Effie wrapped the parcel up again and threw a glance at him. ‘I’m some sorry, Alex – Constable Dawes, that is – you can see I’m wanted. I can’t stop here, chatting, any more than you.’ She paused a moment, and then blurted out, ‘Though it’s been some nice to see you.’
That gave him courage and he caught her arm. ‘Nice enough to want to do it on some other day? I know you go to see your family on your half-day off – Thursdays, isn’t it? But maybe, if I could arrange my shifts . . . Could I meet you for a little, first?’
She had turned redder than a beetroot now and she pulled away from him. ‘Don’t be so daft. We’d never have the time. Besides, I got to go. Though . . .’
He caught his breath. ‘Though . . . what?’
‘There might just be an opportunity next week. We’re going to have a caller – a fellow from the bank, wants to talk to Mrs T about her bank affairs. She wants me on the Thursday, to be on call while he is there, though I’ll get a day in lieu. Friday, most likely, if that is any good?’
Any good? He could have kissed the fellow from the bank. ‘I’m off-duty from one o’clock that day. I could come . . .’
She shook her head at him. ‘Better meet you somewhere. You know Mount Misery?’
He looked perplexed. ‘I think I’ve heard of it – not a name you easily forget. Isn’t that out somewhere on the road towards Land’s End?’
She nodded, grinning. ‘Just where it branches out towards St Just. Not far out of town – it gets its name from the fever hospital. But don’t worry, it’s a lovely place – with footpaths out to Devil’s Rock or up around the lanes. Two o’clock Friday, I’ll do my very best. Though, the way things are, I make no promises.’ And before Alex could say another word, she’d pushed the parcel in under the hedge and hurried round towards the back again.
He stood for a moment, gazing after her, until a sharp voice at his elbow brought him to himself. ‘Now look here, young constable, I’m sure you’re on your beat and you’ve got good reason to be standing here, but when you’ve quite finished I needs to wiggle past and get me cleaning tools. I got the steps to scrub and I’m already late.’ Shrew-faced Mrs Mitchell was glaring up at him.
He reminded himself about her husband being bad and managed to mutter ‘Please excuse me!’ with some grace before he went back to resume his street patrol. He walked the beat with what he thought was proper diligence, but when he got back he found that there was nothing to report. Perhaps his mind had not been wholly on his task.
His mind was racing forward to the roster for next week, but there was nothing he could do to find out what it was – or alter it – so after tea he went back to his notes, and tried to occupy his wayward brain by revising how to make a plaster cast of footprints at a scene. He’d never done it, but he hoped to have the chance. Sergeant Vigo said it was the surest way of catching thieves.
Lettie was not in the sunniest of moods. Come to that it wasn’t the sunniest of days – the clouds were gathering and it looked as if there would be rain by dusk. Already her hair, which she’d carefully put up in rags last night (though the torment always stopped her sleeping properly) was being blown out of its artful curls and into rats’ tails by the rising wind. And then she’d be expected to tramp about for miles on what Bert always called his ‘favourite walk’.
Drat the fellow! Why couldn’t he take her to the pictures for a change? There was a film of Valentino showing in the town. She would have loved to see it – she’d been dropping hints – but it never even seemed to cross his mind. Course it cost money, that was probably the thing, but all the same! Bert must be earning ten and six a week, though he worked for his father, so perhaps he kept him short. Still, they could have gone into the tuppennies – surely to goodness it wouldn’t hurt for once! But no, it was Mount Misery and the walk as usual. And even then he hadn’t met the bus. Why could he never be anywhere on time?
She frowned and stood back in the shelter of the trees, huddling her best green hooded cape around her. She should have worn the brown one, it was far warmer, but it was getting old and she’d had to mend one corner where she’d caught it on a twig. She could hardly wear it when she was walking out with Bert. Still, he’d kept her waiting. Serve him right if she had turned up in that!
The sound of a footfall on the path disturbed her thoughts and she stepped forward, ready with a smile. ‘Oh, there you are . . .’ She tailed off in surprise. ‘My dear life! Effie Pengelly! If it isn’t you!’
