Casting Samson

by Melinda Hammond

  “Well, I hope your Dad’s ready for this. You’ve got some really great ideas.”

  The compliment made her blush in the darkness. It was good to be appreciated.

  She leaned against him, smiling. “This is…comfortable.”

  He rested his cheek lightly against the top of her head. She closed her eyes, feeling remarkably secure. “I’m sorry I was so rude just now,” she murmured.

  “So you should be. Drunken hussy.”

  She felt his breath on her hair. “I bet you’re sorry now you got the short straw.”

  “What?”

  “The raffle. Your friend said you’d drawn lots to see which one of you would be the prize. Are you sorry it was you?”

  His arms tightened about her.

  “No, just glad it wasn’t that barmaid or one of her friends. They might have expected me to do unspeakable things to them all night.”

  Deborah was beginning to think that Josh doing unspeakable things to her could be quite pleasant. She quelled the thought and said, in her best East End accent, “Lawks, missus, I’m a good boy, I am!”

  “Not all the time, but I like to choose my own women.”

  “Do you?” Deborah snuggled closer. She was beginning to feel sleepy. “And what type of women to you like?”

  Josh shifted slightly so that her head was resting against his shoulder. “Haven’t got a real preference, although I do like dark hair, and a good figure.” He cupped her chin with one hand and tilted her face upward. “And one who looks like an angel in the moonlight.”

  Deborah didn’t pull away; instead her lips parted slightly as his mouth came down on hers. His kiss was gentle at first, tentatively exploring her mouth. Deborah knew that if she showed any reluctance at all he would stop, and she realised with some surprise that she didn’t want that. She began to kiss him back, her hand lifting to touch his cheek. Somewhere inside her a fire ignited as his kiss became more demanding. She became aware of how alive she felt, every square inch crying out for him to caress her.

  “This is the beauty of these cars,” he murmured as he gently pushed her back onto the bench seat.

  She pulled him down towards her, eager to feel his mouth again on her own. The kiss deepened and his hands began to explore her body. He unbuttoned her blouse and his fingers moved slowly over her skin, gently caressing her breasts. His touch sent such waves of pleasure coursing through her that Deborah groaned aloud. Where his hands roved, his mouth followed. Deborah fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, wanting to run her own hands over his smooth flesh. His lips moved up over her neck and face until he was kissing her mouth again, locking them into a fierce, passionate embrace which left them both panting when Josh eventually lifted his head.

  “I think we’d better stop there,” he muttered. “I didn’t come prepared for this.”

  Deborah struggled to sit up, her brain reeling with new sensations. She felt physically battered—nothing made any sense. She wanted to pounce on Josh, to tear off his clothes and beg him to make love to her. The vehemence of her desire was frightening, and it took a great effort of will to quell the feeling. After all, he was virtually a stranger. She decided it was the beer making her feel more alive, more attractive than she’d ever done before. She straightened her blouse and tried to think soberly.

  “Sorry. I’m not usually like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “So…so forward.”

  She felt his hand in her hair, gently lifting the curls from her neck.

  “Neither am I. It must be chemistry.”

  She risked a glance at him, which proved to be a mistake because once she met his eyes she could not look away again, and found herself leaning into him for another kiss. This time it was very gentle, but no less electric. When he released her, she sat back against the seat with a shuddering sigh.

  “Uh-huh.” He smiled. “There’s definitely something there.”

  “That’s impossible,” she croaked, her vocal chords refusing to work properly.

  He pulled her against him and she rested her head against his shoulder. This is not me, she said to herself. This is some other creature. I don’t react like this. Even Bernard never made me feel this alive.

  Josh nuzzled her neck and she shivered with pleasure.

  “Okay,” he murmured, “how would you explain it?

  “The drink. I don’t usually drink three pints. And you, well, you’re just a red-blooded male who can’t resist an opportunity.”

  He sat up. “Is that what you think?”

  She heard the anger in his voice.

