Let love abide

by Norrey Ford

  She shook her head violently. "No—no, it isn't. All I want to know is where to contact Max Shand."

  "You're an odd girl. Last night you were so sweet to me I could have sworn you were more than halfway to loving me. Today you treat me like a leper and are crazy to talk of Max. What has happened, Sally? I'll swear something has."

  She shook her head, but could not say a word. Her desire to tell him everything was too great—she dared not trust herself to open her mouth at all. Her pain was visible in her face.

  He came to her and put his arm round her shoulder. "Please let me help, darling. I can see you're in trouble over this. I love you. I want nothing else in the world but to help and protect you."

  She put her face in her hands. "Don't, Paul, please. I can't bear it. I'll never forget your saying that—it's a great honour and I appreciate it, but II can't."

  His voice grated harshly. "You mean there is a barrier?"

  Betraying colour flew to her face. "A sort of barrier." Her voice was muffled. "Don't ask me, Paul. I can't tell you. I only want to speak to Max."

  She felt him stiffen. His voice was cold, harsh, where a moment ago it had been warmly vibrant. "Very well. I'll ask Caro."

  He dialled his home number at once. "Caro? Paul here. Yes, I'm practically on my way home. Listen, poppet, I want to get in touch with Jeff—where is he? What? Oh, he isn't?" He glanced up and met Sally's anxious eyes, shaking his head

  slightly. "In Scotland? When will he be back?" He made a swift note on a pad, and rang off.

  "He's away?" Sally said flatly.

  "Touring in Scotland. Caro said it had been arranged for months, and he wouldn't back out and let his friends down. She doesn't know exactly where he is, but he'll return at the end of next week."

  She said shakily, "Thank you very much." The end of next week wasn't going to help Simon much. Those detectives were here now. She turned to leave the office, but Paul checked her.

  "Sally—are you sure this is not a matter which concerns Caro?"

  "It need not. It's a business matter. In fact, it's really Simon who wants to talk to him. Something about the garage. Simon is a sort of manager, but an important matter has cropped up, so, of course, Simon feels Max ought to know. After all, it is Max's business."

  "What?" Paul's voice rose to a shout with relief, with excitement. He had pictured Sally involved in some ghastly way with Shand, and now it was only a matter of business. "Is that all? But I didn't know the garage belonged to Jeff—that is, Max. Why didn't you tell me?"

  "Why should I? The subject never came up, and in any case, your father said he knew all about Max's affairs. Naturally I assumed that you knew. He runs lots of similar places in different parts of the country."

  Paul scowled and bit his lower lip. "Does he? I didn't realise. I thought it was only the London place. Look, Sally, I wouldn't listen to you when you tried to tell me about Shand I thought—heaven forgive me, but I thought you were crazy about him and trying to get him back by breaking things up for Caro "

  She interrupted, "I wouldn't do that. I like Caro, I wouldn't hurt her."

  "I know that, now. I must have been mad. I can only throw myself on your mercy and beg forgiveness.

  But whether you can forgive me or not, tell me about Shand. For Caro's sake, Sally."

  She made a helpless gesture. It was too late. Too late to warn him about Max; too late to listen to his declaration of love. Simon's misfortune might drag the whole family down after him into the mire, but Paul mustn't be dragged down, too. If only she could keep on loving him enough—enough to thrust him clear of the disaster which threatened the family. If only Paul had listened to her earlier!

  "There's a spot of trouble at the office. I don't know much about it—only that Simon needs to consult his chief and that it's important and urgent. He can't clear the matter up alone."

  "What sort of trouble?"

  "That's between Max and Simon, surely? If only Max were not away in Scotland just now! Simon is not an awfully good business man."

  He paced the small room, and came back to her. "Sally, I'd do anything in the world to help you, or Simon. Tell me you understand that."

  Her voice was a thread. "Yes, I do understand." "So if I can help, please—please say."

  She did not look at him. "You can't help. I'm sorry, Paul, but it's just not your affair."

  He gave a twisted smile. "So I gather. Well, Simon will have to wait, it seems—since Sally will have none of me."

