A Talent for Loving

by Celia Scott

  'I'll try and control myself,' she said, surprised that she found it so easy to joke with this man whom she regarded as an adversary.

  'Tomorrow morning, then,' said Flint, 'and don't be late. I don't want to hang about in town.'

  Nettled, she assured him, 'I'll be waiting. Don't worry about it.'

  'Oh, I won't! Calm your ruffled feathers. I just want to make sure.' Bye now, Polly… and thanks for drying my shirt.' He smiled briefly, and the next minute he was gone.

  The kitchen seemed suddenly very empty, as if a powerful electric generator had been switched off and all the life had been drained out of the room. Which was stupid, Polly thought, because Flint meant nothing to her. But he had a way of getting under her skin, antagonising her one minute, and then doing something nice the next. She only hoped they could maintain the civilised truce they seemed to have achieved during the past half-hour. But frankly she doubted they would. And it was with a sense of foreboding about her new employer that she began to prepare supper for herself and Marjorie.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Flint turned up on the stroke of six-thirty the next morning. Polly had been waiting since six a.m., determined not to be late by a single minute. However, since she didn't trust her alarm-clock, she had woken every hour to check the time, and was consequently sleepy and irritable.

  Flint opened the trunk and threw the holdall in, on top of a jumble of tripods and other photographic equipment. 'Is this it?' he asked. 'No steamer trunks lurking in the bushes?'

  'It's only for a few days,' she reminded him with some acidity, 'I don't need much.'

  'Even so—none of the women I know have heard of the phrase "travel light". You should see the mountain of luggage Sable hauls around for weekends; one needs a moving van!'

  Polly didn't comment. Sable's travelling habits were of no interest to her. Although she did wonder how Flint managed to be so well informed on the subject.

  'Nice morning after all that rain,' Flint chatted. 'Or do you dislike sunshine?' he went on when she didn't answer.

  'It's very nice,' she replied shortly.

  'Well, I'm glad you approve,' he said cheerily. 'I trust you feel the same way about dogs.'

  'Dogs?' she echoed, startled, and then she saw that the back seat was occupied by an enormous Old English Sheepdog.

  'Meet Duvet,' said Flint. 'She's very friendly. Nothing to worry about.' As if to confirm this, Duvet waved her tail and regarded Polly through bright blackberry eyes.

  Polly forgot her fatigue; dogs were a passion of hers. 'She's lovely,' she enthused, patting the dog's head. 'Aren't you, Duvet? You're a beautiful, beautiful dog.'

  'Well, she certainly seems to have made you more agreeable,' Flint remarked. 'You looked about as friendly as an alligator with toothache just now, Now, Duvet, that's enough!' he ordered, for his dog, having found a friend, was enthusiastically licking Polly's face and hair in a riotous welcome. 'Now that you've calmed down, perhaps you could concentrate on making a list of the shots I'm going to take.'

  She looked at him blankly. 'Shots? I thought we were driving out to Caledon.'

  'We are. But I want to take a couple of shots at the C.N.E. grounds first. The sun wasn't right before. There's a clipboard and pencil back under Duvet somewhere.' He gestured with his head. 'I've made a list of the dawn pictures I took. All you have to do is add to that. It shouldn't be too difficult,' he added, rather nastily, Polly thought, when she hesitated.

  She unbuckled her seat-belt and, kneeling on the seat, groped around under the large dog, who, thinking this was a new game, growled happily and tried to 'catch' her hands. 'The only difficult thing is trying to find this damn board,' she snapped. 'Why on earth don't you have some sort of system, instead of hurling things about like this?' She discovered the clipboard wedged in a corner and grabbed it. 'Duvet… No!' she yelled, as the ecstatic dog started pulling on the other end, shredding Flint's notes in the process. 'Let go! Bad girl, let go!'

  Duvet relinquished her hold, and Polly slipped back into her seat. 'Wonderful!' she remarked. 'What she hasn't torn, she's slobbered over. Do you always file your notes like this?'

  'I don't have time to think about filing them when I'm out on the field,' he replied. 'I'm much too busy observing things.'

