by Jess Foley
‘How are you?’ she said, withdrawing her hand. ‘Have you been well?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ The prosaic words came from her lips and she heard them as if spoken by another. She could think of nothing to say. It was as if she were acting in a dream. Over to her right Miss Angel and her customer were talking about an incident at the market.
‘I’ve wondered about you,’ Guy said. ‘How you’ve been getting on.’
‘I – I’ve been very well,’ Lydia said. ‘Very well indeed.’ A pause, then she added, ‘I suppose you’ve been busy . . .’
‘Oh, yes.’ He gave a firm nod. ‘I’m running the newspaper now. For better or worse.’ He paused. ‘My father – I’m afraid he died from his accident, while I was in Italy. He passed away shortly after my arrival there.’
Lydia recalled Mrs Anderson telling her of this when she had been at the house that day. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘That must have been a great blow for you.’
‘It was worse for my mother. She missed him terribly at his death. She died too, a year ago.’
‘Oh, dear . . . I’m so sorry.’
‘Thank you.’ He paused, gave an awkward little shrug and added, ‘I just dropped in to buy some handkerchiefs. I came to Merinville on business, and found I’d come out without one.’ He gestured with a nod of his head. ‘I’m just on my way to the railway station.’
‘Handkerchiefs, yes,’ she said. ‘Did you want cotton, linen or silk?’ How stilted their conversation was, she said to herself. Anyone observing them would think they were nothing more than the merest slight acquaintances.
‘Oh, linen, I think. I only want a couple, if that’s all right.’
‘Yes, of course. Plain, monogrammed or edged?’
‘Plain, thank you.’
She was about to bend to take a box of handkerchiefs from below the counter when she heard her son’s voice calling to her.
‘Mammy?’
Davie was coming from behind her as he emerged from the back room. She turned at his voice and smiled at him.
‘Hello, darling – so you’re properly awake now, are you?’
‘Yes,’ the boy murmured and looked up curiously at Guy on the other side of the counter.
Guy was gazing at the child. ‘This is your son?’ he said.
Lydia put her hand on Davie’s shoulder. ‘Yes, this is my boy.’ There was pride in her voice. ‘This is David. Though we always call him Davie.’
Guy stepped up closer to the counter, leant his tall body over and reached out his hand. ‘How d’you do, Davie?’
Davie flicked a questioning glance at his mother, then at the tall man, then put up his small hand and allowed Guy to take it.
‘That’s it,’ Lydia said, and prompted him: ‘How do you do?’
‘How do you do,’ Davie said.
Guy let go of the boy’s hand and straightened, his eyes still on the child. At the other end of the counter Miss Angel’s customer was now looking at some samples of nankeen. The door at the far end opened, and Alfred emerged from the stockroom, carrying a number of boxes. He came along behind the counter, past Miss Angel and her customer, and took in the trio of Lydia, Davie and Guy. As he approached them, Lydia said to Guy, ‘Here’s my husband now,’ and turned, including Alfred in her smile and saying, ‘My husband, Mr Alfred Canbrook.’ And to Alfred: ‘Alfred – this is Mr Guy Anderson. Mr Anderson is an old friend of mine – from several years back.’
Alfred put the boxes down on the counter and the two men shook hands. Lydia said, aware of the irrelevance of her words, ‘Mr Anderson came in for some handkerchiefs . . .’ As she spoke she took the box of linen handkerchiefs and set it on the counter. ‘You wanted just two?’ she said, and Guy replied, ‘Please – if I may,’ and she took out two and laid them on the counter before him. He nodded his satisfaction, and she was about to wrap them in paper when he added quickly, ‘No, leave them as they are, thank you.’ He paid her with some coppers from his purse, then precisely folded one handkerchief and put it into the breast pocket of his jacket. The other he put into his trousers pocket. Then into the scene came Davie’s voice as he said, ‘Look, it’s snowing.’ Lydia looked out past Guy’s shoulder, and through the door glass saw flakes whirling past.
‘It’s snowing – on my birthday!’ Davie said.
‘It’s your birthday today?’ Guy asked.
‘Yes, I’m four – and tomorrow I’m having a party.’