  “Yes—no!” She put her hands to her cheeks. “It’s what I have to believe. It’s less than a month since I walked out on the love of my life—how shallow would it be to forget him so soon?”

  Josh was silent.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “Forget it. I understand.”

  Deborah didn’t think so, but she wasn’t equal to the task of explaining feelings she didn’t understand herself, and she uttered up a silent prayer of gratitude as Graham Tring arrived in the white van he used to transport his disco equipment.

  With a brief command for her to stay in the car, Josh climbed out to meet the landlord. While the two men worked on the engine, Deborah curled up on the seat, too tired to try and make sense of the evening. Her only consolation was that after tonight, she need never see Josh again.

  Chapter Six

  Saturday was market day in Moreton-by-Fleetwater. The centre of the wide High Street was filled with the brightly striped awnings of the market stalls instead of the assortment of cars that parked there the rest of the week. Deborah liked to get there early to avoid the crowds and have first pick of the fruit and vegetables for the restaurant, and she was one of the first customers at the fruit stall.

  Arthur, the stallholder, greeted her cheerily. “Morning, Deborah. Got your list for me?” She handed over her printed sheet. “Oho, computerised now, are we?”

  “Only because my writing’s so bad!” She smiled at him before turning to greet the girl who sauntered up to the stall beside her, yawning widely. “Hi, Kylie. Late night last night?”

  Kylie Tring was the daughter of the landlord of the Dog and Sardine. Her blond corkscrew curls bobbed as she nodded. “Yeah. We all went to the Westhaven last night to see the strippers. It was a good laugh—you should have come with us, Debs. And you, Mrs. Lindsay.”

  Hearing her name, Anne Lindsay stopped beside them. “Me?” She laughed. “I’m past that sort of thing! Morning, Arthur. Four Granny Smiths, please, and a pound of onions.”

  “And I was working,” Deborah said. She added casually, “I suppose they’ve gone now.”

  “Uh-huh. We stayed up really late last night, y’know, talking and drinking. They’re a great bunch of guys.” The green eyes glinted. “Especially with their kit off—but you’d already know that, Debs.”

  Deborah had had plenty of time to decide how she would answer questions about her winning date with Josh.

  “Well no, actually. We made it perfectly clear at the start that we’d just go for a drive.”

  “But Dad said you were on Hyndon Hill.”

  “We were, but that was because I wanted to look at the view.” Deborah added firmly, “Nothing happened.”

  Kylie was not impressed. “Huh. What a waste. And he’s got such a great body too.”

  Kylie’s smile was smug, catlike. Perhaps she had done more than talk and drink with Josh last night. Deborah was shaken by a sudden burst of jealousy. She had to remind herself that she wasn’t interested in any man except Bernard.

  “How far do they go, then?” Arthur counted onions into a bag. “I mean—do they take everything off? I mean—all of it?”

  Kylie grinned. “Yeah, but you don’t actually see anythin’, their tackle, an’ all. They’ve always got a hat, or a drum or something to cover it. It’s all very tasteful.”

  Anne Lindsay glanced at Deborah, her eyes twinkling.
“Of course.”

  “No, really. It’s not sleazy or anythin’ like that. They do one bit where two of them are dressed as gladiators, all black leather and swords and stuff.”

  “Just right for Samson,” murmured Anne, and Kylie turned her wide, kitten-eyes toward her.

  “Yeah, I s’pose so. I’ve seen your poster. We put one up in the bar, and me dad says he’s hoping to audition for it.”

  “Good for him.” Anne Lindsay put away her purse and picked up her basket. “Are you waiting for your order, Deborah? I’m going to have a coffee, if you want to join me. They’re serving drinks at the village hall this morning. Thought I should support it.”

  “Yes, okay.” Deborah flashed her shy smile at the stallholder. “I’ll be back later, Arthur, to pick up my order. ’Bye, Kylie.”

  The two women strolled in amicable silence away from the market and across the green. The village hall was built beside the Fleetwater, opposite a small footbridge leading across the river into the church grounds. A paper sign fluttered on the railings of the West Bridge, pointing towards the hall and announcing in bold but untidy print, Coffee Morning in Aid of St. John’s Appeal Fund.

