Let love abide

by Norrey Ford

  There was a filing cabinet by Paul's door; on it, a wire basket marked Immediate. And in the basket she saw, in a swift predatory glance, a pile of documents. Clipped to the top was a note in Paul's writing.

  Miss M. Do these to-day. Urgent. P.W.

  Quickly, she separated the top sheet and dropped it into the file marked Q. It would be a long time before anyone looked into a Q file, she decided. She replaced Paul's note, and left the office. That'll settle scores for today's effort, she thought balefully, as she stepped out into the dingy sunshine which filtered into the old street. For both of them.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SALLY was filing letters and humming under her breath. The tempo of the work was stepping up as the Assizes approached, and Paul, realising he could rely on her, piled more and more of the routine work upon her willing shoulders. Her job no longer meant long hours at a typewriter, with a tea-break as the only change. She was as much out of the office as in it, making daily excursions to the various Courts or to other offices. Quite often she accompanied Paul, struggling valiantly to keep up with his flying heels.

  "You sound happy, Miss March."

  She swung round. "You startled me, Mr. Ware. I suppose I am happy. At any rate, I'm busy."

  "Ah—that's youth and high spirits, that is. And spring. Make the most of it. All the spring does to you at my age is give you lumbago. Mr. Paul in?"

  "Not at the moment. Can I help?"

  He looked faintly worried. "I dunno. It's the Raybould case. It seems a sitter to me. Aren't we entering an appearance?"

  Sally frowned, head on one side. "I took a lot of forms along to the Court office two days ago, but I don't remember a Raybould."

  "Perhaps Mr. Paul's decided not to defend. Ask him, will you? The solicitors for the other side have been on the telephone. Decent firm, that. Some wouldn't have drawn our attention to it—just taken advantage of an oversight. That is, if it is an oversight. They have given us until to-day. We've got till four o'clock."

  Sally promised to ask Mr. Paul the moment he came in, and the Managing Clerk shuffled off. At the door he hesitated.

  "Your legs are younger than mine. Run down to the safe for me, will you? I've made a list of the things I want."

  Sally pulled a face. "One of these days you'll find the bones of a typist in that safe, all gnawed by mice."

  "I'd ask one of the others, only I have to be tactful. There's a certain amount of jealousy over your getting Manson's job. Now you're in here, they have to do the switchboard and they think it's beneath them. Especially Miss Downes. Not that either of them could have handled Mr. Paul. Too set in their ways. But it's the prestige that worries them. Downey has been with us ten years." He gave her an appealing look.

  She smiled and held out her hand for the list. "If I'm not back in ten minutes send a search party."

  No one liked going down the rickety wooden stairs which led to the huge old-fashioned safe, where mice rustled behind the shelves and claustrophobia attacked even the boldest. Miss Moffat had once had hysterics down there when Fred started to shut the door without looking inside, and Sally always thought of Bishop Hatto with his bones picked clean by rats.

  Groping her way down, she remembered Mr. Ware's greeting: I am happy, she thought with sudden pleasure in the realisation. I haven't thought about Max for days. For one thing, Paul Winn kept her too busy to have time for fretting, and, for another, Paul himself was so completely different from Max with his charming urbanity. Just now he was irritable, hard as nails—forgivable with so much work on his plate—but he too could be charming in his own way. The difference between them, she decided, was that Max consciously exercised his charm, quite deliberately threw his spell over one; whereas Paul Winn didn't give a hoot.

  Not that I'm in love with Paul, she told herself as she thankfully mounted the stairs again. She was not yet free of the hold Max had upon her senses. She

  could still feel the thrill of excitement she had experienced when his hand touched hers with just the right amount of extra pressure; when his warm brown eyes smiled into hers. But at least she did not think of him every hour, and that was some relief.

  When she took the papers back to Mr. Ware's desk he told her Mr. Paul has been on the telephone. "So I took the opportunity of asking about Raybould. He says he distinctly remembers giving the form to you three days ago."

  Sally was dismayed. "To me? Was he sure?"

  "He was emphatic. And he doesn't make mistake."

  "N-no," she admitted. "If he gave it to me, I must have dealt with it. Yet—I don't remember doing so."