  Polly found his tone pompous, and instinctively she bristled. 'What sort of things?' she asked shortly.

  'When you're a photographer you soon learn to be on the constant look-out for likely subjects. You train yourself to keep your eyes peeled—all the time!'

  She raised her eyebrows laconically. 'I trust this vigilance doesn't interfere with your driving,' she murmured.

  He looked at her briefly. 'You're a fine one to talk! After your performance on that bicycle of yours I should keep quiet about other people's driving if I were you.'

  Since she was unable to think of anything withering to say, she contented herself by giving him a wintry little nod, and turned her full attention to examining his hastily scrawled notes.

  They proceeded this way in wary silence until Flint suddenly braked the car, so that Polly nearly went through the windscreen.

  'What now?' she snapped, removing Duvet's large paws from where they had landed on her shoulders.

  'Look at that!' Flint pointed to an early morning jogger, a young woman in brief shorts and sweatshirt. The thing that singled her out from the other joggers they had passed was the baby-carriage she was trundling in front of her as she ran.

  'Marvellous! I've got to get a shot of that,' Flint exclaimed, and, stretching across her, he took a camera from the glove-compartment and wound down the window on her side. He steadied his arms on the edge of the lowered window, leaning heavily against Polly, while he focused his camera on the girl with the pram.

  Polly sat as low in the seat as she could. His forearms were pushed against her breasts, and his lean, hard thigh was pressed tight against hers. She could see the glint of red-gold hair on his lightly tanned arms, the stubble on his jaw, a darker shade of copper than his hair, and his surprisingly long lashes. She could feel the warmth of him, and the rhythm of his breathing—and she was filled with the desire to press herself closer. Amazed by this attack of lust—for surely it could be nothing else—she tried to pull herself away.

  'Stop moving around!' Flint barked, 'you'll ruin the shot.' Clearly his desires were solely photographic.

  She froze with embarrassment and tried to will herself to ignore the contact between them.

  The jogging mother rounded the corner, and, for the first time, Flint seemed aware of Polly trapped beneath him. He eased himself back into his own seat. When he did speak his voice was curt. 'You might make a note of those shots.' He handed her the camera. 'I squeezed off six frames.'

  She did as she was bid. She was still trying to come to terms with her own reaction to Flint's physical closeness. While it was true that she was inexperienced sexually, she had boyfriends and been kissed and held close, but never before had she felt this almost primal urge to respond so ardently to a man's touch. It was most unsettling!

  The sun was gaining strength, and downtown Toronto glittered like a diamond. As they neared the lakeshore she could see the railway tracks. 'Go Trains', looking like green caterpillars, came into Union Station, and crowds of early commuters streamed from them. The towering skyscrapers turned the downtown streets into shadowy canyons of glass and concrete, canyons that would vibrate with heat as the day progressed.

  They entered the Canadian National Exhibition grounds—know to Toronto citizens as 'The Ex'—and parked near the Princes' Gates. Flint hurried to the trunk of the car and hauled out a large black bag which he handed to Polly.

  'Look lively,' he said, 'or the light I want will be gone!'

  Polly glared at him. She couldn't understand how, only five minutes ago, she had felt desire for this domineering male. 'Is that your manuscript?' she enquired sweetly, slinging the bag on to her shoulder. 'No, it's far too heavy! It must be the typewriter.'


  He was now wrestling a tripod out of the trunk. 'Stop chattering,' he said. 'I need you to carry some equipment for me if I'm to catch the light.'

  He strode across to the base of the gates and tipped his head back to scrutinise the statue on top of the arch. 'Lovely,' he murmured, 'the Angel of Progress herself!'

  He reached into the bag Polly was holding and pulled out a disreputable baseball cap which he jammed on his head before taking out a camera, attaching a zoom-lens to it and fixing the whole thing on the tripod. Polly stood there, feeling about as important as a hat-stand.

  Flint now became an extension of his camera. His concentration was focused on the angel on top of the gates, and for him nothing else existed.

