If This Is Love

by Anne Weale

  Next morning, Sylvia rang up the shop where she worked and said she had developed a heavy cold and would not be in that day. Evidently she had confided her hopes to her mother. At breakfast Mrs. Brewster told her niece that Sylvia would mind the desk and switchboard for the morning. Jane could take over Elsie’s work.

  Returning to her bedroom to put on an overall, Jane thought forlornly that she would have been much better off if she had been put in an orphanage after Granny Brewster died. By now she would have been free to lead her own life. Instead of which she was under a seemingly permanent obligation to recompense her aunt and uncle for taking her in.

  That it was her duty to repay them in some way had been made very clear during her last year at school. Jane had thought of becoming a nurse, but the Brewsters had dismissed the idea, and virtually forced her into working for them at the Crown. She would have been glad to be of use to them if they had ever shown her the least affection or kindness. But Connie had never got on with Jane’s mother, and she did not like her orphaned niece either. Jane had known from the first that she lived with them on sufferance, and that they grudged every penny they had to spend on her. In her more sensitive early teens, she had plumbed the depths of loneliness and despair. But now she was accustomed, and more or less resigned, to their attitude.

  After a quick cup of coffee at ten o’clock she took the vacuum cleaner to David Ransome’s bedroom. She knew he had gone out because, earlier, Sylvia had rushed upstairs to tell her he had booked for a second night.

  “Maybe he’ll ask me out this evening,” her cousin had said jauntily.

  He had left his room very tidy. Making the bed, Jane found a pair of dark grey silk pyjamas tucked beneath the pillow. His slippers were under the locker, and a navy wool dressing gown hung on the back of the door.

  There was the end of a cheroot in the bedside ash-tray, but no scatterings of ash on the carpet, and his pillow-slip had not been marked by any greasy hair dressing. Even the hand basin looked as if it had not been used. His shaving tackle was ranged neatly at one end of the glass shelf, and the towels had been replaced on the rail.

  Jane had vacuumed and dusted, and was glancing at the titles of several books on top of the locker when she heard footsteps in the corridor. A moment later David Ransome came into his room.

  “Good morning,” he said pleasantly. “I’ve only come to leave these parcels here. I won’t hold you up.”

  “Oh, I’ve finished anyway,” she said hurriedly.

  “You have a large smudge of something just there.” He reached out and lightly touched her forehead, then turned away to put his packages in his unlocked suitcase.

  Jane rubbed the place with the back of her hand, and bent to unplug the cleaner.

  “They seem to keep you pretty busy here,” he said, over his shoulder.

  “We’re rather short-staffed at the moment. I’m really the receptionist and clerk,” she explained.

  He turned to face her again. “I see. Then who is the chatty little blonde who is doing your job at the moment?”

  “She’s Sylvia Brewster. Her parents own the hotel. Excuse me, Mr. Ransome. I have several other rooms to do this morning.” Jane hurried out of the room and closed the door.

  She wondered how Sylvia would feel if she had heard herself referred to as ‘the chatty little blonde’. It did not seem a very flattering description.

  That night, when she went up to turn down the beds, she found Ransome reading in his room. Fortunately she had automatically tapped on the door before using her pass-key. When his deep voice called “Come in,” she found herself tensing slightly.

  “I’m a fugitive," he said, with a grin, after he had risen to his feet as she entered. “Every time I go into the lounge or the bar, I’m cornered by young Miss Brewster. Is it her mission in life to befriend solitary travellers?”

  “We try to make people feel at home,” Jane said crisply. “Sylvia is my cousin, Mr. Ransome,” she added pointedly.

  The information appeared to surprise him. “Well, I wasn’t being rude about her,” he said easily. “She’s extremely decorative. But she rather overdoes the welcoming treatment.”

  Jane said nothing. She folded the thick folk-weave counterpane and put it on the upright chair. Then she loosened the taut bedclothes, turned them down and tucked them in again.

  But before she could leave the room, Ransome said, “I’ve been wanting to have a word with you, Miss Baron. I wonder—if you’re free at all tomorrow—if you would help me?”

