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“I couldn’t,” he said, pushing happiness off.

“Why, whatever’s to stop you? Not that old Mrs Frazier, surely?”

“You don’t understand,” he said, careful not to look.

“Mother’ll be terribly put out if you don’t,” Nancy explained. “You could be back at your office after the lunch hour.”

He seized onto this.

“It’s my work,” he said.

“You mean, you never asked leave? You are forgetful, Charley, aren’t you? And when I took the trouble to let you know, soon as ever we fixed it. Well, if you didn’t get permission, it’s too late now, naturally.”

While she was there he was all right, and while he was busy at the office he forgot. But he was sleeping badly once more, what with his doubts and fears, this time about Nance. He knew she wouldn’t come to him in this room, though sometimes she said things to make it so that he couldn’t be certain. But he felt that he might have a good night’s rest, at last, if he could remain on here this evening after all. He wondered how to put it.

“I might stay,” he said.

“And not go to the funeral?” He looked at her. There was a half smile of complicity on her face. “Oh no, you can’t do that,” she went on. “It wouldn’t be right. Mother wouldn’t understand.”

He saw he was not going to have his way. He began to feel miserable.

“Come up with you,” she said. “It’s not all that, sleeping on the old sofa, surely?” She kept herself from wondering what he wished to express. All she wanted was that he should speak out, whatever it might be.

“You’ve always something, bothering you, that you can’t seem to rid yourself of,” she went on, sadly, when he did not say it. “You mightn’t be sitting here with me. I might be an old ghost,” she said.

“Now Nance.” Greatly daring he turned to her, and made as if to put an arm round her waist.

“Steady,” she warned him. “We shan’t want much of that, shall we, or not until after the funeral, at all events?” Then she changed the conversation. “What was it passed between
Mr Mead and his wife on the telephone, the time you rang me up about?”

“Oh you don’t have to notice them,” he protested. She saw with excitement that his eyes were anguished. He rapidly went on, quoting what she had commented, and without realizing it. “You won’t bring up a family on no more than good wishes will you?” he said.

“But can’t they get along together, then?”

“Corker’s all right,” he dully replied, in the dumps once more, his attention wandering back to the cat.

“Isn’t that like a man all over?” she asked, boisterous again. “With not a word to spare for Mrs Mead,” she elaborated.

“She’s got a goitre.”

“Has she,” Miss Whitmore said. “Yes, that might make a difference.”

He actually laughed. She was astounded.

“What is there funny in what I’ve just said?” she demanded.

“Wouldn’t be room on the pillow, would there?” he asked, watching the tabby kitten, free again.

“Why, Charley, that’s rude,” she joyfully protested.

They fell silent. When she spoke next the mood had passed, she was dead serious.

“No, it’s the end of life that matters, how it finishes,” she said. “Look at mother, now. Why, she was like a saint. I was proud to be here, there you are,” she ended, almost in defiance, as though daring him.

“You’re right,” he said. “To die in bed.”

“What in heaven’s name are you getting at now?”

He spoke with a casual manner, as of a great truth.

“Comfortably,” he said.

“Well they do say it should be with your boots on,” she said, greatly wondering. “I mean while you’re about your work. Seeing to the grandchildren, or whatever.”

“That’s bunk,” he said.

“Oh, so it’s bunk, is it?” she repeated, at a loss. Really, Charley had more a way of getting away from you than she had ever even suspected.

“Like what they tell you in the Army,” he explained.

“Well, my Phil was in the R.A.F., wasn’t he?” she demanded, beginning to show irritation.

“He’s got hold of her tail,” he said of the kitten.

“No you can’t slide away from me as simply as all that,” she protested. “What’s up with you, Charley?”

“Me? Nothing.” He was at ease, his mind a blank.

“You’re not saying anything against Phil, are you?”

At that he seemed to be disturbed.

“Never even mentioned him,” he said.

“That’s all right then. For you know, no matter what others suffered, it was his life he gave.” This was the third time she had said it, and it had been different each time. “And he died in action,” she added.

“Why Nance …” he began, turning to her, distressed, “I never …”

“Very good,” she said, “forget what I said. I’m funny where Phil’s concerned.”

“Didn’t enter my head …” he protested.

“Oh, all right, don’t go on,” she cried out. “You needn’t pay attention.” Then she took pity on him, he looked so puzzled. So she raised his nearest hand, and kissed it. “There,” she said.

He knew less than ever what to think, as the upset began once more in his stomach. Her mouth on his palm had been like a bird in the hand. He looked stupidly at where she had kissed him.

“They are sweet, aren’t they?” she remarked.

He did not catch the first word, and glanced at her. But she was watching the kittens.

“Aren’t they now?” she insisted. Once more he put happiness off. Then he did tell her something. It had suddenly come on the tip of his tongue.

“I had a mouse out there,” he said.

She had a quick inkling of this. “And the guards took it away from you?” she asked, as if to a child. But he did not notice.

“No, I had it in a cage I made,” he said.

“You don’t hold it against my puss?” she enquired. She was anxious.

“Never even crossed my mind,” he answered.

Mrs Grant came down, soon after. And for the rest of the time, before he went to catch his train, he sat in a peaceable daze, while the two women lovingly talked of Mr Grant.

Nancy stayed on at Mrs Grant’s after the funeral, and he went down there every Sunday. He loved her, although he did not say so, or even show it, while she, for her part had made up her mind that she would marry him.

He lived quietly and hopelessly on, convinced that no girl would ever look at him, because he was too slow. He did nothing about her. He was content to bide his time, and so was she.

