Her mind stayed on the boy – somewhere on the train behind her – and what Jeremy had hinted at.
They rocked gently along, the smoke and steam of the engine becoming trapped in the depths of a narrow cutting and clouding the window. Later it lifted away to roll across the open fields. After ten minutes there was the squeal of brakes as they lurched to a halt at Cheltenham South – Leckhampton Station. Somewhere a door slammed. Surreptitiously she looked out of the window as one or two people passed. To her relief he wasn’t one of them. Rattled by her reaction she looked around. The others didn’t seem to have noticed.
The train laboured on its way, through fields and hills and woods, the tiny stations a roll call of Cotswold beauty spots. Finally, Cirencester was the next stop. Although Fay couldn’t be sure, he didn’t appear to have got off the train.
They began to slow down on a gentle curve into the station. Everybody stood up chattering and making tentative dates.
Eventually a platform slid into view, backed by a wooden picket fence. A Camp Coffee sign went past, then the station building itself appeared. With a final squeal of brakes they ground to a halt. Doors opened and slammed shut as a porter shouted ‘Cirencester – Cirencester Watermoor.’
A girl jumped up and down, waving. Beyond the station, Fay could see cars lined up on the forecourt and Wilson standing beside the Alvis.
The corridor was crowded with people getting off. Fay stepped down on to the platform, Jeremy, supporting her arm, said, ‘I’ll organize the luggage.’
They walked towards the back of the train where porters were already stacking cases and trunks on to the platform and then on to barrows as members of their party pointed them out.
Fay had just spotted her three when she became aware of him, standing in the doorway to the guard’s van, right on top of her.
Even though she had been on the look-out for him, the unexpected closeness came as such a shock, that Fay found she couldn’t breathe properly. He looked into her eyes, for the first time close to. Something passed between them, something that had not been there before. They were like that for what seemed seconds before Jeremy snapped, ‘You again.’
Tom dragged his eyes from her. ‘I might say the same about you, sir.’
There was no escaping the sarcasm.
‘Now just a minute you. Who do you think you’re speaking to?’
Tom stepped down on to the platform and moved right up to him. Although Jeremy was a few inches taller he flinched slightly – remembering the last time. The face in his said, ‘I suggest you get your luggage and be on your way, sir. The train needs to leave.’
Jeremy’s lip curled.
‘Since you are obviously a railway employee you can help us with our luggage.’
Slowly Tom turned back to her. Their eyes locked again. Fay still seemed to be having trouble with her breathing, her chest rising and falling with the effort, but she managed to say, ‘That would be very helpful – I’m Fay Rossiter. You’ll find my name and address on the labels.’
The voice was softer than he remembered, but still with a posh accent.
And suddenly he realized what she had done. From those red lips below the net, she had given him her name and where she lived – intentionally.
With a rush of adrenalin that overcame his shyness, he nodded.
‘It will be a pleasure, Miss Rossiter, I’m Tom Roxham based at St James’s.’
Jeremy frowned. ‘Now look here …’
Excited and unnerved by what had just happened, Fay moved towards the exit.
‘Come along, Daddy’s waiting.’
Tom found her bags, picked them up. There were enough of them. Struggling, he suddenly noticed the grinning guard. Tom jerked his head.
‘Blow your whistle and get out of here.’
The man nodded. ‘You’ll be lucky, that’s Lord Rossiter’s daughter.’
Irritated, Tom humped the heavy suitcases away. The man was right, of course, what on earth was he doing – even thinking about?
But somehow it made no difference. He followed them through the wooden floored booking-hall with its fire glowing in the grate, and out on to the forecourt, eyes never leaving her slim figure.
They stopped by a two-tone car, with sweeping wheel arches; the bottom half burgundy, the top black. A tall distinguished man in a camel-hair coat and wide brimmed felt hat greeted her with open arms. ‘Darling, welcome home.’
‘Daddy.’ She lifted up her face.