Alfred stooped and picked Davie up in his arms. ‘Yes, he is,’ he said, ‘and look at him, he’s getting to be the biggest boy.’
‘Oh, Pappy, let me down,’ Davie said, and Alfred, chuckling, set him back upon his feet. ‘You don’t like to be treated like a baby, do you?’
Davie said, wide-eyed, ‘Well, I’m not.’
‘No, of course you’re not.’ Alfred ruffled the boy’s hair, then moved his hand to tap the top box of the small stack he had set down. ‘These are the men’s stockings that have just come in,’ he said. ‘I’ve checked them; they’re all fine. I’m putting them up here.’
He stacked the boxes onto a shelf at the back, then turned to Guy and gave a little nod and a smile and said, ‘It’s very nice to meet you, Mr Anderson. If you’ll excuse me . . .’ The two men wished one another a good afternoon, and Alfred went back towards the stockroom door. Lydia watched him go, then turned back to Guy. As she did so, Davie piped up again.
‘Mammy, are you coming home with me?’
‘No, dear, you know I’m not. Ellen will be here for you soon.’
‘I mustn’t keep you,’ Guy said. ‘You’ve got things to do.’ He buttoned his coat and pulled his gloves on.
Lydia nodded, trying to smile. ‘Well – it’s been very nice to see you.’ She put out her hand and he took it again in his.
‘You too,’ he said.
There seemed to be nothing more to say.
‘Well . . . goodbye.’
Lydia gave the briefest nod. ‘Goodbye.’
Guy smiled at Davie. ‘And goodbye to you, Master Davie.’
Davie smiled up at him and said, ‘I got a soldier from my grandpa. D’you want to see it?’
Lydia said, ‘Another day, dear. Mr Anderson has to go.’ She smiled at Guy and he smiled back. There was nothing to keep him now. He turned and moved to the door, and Lydia watched as he passed through into the cold square. The snow had stopped as quickly as it had begun. Soon all traces of it would be gone. April snow, it never lasted.
Lydia stood at the counter, looking across the shop to the doorway which Guy’s shape had just filled. She could scarcely believe that she had seen him again, after all this time. He had walked back into her life, and what a quiet, undramatic little event it had been. There had been no roll of drums such as one got at the circus when some major event was about to take place; there had been no fanfare to make you sit up. It had just happened. One minute he might have been a thousand miles away, and the next he had been there before her, speaking her name, touching her hand.
She came out of her reverie to hear Miss Angel’s customer saying, ‘Oh, look, someone’s left their parcel, it seems. Must have been your last customer . . .’ And looking round, Lydia saw Guy’s brown paper-wrapped parcel lying on the counter next to the wall.
‘Oh, dear . . .’ She picked it up and looked foolishly from Miss Angel to her customer, as if expecting directions of some kind, then said hurriedly, ‘I must go after him.’ She turned to Davie. ‘I’ll just be a moment, darling.’
She was tempted to run out as she was, but thought better of it, hurried into the room at the rear and, still wearing her apron, quickly put on her cloak. Then she was out of the room again, had snatched up the package and was starting towards the door. As she did so Miss Angel called out to her, ‘Mrs Canbrook, it’s freezing out there. You’ll need your muffler.’ But she hurried on and a moment later the door was closing behind her and she was outside in the chill air.
Guy had moved to the left, she had seen, and she recalled that he had said he was on his way to the station. She turned in the same direction and felt the cold wind smack at her face. She could see Guy ahead of her, a good distance away, walking along the side of the square. Picking up her skirts, she hurried after him, the heels of her boots ringing on the snow-dusted cobbles.
She watched as up ahead he turned to the left. She ran on, gaining ground all the time, and then they were out of the square and he was walking along Greengage Street. Eventually she was close enough to be heard, and gathering her breath, she called out, ‘Mr Anderson . . . Guy . . .’
He stopped at the sound of his name, turned on the spot, saw her running towards him, and once he saw the package he knew the reason for her pursuit of him. He clapped a hand to his forehead and groaned, ‘Oh, my shoes!’ As she came to a halt before him he said, ‘Lord, how forgetful. Oh, thank you so much! Of course, I’d have remembered them when I got home.’