  Polly shifted the heavy bag to her other shoulder. She reflected bitterly that she had not been aware, when she accepted this job, that part of her duties would be to serve as a kind of ambulatory camera rack for Flint McGregor. But he was paying her a good salary, and as long as this didn't become a habit she supposed she wouldn't gain anything by complaining. She was just grateful that Marjorie couldn't see her now. That liberated lady would have had plenty to say about it!

  Flint finished taking pictures from that angle, and after dismantling the camera handed it to Polly. 'Make a note of those shots,' he said briskly. 'Now for some different perspectives.' He picked up the tripod and walked away from the arched gates, with Polly trailing behind.

  After dodging through the traffic, and narrowly escaping being run down by impatient motorists, they reached the opposite side of the road. Flint stayed in this location for some time, taking nearly a full roll of film. He wound up lying on his back to get the angle he wanted, and Polly began to understand why he dressed in shabby jeans and workshirt. She'd had no idea that taking pictures could be such a grimy business.

  Finally he pulled his tall frame out of the gutter and studied the trees at the side of the road. He walked over to a tall chestnut.

  'I'm going to climb up this one,' he informed Polly. 'I'll need you to station yourself in the lower branches so you can hand me equipment.'

  Polly blinked up into the tree. 'The—the lower branches?' she faltered.

  'Yeah! Put down the bag and I'll give you a hoist.' He took the bag from her shoulder, then bent double. 'Use my back to get you started,' he directed.

  Clumsily she scrambled on to his broad back, thanking God that she had worn slacks this morning. She clutched at the tree trunk and started to heave herself on to a fairly substantial branch.

  'Hang on!' Flint said, and, straightening, he grasped her around the hips and pushed her unceremoniously into the tree. If she hadn't been scared stiff of climbing trees, she might have reacted to his firm hands on her. As it was she was barely conscious of his touch.

  'Now pull yourself up higher,' he commanded. 'That branch above your head should do it.'

  'Okay!' breathed Polly, feeling sick with apprehension. Even since she could remember she had been terrified of heights.

  'Let me climb out of your way first,' said Flint, scrabbling in the bag for a camera which he hung around his neck.

  'Okay!' Polly repeated like a hiccough. 'He looked into her face. 'You all right?'

  'Of course I am. Hurry up or you'll miss the light.' She would crash to the pavement and lie there, a crushed and bloodied mess, before she would admit her terror.

  After he had started to climb, with as much assurance as if he were going up a solid staircase, she gritted her teeth and cautiously eased herself upright. She jammed her feet on to the branch and pressed her back against the trunk as if it could glue her to safety. There was a fine dew of perspiration on her forehead which had nothing to do with the heat of the sun. Her hair kept falling into her face, obscuring her vision and adding to her panic.

  'This is great,' Flint shouted down to her, 'I can use some of the foliage as a frame.'

  'Who cares!' said Polly under her breath. 'Just get on with it… get on with it!'

  The next few minutes stretched out like an eternity to her. Dumbly she handed equipment up to Flint. Stretching up on her toes, her blood congealed with fear, never looking down in case she might fall. At last he declared that he had finished.

  'I'll come down first and give you a hand,' he told her, slithering down the trunk and on to terra firma.

  She handed him the bag and stood, rooted on her branch. Flint's face beneath her seemed to swim, as if it was under water.

  'Come on!' he said, 'you can swing yourself down from the lower branches.

  Carefully she slid herself into a sitting position, nearly lost her balance, then clung on for grim death, rigid with panic.

  'Polly, are you all right?' Flint called.

  'N… no,' she answered weakly, 'I don't seem t… to be able to move.'

  'Hang on!' he said, 'I'll come and get you,' and in a moment his head and shoulders appeared on a level with hers. 'Now put your hands and feet where I tell you… and don't worry. I'm right beneath you. I won't let you fall.'

  Quaking, she obeyed him. When she reached the lowest branch of all he slid to the ground and putting his strong hands around her waist he lifted her down and stood her on the blessed, firm earth.

  Her legs felt like rubber and she was shaking. She tried to move out of his arms but he still held her close, and she trembled in his embrace.

  Gently he stroked her hair. 'There, there! You're okay now.'

  The trembling subsided and shame took its place. She pushed him away roughly.