  “Help you?” she asked guardedly.

  “I’m a photographer,” he said. “It’s both my job and my hobby. If it doesn’t rain tomorrow, I’d like to take some shots of the marram dunes further along the coast. I need someone to pose for me. I wondered if you would.”

  “Oh, I always come out terribly badly in photographs,” Jane told him ruefully. “Why don’t you ask Sylvia to go with you? I’m sure she’d be glad to help you out.”

  “It’s pretty bleak on the marrams just now. I don’t think young Sylvia would like having her hair-do blown about. Besides, I’d prefer to use you. If you do come out badly in photographs, it’s undoubtedly been the fault of the photographer. But in this case you would only be a distant figure in the background. No close-ups, I promise.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Ransome, I have no time off tomorrow. I would help you if I could, but I’m not free.”

  “In that case, I’ll forget about it,” he said, with a shrug. “You didn’t mind my asking, did you?”

  “No, of course not," she said quickly. “Look, why don’t you speak to Sylvia? I don’t think the wind would bother her in the least. She—she’s very interested in photography herself. She’d probably jump at the idea.”

  He lit a cigarette, and then he said, “The fact is that as well as taking pictures I’d hoped to spend some more time with you.”

  Jane stared at him blankly. Then a slow wave of color crept up from her throat to her forehead.

  Not knowing what to say, she stammered another confused apology and hurried into the corridor.

  A few moments later, alone in her own room, she sank on to the edge of the bed and wondered if David Ransome could really have meant what his remark had seemed to imply. Surely it wasn’t possible that a man like him—an attractive, successful, worldly man—could be interested in such a very ordinary girl as herself? Yet why else should he have said that he had hoped to see more of her?

  Next morning, after a wakeful unsettled night, Jane asked her aunt if she might have the afternoon off. It was Saturday, and there were many extra preparations for the weekly dinner-dance to be made. Mrs. Brewster looked aghast.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you can’t go out this afternoon. There’s far too much to do,” she answered crossly.

  “As Sylvia’s not at work, why can’t she help you?” Jane asked steadily.

  “Sylvia doesn’t know the routine, and she may have plans of her own. I’m surprised that you should even suggest such a thing, Jane,” Connie Brewster said tartly.

  “Doing the flowers and blowing up a few balloons doesn’t call for much skill,” Jane replied reasonably. “I particularly want to get out for an hour or two. I’ll be back by five o’clock at the latest. And I did miss my half day last week, if you remember.”

  Her aunt stared at her, frowning. She was not accustomed to having her niece argue with her, and evidently she recognized the unusual firmness of Jane’s tone.

  “Why must you go out today?” she enquired suspiciously.

  “It’s been a heavy week. I want to relax for an hour or two before the rush tonight.”

  “Oh, very well, I suppose you may go off if you insist. But I think it’s extremely selfish of you. You’re not the only person who has had more to do this week. You young girls seem to think life should be a bed of roses. You should count yourself lucky to have such an easy job.”

  Jane’s mouth twisted slightly. But she only said, “Thank you, Aunt
Connie. I won’t be late back, I promise.”

  At lunch time she was able to intercept David Ransome on his way to his room.

  “Mr. Ransome, if you still want to go out to the marrams today I—I can have some time off,” she told him diffidently.

  “You can? Oh, that’s fine. What time will you be ready to leave?”

  Jane hesitated. “Well, I have a little shopping to do first. Could I meet you outside Woolworth’s at two o’clock? There’s a car park on the other side of the road.”

  If he guessed the truth of the matter—which was that she did not want to be seen leaving the hotel with him—he gave no sign.

  “By all means. I’ll be there,” he promised, smiling.

  Driving away from the town in David Ransome’s luxuriously upholstered, powerful car, Jane wondered if it was very wrong of her to be out with him on this cold but sunny afternoon. She knew that both her aunt and Sylvia would be furious if they found out about her secret rendezvous, but her reasons for coming out were not entirely selfish. She hoped to sound Ransome’s opinion on her cousin’s prospects of becoming a successful model, and perhaps to persuade him to give Sylvia some help.