He put his arm around her and gave her a kiss on both cheeks, before extending his other hand to Jeremy.
‘And you, my boy. Thank you for looking after her. So what’s all this about some trouble?’
Jeremy turned and glowered at Tom, who had just struggled up.
‘Well, sir,’ but Lord Rossiter interrupted him. ‘Ah, the bags, put them in the boot please, Wilson will show you.’
He turned back to Jeremy but a shocked Fay heard herself say in a voice that Tom could hear, ‘Oh Daddy, could I go back to Cheltenham next week? I can stay at 15 Imperial Square – Aunty says so. It’s just that a wonderful new collection of clothes is coming into Cavendish House that I don’t want to miss.’
Her father frowned but his attention was distracted again as the boot lid slammed shut. He always kept change in his pocket and found a tanner which he slipped into the man’s hand.
‘Thank you for your help.’
Tom looked down at his palm, then up at Lord Rossiter who had already turned back to Fay.
‘Cheltenham? Well, I’d hoped you would come with your mother and I to Lady Woods’s soirée in London and then the next day we could see the latest Noel Coward play.’
Fay looked past her Father and met Tom’s eyes. ‘Oh Daddy, that would have been lovely – but you and Mummy will have a much better time just the two of you. And in any case, I have been invited to a dinner party Lucy Bates is giving – you remember, she was in my class at school? I said I would be around after the shopping.’
Her Father grinned. ‘Ah, that’s the real reason is it? You going too, Jeremy?’
Jeremy opened his mouth to say ‘no’, but Tom tapped Fay’s father on the shoulder.
‘Excuse me, sir. I am not a porter. Very kind of you, of course.’ With that he gave the sixpence back to a bewildered Lord Rossiter, looked meaningfully at Fay and gave a slight nod, then turned on his heel. The older man watched Tom’s retreating back.
‘I’ll be damned – who is he?’
Jeremy gave her a scowl, but held his tongue when he saw the warning flash in her eyes, and said dismissively, ‘Just somebody who was on the train, sir. He was travelling in the guard’s van. A bit rough – he’s got a black eye somebody gave him – you can understand why, can’t you?’
Lord Rossiter paused as the chauffeur held the rear door open. ‘I certainly can. What a strange fellow. In you go, darling. Can we give you a lift, Jeremy?’
Fay sat in and slid across the leather seat, joined by her father as Jeremy leaned in.
‘Thank you, sir, but I’ll walk.’
He looked across at Fay. ‘I’ll speak to you soon, Fay. We have things to discuss.’
She raised one eyebrow. ‘Have we, Jeremy?’
He nodded. ‘We have.’
He turned his attention to Lord Rossiter as he closed the door. ‘Goodbye, sir.’
The car moved off.
Her father looked at her, smiling, and asked, ‘My dear, is he going to pop the question?’
Fay pulled her chin in and said simply, ‘Good heavens, I certainly hope not.’
Disappointed, Lord Rossiter frowned.
‘He’s very eligible, my dear, a nice enough chap, you could do a lot worse. Oh, I know he’s not titled, but the family is solid county stock and they are very comfortably off.’
She looked away, her mind utterly in turmoil about quite another man.
Fay was glad she was sitting down, because her legs felt weak at what she had just done – giving her name a
nd telling him where he might find her next weekend. Something about Tom Roxham, she savoured the name, deeply attracted her. There was a strength in his blue eyes – an intensity that seemed to go right into her. He was broad shouldered and rugged and she knew he was capable of violence – at least when provoked. If he wanted to kiss her when they met she wouldn’t be able to stop him – he would be far too strong for her. So she wouldn’t resist, would she?
She shivered, and despite the warmth of the car pulled her coat further round her as if to protect herself against her own silly fantasies. They were totally alien to her and filled her with guilt.
She came out of her reverie to find her father looking at her.
‘Sorry, Father, what did you say?’
He sighed.
