by Anne Hampson
‘I’m full of self-pity, that’s the only trouble with me,’ she said, and Peter frowned.
‘The job...? You don’t get on with the girls?’
‘Oh, I get on with them all right—’
‘But you never make any friends.’ He shook his head. ‘They’re not your sort, are they, Muriel? You’re not happy here—I wonder if I could get you a transfer.’
‘I don’t want a transfer. In any case, what else could I do?’
‘Don’t know, but as a matter of fact I’ve been trying to think of a suitable position for you for some time.’
‘You have?’ She stared at him. ‘Why?’
He smiled rather wanly and, taking her hand, put it on the bench and covered it with his own.
‘You’re not naturally dull, my dear, you just don’t want to see, that’s all. Isn’t it obvious to you that I hate your being with these vulgar women?’
She immediately defended them. True, they were not her sort; they liked the kind of jokes that made her blush, they talked about things that caused her to tingle with shame, but a more generous lot of people it would be very hard to find. They helped one another over difficulties; if anything went wrong they were all up in instant defence of the one who had made the mistake, and if any of them happened to be ill there were plenty of volunteers to take her home, even though most of them were on piecework.
‘I admit they’re a grand lot,’ Peter said. ‘And they’re generous to a fault, but they’re not your sort. You’ll never fit in here, Muriel.’
‘I’m getting used to them, and I’m getting used to the work. I would hate to go anywhere else.’
He noticed the determined Ike of her chin and allowed the matter to drop for the present. How pale and troubled she looked, he thought, and gave her hand a little squeeze.
‘Let me take you to the pictures tonight,’ he said, on a strange note of pleading. ‘I want to very much, Muriel.’
There was the merest pause, then a smile flickered. ‘Thank you, Peter, I should enjoy that.’
He looked so pleased and surprised that her conscience suddenly smote her. She was flying to Peter in order to escape from her own unhappy thoughts, using him for her own ends. He was too good to be hurt, and there was no doubt that he would be hurt when he found that their friendship could not lead to any definite goal. She saw herself in a new light, and for the next minute or so her meditations were painfully self-accusatory.
‘Peter, no—on second thoughts, I don’t think—’
‘Oh, Muriel, please don’t take it back! What made you change your mind so suddenly?’
‘I don’t know,’ she answered lamely. ‘But it’s better if we don’t become—friendly.’
‘I see...’ His eyes were dark with perception. ‘So that’s the cause of your unhappiness.’
‘What are you—?’
‘It’s too late to dissemble, my dear,’ he said flatly. ‘Is he married?—or in love with someone else?’
She hesitated, but only for a moment.
‘He’s in love with someone else,’ and then, urgently, ‘You won’t say anything to Fred?’
‘I wouldn’t dream of discussing this with anyone,’ he returned, with slight indignation.
‘I’m sorry, but you might just have let something slip out.’
A long silence followed, but at last Peter gave her hand another squeeze.
‘I can’t agree that we mustn’t be friends,’ he said. ‘Let me take you out this evening?’
‘You still want to?’
‘Yes, I do, Muriel, and,’ he added, ‘you have no excuse for refusing. You’ve as good as told me we can never be more than friends, and I’m willing to take you out on those conditions.’
‘Oh, Peter—’ Her fingers clasped his in a gesture of gratitude. ‘You’re so good, so understanding.’
For a brief moment she thought she detected pain in his eyes, but then he seemed to notice her intent gaze and a smile broke over his face.
‘You haven’t answered me,’ he said quietly.
‘Are you quite sure?’
‘Quite.’
‘Very well, then, I’ll come.’ She looked at him mistily. ‘I didn’t think it would help to tell anyone, but it has. I feel much better now.’
‘You never confide in your family?’
She shook her head.
‘They wouldn’t understand.’
Peter stood up, pulling her up with him.