  "I'm sorry to sound ungrateful. Paul, I hate to do this, but I'm giving you a week's notice. I want to leave your employment."

  His jaw set, a muscle tightened in his cheek. "That hurts, little Sally. What have I done to offend you?"

  She bent her head. "I'm sorry. You haven't offended me. I just want to leave the office."

  He waited for her to add something to that, but when she did not, he shrugged. "Very well, if you insist. I take it you want to go at once?"

  "It would be easier if you'll accept a week's salary in lieu of notice."

  "Don't be harder on me than you must, my dear. Even Miss Downes will be paid to the end of the month. I know you are leaving because of me, so don't add another small burden to my conscience."

  "I hate to take money I haven't earned."

  Suddenly he lost his cold calm. He shouted, "Don't quibble, girl. For mercy's sake don't let's haggle over a few paltry shillings." He dropped his voice. "I meant to manage this better. I meant to go cautiously, make up lost ground patiently. I realise I started off on the wrong foot with you—nobody's fault but my own. Tell me I haven't lost everything by going too fast? Tell me I still have a chance."

  She gave a small ghost of a sigh. "You don't understand how difficult it is for me."

  "You mean about Brenda? I know I've made a fool of myself in that direction, and I feel none too proud of myself. But I didn't ask her to be my wife—as I should ask you if I thought there was the smallest chance of your loving me."

  She could deal with his anger, or the reserved coldness which helped to stiffen her pride, but now he was pleading with her and she had no strength to resist him. She pressed her hands hard on the back of a chair, feeling her knees too weak to hold her up. Her lips were so stiff she could hardly make them shape the words she had to say.

  "There's no chance, Paul."

  The words were low, but he heard. Without speaking again, he opened the door for her, held it ceremoniously. She was hardly conscious of moving, until she heard it close behind her and found herself in the shrouded outer office.

  It was kinder this way, a swift, clean cut for both.

  Simon stood in the wide bay window, nervously biting his knuckle. It was Sunday, marked by a faint smell of roast beef and a clean, white starched tablecloth, which Sally was spreading carefully, to get the fold straight down the middle of the table.

  "They'll have to be told to-day. What it will do to them I can't—daren't—think. Especially Mother. It'll kill her."

  She took the best knives and forks from the sideboard drawer. "Must it be to-clay? It's such a heavenly day."

  He swung round savagely. "Do I have to wait till it rains? The detectives have been snooping round all week. I tell you it's only a matter of days before they take action. I daren't leave it any longer. Do you think I want to tell the parents?"

  "Of course not. But they'll stand by you. Look how marvellous they were about my giving up my job."

  "Giving up a job hardly comes in the same category. Why did you, anyway? You've been as close as a mussel over the whole affair. It makes it awkward for me to consult Winn over my spot of bother."

  "There are other lawyers. Daddy will want you to go to Mr. Samstead."

  "Samstead is pretty ancient. This business needs a live wire. If only Max would come back. Touring in Scotland! What a yarn—he's not the outdoor type! A swanky golfing hotel, perhaps, but not touring. I'm convinced that when he turns up, he'll put the whole matter right."

&n
bsp; "Then there'll be no need to consult Paul, will there?"

  "You have got your knife into that poor bloke, and no mistake. Heres Dad, home from church already. I'll tell him at once."

  "Not just before lunch, you chump. We're having Yorkshire pudding, and it will be ruined."

  "I'm in purgatory and you prattle about food—How like a woman!"

  "Women have sense, my lad! Let them both have a decent meal before the execution. If you tell them now, nobody will eat a thing."

  "Maybe you're right. But how can I sit and much beef and apple pie as if nothing was happening!

  Food will choke me. Gosh, what am I doing to them, Sis? It'll finish off the poor old things."

  "Not so much of the poor old. Mummy is only forty-nine. Go and wash, Simon. Before the food is on the table, for a change. Keep out of the way till the last minute, and Daddy will tell us all about the sermon and the church-wardens over lunch. Off you go and—good luck, duckie."