Mrs Grant, who remained steadfast and kindly, often prodded Nance about Charley. It was the one point on which they disagreed, that she would not declare herself to the old lady about him. Nance turned it off by asking what Mrs Grant would do if left alone. The answer made, was that ‘mother’ could go live with a niece in the Midlands, a schoolteacher. To which Nance would object that, surely, she did not wish to give up her lovely home. Indeed, with what Nance, who had gone back to work, contributed each week, and with the insurance money, it was easy for Mrs Grant to keep things going.

Nancy’s real mother wrote, from where she was evacuated, to hint that she had in mind to marry again.

When Charley was down, the two younger people would go out in the evening if it was fine, and, before they came back, they would kiss a bit. This made him more miserable the rest of the week, when he had the leisure to remember. But she never kissed him indoors, after Mrs Grant had begun to press her.

They called each other dear. And, once he had begun really
to love Nancy, he did not sit with Mrs Frazier in her room any more, which turned this lady against him.

Nancy could not forget her dead husband Phil, but she gradually came to feel about him less often, and to wonder about Charley more. Where the airman had always been gay, and on his own until his last leave, when they had been married, Charley was so helpless that she wondered how he held his job down. In a way she was waiting for him to lose it. She did not express this to herself, even, but she might have been seeing whether he could support himself, also whether he had really and truly got over Rose, which had been such a business when Father first put them in the way of each other, and it had all been so dreadful.

But what she liked about Charley was how he did not ask for anything, however small, although his need was desperate, a child could tell it. He was so trusting, she felt, that she came to trust him.

After a time she believed he was very reserved, and respected him for this. Yet she realized the war had injured him. Really what intrigued her was, that she did not know if he didn’t, or just couldn’t, tell about himself, tell even something of all that went on behind those marvellous brown eyes, which had so humbly implored her when she came to announce that Mr Grant was gone, which had so often begged her since, which told her she was needed as she could never be by almost anyone, that more than anyone in the world, now they had killed Phil, it was Charley Summers who must have her.

Accordingly, some time in November, she made up her mind she’d do it. But she said nothing. She waited. Then old Ernie Mandrew sent another sad sort of note about Phil, and asked her to stay over for Christmas, to bring a boy if she liked. She saw this was her chance. She put it to Charley.

She asked what he had planned to do over the holiday. Suspecting nothing, Charley said he did not know. Then she suggested that he should come along, in almost exactly the same
words he had used to Dot Pitter, on a previous occasion. The two times seemed so alike he was terrified, so much so, that she saw almost how terrified he could be, and her heart fell. But she had made up her mind, and she had to go through with it.

He produced a perfectly genuine reason against the visit. He objected that Ernie Mandrew, with all his domestics, was too much, altogether, and that the man must be in big business. She said, why didn’t anyone ever inform you, he’s a bookie. But Charley was very suspicious. He wanted to be told how she had got to know Mr Mandrew. She was patient. She explained that her Phil had worked for him, in peacetime. It still looked to Charley like a trap, he did not dare think what for. Next he asked if Middlewitch was to be present. She replied that she thought she must have explained how Arthur was out, that poor Arthur had been betting, and couldn’t pay up. Betting with a firm that size, Charley asked. She told him the truth. With someone else’s money, she said.

“So you will, Charley Barley, won’t you?” she ended.

“I might,” he said, feeling sick.

This afternoon of Christmas day, down at old Ernie Mandrew’s, she took Charley out, determined by hook or by crook to bring him to the point at last, for, however little she knew about his intentions, her own mind was still made up.

“Would you ever want to have children?” she asked, as they set off together over the snow, on the way to the village. This made him think of Ridley, whom he had not considered in a long while.

“Why?” he said.

“Oh, why does a person ever put a question?” she gently enquired. “To get their answer, of course, you old silly.”

“I don’t know.” He still did not realize that they might come on the boy when they reached the first houses, and he was not to know this until it was too late.

“Come on,” she insisted. “Having children’s one of the few things anyone can do for herself in this old world, that is if she can rake up a boy to do it with,” she laughed.

“Would you?” he asked.

“We’re not talking of me, this instant minute, thanks,” she replied. “Why won’t you ever tell me anything?”

“I might have one already.”

“Go on,” she said, laughing still. “Why, you’ve never been wide awake enough for that.”

“I might,” he insisted.

“Charley, I really do believe … No, look here, you haven’t, have you, now?”

He did not answer, or even glance at her.

“You said it in such a way that you might at that …” she went on, when he said nothing. “But, Charley, it would be living a lie.”

“How d’you mean?”

“Well, wouldn’t it?”

“I still don’t get you,” he cautiously explained.

“Why, being like me,” she elaborated. “Not having a real father all my life. That’s been my trouble. Oh it mightn’t matter for a boy, but it’s very different where girls are concerned.”

“Rotten luck,” he said.

“No, Charley, you never did, did you?”

“What would you give for me to tell?”

“But this is serious,” she entreated. “You can’t play about with this. It’s all there is that people the same as us can do with their own lives.”

“A man never knows if the kid is his own, or not.”

“Now there’s no need for you to be sarcastic,” she protested. “I haven’t brought you all this long way for that,” she said, with more truth behind the remark than she proposed to reveal. “Can’t you be serious, once in a while,” she begged, although he was the most serious of men.

The snow, and the sun above, lit her face so that each eyelash stood out on its own, and the grain of her skin, until, with those blue eyes, and the way she had of addressing him, on which he had come to rely for peace of mind, and with her walking by his side, she grew upon him, became an embodiment of everything comforting, and true, and good. So much so, that he lost the drift of this argument. She had to press to get him to say he did not really know if he had a child.