‘If I can be a good and understanding friend, then that’s all I ask,’ he told her sincerely. ‘Knowing you, I’m not going to make the mistake of saying you’ll soon forget this man, but time is a—’
‘No, Peter, no! Please—I want to forget him—quickly, very quickly.’ She sounded so distracted that on a sudden impulse he put his arms on her shoulders and drew her closer to him ... and neither of them saw the man who, passing the wide doorway, glanced casually in and then halted abruptly, a heavy frown darkening his face. They did not see him make a movement to enter the building, hesitate, and then, his lips curling contemptuously, turn away and walk briskly across the yard towards the main offices.
‘Then let me help you to forget.’ There were a dozen questions he wanted to ask, but they would only cause her pain. ‘Let me be your friend, Muriel.’ She did not speak, and after a little while he put his hand under her chin in a faintly awed manner and turned up her face. He was smiling ruefully as he went on to say that, as the charge hand, he was setting a very bad example. ‘This sort of thing is strictly forbidden, you know. Punishable by instant dismissal.’
‘What sort of thing?’ For a moment she looked blank, then she hastily drew herself away from him, a flush leaping to her cheeks.
‘Don’t look so distressed,’ he said. ‘I only wanted to bring a smile.’ He reached out and touched her cheek. ‘You don’t smile very easily, do you, Muriel?’
But she did smile then, and as a thought occurred to her she asked if he had had his lunch. He shook his head.
‘Oh, Peter, I’ve kept you, and there’ll be nothing left!’
‘That’s what you think. I’m a great favourite with Mrs. Turner; she wouldn’t see me starve.’ He paused. ‘Are you all right now? Not feeling quite so miserable?’
‘I feel much, much better.’
‘Then come and have some lunch with me. You must be hungry.’
‘I’m not,’ she returned truthfully. ‘Besides, I’ve just remembered that I promised to get a knitting pattern for my sister. I think I have time.’
‘You’re going to the little paper shop outside the gates?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you’ve plenty of time.’
Crossing the yard in the lunch hour was neither easy nor pleasant, for invariably there was a game of football in progress. Also, one had to keep one’s head averted, for a glance in the young men’s direction brought forth a volley of impudent whistling. It was because she had her head down that Muriel did not see the ball until it landed, with tremendous force, in the pit of her stomach. She immediately doubled up, winded and gasping with pain. The men all crowded round, apologizing and asking her if she were much hurt.
‘No, I’m all right.’ Muriel forced herself to straighten up. ‘Please go away.’
‘I think she should go along to the ambulance room.’ This was greeted by a dead silence, broken only when Muriel tried to walk away.
‘Will you be all right?’ The young man who spoke to her looked anxious. ‘Would you prefer to go to the ambulance room?’
‘No, I wouldn’t.’ Her customary soft voice was sharp and abrupt because she felt so horribly embarrassed at having a dozen or so men around her, and although the pain was excruciating, she made another attempt to walk.
‘She’s better now—it’s crazy to think of sending her to the ambulance room.’
The first young man was not quite satisfied, but when Muriel again assured him that she was all right, he said anxiously,
‘You won’t say
anything about this to anyone—I mean, you won’t report it to your foreman?’
‘No.’
‘You see,’ he went on to explain, ‘this has happened before—the last time a youngster was hit in the face. Mr. Burke happened to be in the yard and saw it, and he warned us that if anything like that occurred again he wouldn’t allow football in the yard.’
‘I won’t say anything.’ Her voice was cracked and husky with pain. Would they never go away and leave her alone?
‘Thanks, you’re a good sport.’
The others added their thanks and appreciation and then moved away to resume their game. Muriel, suddenly becoming aware of the searing pain in her head, crossed over to the little footpath that ran along the front of the office building. ‘Oh, my head,’ she gasped, putting a shaky hand to it. ‘Why should my head feel funny?’
