Leigh looked at him with concern. A long wrangle with the men who watched the print machines had been going on for weeks over the manning agreement which guaranteed so many men to work with so many machines. Leigh knew the background to the strike, but she had not anticipated that one would start, since the official union attitude was not in sympathy with the chapel responsible.
Mrs. Sam saw her worried, uncertain expression, and touched her arm, her small bird-like fingers gentle. 'He was here when they rang, with the news of the strike, Leigh.
He looked so tired. He needs you.'
Leigh's blue eyes stared into the older woman's face. Mrs. Sam looked back persuasively. 'Go back to the office, Leigh. He has a lot on his plate just now. Don't make it worse for him.'
Leigh's shoulders sagged. She nodded without replying. The square box of the television was blaring the news and suddenly she caught sight of the Gazette building, a sea of angry, shouting faces surrounding it. Matt was shouldering his way through them.
The grey vision blurred his face as though he were a million miles away, but even in that poor reproduction she could see the weary tension in his hard face and in the lines of neck, shoulders, body as he tried to reach the door.
Sam and his wife had fallen silent, watching as closely as she did. The news reader switched to another item and they both looked at Leigh.
Her taxi arrived at that moment. She walked to the door with Mrs. Sam softly saying, 'Make sure he eats something, Leigh--I don't suppose he's even thought of it. Even a glass of milk would be better than nothing at
The taxi seemed to take forever to arrive in the evening London traffic jams. Leigh sat on the edge of the seat, willing the vehicle to move faster. Her own panic and fear had evaporated at the instant that she saw Matt's tired face on the television. However much it hurt her, she had to be there in case he needed her. He had rubbed a hand around the back of his neck in that characteristic gesture of his, his eyes grim, and her heart had moved involuntarily with love.
She closed her eyes, wincing. Love, she thought dully. Oh, God, I love him. All these years she had evaded the glittering trap emotion laid for her, only to fall into it at last without even noticing. The wild desire she had felt for him from their first meeting had been a separate issue. Passion was not as dangerous as love. It could humiliate, irritate, even infuriate, but it could not wound as deeply as love could. Love was the ache beyond remedy which had been nagging at her for days, even weeks. She had refused to admit it to herself because of her fear of it.
She asked the taxi driver to drop her outside the car park entrance, and walked through there to the lifts to escape the press of waiting men outside the main entrance.
When she arrived at the top floor she found an atmosphere of tension. A couple of girls were sitting in the typing pool, talking; the others had all gone home. Leigh nodded to them without speaking as she passed, feeling their curious, fascinated gaze on her. She stopped in her own office and rapidly tidied her hair, applied fresh make-up and checked her appearance. She had a peculiar intuition that she must look as normal as possible.
The scratches Cathy had inflicted on her had faded to a dull red, and she carefully camouflaged them to the best of her ability. During her time at the flat she had changed into a smooth, tight-fitting black suit under which she wore a white silk blouse with a rollneck collar which gave her a cool, elegant look.
When she felt able to carry it off, she opened the door of the board room, finding the air thick with smoke and the stale odour of beer. Matt sat the head of the long table, in his shirtsleeves, his collar open, his tie discarded. Men sat facing each other on each side.
There were about a dozen in all, she saw at a glance.
At her quiet entrance Matt's glance flickered towards the door. He looked tense and strained, a whiteness around his mouth. The grey eyes widened as he saw her. He had been talking, but for a few seconds the brisk flow of language halted. The men turned their heads to look at her.
Without speaking, she moved round the room and pushed a chair into a position slightly behind Matt, sitting down, her pad open on her knee. He glanced round briefly.
The strained whiteness seemed to have faded from around his mouth. He turned back to the other men and began to speak again.
Leigh recognised some of the men facing her. Her eyes flitted over their faces, noting the presence of the Father of the Imperial Chapel, the main co-ordinating body which linked all the separate union chapels at the firm. A large, square-faced man with a jutting chin he was listening calmly to Matt, while opposite him sat one of the Chief executives of the Gazette, his tie crooked, a wrinkled jowl giving him the melancholy look of a wattled turkey when he talked excitedly. Nearest to Matt sat Pete Turner, the Father of the striking chapel, his 'ace obstinate. A few beads of perspiration clung to his receding brown hair and he was looking irritable.