  “Are you warm enough in that jacket? Would you like a rug?” Ransome asked her, as they turned off the main road and followed a lane which led down to the wind-swept sand dunes.

  “Oh, no, thank you, I’m beautifully warm.” Jane had never ridden in such a well heated, roomy car.

  Today she was wearing some of her few good clothes, but even they were by no means new. She had run up her skirt from a piece of expensive Irish tweed which had been marked down in a sale. Her beige Shetland sweater she had bought with some seasonably generous tips after she had waited on table during Christmas week two years ago. And her suede jacket had originally belonged to Sylvia, who had subsequently taken a dislike to it.

  “Tell me, if you don’t like your job at the Crown, why don’t you change to something else?” her companion asked suddenly, as they trudged over the dry yielding sand towards the highest crest of the dunes.

  “I didn’t say I didn’t like it, Mr. Ransome.”

  “Call me David. I certainly can’t go on calling you Miss Baron. You look much too young for such formality.” He stopped short and faced her. “But you don’t like your job, do you?”

  “Not very much,” she admitted. “But then millions of people don’t enjoy what they do.”

  “Yes, but most of them have no choice. You have. You’re young and free and intelligent. There are dozens of things you could do if you really wanted to.”

  “You don’t understand, I’m not free,” Jane said, sighing. And she found herself telling him about the circumstances in which she had come to live in Starmouth, and how she owed the Brewster’s some return.

  David’s eyes narrowed. “You mean you intend to go on working for them for the rest of your life merely because they housed and clothed you for a year or two?”

  “Well, I suppose I shall get married one day,” she suggested vaguely.

  He unslung the black leather case which carried his photographic equipment. “Have you any boy friends?” he asked bluntly.

  Jane colored. “Not at the moment.” Then, thinking she detected a glint of something like pity in his eyes, she lifted her chin and said crisply, “But I don’t want to marry for years yet.”

  She expected him to smile and, if he had, all her liking would have turned to chagrined resentment.

  But he nodded, without a flicker of inward amusement. “No, of course not—you’re much too young,” he agreed. “Exactly how old are you?”

  “I was nineteen last October.”

  “Nineteen,” he said reflectively. “That’s very young to be stuck in a rut you don’t like.” Then, before she could answer, “Come on, we’d better get cracking or the light will fade.”

  For nearly an hour he made her walk among the coarse clumps of marram, or stand high on the crest of a dune, looking out towards the sea.

  The wind was blowing off the land, and when David had finished taking pictures, they sheltered in a seaward-facing hollow. David gave Jane a bar of chocolate, and he smoked one of his thin dark brown cheroots.

  “What are these pictures for?” she asked curiously. “I thought you only photographed clothes.”

  “You’ve seen some of my professional stuff?” he asked, rather intently.

  Jane broke the chocolate in two. “I’m afraid you’ll be terribly affronted, but until the other day, I had never even heard of you,” she said candidly. “But Sylvia knew who you were. She’s very keen on fashion and studies all the glossy magazines.”

  “But you aren’t so interested in clothes, mm?”

  “Oh, yes, I like pretty clothes—very much. But if one can’t afford to buy them often, I think it’s best not to tantalize oneself.”

  “‘Pretty’ clothes wouldn’t suit you,” he said casually. “Your cousin is the ‘pretty’ type of girl. Your style is much more casual and understated.”

  “You mean my style is a shabby old school mac,” Jane said, laughing. “You do agree that Sylvia is very nice-looking, then,” she asked, becoming serious again.

  “Who would dispute it?” he said, shrugging.

  “Well, the thing is that she’s terribly keen to become a professional model,” Jane explained earnestly. “She wants to train at some famous school in London, but my uncle won’t let her leave home until she’s eighteen. I think she’s been hoping that you might be able to persuade him that she stands a good chance of getting on. Would you speak to him, David? It means everything to Sylvia. She’s been dreaming about it for years.”

