A Mistletoe Kiss (6 page)

Gareth was beginning to reply when they reached the jigger and turned into it. Bill was coming towards them and Hetty guessed that he had been sent to find her. The two boys grinned at one another. ‘Found her dreamin' along as usual, the way you said she'd be,'
Gareth called as soon as they were close enough to exchange a few words. ‘She were with some old woman, so of course your mam's laundry money were safe. I did like your mam said an' dragged her home by her straggly hair, for all she kicked and screamed.'

Bill, reaching Hetty's side, looked at her keenly. ‘What old woman?' he asked. ‘Was it her gave you a thump?' He laughed. ‘You'll have a black eye by tomorrer, mark my words.'

Hetty's hand flew to her bruised cheek; it was tender to the touch. ‘Fancy you noticing, Bill!' she said ruefully. ‘And no, it weren't the lady I were with – who is not an old woman, you cheeky beggar – what hit me. It were three lads who must have guessed I were collectin' laundry money. In fact it was the lady Gareth saw me with who scared them off.'

‘Well blow me down, and her with only one good leg,' Gareth said, his tone a mixture of admiration and amazement. He turned to Bill. ‘It were that old gal from the library – Limpy Liz they calls her.'

‘Not in front of me they don't, unless they want a bloody nose,' Hetty said at once. ‘I tell you, she saw three fellers hemming me in and tripped one up and whacked t'others. She were really brave.'

She expected her cousin to make some comment, for it was his mother's money which the librarian's prompt action had saved, but by now they had reached the back yard of No. 7 and Bill merely hurried her across it, shouting a farewell to Gareth as he hustled her in at the back door. ‘Here she is, Ma, and she's still
got your cash, as well as the linen for washing,' he bawled cheerfully. ‘Gareth found her.'

Aunt Phoebe, dishing egg and chips out on to the waiting plates, smiled at her niece, then put down her spatula and came across the kitchen, frowning. ‘You've got dirt on your cheek,' she said accusingly. ‘Is it dirt? Or …'

‘She got thumped …' Bill was beginning when Hetty hastily cut across him.

‘It's all right, Auntie,' she said quickly. ‘I nipped down a jigger,'cos it's a short cut – I know you told me not to – and some fellers must have guessed I were collectin' laundry money and tried to take it off me. But that Miss Preece from the library saw, and came to my rescue.' She put the canvas bag full of dirty tablecloths and napkins down on the kitchen floor and smiled ingratiatingly at her aunt. ‘So no harm done, you see … oh, is that plateful for me? I'm that hungry I could eat a perishin' horse.'

‘It is,' Aunt Phoebe said. ‘Well, if you've gorra black eye by Monday mebbe it'll teach you to do as your elders and betters advise. Wash your hands, then you can dig in.'

Her uncle, seated at the kitchen table, nodded approvingly. ‘Good gal, our Hetty,' he said through a mouthful of egg. ‘You stick up for your pal. And Billy, don't call names.'

Happy to have escaped without a lecture – for she knew very well that she had nearly lost not only her aunt's money but also the dirty laundry – Hetty sat down at the table and began to eat, reflecting as she
did so that it had been a good day. Tomorrow was Sunday, which meant church in the morning and Sunday school in the afternoon, but on the Monday she would tell Miss Marks that she had indeed visited the library and had been given permission to return there after school, even though she could not become a member without an adult's signature. Finishing off her plateful with a large slice of bread and margarine, she could not help thinking how nice it would be if Miss Marks offered to sign the form for her, but she knew that such an action was very unlikely. If the teacher did it for her she would feel obliged to do it for others, and, as Hetty knew all too well, there were girls in her class who would have sold their library books to anyone willing to buy, thus putting the teacher in a very difficult position.

So on second thoughts I won't say anything about Miss Preece or the library to my teacher, Hetty told herself. If she asks me I'll explain, but it really isn't important. What is important is writing the best possible essay, and since it's a holiday task Miss Marks won't even see it until we go back to school in September. By then, of course, she will have forgotten having told me to join the library. And I shall have had my summer holiday on the canal … oh, how can I wait?