  "We all make mistakes. Perhaps you put it in a drawer and forgot it. Go and look. You've some hours yet."

  Troubled, Sally returned to her room. If Mr. Paul said he'd given her Raybould's form, he had done so. But, try as she might, she couldn't remember. She pressed her fingers to her temples, trying hard.

  She saw Mr. Paul's eyes full of bleak displeasure; she saw herself returned ignominously to the general office in disgrace, Miss Downes or Miss Moffat installed in her precious little room. She turned out all the drawers of her desk, the 'Out' and 'Abeyance' trays in Mr. Paul's room. Her hands were shaking and she felt sick. Empty-handed, she returned to Mr. Ware.

  "There couldn't be a mistake in the Court office?"

  His eyes gleamed hopefully. "In forty years? We can try." He rubbed his hands together with a dry, papery sound. "If they've tripped, Sally, I'll give you a silver sixpence."

  But they hadn't. "I wasn't very hopeful," Sally admitted despondently.

  The position was too awful even for tears. Paul would have to- be told, and the vials of his wrath would open upon her. She might not even be allowed to contaminate the general office. Instant dismissal seemed the only future for her.

  "Don't take it so much to heart." Mr. Ware would have normally dealt with an affair like this with exemplary strictness, but the girl's big eyes were tragic with distress. "We've time to do another one."

  "Could we?"

  He patted her hand. "Of course. Stop worrying. Everybody makes one mistake."

  She frowned, shaking her head protestingly. "But Mr. Ware—I haven't. I'm sure I haven't."

  It was at this moment Paul walked into the office. He was in a good humour and tweaked Sally's soft corn-coloured hair "Well, Goldilocks, what have you been up to?"

  She bit her lip, and had to blink back tears.

  "I was just about to tell Miss March, sir, that the only way to deal with a mistake is to admit it at once."

  Paul nodded. "Fatal to try and cover it up. Never mind, little one. The man who never made a mistake never made anything, or so they say. Worse things happen at sea. Though it might have been pretty serious if Matthewson hadn't spotted it." He exchanged a grin with Ware. "What if Holt had been handling the other side?"

  Ware chuckled. "Oh, my word, sir!"

  Sally left them and went back to her room. It was hopeless. Neither of them would ever believe she had never seen the Raybould papers. She sank into her chair and pressed her knuckles to her forehead. Think! Think!

  Three days ago, Paul said. That was the day Brenda Worth came. Paul had called Sally into the office and left Brenda standing alone. When he had dismissed Sally and ended his interviews, Brenda

  was gone. But she wouldn't touch a thing like that! Why should she?

  Paul came through on his way to his room. "Slip down to the Court, Sally. Ware has the new form all signed up. Hey!" He leaned over her desk, and she was aware of the pleasant man-smell of him—soap, tobacco and immaculate linen. He lifted her face and smiled down into her eyes. "You're not crying, Sally?"

  The kindness in his voice made her eyes brim with silly tears, but she blinked rapidly and shook her head. "Certainly not! I'm just furious with myself for not remembering."

  He said gently, "Forget it now! You've had a rotten day over the wretched business." Bending his head, he kissed her very lightly on the lips. Then he disappeared into his own room.
<
br />   Sally's family listened with sympathetic indignation to the whole story. Well, nearly the whole story. They'd never understand about his kissing her—how little it could mean to him. Mummy was already too fond of romantic notions, and Sally felt sure she was already practising saying, "My son-in-law—the lawyer, you know!" Mothers were like that.

  Thank goodness it was the weekend. She bathed Billy the dog, and took him for a long walk to blow the cobwebs away.

  "I'm certain in my own mind what happened," Mrs. March declared at tea. "Sally, pass your father the muffins, darling. It was that woman."

  Sally and her father exchanged sympathetic glances. He bit into a buttery muffin.

  "I don't agree, Mary. It was the painter chap." Mrs. March widened her eyes. "Sally, was there a painter?"

  "If you're discussing the TV serial, darlings, yes, there was. He came out of that queer pub last week."