Leigh glanced discreetly at her watch. Nine o'clock. Had Matt eaten anything since lunchtime? Had the others? She looked down the table, seeing glasses standing among the litter of paper, pens, newspapers, sheafs of notes.
There was no sign of any food.
Pete Turner was talking hotly, the sweat on his fore head gleaming. Matt leaned his elbows on the table, listening. Leigh scribbled a note and passed it to him discreetly. He read it at a glance, turned and nodded to her.
She got up and quietly went out. In her own office she rang the canteen and ordered sandwiches, coffee and beer to be sent up to the board room. When they arrived ten minutes later she helped the canteen girl to carry them into the board room and distribute them. There were grateful glances from all the men at the sight of the food. They began to eat, talking as they did so, and Matt absently followed suit. She had ordered a cold glass of milk for him too, and when she put it in front of him he gave it a disgusted look, pushing it away. Leigh calmly placed it in front of him again. Pete Turner, who was talking bitterly, paused, watching them. Matt looked at Leigh sideways, a grim expression on his face. Her blue eyes met his glance calmly. He picked up the milk with a wry face and drained it at a gulp. Pete Turner suddenly chuckled, and the other men laughed, too. Matt gave them all a rueful look.
There was a faint pause, as though the tiny incident had thrown, them off balance, then the hard negotiations began again. Leigh sat back, listening, watching the weary droop of Matt's shoulders.
The clock ticked on. Voices rose and fell. The smoky atmosphere deepened. Pete Turner looked as though he might have a stroke at any moment, his eyes bloodshot as he argued.
The manning agreements had been drawn up at national level, but the firm's chapel disagreed with them, and were insisting on a separate agreement which would cost the Gazette a great deal of money.
Pete Turner seemed adamant, yet Leigh could see that the Imperial Chapel were not fully backing him, since the members of other unions stood to lose a great deal if the strike continued.
At midnight. Matt made a firm compromise offer, which Pete Turner angrily rejected.
At one o'clock Matt made it again, slightly improved, and this time the union negotiating committee said that they would like to discuss it in private.
Matt stood up. 'You stay here,' he said. 'We'll leave you for half an hour. I imagine we could all do with a break.'
The other executives dashed off to phone their wives and make apologies for absence, while Matt wandered into his own office and sat down on his chair, his head dropping into his hands. Leigh looked at him silently, aching with love. He looked worn out.
She moved behind him and gently began to massage the taut neck muscles, her fingers smoothing his skin. He groaned. 'Oh, that's terrific!'
She looked at his bent dark head, tracing the silver hairs she could glimpse among the black. How much more of this sort of burden could he take?
'I thought you'd gone,' he said abruptly, his voice smothered in his hands.
Leigh massaged silently, feeling the deep tension of the muscles seeping gradually away
beneath her fingers.
A man appeared in the doorway, and Leigh felt a quiver of alarm as she recognised Joe Lord, Cathy's rather, a broad, distinguished man of fifty-five, his eyes coldly intent as he took in the intimacy between herself and Matt.
Leigh's hands halted. Matt looked up. There was a tight, tense silence.
'How's it going, Matt?' Joe Lord asked, his voice brusque.
"Bloody difficult,' Matt said tersely.
'Any chance of a settlement tonight?'
'God knows.'
Joe Lord grimaced, it will cost us a fortune. We can't afford a stoppage.'
Matt straightened his weary shoulders. 'No,' he said, his voice flat.
Leigh could feel the tension flowing back into him again, and her fingers moved to his neck, tenderly stroking the cramped muscles beneath the black hair. He suddenly leaned backward so that his head lay against her breasts. Leigh felt her heart stop. Her blue eyes moved to Joe Lord's face.
He was looking stiffly at them, his eyes unreadable. Coughing slightly, he said, 'Well, if you need advice, I'm at home. Matt. You can call me any time.'