On Sunday morning, Miss Preece got up later than usual and took a cup of tea to her mother in her pleasant airy bedroom, with its wide bay window overlooking Everton Terrace. She did this every
Sunday, and every Sunday old Mrs Preece grumbled that she was worn out and saw no reason why she should not have a day in bed. Miss Preece reminded her that she would not want to miss the eleven o'clock service, and as soon as the old lady had drunk her tea began the difficult task of getting her out of bed and dressing her in her best. The Preeces were fortunate in that they had an upstairs bathroom, but the old lady always grumbled that it was cold, despite her daughter's carrying up a couple of jugs of hot water since, on a warm July day, it was scarcely worth lighting the fire in the range.

Presently, with both of them washed and dressed in their church-going clothes, Miss Preece helped her mother down the stairs and settled her at the kitchen table. Then she cooked bacon, eggs and toast, made a pot of coffee, saw that her mother had salt and pepper to hand, and began to eat. Only when the last piece of toast and the last cup of coffee had disappeared did Miss Preece take her mother's coat from its place on the hallstand and embark on the arduous task of getting her ready for the outside world. She then donned her own coat and hat, gave her mother the big black handbag without which the old woman would not have dreamed of leaving the house, and handed her her black ebony stick.

Throughout the short journey to the church, Mrs Preece kept up a continual grumble: the paving stones were uneven, the sun was in her eyes, her daughter had not tucked her silk scarf sufficiently tightly around her neck, her hat was too far forward …

However, her whole attitude changed as soon as they were within sight of the church, and when the service was over and the curate waited in the porch to greet his flock she became gracious, hailing old friends and acquaintances with equal warmth, and telling the curate that no one could have a better daughter than hers. The curate, a skinny young man with a stutter and a pair of tiny pince-nez glasses, agreed eagerly that Miss Preece was indeed a pearl past price. He gave Miss Preece the benefit of a rather watery smile and invited her to come to the vicarage on Tuesday evening to listen to a lecture from a parishioner recently returned from Palestine. Miss Preece smiled with false gratitude, said that she could not leave her mother who never went out in the evenings, and congratulated the young man on his sermon.

The curate smiled sadly, murmured that Miss Preece was an example to them all and moved away, and the Preeces, having exchanged a few remarks on the warmth of the weather and the excellence of the sermon with other churchgoers, began to make their way back to Everton Terrace. Miss Preece intended to prepare a cold luncheon, for she did not see the need for a hot midday meal at this time of year.

As soon as they were far enough away from the church, the grumbles began again, as though a tap had been turned on. Usually, this depressed Miss Preece, but today she scarcely heard her mother's whining, discontented voice. She was thinking back. Once she had looked forward to Sundays, had gone with friends to Prince's Park or into the country where they had
picnicked, gossiped and laughed a good deal. Why had such pleasant pastimes ceased? Surely all her friends had not married or moved away? When had she begun to let her mother rule her so completely? And why was she now querying that rule, when she had not done so for the past four or five – no, ten or twelve – years?

‘Agatha? Whatever is the matter with you, girl? Don't say the curate's pretty words have turned your head. He's not interested in you; he simply wants a good audience for this friend of his who means to bore anyone who will listen with tales of his doings in Palestine.'

Miss Preece opened her mouth to reply and was astonished when her voice, apparently of its own accord, began to sing: ‘Onward, Christian so-oldiers, marching as to war.' As she sang she dragged her mother up and down the kerbs and along the uneven paving stones. Her mother raised her voice and Miss Preece sang louder. Gloriously, the spirit of rebellion rose in her. The worm has turned, she told herself exultantly, and oh goodness, what a worm I have been; but no longer! She still felt sorry for her mother, would still continue to do everything she could for the older woman, but she would not let herself be bullied.