‘I see you were dreaming again. I asked you to give some thought to the future. Your music is important, but a marriage would give you a secure base, and a family is the best thing in the world for a woman. It’s her anchor in a cruel world.’
‘Very well, Father.’
It was difficult to imagine anything more opposite to what she had been thinking about. Her body was afire with something far more elemental than thoughts of a good marriage.
The car turned past the Lodge and drove along the tree lined drive. Codrington Hall stood in the weak winter sunshine; the light reflecting from the leaded Tudor windows set in the warm limestone walls.
Here she felt secure. Inside, her mother would almost certainly be in the sewing-room doing her latest piece of needlework, and Fay could soon be seated at the grand piano in the music-room. In a way it would be the perfect antidote to the fires raging in her body.
But what about the weekend?
What did she think would happen?
Oh God, the delicious weakness came over her again.
Tom watched the car disappear out of the yard, his notebook in his hand, ink still wet from what he had hastily written. Fay Rossiter, 15 Imperial Square, plus Codrington Hall, Bagendon, Cirencester.
‘Fay’ – he savoured the name.
What the hell did he think he was playing at? She was upper class. There was no way she was going to take him seriously.
But she had given him her name, there was no doubt about that and the address. What did she want of him? What was it all about? He was normally painfully shy, utterly lacking in experience of girls, except for childish kisses and fumbles behind the bike sheds at school when he was a kid.
Had he gone mad? Taken leave of his senses? He felt immensely excited – and at a complete loss. She was incredibly beautiful and with the hat that she had been wearing – eyes and long lashes behind the net and her red lips unguarded beneath its edge, she had started a raging storm that had made a tidal wave of his hormones.
It was only as he made for the station master’s office to begin what he was there for that he realized he’d left his brown weekend case on the train. By then it was just a plume of steam and smoke as it made its way to South Cerney. He ran to the office, tapped on the door and went straight in. He found himself confronting the startled station master.
‘I’m sorry to burst in on you – Detective Constable Roxham.’ He waved his warrant card under the man’s nose. ‘I think you are expecting me?’
The elderly man had just taken off his silk top hat – a tradition he continued from the earlier part of the century when the station master was a person of some note and had to receive and send off nobility and other important people. He was due for retirement soon – thank God – standards were slipping and he didn’t take lightly to young men bursting in. He flicked the tails of his coat and sat down. ‘We wondered where you were. Then the head porter said you were carrying bags for Lord Rossiter.’
‘That’s right.’
The station master took out his hunter and flicked open the lid, checking it against the clock on the wall.
‘Since when did the GWR Police Service carry out porter’s duties and deny them their tips?’
Tom winced. ‘It was something special, sir – a personal favour to Miss Rossiter.’
‘Know her do you?’
There could be no doubting the sarcasm in his voice.
He shifted his feet.
‘No, sir – not very well. Anyway, I have forgotten my overnight case and wondered if we could phone South Cerney? It’s in the Guard’s van.’
The hunter was snapped shut.
‘That will do you no good.’
Crestfallen, Tom managed, ‘No?’
The station master relented, opened a drawer and took out a bottle of brandy – given to him that Christmas by Lord Rossiter, and two tumblers.
‘Like a drop?’
Tom didn’t drink much and never on duty, but after everything that had just happened, well his nerves cried out for help. He nodded. ‘Under the circumstances, thank you. Why won’t it help?’
The man nodded to a corner of the room. When Tom looked round there was the brown cracked overnight case standing in a corner.
‘The guard put it off. Here—’
A small glass much smaller than the generous portion the station master had poured for himself, was pushed across the highly polished surface of the desk.
‘Now, let’s get down to business. About this break in….’
Fay met her mother exactly where she thought she would be, busy with her needlepoint. Immediately Lady Rossiter dropped what she was doing and came forward, arms outstretched. ‘Darling, you’re home.’
The two women embraced, Fay taller than her mother who was rather petite, her dark hair with threads of silver, still cut short in the earlier style of the twenties flappers. Because of Lady Rossiter’s youthful looks they could have been sisters.