  Inside the village hall they bought two cups of mud-coloured coffee in plastic cups and looked around for a spare seat.

  “Look, it’s such a nice morning, why don’t we sit outside?” Anne led the way out of the hall and across the footbridge into the churchyard, where a weathered bench stood beside the path. “That’s better.” She sat down. “So much nicer to be outside when the sun’s shining.” She squinted at Deborah. “You don’t mind being out here amongst the gravestones?”

  Deborah closed her eyes as she tilted her face to the sun. She didn’t find the churchyard gloomy; in fact it was children that came into her mind. Children laughing and playing in the sun.

  “Hugo, come here and tell me! Andrew says when I am his lady he will give me furs and jewels and spices for my table. Tell me what you will do for me.”

  “I will slay dragons for you, Maude.”

  Deborah shook her head. “To be honest, I’m not very religious. I only come to church here to keep Mum and Dad happy. I never went in London.”

  Bernard was an atheist, loud in his disapproval of all religions, so Deborah had never mentioned her own uncertainty. Bernard’s image rose up in her mind and she felt the familiar aching loneliness cramping her stomach.

  “Well, if I’m honest, I can’t say that I’m a devout Christian,” Anne admitted, “but I do love this church—the building. You can almost feel the history oozing out of the walls, can’t you?”

  “Did you manage to get your article in the paper about needing someone to play Samson?”

  “Mmm.” Anne reached into her basket and pulled out a copy of the Flixton News and Advertiser. “Only they’ve got it all wrong, as usual. Look at that headline, Bid to Save Templar Church. What I actually wrote was that local legend says it was built by Hugh of Moreton, who was a Templar—you know, one of the soldier monks who fought in the Crusades.”

  Deborah read the article, holding the paper with one hand while the other twisted a curl of her dark hair around one finger.

  “I suppose they thought it was the most interesting bit. Anyway, at least they printed something, and it does say we’re looking for a Samson.” She folded the paper and handed it back.

  “Yes, and I don’t suppose anyone will take any notice of the other bit—about it being a Templar church, I mean.” Anne stretched. “Well, it’s too late to worry about it now. I just hope it helps attract people for our auditions. It won’t look good if we have to have Graham Tring as our strong man.”

  Having finished their coffee, they began their stroll back to the High Street.

  “Have we got everyone else, then? I mean, have we filled all the other parts?”

  “Yes. Clara Babbacombe has a complete list now, so we can start on the costumes this week. I know you said you’d help—is that offer still open?”

  “What? Oh, yes, of course.” Deborah was still thinking of the Samson auditions. “Who’s playing Delilah?”

  “Yvonne Willetts. Now what’s set you off?” Anne smiled as her companion began to giggle.

  “Sorry. It just seems very appropriate to have the local hairdresser playing that part.”

  Alan Thorpe pulled up beside them in his huge four-by-four. “Morning, ladies. Can I give anyone a lift?”

  “Morning, Alan. Thanks, I’ve finished my shopping and would be happy to grab a lift,” Anne said. “What about you, Debs?”

  “I’ve got a bit more to do yet, but thanks anyway.”

  “Okay.” Alan nodded and prepared to pull away. “By the way, perhaps you’d remind your father about my offer—tell him it’s still on the table.”

  Deborah returned to the market to collect the box of fruit and vegetables and set off to walk back to the Yew Tree Restaurant. She glanced up at the clock on the church. Ten-thirty. Plenty of time to get home before Dad opened up. Her heart swelled at the thought of her father. He’d been so good since she’d come home, no questions, no I told you so. Mum had been understanding too, of course, but since her heart attack she’d shut herself off more, and Deborah didn’t like to worry her now with her problems. Deborah had merely told her parents that she and Bernard had split up. Her mother had accepted this without comment but her father, when they were alone, had said, “Other women?”