Effie was looking at her in what looked like mild dismay, as if she wasn’t especially pleased to find her standing there. ‘Well, I never! Lettie! Fancy seeing you.’ Her face had turned an alarming shade of red.
Lettie wasn’t stupid. She realized what it was. Effie was still ashamed about the books. They’d never really spoken since that awful day, though she had lingered at the Westons’ library once or twice. The only time that their paths had crossed in town there’d been a quick, ‘Hello, how are you?’ and Effie had hastened by, obviously in a hurry to get somewhere else. Lettie said carefully, ‘And a sight for sore eyes you are. Sorry that I haven’t seen you at the Westons’ all these weeks. I’ve missed our little chats.’
Effie turned more scarlet still, if that were possible. It gave her face a colour which was flattering. She was wearing blue – a thick shawl and heavy skirt which did nothing for her shape but of a shade which drew attention to her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she was murmuring, ‘I haven’t stopped to wait. After that policeman gave me such a shock, I didn’t want to . . .’
Lettie nodded. ‘Course, I understand. We would have had to stop that business soon in any case – if we’d gone on much longer they were sure to catch us out.’ She was aware that this wasn’t what she had said before – she’d always told Effie it was as safe as possible – but obviously things were rather different now. ‘Clever of you to get that book back on the shelves that day.’
Effie looked first startled, then relieved. ‘You saw it then? I haven’t seen it since. I’d begun to wonder what had happened to the dratted thing!’
Lettie laughed. ‘Saw it? I should think I did! I managed to take it out again – by accident. But Miss Blanche didn’t tumble to it, even then.’
Effie had put on a determined face. ‘I aren’t doing it again, though, Lettie. Too dangerous, by half.’
‘Aren’t doing what?’ a voice behind them said, and there was Bert at last – looking a picture in his second-best Sunday suit, a bit too short and tight for him these days, and a little shiny round the cuffs and trouser-seat, but a proper suit for all that. He had a scarf and hat on and his boots were fairly clean – though he hadn’t brought his cycle and he must have walked for miles. Nice-looking as ever and grinning at them in that cheeky way of his. Lettie felt proud of him. She was about to introduce the two of them, but Effie had turned that lobster pink again, and had begun to speak, obviously in answer to what Bert had said.
‘Nothing!’ she said quickly. ‘We were just gossiping. And I mustn’t keep you. I know you want to walk.’
Bert looked at her. His eyes were twinkling. ‘Only a little stroll around the lanes. There’s no hurry – no need to rush away. Lettie, introduce me to your pretty friend.’
Lettie found – rather to her own surprise – that she was furious. ‘This is Effie,’ she muttered gracelessly. ‘Works at Mrs Thatchell’s down Morrab Road.’
Bert did the twinkle that she liked so much, but it was aimed at Effie. ‘Then that is where I’ve seen you. I knew I knew the face. No doubt we’ve spoken when I brought the groceries.’
What a sweet-talker the blighter was, Lettie thought crossly. He knows her perfectly – he was the one who said that he’d seen her on the street with that confounded policeman. She forced herself to smile. ‘Effie this is Bert. My beau. We’ve started walking out – only of course we can’t let Miss Caroline find out. Strictly, I’m not permitted to have followers.’
Effie was looking admiringly at Bert. Lettie was imp
atient. This would never do. She stepped out beside him and slid her arm through his – something that she never generally did. Bert was always grumbling that she kept him at arm’s length, though of course she didn’t really: she let him take her hand when there was nobody about and even give her a quick peck on the cheek each time they said goodbye. This time, though, she hugged his arm against her side. ‘Nice to see you, Effie. We must meet again. See you at the Westons’ shop perhaps. Nothing to stop us having a chatter, is there, now and then?’
Effie shook her head. ‘Well . . . only a chat mind! I’ll look out for you. Now I mustn’t stop you walking with your beau.’
Bert gave a little bow. ‘And I see that yours is coming to claim you,’ he said.