  Lunch was a subdued meal, and as soon as it was finished Sally whisked her mother off into the kitchen to wash up, but before the kitchen was finally tidied Mr. March came to the door with a grave face. "Come and listen to this, Mother. You, too, Sally—though I suppose you know all about it. Fathers and mothers are always the last to be told."

  Mrs. March listened quietly, her hands folded in her lap. At the end of Simon's story, she said, "It'll need money, George. We must get a good lawyer. You can sell my savings certificates."

  Mr. March nodded. "I knew you'd say that, love. Who is it to be—Samstead?"

  "Too old. He's all right for wills and conveyances, but we need a fighter."

  "By golly we do, Mother. We've got to get our lad clear, for his own sake and, incidentally, for mine. It's a bit awkward, I don't mind telling you. Bank manager and so forth."

  "Dad, I'm fiendishly sorry "

  Mr. March swept Simon's regrets aside. "We know you're innocent and we know it couldn't be helped. You're deep in, and someone has to get you out. To my mind there's only one man. Eh, Sally? The famous Paul Winn."

  "No!"

  They all stared at Sally's vehemence.

  Her mother said, "But darling, you've said so often he is a dour fighter, and dear knows we need one."

  Sally stood up very straight, her hands behind her back. This was her family and she loved them, owed them her loyalty. But where did her first, best

  loyalty lie? Here, with Mummy and Daddy and Simon? Or with Paul, whom she loved?

  "That's right," her father said, evenly. "Simon is batting on a sticky wicket. Old Samstead's no use to us in this turn-up. We all realise you've left the firm, Sally—and though you haven't honoured us with your confidence we've guessed you've had some sort of quarrel with one another. But there's no need for you to meet anyone. I'll ring up and make an appointment in the morning. Simon and I can go in on a straightforward solicitor-and-client footing."

  "No, Daddy, please! You don't understand. I really mean this. I'm serious."

  Simon said, "I don't see why you should chuck a spanner in the works when Mummy and Dad are being so marvellous."

  "I'm not chucking a spanner. I only ask you not to choose Paul. There are other good solicitors in the town."

  "I suppose you're ashamed of me

  "I'm not, Simon. Mummy—Daddy, honestly it isn't that! I believe him innocent just as you do. I want him to have the best advice. Only not Paul."

  Her father stood up, pushing his cold pipe into a pocket. Sally saw with quick perception that he looked a little older, a little greyer even, than when he had come cheerfully in from church this morning.

  "You're taking a selfish attitude, Sally. Surely any squabble you may have had with Paul Winn, or anyone at the office, is trivial compared with this? Don't you see, this is a big thing? If it isn't handled properly, Simon—your own brother—may go to prison. Do you want that?"

  Her mother leaned forward, kind eyes anxious. "Don't be stubborn, darling. Don't put your pride before Simon's need. The whole family's need, if it comes to that. We're all in this together."

  "Sally isn't," Simon said furiously. "Sally isn't in this family any longer. She's contracted out."

  She shook her head helplessly. So many arguments crowded to her tongue, that she could not say

  anything at all. At last, she said weakly, "You still don't understand."

  "You're the one who doesn't understand; who can't be made to understand," her father said heavily. "I'm disappointed in you, Sally. Surely blood is thicker than water?"

  Water! they called it! The love she had for Paul, the desire to protect him. She laughed shortly, bitterly, so that her mother gave her a quick, anxious glance. Then, because she could no longer bear the harassed, grey look of her father's face, she ran from the room.

  Mrs. March half rose. She hadn't liked that driven, desperate note in Sally's laugh. If the issue had not been so important for Simon, she would have taken sides with her daughter. But—she glanced irresolutely at her son; he stood by the sideboard fiddling with a pair of Lincoln-imp nutcrackers, and looking so like the little boy he had been that her heart turned over. She almost disgraced herself by smoothing the boyish tuft of hair which had escaped, as usual, his stern disciplinary hair-brushing.

  "George, I'm not sure we should insist. Sally isn't a selfish girl. She has a good reason for standing out against us, I'm certain."