  "Funny how everyone drinks in TV plays," murmured Mr. March. "Dunno how they afford it. You'd think an actor would fall down without a glass in his hand—"

  "At the office," his wife practically hissed. "Pay attention, dear. Poor Sally's in disgrace through no fault of her own, and I'm convinced that girl—Miss Worth—simply hid the paper somewhere "

  Sally chuckled. "Mummy, you are a divine idiot and I love you. Why?"

  "Because she's jealous. She wants Paul back, and sees how pretty and sweet you are—so she decides to discredit you by getting you into trouble. So, she hides the wretched paper somewhere where you won't find it "

  "But she couldn't have known there was a time limit on it. Don't be silly, darling."

  "N-no. That was her good luck. But when Paul whisked you off into his private sanctum she'd be livid and grab the first thing she saw "

  Firmly, Sally took her mother's cup and saucer. "Too many TV serials, my sweet. You'd better knit a bit of Simon's cricket sweater to cool your fevered brow. I'll wash up. Don't move."

  Washing up the tea-things in the tidied kitchen, Sally pondered her mother's theory. Maybe it wasn't so absurd. People did crazy, pointless things sometimes, and Brenda must have been furious about Paul's cool dismissal of her charms. She, Sally, understood. Paul's work came first with him always. If Brenda had had the patience to wait a little longer, until the interview was finished, she would have had a different man to deal with; a man with time to admire the long slim line of her exquisite suit and the soignee perfection of her delicate makeup.

  Then Sally forgot all about Brenda in remembering once again the startling fact that Paul Winn—the awe-inspiring "our Mr. Paul"—had kissed her.

  A little smile flickered on her lips. That was a secret no one would ever be told. She wondered what Miss Downes and Miss Moffat would say if they knew? Or what Brenda Worth would think?

  Sunday morning had a certain pleasant orderliness, because Mrs. March liked everybody to have a

  proper breakfast and go to church. Sally had taken cookery classes, and took turns with the Sunday lunch, but to-day it was her day for church, so she came downstairs in an almost-new outfit, a royal-blue pleated skirt and primrose twin-set.

  Simon looked over the top of the paper to give her a whistle of approval. She grinned impishly at him and kissed her father's bald spot. "Good morning, Daddy. Who won?"

  Simon guffawed. "As if she cared!"

  His mother entered with a tray of porridge plates. "All you men think of, Simon, is who won what. Every Sunday morning, year in and year out! We won! They won! England, Manchester, Pakistan! Horses, cars, tennis! Sally is like me, she finds it simpler to ask merely who? Surely that's enough without knowing what?"

  "Hear, hear, Mummy!" Sally took the tray and placed the plates. "Daddy, do sit down! Now they've started Test Matches in the winter and football in the summer, I'm truly lost."

  Her father battled with the paper. "Your mother's been at this, Sally. Page four is where six ought to be, nine and eleven are upside down. Coming to church?"

  "Of course."

  "That's nice. You look very charming. Haven't you a young man to take you? What happened to Eric?"

  "Eric's so immature, Daddy." Eric was a thoroughly nice boy, but after Max. . . ! She ate porridge and thought dismally that Max had probably spoilt her for any man of her own age.

  "I liked Eric!" said Mrs. March dreamily. "That twin-set is a success, pet. I wish your Mr. Paul Winn could see you in it. Doesn't she look young and sweet, Daddy?"

  Simon choked. "What about me? Don't I look young and sweet in my turtle-neck sweater?"

  "You look disgraceful," Sally informed him severely. "Your nails! And your hair!"

  "Let me inform you, sister mine, that I work with my hands, and anyway, it isn't proper dirt. Only grease and oil."

  Mr. March, who could see the road from his place at table, asked mildly, "Have you a boyfriend with a silver-grey car about the length of a cricket-pitch, Sally?"

  Simon said at once, "Only Max Shand would have one that long."

  Sally's heart beat wildly. She asked, "Why, Daddy?" in a squeaky voice unlike her own.

  "Because whoever it is, is coming up the garden path."

  Sally jumped up. How absurd to think she was getting over Max, when he could make her feel like this. She felt her colour flaring and knew her mother's eyes were upon her curiously.