He took the package from her. As he did so his hand touched hers and he said, ‘You shouldn’t have come out in this – and without gloves or scarf or a hat. You’ll catch pneumonia.’
‘I’m all right,’ she said. ‘It’s only just for a minute.’
They stood in silence, facing one another, and the cold wind blasted around the corner and snatched at the hem of Lydia’s cloak.
‘I – I must go,’ she said. She did not move, but stayed there, only barely aware of the icy blast that buffeted her.
Guy said, ‘I called at your home in Capinfell, you know, looking for you – after I got back from Italy.’
‘Yes, I know,’ she said, ‘my father told me just today. Only today he told me.’
‘Today? Just today?’ His eyes were wide in surprise.
‘Yes.’
‘He told me you’d married and moved away.’ He smiled, a smile touched with sadness. ‘When he told me – well, I decided to leave it at that. There was no sense in pursuing you any further. I felt, in fact, rather foolish.’
‘Foolish?’
‘For going that far. To find you, I mean. I’d enquired at your lodgings in Redbury, and also at Seager’s, but I got no success. So finally I went to Capinfell – and there I traced you to your father’s home.’ He paused. ‘I wasn’t prepared for such surprises.’
‘Surprises?’
‘For you to marry so quickly after I’d gone to Italy. I’d had no idea that there was someone else in the picture. Was he waiting in the background all the time? Or was he new on the scene?’
She did not know what to say. ‘You – you don’t understand,’ she said after a moment. ‘It – it wasn’t like that . . .’ She came to a halt. She could not go further and give him the full reason.
‘Well, no matter,’ he said. ‘I suppose it’s of no consequence now.’ He paused. ‘Is it?’
Oh, yes, she wanted to say. It is of consequence. It’s still of the greatest consequence, but she said nothing. She was aware that snow had once again begun to fall, bringing icy little touches on her cheek.
Guy said, ‘I should have written to you, from Florence – but – I don’t know – so much got in the way, and I had so much to do, what with my father’s death, and then there was the disposal of his business to deal with. And I’d heard nothing from you.’
She wanted to say, But I wrote to you – and your mother withheld the letter, for clearly he did not know anything of it. But she could not. It was all in the past now, and there was no point in dragging up such unhappy moments. So many things now were better left unsaid. Only harm could come from raking everything over. Best to let some things remain hidden.
A few moments went by, then Guy said abruptly, ‘Look, I mustn’t keep you out here in the cold – though there’s so much I want to talk to you about.’
Her cue was there for her to say goodbye again, but she did not. She just waited, and then into the quiet between them, he said:
‘Lydia, I have to see you. I need to talk to you.’
‘What – what about?’
‘Oh, please – not here.’
She said nothing, and wondered briefly at the fact that she was still standing there. Just by remaining she was getting in too deep.
‘Can we meet?’ he said.
‘But – but what for?’
‘Don’t say no,’ he said. ‘Tell me we can meet. I don’t care where, but sometime soon. Will you meet me?’
‘But why?’ she said. ‘Guy – I’m married now. I’ve got a child. Things are not the same.’
‘I know things are not the same,’ he said, and there was regret and bitterness in his tone. ‘Will you meet me?’ he said again.
She did not answer.
‘Please,’ he said.
And she remained standing there, and by doing so knew that she was consenting.
‘Do you work every day?’ he said after a moment.
‘Well, I’m not in the shop on Wednesday afternoons. The shop’s closed then, but I have errands to run.’
‘So – could we meet?’
‘Well . . .’
‘Where shall you be going? What are your errands?’
‘I’m going to Pershall Dean – to collect some work from a couple of Alfred’s seamstresses. Sometimes Alfred goes, but his gout is bad just lately.’
‘Will you be alone?’
‘Yes. Occasionally I take Davie with me – but not when the weather is so changeable.’
‘How will you get there? By train?’
‘Yes. It’s only two stops on from Merinville.’
‘I know it. What time are you going?’
‘It has to be in the afternoon. We close at half-past two, so I shall set off from the shop about three.’