Lettie whirled around. A young man was walking towards them down the path, a young man so handsome that it took her breath away. He was tall and fairish, with broad shoulders and long legs and in his smart Norfolk jacket, flannel trousers and tweed hat, even Valentino could not hold a torch to him. She found that she was boggling, and it took a tug upon her arm from Bert to bring her to herself.
Even Effie was looking quite surprised. ‘Why if it isn’t Alexander Dawes. I hardly knew you in those clothes!’
The newcomer was smiling down at her. He was so handsome that Lettie felt quite feeble at the knees. She extricated her right hand again and held it out. ‘Mr Dawes. I’m Lettie Pearson, Effie’s friend. I’m so glad that we’ve met.’ She was going to add something about having heard of him, but Effie was listening so she left out that. ‘And this is Bert Symons, from the grocer’s shop.’
Bert nodded vaguely. ‘Glad to meet you, sir, I’m sure.’ He turned pointedly to her. ‘Now Lettie, do you fancy a walk along to Devil’s Rock, today? I think we’ve just got time before it comes to rain.’
Lettie was reluctant to leave Effie with that vision of a man. ‘Would you like to come with us?’ she heard herself saying. Bert looked at her surprised, but she ploughed desperately on. ‘I haven’t seen Effie for simply weeks and weeks – to talk to properly.’
Bert was looking daggers. ‘It’s a nice thought, Lettie. But I’m sure this young man would prefer to have Effie to himself – and I feel the same. We haven’t had much chance to talk for weeks, ourselves.’
‘Besides,’ the vision gave her a slow smile that knocked Bert’s cheerful twinkle into a cocked hat. ‘We don’t have much time – not enough to go as far as that – and I’m not really dressed for muddy paths. Some other time, perhaps.’ He tipped his hat and – bold as you like – offered his arm to Effie, who took it with a blush.
‘Nice to see you, Lettie. I’ll look out for you next week.’ And she was gone.
‘Well!’ Lettie muttered. ‘I’ll be blowed. She’s a dark horse that one, and no mistake.’ She turned to Bert. ‘Imagine Effie with a man like that! He couldn’t be a cousin, or something, I suppose?’
Bert laughed. ‘Don’t be so daft! Do you mean to say you don’t know who it was? It’s that constable I saw her with the other day. I told you I’d seen them walking down the street, gazing at each other like a pair of fools. Mind, I’m not surprised he fell for her – a pretty girl like that.’
‘Pretty is as pretty does,’ she muttered with a sniff. ‘Don’t know what Mrs Thatchell would have to say, I’m sure.’
Bert pulled her round to face him. ‘I do believe you’re jealous, Lettie Pearson!’ he exclaimed. ‘Not enough for you to be Bert Symons’ favourite girl?’ He attempted to kiss her on the nose, but she resisted.
‘Don’t be daft, what are you playing at!’ She pulled away from him. ‘I’ve half a mind to leave you here and go back home again!’
‘And miss the chance to go and see the film with me next week?’ he grinned. ‘I can’t believe you mean it. Prettiest girl for miles and you’d walk out on me?’
She hesitated. The pictures? And Valentino was on another week. ‘You really think I’m pretty?’
He hugged her to him. ‘Course I do. Don’t they have no mirrors up there where you work? Prettier’n a picture. I’ve told you that before.’ This time he did manage to land a little kiss.
She stepped away and slipped her arm through his. ‘In that case I forgive you.’ She didn’t say for what and Bert did not ask her – which was fortunate, because she wasn’t sure herself. ‘Let’s go down to Devil’s Rock if that’s what we’re going to do.’
This was her beau, she told herself. A proper beau who took her to the picture-house. Effie might be pretty, but Bert liked Lettie best. And one day he had prospects of a business of his own, with a little flat above the shop and everything. Lucky Lettie! Really, she didn’t envy Effie in the least.
Bert’s voice broke teasingly into her reverie. ‘Now then, Lettie, what are you frowning at? Can’t have that, can we? A penny for your thoughts?’
This time, when he kissed her, she met him with her lips.