They reached the house and Miss Preece unlocked the front door and threw it wide. She almost expected to hear a voice cry querulously: ‘Is that you, Agatha? Agatha, is that you?' But of course only silence greeted her. Instead she heard her own voice saying cheerfully: ‘Here we are, Mother, home again! I thought we'd have
a nice ham salad for luncheon today, followed by stewed apple. Would you like that?' As she spoke, she took off her mother's hat and began to unbutton her coat. She did not do this roughly, but speedily, taking both garments across to the hallstand and shedding her own coat and hat before returning to help her mother on to a kitchen chair. She saw that the old woman was staring at her, round-eyed and drop-jawed, and felt the first faint stirrings of compunction. Most of the time she and her mother got on well, but now and then the old woman vented her frustrations on her daughter and could be thoroughly difficult. If only they could have a good relationship all the time, how happy she would be! But she knew her mother of old; give her an inch and she would take a mile. ‘Mother, did you hear what I said?' she asked, keeping her tone as neutral as possible. ‘Do you fancy ham salad for your luncheon?'

Mrs Preece gave her a sour look, but her daughter recognised uncertainty in her dark and beady eyes. ‘If that's all there is, I suppose it'll have to do,' she said ungraciously. Miss Preece, going into the larder to collect the makings of their meal, smiled to herself and presently, putting the two plates of ham salad down on the kitchen table and beginning to slice and butter bread, she told herself that she should not expect too much. It would take time, patience and a good deal of courage to stop her mother taking out her bad temper on her daughter, but stop it she must. On the thought, Miss Preece handed her mother a round of buttered bread. Then she closed her eyes, bowed her
head and clasped her hands together. ‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful,' she said. ‘Eat up, Mother, because when we finish luncheon I'm going to take you through to the parlour where you can have a little nap. I'm going out, but I'll be back in time to make a nice pot of tea and to cut the cake Mrs Simpson has left.'

Mrs Preece stopped eating, a forkful of tomato and lettuce halfway to her mouth. ‘And just where might you be going, my lady?' she enquired, her eyes glittering. ‘I don't recall my saying you could go gadding off and leave me stuck in that stuffy parlour …'

Miss Preece smiled. ‘I'm going out,' she said succinctly. ‘Would you like a glass of lemonade, Mother?' Mrs Preece glared at her but did not answer and her daughter knew that the old woman was searching for a crushing reply. Quickly, she got to her feet, went to the larder and came back with a bottle of Corona. She fetched two glasses from the sideboard, popped open the stopper, then raised her eyebrows. ‘Well? Will you join me in a glass of lemonade?'

For a moment the old woman stared at her, her eyes hard and calculating, and Miss Preece could see that she was still searching for a devastating reply. With an inward sigh, she poured lemonade into two glasses, pushed one across to her mother, and began to eat once more. Rome wasn't built in a day, she reminded herself; take one step at a time, Agatha Preece, and maybe you'll win in the end.

* * *

Hetty was awoken on Monday morning when sunlight, coming through a gap in the curtains, fell on her face. She sat up and twitched the curtain back. She had no clock in her room but experience told her that light came early at this time of year and it was probably between six o'clock and half past. Her Uncle Alf was a shipyard worker at Cammell Laird's and had to leave the house soon after six if he was to catch the early ferry, so she listened hard and was rewarded when she heard the back door bang, closely followed by her aunt's voice shouting that he had forgotten his butties.

Hetty snuggled down again and closed her eyes until she was woken once more by her aunt, calling that breakfast was ready. Then she scrambled out of bed, washed, dressed and set off down the stairs, banging on the boys' door as she passed. She was aware that today was different from most Mondays because it was today that, as soon as school finished, she would take her exercise book and go along to Everton library. There she would start her holiday task, with the aid of the books in the children's section, and perhaps she might chat to Miss Preece, thus cementing good relations.

She entered the kitchen where Aunt Phoebe, having cleared away her husband's and her own breakfast dishes, was setting out bowls for the boys and Hetty. Hetty took her place at the table and began to eat her porridge. ‘Am I to do your messages before school?' she asked and was relieved when her aunt shook her head.

‘No, not today, chuck,' Aunt Phoebe said. She grinned at her niece. ‘Off with you now!'

Hetty, already putting on her coat and about to head for the back door, turned towards her aunt. ‘I'm awfully sorry, Auntie, but I won't be home till late; I'm going to Everton library to work on my holiday task. It closes at six, so I'll probably be back around half past …'