Across the Counter

by Mary Burchell

  “The ... Kendale wedding?” For a moment the acres of green carpet around her seemed to heave like ocean waves. “What Kendale wedding?”

  “Geraldine Kendale—the old man’s daughter. You remember—she got engaged to that young architect you were so friendly with. Malcolm Fordham.”

  “Yes—I remember.”

  “Well, she’s married him. I noticed them fixing up the announcement and the photographs as I came past the notice board.”

  “Why—shouldn’t she?” said Katherine, sitting down on one of the gilt chairs usually reserved for customers, because suddenly her legs felt curiously weak.

  “Oh, no reason, really. Only those people usually make much more of a song and dance about it. I thought we’d be hearing about her trousseau and her engagement parties and what have you for weeks beforehand. But it looks as though they just suddenly decided on the spur of the moment.”

  “Perhaps,” said Katherine slowly, “that’s exactly what they did. He probably caught her suddenly in the right mood, and clinched it while he could. She’s rather a—an unpredictable person.”

  “Well, it’s a wonderful scoop for him.” Mrs. Culver, who was the kindliest creature, prided herself on having a streak of worldly cynicism. “He’s settled for life. I suppose they’ll take him into the business, won’t they?”

  “I don’t know.” Katherine could not quite see Paul canvassing a place on the board for Malcolm. “Even sons-in-law aren’t so easily absorbed into a business when it ceases to be a family concern. Nor sons, either,” she said half to herself.

  “There’s only one son, isn’t there?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he’s quite safely and cozily settled on the board.”

  “So they say,” replied Katherine briefly.

  But she thought of that money that old Mr. Kendale had pledged, and reflected that there was only one source from which it could come now.

  There was nothing new about the situation. Only a confirmation of what she herself had accepted in principle when she broke her engagement. But to accept in principle and to face the actuality are two very different things. And all day Katherine tormented herself with the recollection of Malcolm saying, “If Paul married money that would also answer the problem. It has to be one of them, Kate.”

  And it had not been Geraldine.

  At lunchtime she made herself go and look at the photographs on the display board. And strangely enough it warmed her heart to see the undoubted happiness on the faces of both Malcolm and Geraldine. It was no longer a matter of passionate moment to her that he would have everything he wanted. But she could not be unmoved by the fact that two people looked so radiantly happy, partly because she had taken a hand in their affairs, even indirectly.

  There was one very good photograph of Paul, too, smiling down at his sister. She stood and looked at that for a long time, secure in the knowledge that the display board was always a point of interest and that it was nothing for people to linger in front of it for minutes on end.

  And every day after that, for a whole week, she used to pause and look at Paul on her way to and from lunch. But then the photographs were changed for some about sporting events, and she no longer had even that small contact with him.

  When her departmental report and liaison scheme were completed, once more she came in for some warm praise and commendation. And Mr. Arnoldson said that before being assigned to a department again, she had better take the week’s holiday that was owing to her. She had earned it, he added approvingly, and where did she intend to spend it?

  “Oh, at home,” exclaimed Katherine quickly.

  To which Mr. Arnoldson said, “Splendid, splendid.” But neither of them referred to the fact that “home” was not so very many miles from Morringham.

  On the journey, Katherine alternated between illogical elation and equally illogical depression. And try as she would to tell herself that she was most unlikely even to see Paul, she could hardly contain her excitement when she changed at Morringham station from the main line train to the little local one that would take her the last part of her journey.

  After that her excitement subsided into somber resignation. For every turn of the clanking wheels now took her farther away from Morringham instead of nearer to it.

  At the station her father met her in the family car, and although Iris greeting was matter-of-fact and he said he had to go off to a case almost immediately, she was subtly aware of that indefinable support that only an affectionate home background can give.

  The younger ones were all out—at school or at the hospital—when Katherine arrived, and so she had her mother entirely to herself. And over tea and toast, before a comfortably glowing fire, she told the whole of her story.

  She had not really intended to tell her mother everything, being still vaguely of the opinion that people over forty cannot quite recall or understand the foolishness and the trials of twenty-two. But when it came to the point, the delicious indulgence of talking endlessly about Paul proved too much for her. And although she rather scamped the bits about Malcolm, she told the rest in detail.

  At the end her mother said, “If you’re really in love with him, Kate, I think you’ve acted rather too quixotically. How do you know that he would prefer his store to you? I think you should have given him the chance of choosing for himself.”

  “I didn’t need to, mother. He’d expressed himself quite clearly when he made that one almost casual suggestion that we should turn our engagement into reality. He went no further than to say he thought he could live happily with me, and that he agreed with his father it was time he got married.”

  “Mmm—yes. It’s not quite what one could call passionate wooing,” agreed her mother. “Well, my darling, perhaps you’re well out of it. At least I’m glad you didn’t marry Malcolm Fordham.”