Matt nodded. 'Thank you, Joe.' His tone was polite but made it clear that he was unlikely to ask for Joe Lord's help. The older man nodded and left, closing the door behind him. Matt closed his eyes, his head wearily resting on Leigh. She tenderly let her fingers stray through the black hair, soothing him silently. A long sigh came from him and his body sagged.
'Would you like some tea?' she asked softly. 'Or whisky?'
He shook his head. 'Just keep doing that,' he said, it's very soothing.'
She smiled to herself, continuing to stroke his hair. The silence deepened until she began to think he had fallen asleep. He leaned so heavily against her, his lean body relaxed, his eyes closed, all the weary lines of his face smoothed out.
Suddenly the telephone began to shrill. She leaned over and picked it up, listened, answered and put it down. Matt straightened, the fighting look back in his grim eyes and mouth.
'They want to start again,' she said.
Matt nodded. 'I'm going to the cloakroom. I'll wash my face, comb my hair and be there in five minutes. See if you can rustle up some more food and drink, Leigh. I think we're all going to need the blood sugar.'
She obeyed, relieved to be busy, and went into the board room. The men were looking grey and tired, too. Leigh went to the windows and opened them, then began deftly to clear the littered table of all but the essential things they needed. They watched her as she moved between them, that curiosity in their eyes. She was aware that every one of them believed her to be Matt's mistress, but not a hint of it showed on their weary faces.
When Matt walked into the room a moment after she had finished, the room smelt clearer and cleaner, the chill night air was blowing away the stale scents and the men were tidying the piles of their papers, sitting forward in their chairs, that first depressing gloom gone.
Matt sat down in his chair, his lean body erect. He had washed in cold water, she suspected, by the glow in his pale face. His hair was combed neatly. His tie was back.
The toughness seemed to be restored to his facial muscles, that weary droop gone.
The food arrived, and she helped to distribute it. The men ate ravenously, relaxed around the table. For the moment the discussions were in abeyance. They all felt the need of a break. Some of the union negotiators vanished briefly, returned looking slightly better. Pete Turner had also washed in cold water, she guessed, from his pale face. His forehead no longer glistened with perspiration, but the lines of weariness were cut as deeply into his face as into Matt's.
After this pause, the talks began again. Leigh sat at Matt's shoulder, just out of his line of vision, listening. As the hours passed his throat was dry, his voice strained.
Once while Pete Turner was talking Matt glanced down sideways at the slender grace of Leigh's long silk-clad legs, and then up at her profile. Although she did not meet his eyes her heart quickened. He turned back towards Pete again and the brief flash of awareness faded.
Daylight had begun to seep into the room when the deadlock was finally resolved.
Matt had somehow talked the men into a compromise, although both sides had had to give away something they were reluctant to concede. They had lost some money, she thought, but at least the strike was over. By sheer ruthless persistence, Matt had talked his way through it.
Slowly the men began to drift away. Matt stowed sheafs of papers into his case. Pete Turner yawned, stretching, and met Leigh's calm eyes.
'Tired?' he asked her, quite gently.
'Exhausted,' she agreed, smiling at him. 'But not as tired as you are, Mr. Turner, I don't imagine.'
He grinned. 'Well, we got something, and something is always better than nothing.'
Matt looked at him in an odd, hard way. 'Yes,' he said levelly, 'something is better than nothing.'
Pete said goodnight and left. The room was empty, the smoke-filled air, the littered table, the only signs of the recent trouble.
'I'll drive you home,' said Matt.
'I'll get a taxi,' Leigh murmured.
'Don't argue, Leigh, for God's sake,' he said, his face set in grey lines.
She said nothing more, following him into the lift and out into the car park. As they drove out of it she saw a car full of their recent companions inching out of a bay. Eyes followed them. What did it matter what anyone thought? She told herself. All that mattered was Matt, and the dead, worn look on his face hurt her deeply.