  “Like your dream of seeing the world some day?” he asked quizzically.

  “Yes; but it’s different for Sylvia. I mean, she has what it takes to be a model. Her ambitions are possible—mine aren’t.”

  “Maybe—maybe not.” David leaned back on one elbow, his eyes on the tossing grey sea. “Do you want me to be frank—forgetting for the moment that Sylvia is your cousin?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?” Jane asked, puzzled.

  “I mean I don’t want you to rush off in a huff if I give you my true opinion of Sylvia’s chances in the model game.”

  “All right, I won’t rush off,” she agreed, still mystified.

  “Sylvia is a very pretty girl. Her family think so, she thinks so, and I expect a lot of the local boys think so. In Starmouth, she’s something of a rarity. But in London there are hundreds of pretty girls—and the majority of them want to take up modelling. Frankly, cheesecake blondes are two a penny. To be a successful fashion model, you have to have a whole lot more than an appealing face and figure. You need a distinctive quality—which Sylvia hasn’t got. You need tremendous stamina—and I doubt if she has that either. I think she’s model-struck in the way a lot of girls used to be stage-struck or ballet-struck. And I think the best thing for Sylvia to do is to go on being the belle of her own home town until she settles down with one of her Sylvia-struck boy friends.”

  Jane said nothing for several minutes. Then she met his eyes, and said, “You are sure she wouldn’t succeed? You aren’t just saying this because she doesn’t happen to appeal to you personally?”

  He reached out and took her hand in his. “I’m saying it because I’ve seen so many girls struggling to get to the top and not having a hope,” he said gravely. “A model’s life isn’t a fraction as glamorous as it may look, Jane. It’s darned hard work. You’d be surprised.”

  “But if you’re right, what’s going to happen to her? If you won’t help her, she’ll still go to London as soon as she’s eighteen. Nothing I can say will influence Sylvia,” she answered anxiously.

  “I shouldn’t worry about her,” David said easily. “The first thing you know she’ll have fallen in love with some boy. Then she’ll forget she’s a career girl and become equally obsessed by houses and babies. It happens all the time. Haven’t you noticed?”

  “But Sylvia i
s only seventeen, and you said a little while ago that I was much too young to think of marriage,” Jane reminded him.

  “Because you’re not like your cousin,” he said lightly. “I could see through Sylvia in five minutes, but there’s more in you than meets the eye.”

  “Well, if there is, I don’t know what it can be,” Jane said dryly. “I think I’m a very simple person. Oh, please, what’s the time? I left my watch behind, and I must be back early for the dinner-dance.”

  “It’s not four yet. Don’t panic.” David buried the end of his cheroot in the sand, and sprang lightly to his feet. He held out a hand to pull her up, and kept her hand in his as they strolled down the beach towards the sea.

  “Would it be against the rules for you to be my partner at this hop tonight?” he asked her presently.

  “Oh, thank you, but I couldn’t,” Jane, said, shocked.

  “Why not? I thought it was your policy to make the guests feel at home. I can’t go to a dance without a girl. Don’t you like dancing?”

  “Yes, I love it—but not tonight, David. It’s very kind of you to suggest it, but I’m on duty this evening. I really ought not to be out this afternoon.”

  “In that case I shall have to go to bed with an improving book, or young Sylvia will be chasing me again,” he said wryly.

  His fingers closed more tightly over Jane’s, and she felt a peculiar sensation, like mild electric shocks, running right up her arm to her shoulder. They strolled along the lonely dune-screened beach until it was time to turn back towards the car. Dark storm clouds were gathering away on the northern horizon, but the sun was still shining where they were, and seagulls swooped and soared above their heads. It was like walking on the edge of the world, Jane thought. Starmouth and the hotel seemed a hundred miles away. And she found it hard to believe that it was only the day before yesterday that she had first met the tall dark man beside her. She felt as if she had known him all her life—or as if she had always known that she would meet him one day. She was conscious of being intensely, inexplicably happy.