kissing, he and Gwen had blossomed in each other’s company, lost the apprehension of the opposite sex which their previous experiences had engendered in them.
‘Good God, Ally,’ Dougal teased after tea one evening, while they jostled each other for space at the bathroom mirror, ‘you’ve been out with Gwen three times this week.’
‘You’ve been out with Marge four times,’ Alistair objected.
‘That’s different – we’re engaged and you only met Gwen about three weeks ago.’
‘And I knew right away how I felt about her.’
‘You’d better warn her not to say anything about you and her to her father till after our wedding. For any sake, don’t rock the boat.’
That night, as soon as Alistair met her, Gwen said, ‘Dad’s laying on a special meal for Marge’s eighteenth birthday next Saturday, and you’re invited, too. He’s closing the hotel for the day, so I think he’s going to give his permission for her to get married … but only if Dougal asks him properly. How does he feel about it, do you know?’
‘He’s scared stiff, but no doubt he’ll do it. Um …’ Alistair stopped, his face colouring.
‘Yes? What were you going to say?’
‘I was wishing … but it’s too soon.’
‘Too soon for what?’
‘If I said I … wanted to marry you some day, what would you say?’
‘I’d say that’s what I wanted, too.’
‘But it’ll take me years to save enough, so we’d better forget about being serious for a while yet, and not show Marge and Dougal we’re jealous of them.’
Ivy Crocker couldn’t help teasing Dougal when the boys set off for the ‘special meal’. ‘You’re not going to the guillotine, you’re only going to ask her father one simple question. You can surely manage that?’
‘Oh, Ivy, I hope I can! I feel like my mouth’s full of tongue.’
She turned to Alistair now. ‘It’ll be your turn next, Al.’
‘Not for a long time.’
On the way to Guilford Street, he muttered, ‘Ach, Dougal, I’m as bad as you. I’m dreading this, for I’ll feel like a fish out of water. I don’t know any of them.’
‘You know Marge and Gwen, and I don’t know any of the rest of them either. Don’t back out now, Ally, boy, I need you there to give me some self-confidence. You see, I’m worried that he never asked to meet me before this, and I’m not sure I can pluck up courage to say what he wants me to say, but if I don’t, he’ll think I’m a pretty poor fish.’
‘You’ll manage fine without me.’
‘I won’t! I’ll dry up, I’ll stammer and stutter and look a right fool.’
‘That’s nothing new,’ Alistair teased. ‘I suppose I’d better come, to please you, but don’t expect me to say anything.’
‘As long as you’re there, that’s all I want.’
When they arrived at Jenkins’ Hotel, Marge took them downstairs to the kitchen where her father, a huge white apron draped round his vast body, was sitting at a long, well-scrubbed table putting the finishing touches to a mouthwatering trifle. He did not look up until the decoration was completed, which disconcerted Dougal but gave Alistair time to study the man. He was grossly fat, his backside overlapping the stool on which he was sitting by several inches all round, his flopping belly almost covering his knees. His neck bulged red from the top of his starched collar and although his cheeks had not yet become jowls, it was a sure bet they would eventually. Because his head was bent in concentration, it could be seen that his crown was sparsely covered, yet his grey-speckled dark hair was cropped close like a soldier’s.
Both youths jumped when Mr Jenkins banged down his fork and barked, ‘Which of you two Jocks is after my Marge?’
It was not an auspicious opening, but Dougal managed to answer with no trace of the nerves which had been consuming him all day. ‘I’m Dougal Finnie, Mr Jenkins.’
The man’s eyes swivelled round. ‘So you must be Alistair Ritchie?’
‘Yes, Mr Jenkins.’
The man gave a sudden roar of laughter and, as they stared at him in dismay, a woman’s voice said, gently, but with a hint of amusement, ‘Don’t tease them, dear. I’m Rosie, by the way, the girls’ mother, and don’t let Tiny scare you. It’s just … it’s so long since anyone called him Mr Jenkins. He was twenty-five years in the army, ending up as sergeant/cook at Aldershot, and he put on so much weight tasting everything, somebody once called him Tiny in fun, and the name stuck.’
They couldn’t help but laugh at the incongruity of the nickname, and it put them entirely at ease. ‘I’m pleased to meet you … Tiny,’ Dougal said, holding out his hand.
‘Ditto, my friend, but if my daughters have everything ready in the dining room, I think we should eat now. Business later,’ he added, winking at Dougal, who looked at Marge and shrugged in resignation.
Whoever had taught Tiny his trade, Alistair thought as the meal was coming to an end, deserved a medal. The minestrone soup was delicious, the roast lamb was so succulent it almost melted in the mouth, the roast potatoes were crisped to a T, the other vegetables were just as he liked them, and the trifle … he had never tasted anything like it! And eating was clearly a serious business in this household, very little conversation had been made. Mrs Jenkins, Rosie, was dwarfed by her husband. She was slight, but obviously wiry, because she had mentioned, while the soup was being served, t
hat she did the actual running of the hotel.
‘Tiny’s just the chef,’ she had laughed. ‘I’m clerk, treasurer – though he signs the cheques – handyman … the boss, in fact.’
Her husband had beamed at her, in no way put out at being relegated to the status of an employee. ‘I’m boss in the kitchen, though. That’s how I like it.’
Rosie’s fair wavy hair had a suggestion of silver about it, yet it may have been as blonde as Gwen’s when she was younger. It was drawn back off her face which was devoid of any make-up yet her cheeks were a pale shade of rose and her lips were red enough in their natural state. Her face was oval like Gwen’s, and even if she looked delicate, Alistair decided, she must be a strong woman. He wondered, idly, if Gwen or Marge, or both, took after her. He had often heard it said that if you wanted to know what a girl would be like in twenty or thirty years, you only had to look at her mother. He liked Rosie, even on this short acquaintance, and he wouldn’t mind if the girl he loved turned out exactly the same.
It dawned on him suddenly that there should have been a third sister, and almost as if she had read his mind, Rosie said, ‘You’ll have to excuse Peg. She objected to not being allowed to ask a boy to tea like her older sisters, and she’s taking her dinner downstairs.’
‘She’ll get over it,’ announced Tiny, wiping his mouth with his linen napkin and pushing back his chair, extra wide and clearly made especially for him. ‘Now, Dougal,’ he said, ‘it’s time for you and me to adjourn to the residents’ sitting room to get our business done. Gwennie, you had better stay here with Alistair, and Marge and Peg’ll help your mother to clear up and do the dishes.’
And before he knew where he was, Alistair was left alone with Gwen. ‘I feel awful, you having to stay with me while your mother and sisters are slaving away downstairs,’ he whispered. ‘I could easily sit here and wait till you give them a hand.’
‘You don’t need to whisper, nobody’ll hear us. Don’t you like being alone with me?’
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