‘I’ll meet you,’ he said. ‘I’ll be at Pershall Dean station – at three-thirty.’
‘Oh, well, I – I don’t know if I can get there by then.’ She could hear the rising panic in her voice. She was getting in deeper still.
‘It doesn’t matter; I’ll wait,’ he said. ‘I don’t care how long, but you will be there?’
She nodded. ‘Yes.’
A sudden blast of wind swept around the corner, sending the snowflakes swirling, and flattening her collar against her throat.
‘Go back,’ he said, ‘before you freeze. I’ll see you on Wednesday.’ He paused. ‘You will be there . . .’
‘I will,’ she said.
When Lydia got back to the shop Alfred looked at her in surprise. ‘How could you go out in that, without your hat and scarf?’ he said, frowning.
‘I had to catch Mr Anderson – he’d left his parcel.’
‘So I understood from Miss Angel. For goodness sake, come on in and warm yourself by the stove.’
‘I’m all right,’ Lydia said. ‘Is Davie in the back?’
‘Yes, Ellen’s just arrived. He’s showing her his soldier.’
As she went to move past him to go into the back room, he said, ‘You never mentioned Mr Anderson before.’
‘Didn’t I?’
‘Is he from Capinfell?’
‘Mr Anderson? No, no, not Capinfell. He’s from Redbury.’
‘From Redbury – oh.’
She could not face him, no matter how much she wanted to, and in another moment she was moving on behind the counter, and pushing open the door to the rear room.
Ellen was in the back room, helping Davie into his coat. She was a smallish young woman of eighteen, stockily built, with a round, good-natured face. As she fastened the boy’s cap, he said to his mother, ‘You went out, Mammy.’
‘Yes, dear,’ Lydia said, ‘I had to.’
‘Miss Angel said you went after the man with his parcel.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Is he a nice man?’
‘Yes, he’s a nice man.’
Alfred made no further mention of Guy’s appearance in the shop, and Lydia was greatly relieved, for she did not know how she would have handled whatever questions came her way.
<
br /> Guy had never been far from her mind before, and now, following their encounter, he was there almost constantly. She found she could scarcely wait till Wednesday came and she would see him again. But for what purpose? she asked herself. Nothing could come of it. If once they had had a chance at happiness together, that chance had long ago been spent and their lives now had taken different paths. Although Davie was Guy’s son, Guy had no part in his life. Nor in Lydia’s. Her life now was with Alfred, and that was that.
On the Tuesday night she lay awake in bed. Alfred was sleeping at her side, peaceful for the most part, except for the odd occasions when he would kick out a little in his sleep, his leg plagued by demon nerves that sometimes afflicted him. She listened to his breathing, generally even and quiet. No, she said to herself, she must do nothing that affected their lives together. She had not only herself to think of now. It went without saying that Davie must command the best of her caring and loving, but she owed so much to Alfred as well, for all he had given her over the years. Nothing could take that away. He had been the best of husbands in so many ways. He was considerate, kind, loving – though he was strong-minded, too, and never lagging behind when convinced that he was in the right. He doted on Davie, and Davie was, in every way other than blood, his son. And never had Alfred pressed her about the child’s true father. Early on in their marriage he had asked her a question: ‘Did you love the man . . .?’ But Lydia had been reluctant to answer, and after a moment he had waved a hand, brushing the matter aside. The subject had never been referred to again. Lydia recalled now, with some pleasure, how, at Davie’s birth, the squalling babe had been placed in Alfred’s arms by the midwife, who had said to him, ‘Your son, sir,’ and he had raised his face and laughed with joy.
She stirred in the bed, restless, thinking of the coming day. Alfred’s gout was still giving him great discomfort, so there was no question of his going to Pershall Dean. She would of course go. And she would see Guy. Her heart beat faster at the thought of it.
As was his wont of late, Alfred took the trap into the town centre as soon as he was ready after breakfast, leaving Lydia to finish her own breakfast and spend a little time with Davie before leaving him with Ellen. It was about an hour after Alfred’s departure that Lydia started out for the shop, setting out to walk, as she usually did when the weather was dry. It was a pleasant way, for the most part beside the river.