  “Oh, so am I!” exclaimed Katherine fervently. And this time she did not even pause to think how utterly incongruous that would have sounded to her once.

  In spite of all the tact and authority her mother could exert, nothing would entirely silence the twins on the subject of Paul. They understood that their sister was not going to marry him, after all, but Charlotte particularly found it quite impossible not to say what a pity she thought this was

  “Yes, of course it’s a pity, pet,” Katherine conceded. “Only sometimes these things happen—and we just have to put up with them.”

  “It seems a special pity that we have to put up with it, too,” Charlotte said. “Don’t you think he might come and see us sometimes, even if he isn’t going to marry you?”

  “I don’t think it’s at all likely.”

  Katherine spoke firmly, but Charlotte had her share of firmness, too.

  “Then don’t you think it might be a good idea if you and I went into Morringham to do some shopping?” she said coaxingly. “We could go into Kendales and look around. And then if we met him quite by chance we couldn’t help it, could we?”

  This so exactly expressed the kind of wishful thinking in which Katherine, with secret shame, indulged that she stared at her little sister for a moment in horrified fascination. Then she said, almost violently. “No! Of course we couldn’t!”

  And even Charlotte saw that the subject was closed.

  The one thing Katherine did allow herself during her week at home was a brief visit to the Fallodens, and all the time she kept emphasizing to herself that this had nothing to do with any hope of seeing Paul.

  That was true, of course, for she would have gone to see them anyway. But even though the visit inevitably took place in the dark of the evening, and she went the whole way from the station to their house by bus, she stared out of the window all the time, looking hungrily but uselessly for even a glimpse of a tall, familiar figure.

  Both Jane and her mother welcomed Katherine affectionately. And with a blessed lack of inhibition Jane proceeded to give her all the news of the store without forcing her to ask for it.

  “You kn
ow about Geraldine Kendale’s marriage, of course?”

  “I heard she and Malcolm did marry, and I saw some photographs. They always put that sort of thing up on a display board at Bremmisons. It was rather sudden, wasn’t it?”

  “Very,” Jane agreed. “But they both looked radiant, I must say. It seems she chose love instead of money, anyway.”

  “She could afford to,” Katherine said quickly.

  “Meaning that she isn’t wild to have a seat on the board?” suggested Jane humorously. “Well, I suppose it is different for a girl.”

  “Of course it is. Have there been any other—rumors, Jane?”

  “About Paul, you mean? There are always rumors. But I don’t think anyone believes much in Aileen’s chances now. Since Geraldine’s marriage, her contact with the family hardly counts for anything. And they say that the split between the old men is complete.”

  “Then—what is going to happen?”

  “I don’t know, Katherine. I suppose it’s all a matter of timing, don’t you? If old Kendale undertook to produce a certain sum of money, I presume he has to find it by a certain date. You can’t hang these things out indefinitely.”

  Katherine rubbed her hands together nervously.

  “I wonder if Paul knows the exact situation now.”

  “Of course he knows. He’s nobody’s fool. And he’s sized up the implications, too. They say—” She stopped.

  “What do they say?” asked Katherine passing the tip of her tongue over her lips.

  “Well, you’re bound to hear, dear, so you may as well hear it from me,” Jane said sympathetically. “They say that he’s been in London several times lately—”

  “In London?”

  “And that he’s been seen around a lot with an American heiress. Of course, all well-to-do American girls are described as heiresses, particularly if they’re seen around with an attractive man. But this girl’s supposed to be the daughter of one of the biggest store owners in the States. It ties up, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Katherine slowly, “it ties up.”

  And after that she didn’t ask any more about Paul. It seemed rather pointless to do so.

  Illogical though it might be, the thought that he had been in London without her even knowing seemed to set the seal on their final separation. It was absurd to have supposed that he would look her up. It was not even desirable, in the circumstances, that he should have done so. Only—that he had been there, in the same city, and she had not even known!

  Somehow that hurt almost as much as if he had deliberately slighted her.

  At the end of the week she bade a reluctant goodbye to her family and returned to London.

  This time she indulged in no idle daydreams as she passed through Morringham station. This time there were no feverish calculations about the possibility of seeing Paul on some future visit. It was difficult to say when she would be in Morringham again. She hoped to get home at Christmas—but it would only be for a long weekend, and she would hardly go outside the house.

  Her contact with Morringham itself—and with all that Paul stood for—was really broken at last. She had proved for herself that she could be in his city, or he in hers, and it meant not a thing to either of them, as far as the possibilities of meeting were concerned.

  The sooner she accepted that the better. And so she accepted it.

  As she entered Bremmisons on Monday morning, she told herself, with something like conviction, that this was her life henceforth. And not a bad one, either. Not everyone had the chance of making a successful career for herself among beautiful things, and in splendid and dignified surroundings.

  She was lucky not to have to live out her working days in a poky office, or as part of some impersonal concern where one was little more than a cog in a gigantic wheel. Here she had scope for her talents, appreciation of her achievements, and the never ending joy of a lovely, gracious background.