‘Did you have a wonderful time, Fay? Are you glad you did what you did?’
Arm in arm they made for the drawing-room, Lady Rossiter saying over her shoulder to a maid. ‘Tea now, please Edna and we’ll take luncheon in the orangery.’
‘Yes, Mummy, it was great fun – so unstuffy.’
‘Good.’ Her mother had a twinkle in her eye. ‘Did you dance much?’
She squeezed her mother’s arm.
‘I did, Mother.’
‘What were the other people like, were they decent?’
‘Yes, of course. It’s Daddy, isn’t it? He really is an old fogey. This is 1939, nearly the forties. Times are changing, Mother.’
Lady Rossiter pulled a face.
‘Your father is just naturally cautious dear, after all, he went through a lot during the war and he says it was only the thought of home and family that kept him going. He doesn’t like change. Anyway – what was the trouble Aunty told him about?’
Fay was as dismissive as she could manage.
‘Oh, it was just Jeremy being Jeremy.’
Still arm in arm, her mother studied her.
‘There’s something you’re not telling me, Fay?’
She felt her cheeks going red.
‘No, honestly, Mother. By the way the orchestra was terrific, they played all the latest numbers. You should have heard them.’
Her mother had been a great one for dances in her youth.
‘Sounds marvellous.’
But she was under no illusion. Her daughter had just changed the subject. She could wait – Fay would tell her what it was all about in her own time.
But she would put money on it – there was a boy at the bottom of all this.
The ‘boy’ she was speculating on was at that moment writing up his report in a meticulous hand – nothing less would pass muster with Sergeant Whelan who would send it on to Swindon.
His pen scratched as he finally got to the end and signed his name with a flourish.
His digs for the night were just across the road in rooms above the Railway Inn. He took his leave and crossed the lines on the wooden sleepers – there was no footbridge. The pub doors were locked, but his repeated knocking finally brought the sound of bolts being drawn.
A large wo
man in a Dutch apron filled half of the double door that was opened.
‘Yes, what do you want?’
He explained and she relented, stepping aside.
‘Right. We didn’t expect you until later. Come in.’
He followed her into a stale beer-smelling public bar, past pumps covered with a stained tea-towel, the sawdust on the floor scuffed into the sides. She opened a green painted door. A steep flight of wooden stairs lead directly up to a lino-covered corridor.
At the top, breathing heavily she nodded to the end door.
‘That’s the lavatory – this is your room.’
She opened the door in front of her. There was a single bed with a green candlewick bedspread that had cigarette burns on it, the headboard a dark brown scrolled affair. There was a wardrobe of the same design and colour, and a free standing wooden towel rail beside a small white sink with a mirror over it. He set his case on the bed.
‘Can I get something to eat later?’
She was already on the way down the stairs, pausing to say, ‘When we’re open I’ll do some bread and cheese all right? If you want anything more there’s a café near the town centre that’s open till eight o’clock and a fish and chip shop round the corner.’
When she had gone he crossed to the sash window, and tried to open it a crack. Cold or not he needed to get fresh air into the damp-smelling room, but it wouldn’t budge. It had been crudely painted. He leaned on it. Suddenly it crashed down, the rotten rope spilling out, snapped. Try as he might the window wouldn’t stay up. Cold air flooded into the room. Desperate, he looked around for something to prop it up. There was nothing, until his eyes fell on to his weekend case. Emptied, it shut the window to within an inch of the top.
Satisfied, he wondered what to do next. In the end he removed his shoes and trousers, got into bed and pulled the clothes up over his head to keep warm and thought of her.
Tom Roxham had never felt like this before.
Was he going mad?
CHAPTER FOUR
The cause of his madness was, by this time, sitting by the fire in her room, dressed in the floral silk dressing-gown, one graceful hand playing with a curl on her forehead, neglected book at her side, as she stared into the glowing embers.
Enduring Passions Page 4