He pulled up outside Sam's house and she got oat. She was taken aback when he did so, too, facing her across the top of the car, his hand pushing back a lock of silvered hair which the cold autumn wind blew across his temples.
She looked at him anxiously. 'Matt, you're dead tired. Go home to bed.'
'This won't wait,' he said, his grim mouth issuing the words wearily, as though it took all his energy to say them.
She was too concerned to argue. Sighing, she led the way into the house and up the stairs. He followed her into her flat, halting as he saw her cases standing in the centre of the room. Leigh flushed, seeing his eyes on them.
He turned and looked at her, his hands driven into his pockets. 'You were going,' he said in that weary voice.
She didn't answer, looking at him. After a pause, she said, I could make you some tea. Would you like some?'
Matt nodded without replying, and she moved into the kitchen. After putting on the kettle, she asked, 'Anything to eat?'
He came into the kitchen slowly. She could see by the way he moved that he was bone tired, so exhausted he could only just stand.
'Shut your eyes,' he ordered.
She frowned. 'What?'
'Shut your eyes.' The pale mouth formed the syllables stiffly.
Leigh obeyed. Was he going to kiss her? She knew she was beyond denying him anything he wanted.
Instead he took her hand. She felt his fingers move against hers, then the cold touch of metal. Her eyes opened in astonishment. On her left hand the blaze of the square cut sapphire ringed with diamonds was dazzling. She looked at him in silent disbelief.
Matt watched her with those grim, weary grey eyes, saying nothing. His face was unreadable.
She swallowed, her lips dry. 'Are you asking me to marry you, Matt?' It was so unexpected, so unbelievable, that she was curiously cold.
'You've belonged to me since the first day we met.' he said in a dry voice. 'I told you I'd stamp Hume all over you. This just makes it official.'
Her eyes tried to penetrate the tired mask. 'And Cathy Lord?'
He shrugged the question away. 'There was no way I would have married a child of her age. For God's sake, Leigh, I've known her since she was a baby. I'm fond of her, but she's no wife for a man of my age. She's still an adolescent.'
The kettle began to boil and she moved to make the tea. 'Would you like some toast with it?' she asked him.
He yawned. 'God! I'm so tired I can only just keep my
eyes open. The tea will do.' He staggered back into the sitting-room and she heard him collapse on to the couch. Quickly she poured him a cup of tea and went back to him. He was already asleep, slumped against the back of the couch, his face shadowed.
Leigh stood looking at him, her own weariness forgotten. He looked almost old. She hated time for stealing from her as it carved those lines upon his hard face. Gently she knelt to take off his shoes, then swung him on to the couch full length. He muttered drowsily as she raised his head to slide a cushion beneath it. Covering him with several blankets, she put out the lamps and went to bed herself.
She had no time to speculate about his motives in marrying her. Sleep fell upon her like a wolf before her eyes had done more than close. She slept deeply, woken at eight by the sound of her own doorbell. Hurriedly slipping into a silk wrap, she rushed to the door. Ma- struggled out of his blankets, his hair tousled, his unshaven face grim.
Sam stood at the door, a curious hard look on his face. His eyes slid over Leigh with a flicker of embarrassment. 'Good morning, miss,' he said, oddly formal.
'I shan't be needing a lift to work this morning, Sam,' she said calmly.
Matt appeared behind her shoulder, running a hand through his ruffled black hair, yawning violently.
Sam looked at him stubbornly, 'I saw your car outside, Mr. Hume,' he said.
A mocking look came into Matt's eyes. 'Why the cold front, Sam?' he asked drily.
Quickly, seeing the disapproval in Sam's eyes, Leigh held out her left hand. 'Do you like my ring, Sam?'
Sam's face changed and a smile came into his eyes. She saw the concern and disapproval fade. He looked at Matt. 'It's very nice indeed.' he said. 'Congratulations.
Matt.'
Matt grinned at him, insolence in the tilt of his head. 'Thank you, Sam,' he said. 'I trust you'll spread the news for us. It's time the Gazette grapevine revised its version of the situation.'
Charlotte Lamb - Pagan Encounter Page 15