For a little while she managed to walk on, and then she felt violently sick and knew that, for the present, she could go no farther. Glancing over her shoulder, she discovered that the men had stopped the game again and were watching her anxiously. If she lingered here they would soon be crowding round her again; the entrance to the offices presented a means of escape and without the slightest hesitation she went inside. There was nowhere to sit down so she leant against the wall, feeling more and more light-headed as the moments passed. She couldn’t be going to faint, she told herself, for she had never fainted in her life. But the dizziness persisted and even when she heard someone approaching along the corridor she found it quite impossible to move. And then everything went black and she slid, very gently, to the floor.
She could never afterwards decide whether she had fainted or not, for although she couldn’t see she never remembered actually losing consciousness. In actual fact, it was only a matter of seconds before her eyes fluttered open.
Andrew! Of all people...!
For a moment she wished she had dropped dead! ‘Feeling better?’ He took her arm and helped her up. ‘What happened?’
‘I was crossing the yard and the b—’ She broke off just in time. ‘I felt—queer.’
‘Queer, eh?’ His tone was distinctly sceptical, but, as Muriel felt her stomach turn over, she was far too concerned with what might suddenly happen to take any notice. ‘You’d better come along to the office. Miss Cook hasn’t yet gone to her lunch; she will attend to you.’
‘Thank you.’ His grip on her arm made her wince, and there was an unmistakable roughness in the way he propelled her along the corridor towards his office. Once inside he almost flung her into a chair.
‘Miss Cook, Miss Paterson has—er—fainted. Will you let her sit here until she has fully recovered?’
Miss Cook examined Muriel strangely, then her glance flickered towards her employer. The faintest of smiles curved her pale lips as she noticed his wooden expression.
‘Very well, Mr. Burke,’ she replied tonelessly.
Although feeling horribly sick, Muriel knew she must take advantage of this opportunity and, disregarding Miss Cook’s austere and rather frightening presence, she said,
‘Mr. Burke, I wanted to tell you that I’m Christine’s cousin, and to ask you not to mention that you and I met on the cr—’ She stopped, turning in her chair. Andrew no longer stood behind the chair ... he had left the room.
‘Would you like a drink of water?’ Miss Cook inquired frigidly.
‘No—yes, please—Will Mr. Burke be coming back?’
‘He’s gone to his lunch.’
Muriel caught her lips sharply between her teeth, but even that could not still their trembling. Andrew must be completely devoid of feeling to go off like that without waiting to see if she was all right. ‘He’s cruel and heartless, he’s an arrogant, conceited snob—and I hate him!’ And before she had time to take any of that back her stomach turned a somersault and she leapt from the chair. Miss Cook returned, a glass of water in her hand, just in time to see her wrench open the door and go racing down the corridor as fast as her legs would carry her.
‘Well!’ Miss Cook was speechless for a moment, staring at the door. ‘That’s a little jade if ever there was one! He’ll have to be careful, or she’ll catch up with him before he’s very much older.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Five o’clock at last. Muriel sighed with relief. Within five minutes the workroom was empty except for Peter and herself.
‘Half-past seven outside the Paramount,’ he said. ‘Don’t be late if you can help it, Muriel, or we won’t see the whole show.’
‘I won’t be late.’
She hurried across the yard, hoping to catch the first bus. But just before she reached the office building she saw Miss Cook, obviously in a great hurry, emerge from the front entrance and run for her bus. Muriel hesitated, pride urging her to let slip this inviting opportunity. But supposing Andrew was seeing Christine tonight, and supposing the cruise was mentioned and Andrew caught off his guard? Better to warn him if it was at all possible. The car was there at the entrance, so he hadn’t yet gone.
Miss Cook’s door stood open; stepping inside, Muriel closed it quietly behind her, and only then did she realize Andrew was not alone. His door, too, stood ajar and she heard the voices distinctly. Bill was with him, and while she stood uncertainly by Miss Cook’s desk Muriel heard Bill’s incredulous protest.
‘Swooned at your feet? Andrew, you’re joking!’
‘Would I joke about a thing like that?’ Andrew’s tones were brittle and Muriel could almost see the accompanying sneer.
‘Was it convincing?’