  "Stuff! They've had a tiff, and Sally must get over it in the face of stern reality. She must grow up. This trouble of Simon's isn't baby-stuff."

  Simon swung round. "Let's telephone old Sam-stead, Dad. Sally wouldn't put a silly squabble before the family. She's a good kid, really. If she doesn't want us to have Paul, she has her reasons. After all, I'm not arrested yet, and we don't know that I'm going to be. There's no need to look on the blackest side."

  George March shrugged. "Very well. But I suppose you realise we don't have to ask Sally's permission to consult the great Paul?"

  "No, we don't. But it would be mean to go behind her back. Look, both of you. I can't tell you

  how—how decent you're being over this. I've let you down horribly and you don't bat an eyelid, but just sit down and start planning how to get me out of the mess."

  His mother laughed softly and George March bellowed, "Good grief, boy! What on earth do you think parents are for?"

  "Well —I

  Mrs. March clapped her hands gently. "George, our son is young enough to blush! Confess, Simon. You thought Daddy would storm up and down the hearthrug and I'd fling my pinny over my head and have hysterics."

  "No, of course not. That is—at least

  "My pet, the older generation is much tougher than you think; much less shockable. We rather like our children and don't mind at all that you're a little old-fashioned."

  "We're old-fashioned?"

  George laughed. "Certainly you are, bless you! The ideas you've been producing with such delight and surprise for the last two or three years, we grew out of twenty years ago. Now for heaven's sake take the dog for a walk, he's scratching white hairs all over my Sunday trousers and—Simon—don't look so woebegone about piling worry on our poor old shoulders. We're quite strong enough to take it, and we've had a lot of practice in carrying burdens. We'll get by, boy."

  "Oh—well, thanks! I mean—oh gosh, come on, you horrible dog, you!"

  Sally sat on the stairs, hands clasped over slim knees. She loved her family, they were close to each other and fiercely loyal. Not only Mummy, Daddy and Simon, but the aunts and uncles. In trouble, the ranks closed. All, down to the smallest cousin, would stand firmly by Simon, however black the case.

  All—except Sally. Sally would be on the outside, looking in. Maybe they'd keep her on the outside for ever, after this.

  Of old habit, she pressed her face to the cool, coloured glass of the staircase window. The blue glass turned the summer scene to winter; the flowers, the narrow willow leaves, the shaved lawn were covered with snow. That's what has happened to
me, she thought. She removed her cold nose and pressed it to the yellow pane. Summer returned, brighter, sunnier even than reality, a golden glow on everything. It was as easy as that to make the change. If only one's inward problems could be solved as quickly!

  Her mother came out, closing the dining-room door quietly after her. "Sitting on the stairs, Sally? That reminds me of the old days."

  "I was looking through the coloured glass. It seems a hundred years since Simon and I discovered it, yet it isn't long. I suppose we've grown up. It isn't time that makes you grow up, is it? Something happens inside your heart, and you know you'll never go back to being a little girl again, no matter how you try. What's going to happen to us all, Mummy?"

  "We must be as brave as we can, and wait."

  "Funny. Simon and I pictured you swooning gracefully on the sofa, but you and Daddy are behaving much better than either of us." She stretched down a hand and touched the soft brown hair. "Have we been an awful burden?"

  "You've both been a joy."

  "Till now?"

  "You're still my children, whatever happens. And whatever happens can't be worse than when we thought Simon had polio."

  "But surely this is different? Germs might happen to anybody, but Simon is—sort of—responsible for this?"

  "Even if he is guilty, which I don't believe, it won't change my love for him." She gave a swift, twisted smile. "I might feel a bit cross."

  "Simon was always your favourite."

  Sally's mother sat on the stair below her, looking up at her daughter with quick contrition. "Darling, did it show? I tried so hard not to let it. When you have children you may find you'll like the boys best, and then you'll understand. It's odd, because you were a prettier baby and a nicer child altogether. There were times when Simon was difficult and horrid."

  They laughed gently together, in a new and delightfully grown-up companionship, then fell silently into their own thoughts.