  "I'll go to the door!" she said breathlessly.

  "Probably for me," Simon shouted after her.

  It was no use looking out of the window now, for the path from gate to cottage curved cunningly out of sight behind a miniature shrubbery. But already the bell was ringing, loud, peremptory.

  She waited a moment to catch her breath and to show Max the whole March family weren't hanging on his whim. Perhaps he wanted her to drive to the coast. He'd mentioned the possibility vaguely. She glanced at her reflection as she passed a looking-glass over the mellow oak chest in the hall. Her eyes were sparkling, her cheeks delicately flushed. She had the glowing beauty of a girl in love and going to meet her lover.

  She drew in a deep breath, held it to steady her nerves. Then she opened the door.

  It was Paul!

  She said, "Oh" and then "Oh!" again in case the first one had sounded too flat, too disappointed.

  "I'm sorry to trouble you on Sunday," Paul said politely, "but I need you."

  She pulled herself together. "Won't you come in?"

  There was nothing for it but to take him into the dining-room and introduce him to the family. He apologised charmingly to her mother.

  "One of my father's oldest friends has been talking for months of altering her Will. Now she has gone down with a sharp bout of 'flu "

  "There's a lot of it about," Mrs. March nodded understandingly.

  "And nothing will please her but a new Will immediately. My father is practically a cripple, so I must go. And I need my secretary." He smiled so sweetly at Mrs. March that she was completely lost. "Luckily it's a nice day, and I hope she will—erenjoy the drive. We'll be back before dark."

  Sally appeared at his elbow in a cream frieze coat and a scarlet silk scarf. The coat was her mother's and had never been worn; the scarf, Simon's. Her eyes begged them both please let me! and to their credit neither said a word.

  "There's a typewriter in the car," Paul explained. "You'll be needed to witness the Will, too. All Lady Braine's staff are legatees."

  When they were slipping along the main road, Paul said, "This is my sister Caroline's car. It's speedier than mine."

  "Daddy said it was the length of a cricket pitch."

  He laughed. "It feels like it, after my more useful job. I'm afraid I disappointed you just now. You were expecting someone else."

  She did not deny it.

  "In the Middle Ages you'd have been burnt at the stake. Do you read thoughts?"

  "I read faces. Yours was alight with about a million candle-power when you opened the door. When you saw who it was—click! the switch went off. Have I spoilt your day?"

  "No. I wasn't exp
ecting anyone. Just—hoping."

  "Still carrying the torch?" His voice was kind.

  "Afraid so. I thought I was getting over it, but

  this morning taught me I wasn't. You must think

  me a fool."

  He smiled. "I think the man is. I suppose I mustn't say so."

  He reflected that any man who could bring such radiance to the face of a girl as nice as Sally March was a lucky guy. He felt a strong urge to shake the unknown Max until his teeth rattled.

  They turned off the main road into a winding lane, where a stream kept the road company, chuckling and swirling, its banks golden with celandine. There was a blush of green on the hedges and the willows were wearing their young golden gowns, drooping like so many Ophelias over the water. In the fields there were sturdy spears of green corn, and in sheltered corners of cottage gardens wallflowers were in bloom.

  "This is heavenly!" Sally breathed.

  "Does it console you for working on Sunday?"

  She gave him a mischievous sideways glance. "I'm no clock-watcher, Mr. Winn. If work is necessary on Sundays, I'll do it. But this is an improvement on the office. I'm enjoying every moment."

  "That salves my conscience. But I must protest against Mr. Winn. It's too formal for Sundays. Can't you say Paul?"

  "I'll try. You are really a different person on Sundays, aren't you? On weekdays you are quite terrifying, and if I found myself facing you in the witness box my knees would buckle beneath me." She gave a clear hoot of amusement. "I'll never manage Paul right out—I'll probably say hey, you!"

  "All right. I'll 'answer to hi! or any loud cry.' Here we are. This is Blay Manor—rather pleasant, isn't it? Originally Tudor. The shell porch is later, of course, and the wings."

  "I've never seen inside such a glorious house, except on television. Is it real?"

  "Wait till you see my godmother. She is the incredible thing. I'll show you over the place if she gives us time."