‘The clumsiest performance I ever saw. There she was, waiting by the wall for me to go out to lunch—I always go about twelve-thirty—and as I reached her she slid down, as gently as you please. Wasn’t even risking a bruise.’ He laughed in a queer little way that suggested he didn’t really want to but just couldn’t help it.
‘How crude; she must have been reading eighteen-century novels!’ They both laughed at that, and Muriel’s fists clenched with anger and mortification. She had the almost irrepressible urge to fling wide the door, to hurl herself into the room and tell them both exactly what she thought about them. Instead, she moved swiftly and silently to the door.
Angry tears blurred her vision as she made her way towards the gates. She pictured her unspeakable humiliation when her cousin learned the truth, for Muriel now felt convinced that she must learn it before very long.
If Christine and Andrew happened to discuss holidays Andrew would be bound to mention his cruise ... the Appenia in July. Christine then must remark on the coincidence, saying her cousin was on that particular cruise, and even though she knew there had been over a thousand passengers on board, Christine would be sure to ask Andrew if they had met. Andrew, though aware at once of Muriel’s silence over the affair, would scarcely deny all knowledge of her. He would probably say they had met casually, but Christine, remembering the description Muriel had given in the letter, would need little imagination to put two and two together.
If only Andrew had let her speak to him, Muriel thought miserably, they could have made it all so simple by his agreeing to keep silent about the affair.
She stepped aside as a car approached—Andrew’s car, for there was no other in the yard. She kept her head averted as it passed, but to her dismay it pulled up just ahead of her. The watchman stepped forward, touching his cap respectfully, and took something from Andrew’s outstretched hand; the key of the office, probably. Muriel slackened her pace and to her relief the car moved away before it became necessary to pass it. But the yard was well lit and she felt sure that Bill had recognized her, for, glancing up when the car was a reasonable distance away, she saw that he was looking back.
Still talking about her, she surmised, flushing again at the recollection of what she had overheard. She could picture Bill’s surprise at the change in her appearance, could imagine his saying, ‘Isn’t that Muriel? How she’s changed!’ Which was exactly what he did say, and it brought a sound of derision from
his friend.
‘You wouldn’t expect her to come to a place like this looking like a film star, would you?’
‘I didn’t mean that exactly. She looks sort of—poor.’
‘Always was poor.’ Andrew’s eyes were on the mirror as if he were trying to catch a last glimpse of the girl under discussion. Watching him closely, Bill noticed the slight twist of the lips ... a mingling of bitterness and disgust. How very plain ... Bill could not suppress a smile. Andrew, with his lofty assurance and professed knowledge of women, had at last come face to face with the disaster that could result from such rashness and over-confidence. Was he suitably chastened and subdued? Not he. Yet a feeling almost akin to pity rose within Bill as he considered more deeply his friend’s position. It must be damnable to find oneself in love with a girl whom one knew to be a conscienceless little gold-digger ... Bill frowned suddenly, recalling his doubts about Muriel. He had dismissed them at the time, convinced that Andrew with his wider experience had sized her up correctly, but now those doubts recurred with strange intensity.
‘In that case,’ he said, ‘Muriel probably told the truth when she said she came because she needed the money.’ He paused. ‘What did she do before coming to the factory?’
‘Haven’t the faintest idea,’ replied Andrew with a yawn, and his friend’s lips twitched in amusement.
‘You know’—there was a marked alteration in Bill’s voice now—‘I never understood Muriel, but I had to like her.’ Receiving no comment on this, Bill concluded Andrew wished the matter to be dropped. The same thing had happened on the day he had discovered Muriel to be working in the factory. It had happened again the next time they had met when Bill, naturally curious, had put one or two questions to him. Andrew’s replies were brief to the point of curtness and Bill had dropped the matter immediately, respecting the unspoken but clearly manifest wish.
Just now in the office, however, inexpressibly disgusted by the girl’s ‘fainting’ performance, Andrew had shown no reluctance to talk about her. Yet Bill felt convinced that beneath the surface something jarred; that Andrew hated every word said against her, and that he bitterly regretted having mentioned her action at all.