Part Two
April to July 1912
One
Alex’s meetings with Effie had become a settled thing. He waited for her on the outskirts of the town every second Thursday of the month. When it was not actually raining they still went for walks, though they tended to avoid Mount Misery for fear of meeting Lettie and her beau again. (It could have happened too, Effie told him earnestly, because Lettie’s household sometimes varied her half-day.)
When it was wet – or even hailing, as it had been once – he and Effie found a sheltered place to sit (usually the covered bandstand in the park) and simply chatted till it was time for her to go. He had suggested going to see the ‘flicks’, as people were calling the modern moving-picture shows – there was a brand-new picture-drome in town that had a matinee – but she was too afraid of being seen.
‘If Mrs Mitchell happened to come by – and she might do, ’cause she cleans for other people in the town – she’d report me to Mrs Thatchell sure as eggs. Besides, it’s a terrible lot of money, isn’t it? Twopence each and nothing to show for it afterwards!’
He would have paid much more than fourpence for the privilege of sitting close beside her in the flickering warm dark, but he didn’t tell her that. He tried another tack and lured her to a country tea-shop for an hour – thinking that a pot of tea and toast would be a treat – but she’d still been so nervous about being spotted with a man (and news of that reaching her uncle, this time!) that it was no treat at all and he hadn’t bothered to suggest it since.
But it did not really matter to Alex where they went; talking to Effie was a pleasure in itself. She was so different from the other girls he knew: she had a freshness and a frank good-heartedness which was lacking in the well-bred daughters of his parents’ friends, to whom his mother seemed peculiarly intent on introducing him on the rare occasions when he dined at home. These young women were always perfectly polite and tried to talk about the weather and the world, but they had nothing much to say and seemed much more concerned with how they looked and what they wore. Effie was pretty, but too artless to be vain.
He would not have minded if she’d met him every week, however cold it was – in fact he had proposed it several times – but Effie remained quite adamant that she dared do no more. He tried again today.
‘Couldn’t we meet more often? Now that I have got my duty roster for the next six weeks and can rely on Thursday afternoons to spend with you? It wasn’t easy to arrange you know, and it might not work out so well another time.’ He spoke with feeling there – no-one asked a junior policeman what shifts he would prefer. He’d managed to wangle it, three six-weekly rosters in row, by offering to work a regular late-evening shift that day.
Manning the police-station at night was not a favourite with his peers – a senior man stayed on duty and awake while the junior tried to snatch what sleep he could on a lumpy mattress on the back-office floor, ready to be called on if required. Most of his colleagues hated it, but Alex volunteered – in order to earn himself the precious afternoon – and there had been an unexpected bonus too. On th
e quarterly appraisal, for the powers-that-be, Sergeant Vigo had written ‘Constable Dawes (Police No. 663) has shown ability and should be particularly commended for his willingness to take on extra and demanding duties.’ Policeman No. 663 found himself smiling at the recollection even now.
‘Pity to waste the opportunity, when I’ve arranged it all,’ he said now to Effie. ‘Might not be so lucky next time round. Besides, think of all the lovely days like this we’d have to miss!’ He spoke as if the day was bright and warm, but in fact it was a chilly afternoon, with a stiff little April breeze in off the sea. They were walking on the country lanes round the back of Gulval, where the high stone hedges gave them shelter from the wind but kept the thin spring sunshine from really reaching them, though it gave a special lustre to the new leaves on the trees. ‘Couldn’t we make it every fortnight, perhaps?’
Effie had taken a fancy for picking violets and had brought a basket with her so she could take some home – doubtless to give herself a visible excuse for wandering down lanes if ever Mrs Thatchell got to hear of it. She turned away from him on the pretence of plucking another fragile bloom from a tiny crevice in the wall. ‘Alex, I can’t – I keep on telling you. If Mrs Thatchell gave me any other afternoon – like she did the first time that we met – of course I’d jump at it. But she doesn’t usually have meetings with the bank, so it has to be a Thursday and they expect me home, and even as it is I often miss my only opportunity of seeing Pa. Besides, if we met more often,’ she turned slightly pink, ‘I’d never hear the last of it from Uncle Joe, he’s always asking questions as it is, wanting to know where I went and what I did.’
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