  Deborah had nodded, fighting back the tears. Stan Kemerton had looked stern but said nothing else and she’d been glad of his forbearance. She’d thrown herself into life at the restaurant in an effort to forget, to blot out the pain.

  When Deborah had walked to the market that morning there’d been a slight breeze and a chill in the air, so she’d pulled on an old red jumper. She’d never worn it in London—Bernard only liked her in neutral colours. Now the June sun was beating down and she felt unbearably hot. She stopped. Putting down the box, she dragged the heavy jumper over her head, blinking as she emerged from its thick folds to find a large shadowy figure looming over her.

  “Oh, it’s you.”

  Josh was standing very close, blocking out the sun. Her face flamed as she remembered their previous meeting. He gave her that lopsided grin and stooped to pick up her box.

  “Oh, please—I can manage—”

  “No, it’s okay. I’ll carry it home for you.” He started to walk on and Deborah realised that, without making a scene, she could do little to take the box from him.

  She fell into step beside him. “I—um—I thought you would be gone by now.”

  “The others have. I decided to hang around for a bit.” He shifted the box to the other side. “I’m not really one of them, you know.”

  “One of what?”

  “Four Front. I’m not a stripper.”

  “Oh. I don’t think there’s anything wrong…” Deborah felt she should reassure him. “I mean, Kylie said it was all very tasteful…”

  “Kylie. She’s the bird at the pub, right? I was talking to her last night when we got back from the show. No, what I mean is, this is only my second gig. Ryan, the fourth member of the group, came down with chicken pox and couldn’t go on. Well, no one wants to pay to see a spotty, scabby body, do they?

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “Spike asked me if I’d step in for the last two shows. With a name like Four Front he didn’t think they could manage with three.”

  “Of course not. So what do you do? Your proper job?”

  “I’m a chef. I was working at a place in Reading until a few months ago. Then it closed. Spike knew I was out of a job, thought I might like to earn a few quid and asked me if I wanted to join them.”

  “And you’ve enjoyed it, being in the group?”

  He grinned at her. “Having all those women lusting after my body? You bet! No, seriously, it was fun, but I wouldn’t want to make a living from it. What about you—how long have you been in the catering business?”

  “Me? Oh
, I’m just helping Dad out for a while. Mum had a heart attack a few months ago and Dad can’t manage on his own, so I came back to give him a hand.”

  “Where were you before that?”

  “London.”

  “You gave up a job in London to come here? That was good of you.”

  “Dad needed me,” she said simply. “Besides, I’d had enough of the job anyway.”

  Or at least the people. There was no way she could stay once she had decided to leave Bernard. Better a quick, complete break than a slow, painful death…

  “Hey, wake up.”

  Deborah flushed. “Sorry—daydreaming.” She risked a quick glance at him. “About the other night. I was a bit, um…”

  “Don’t worry, it’s forgotten.” He met her eyes, his gaze warm with sympathy. “You’re trying to forget some guy, huh?”

  “Something like that.” She was surprised she could even talk about it. “I was fed up with being quiet, shy little Deborah Kemerton who would never say boo to a goose. I thought a few drinks would give me some sort of Dutch courage.” She grinned. “It worked—a bit too well, I’m afraid. Sorry that you had to be on the receiving end.”

  “I’m not.”

  The soft words threw Deborah into a panic. Josh was smiling at her, and there was a glint in his dark eyes that she found extremely attractive. She couldn’t look away.

  “It…it was the drink talking the other night. All bravado, I’m afraid. I’m not in the market for a new man, no relationship, no one-night stand, nothing.” She was aware that she was babbling like an idiot, and with relief she saw the painted sign creaking on its hinges above the Yew Tree Restaurant. Deborah skipped ahead to open the kitchen door, and once she was on familiar territory her inbred good manners kicked in. “Thanks for carrying that box for me. Would—would you like a coffee or something?”

  “A cold drink would be great, thanks.”

  She led the way into the kitchen, where her father was putting on his apron.

  “Ah, there you are, Debs. Did you get everything?” He looked enquiringly at the young man following her into the room.