  At the head of the great staircase, which Malcolm had once described as accounting for half the charm of Bremmisons, Katherine paused—as she had paused on that morning when Mr. Arnoldson had sent for her and told her she was to go to Morringham.

  Was it possible that it was only six weeks ago?

  It seemed like half a lifetime—and yet everything looked curiously unchanged. It was as people said—there was a lovely sort of timelessness about Bremmisons, a serenity that defied the hurried beat of modern life.

  I love it, Katherine thought. And she leaned over the banister to look down at the great sweep of the stairway, and the graceful way the departments fanned out from it.

  As she did so, she caught her breath on an audible gasp as she saw who was ascending the stairs, his head slightly bent. There was no mistaking him, even before he looked up and saw her.

  The man who was coming up the stairs toward her was Paul.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  For a wild moment she hardly knew whether to run down to him in delight, or hurry away in panic.

  She did neither. She just waited until he came up to her and said, “Hello, Katherine. I thought I might meet you here.”

  “Did you? W-waiting at the top of the stairs, do you mean?”

  “No. I didn’t specify that to myself.” He gave her that quick, amused glance that set her heart beating to a curiously light measure. “I just thought—hoped—I might meet you at Bremmisons.”

  “Why did you ... hope so, Paul? Did you want to see me?”

  “Yes, I did.” He looked down at her now, in a rather somber way. “When we last took leave of each other I behaved abominably. I think I wanted to find out if you'd forgiven me.”

  “Oh, it’s ... all right.” At that moment she was so unspeakably happy that she would have forgiven him anything. Just to have him stand there beside her was enough. She hardly even noticed that the doors had opened, and that one or two people were already straggling into the downstairs departments.

  It was he who said, “Can’t we go somewhere a little more private and talk? This is a bit like trying to converse on the steps of St. Paul’s.”

  She laughed slightly.

  “You can come into my office, if you like. It’s beside the Costume Jewelry Department. It isn’t entirely private, but I don’t think anyone is likely to come in at this time in the morning.”

  She led the way, telling herself as she went that this was real—this was real! It was like the sort of thing one invented, to cheer oneself in depression. But this .was really happening.

  In the office that she was temporarily sharing with Mrs. Culver she sat down and indicated the other chair to him. But he sat on the corner of her desk instead, swinging his leg and looking at her as though he had not seen her for a long while.

  “You’ve changed in some way,” he told her.

  “I have? I can’t in so short a time!’

  “Well, perhaps it’s I who’ve changed,” was the odd thing he said. And then he added abruptly, “I have to ask you, Katherine. Did you hear about Geraldine’s wedding?”

  “Yes, of course. We had some of the photographs of the wedding on the display board in our canteen. She looked lovely. And there was a good one of you, too.”

  “Was there?” He smiled faintly. “Did you mind very much, Katherine?”

  “About what?”

  “About his finally marrying her, of course.”

  “No. I’d ... I suppose I must say I’d got over Malcolm before ever he married Geraldine. I hope they’ll be very happy together.”

  “I think they will be,” he said absently. But then he returned to his original line of inquiry. “You told me at one point that you wanted to be free because it looked as though Geraldine might break her engagement.”

  “I know. But I got over that Paul. I’ve told you.”

  “Malcolm had nothing to do with your breaking your engagement to me, then?”

  “N-no,” she said, but more cautiously now. “I explained at the time. I—I wanted to come back to work at Bremmisons. T
here was a good opening.”

  “Yes. That’s what you said. I didn’t entirely believe you. I thought there was some other reason somewhere, but I couldn’t quite get hold of it.”

  “There was no other reason,” she said quickly and a little too emphatically.

  “Then, when you gave me back my ring—”

  “I didn’t give it back to you! You took it off my hand,” she exclaimed, and even then her voice quivered at the remembered pain of the incident.

  “Well ... yes, I suppose that’s technically true.” He looked surprised. “But you’d been pretty definite, Katherine. You wanted me to take it off, didn’t you?” She tried to answer and failed.

  “Didn’t you, my dear?” He leaned toward her, but she kept her eyes down so that he could not see her expression.

  “Yes, of course,” she said huskily.

  “What, then? What was the trouble?”

  “There was no trouble.”

  “Did you want to keep the ring as a sort of memento? Because, if so—”

  “No, of course not!” She was so shocked that she glanced up at him. But she was scared by the singularly penetrating way he was looking at her, and she quickly looked down again.

  “It was just the way you did it,” she explained breathlessly, “so ... so casually and brutally. And then you said it had been nice to know me—as though I’d been a ... a pickup girl or something. It ... hurt.”

  “I’m sorry, Kate.” Somehow that sounded quite different from when Malcolm had called her Kate.

  “I’m truly sorry. But it hurt when you broke the engagement, too, you know.”