  'Why didn't you tell me?' he demanded. 'Why didn't you tell me you were frightened?'

  'Because it's… stupid. That's why,' she choked.

  'It's not stupid to be scared of heights. It's called acrophobia if my memory serves me.'

  'If I had told you, you would have missed your light. You wouldn't have liked that, would you?' she jeered.

  'I hope I would have understood,' he said. 'Am I such a monster?'

  'It's all very well for you,' she fumed, 'shinning up and down trees like a mountain goat. You don't know what it feels like—not being able to do things…'

  'Goats don't climb trees,' he pointed out, 'and besides, you did climb the goddammed tree; and you didn't let on that you were petrified; all in all I'd say you were pretty courageous.'

  'Courageous!' She stared at him, the wind taken out of her sails.

  'Certainly, and you didn't drop any of my cameras. For that you get full marks! Now stop being an idiot and let's get some breakfast. I didn't have breakfast this morning, did you?'

  'Just an apple and a cup of coffee.'

  'You see! You were probably faint from lack of food.' He rescued the tripod and slung the bag over his own shoulder this time. 'I know a place that make great bacon and eggs. Come on.'

  Feeling much more cheerful, Polly followed him back to the car. She had been so sure he would despise her for her weakness. It was a great relief to discover that instead he understood her fears. Marjorie had repeatedly nagged her about it, and had tried to persuade her to stand on the extreme edge of the Scarborough Bluffs when they had picnicked there, even though the place was plastered with signs warning people not to go too close. 'You must overcome your timidity, Poll,' her mother had said. 'This is a man's world, and you have to become tough to survive in it.'

  The restaurant Flint stopped at was unpretentious, but, as he had promised, the food was first class and the coffee delicious. When they had finished the bacon and eggs, they relaxed over a second cup.

  'Feeling better?' he enquired, and when she nodded he said, 'you should have told me you were scared, Polly. I did wonder if you were okay at one point, but I get so wrapped up when I'm working I tend to become careless of other people.'

  'It doesn't matter now,' she assured him. 'I'm on the ground again, and no harm done.' Had he known it, she was still savouring the word "courageous" in her mind. She would get pleasure from that for quite some time.

  He stirred his coffee thoughtfully. 'You mustn't let yourself be bullie
d,' he said, 'there's no future in that.'

  Polly traced patterns in the toast crumbs on her plate.

  'You don't understand,' she said. 'I get so frustrated. I seem to be so… so untalented. It would have been another admission of failure if I'd told you I was scared to climb that tree. I'd like to succeed in something,' she finished wistfully. 'Just once.'

  'You have a burning ambition to climb trees?' he teased.

  'I don't have a burning ambition to do anything.' She pushed the plate of crumbs away. 'It drives Mom insane.'

  'What about the cooking school?' He took a sip of coffee. 'Aren't you ambitious about that?'

  'Yes, of course I am! But that's… well, it's easy. Oh, I don't mean I wouldn't work at it,' she went on in a rush, the way she did when she was trying to convince Marjorie. 'I'd work like mad. But I enjoy it… I mean, it's sort of fun, so I guess you can't call it ambition. Besides, it isn't much to aspire to, is it? I mean, being a cook isn't very… prestigious.'

  Flint looked at her from lowered lids. 'What's prestige got to do with it?' he asked.

  'Well, if I had the talent to be a… a nuclear physicist, or a… a brain surgeon… something like that. That would be something to be proud of, wouldn't it? But cooking! I mean, everybody can cook—'

  'I can't,' he cut in, 'nothing nourishing anyway.'

  'But you could if you put your mind to it,' Polly insisted, carried away on the tide of her own unworthiness, 'anybody could. So it's not much of a career, is it? I mean it's pretty low on the achievement side of things.'

  'Not very prestigious, in fact,' he said with disarming blandness.

  She nodded miserably. 'Exactly! And the fact that I enjoy cooking, that I enjoy doing all demeaning domestic chores, just goes to prove that it isn't difficult. Otherwise I wouldn't be able to do it.'

  'I never heard such garbage in my life,' Flint exploded. 'Do you really believe that enjoying what you do makes it worthless?'