While We're Apart (26 page)

Receiving no reply to her knock, she tried again, rather more firmly. Minutes later she had to accept that Mrs Williams had gone out, but as she'd left no note on the door Mary had no idea how long she might be.

‘What to do?' she murmured as she dithered on the doorstep. ‘I can't lug this case round the town, or spend any more money in a tearoom.'

After a fruitless search for a key beneath the doormat and the nearby flower pots, she gave a sigh of frustration. She shouldn't have spent so much time on her lunch. It was an inauspicious start to her new life, and as there didn't seem to be anyone in the street or the neighbouring houses, there was only one thing left for her to do. She put down her case, sat on the doorstep and waited for Mrs Williams – or someone – to come home.

Harvey and Monty were stretched out in front of the fire, slumbering happily now the pub had closed for the afternoon. Ron had finished changing the beer barrels, and now carried up the crates of bottles from the cellar and dumped them on the floor behind the counter. He was distracted for a moment by the undulation of Rosie's generous bosom beneath her frilled blouse as she energetically polished the broad sweep of oak that formed the bar – and he couldn't help but stop and watch in admiration.

She caught him looking and gave a cluck of annoyance. ‘If you can bear to concentrate on something other than my chest, those bottles need putting on the shelves before we open again.'

Ron was startled by her unusually brisk tone, and he regarded her with a frown. ‘What's eating you today, Rosie? You've been short with me since this morning.'

Rosie gave the bar a final sweep with the duster and sighed. ‘I'm sorry, Ron. I didn't mean to snap at you, but I've got things on my mind.'

So had Ron, but Rosie was certainly in no mood for a bit of slap and tickle, so he knew better than to mention it. ‘And what things might they be?' he asked casually as he began to stack the bottles neatly on the shelves beneath the bar.

‘Just things,' she hedged as she turned away and began to polish the battered upright piano with unnecessary vigour.

Ron continued to deal with the bottles. Rosie was clearly furious about something and it was bubbling away inside her, fit to bust. He'd let her stew for a bit, he decided. She couldn't keep it to herself for much longer.

He finished doing the bottles and stacked the crates neatly out of the way. Rosie had stopped trying to rub the veneer off the piano and was now dusting down the horse brasses which hung either side of the inglenook fireplace. Her whole body seemed to be involved in this exercise and he watched the wiggle of her hips in silent longing. To be sure she's a fine-looking woman, he thought with a smile.

‘What are you grinning at?' she snapped, still with her back to him.

Ron's smile disappeared. ‘How the divil do you do that?' he asked in genuine amazement.

‘I know you,' she said. ‘If you're not on the move, then you're standing grinning and leering at me like a loon.' She threw down the duster and turned to face him, her arms tightly folded round her waist, her expression stormy.

Ron noticed Harvey slink away from his customary position in front of the fire, swiftly followed by Monty. They'd obviously decided to make themselves scarce before Rosie really got going. ‘Well, if you don't appreciate being admired, I'd better be off,' he replied. ‘To be sure this is no place for man nor beast while you're in this mood.'

‘Oh, Ron.' Her shoulders slumped and she dipped her chin so her platinum hair fell round her face. ‘I'm sorry for being so horrid to you all day – and now I've even upset poor Monty and Harvey. Please don't go.'

He heard the tremor in her voice and knew she was close to tears, so he swiftly crossed the room and gently drew her into his arms. ‘What is it,
Acushla
?' he crooned. ‘Come on, you can tell me.'

She relaxed into his embrace, her head resting on his shoulder as she wrapped her arms round him. ‘It's all suddenly got too much,' she gulped as she sniffed back her tears. ‘And I don't know if I can stand it for much longer.'

He drew back and lovingly eased her hair from her face so he could look deeply into her sapphire eyes. ‘You'll always have me to rely on, Rosie,' he soothed. ‘Whatever it is that ails you, you won't have to deal with it on your own.'

She nodded and drew a handkerchief from the sleeve of her blouse. ‘I know, but it seems so unfair that I have to burden you with all my endless troubles.'

Ron drew her down to sit beside him on the cushions of the old settle. ‘A trouble shared is a trouble halved,' he soothed. ‘And you know I'd rather share them than have you worrying alone.' He paused, reluctant to broach the subject, but knowing he must. ‘Is this to do with whatever you and Peg talked about the other week?'

She lifted her head from his shoulder, her eyes startled. ‘What did she tell you about that?' she asked sharply.

‘Absolutely nothing. Told me to mind my own business,' he replied gruffly.

Her relief was almost tangible as she sat there in silence and mangled her handkerchief. ‘That's only a part of it,' she said eventually. ‘I had a letter from my husband's sister this morning, and it wasn't pleasant. She accused me of being heartless and unchristian – of abandoning him by living so far from the asylum.' She dabbed the handkerchief over the last of her tears. ‘She even called me a Jezebel,' she went on with a shaky laugh, ‘because she thinks you and I have broken my marriage vows.'

‘I'd like five minutes with that witch,' he growled. ‘She'd soon be put right and no mistake.'

‘I don't doubt it.' She gave him a watery smile.

‘You've had those sorts of letters before,' he said, ‘so I'm surprised you've let her get under your skin like this. You usually tear them up, put them in the bin, have a gin and forget about them. What's so different today?'

‘That wasn't the only letter that came this morning.' Rosie's voice wobbled. She looked up at him, her eyes swimming with fresh tears. ‘And you're not going to like what I'm about to tell you, because it will change things for both of us.'

Ron experienced a sharp pang of alarm. ‘I don't understand,' he managed.

Rosie took his great rough hands in hers and looked at him squarely. ‘My brother's been given parole, and he'll be moving in here until he can find somewhere else to live.'

Ron stared at her, unable to believe what he'd heard. Her brother had another two or three years to serve, and Ron had thought he'd finally managed to get rid of him. ‘But men like Tommy are sent into the army the minute they're released.'

Rosie shook her head. ‘Not in this case unfortunately. He has asthma and has been declared medically unfit for service. As part of his parole agreement, he has to have a permanent address for six months and must work full-time on warden and fire-watch duties.'

‘He has a wife,' Ron rumbled crossly. ‘Why can't he go there?'

‘She wants nothing more to do with him now they're divorced.' Rosie's tone was bleak. ‘And neither do his children.' She gave a deep sigh. ‘I can't say I blame any of them. He might be my brother, but I'm not proud of him – and the last thing I want is for him to move in here.'

It was the last thing Ron wanted, too. On the previous occasion when Rosie had left her brother in charge, he'd not only managed to damage the pub's reputation by bringing in a rowdy and unruly crowd, but had used the cellars to hide his black-market goods. Ron had discovered them and had had a quiet word with his policeman friend – and Tommy had been arrested. Not that Rosie knew of the part he'd played in getting rid of her brother. And he hoped she never would.

‘Then don't let him,' he said gruffly.

Rosie gave a tremulous sigh as she gripped his hands. ‘But I have no choice, Ron. If I don't agree to take him in, he'll have to serve out the rest of his sentence in that awful prison.'

‘If he can't do the time, then he shouldn't have done the crime,' Ron stated flatly. ‘He's more trouble than he's worth, Rosie girl. Leave him to stew where he is.'

She shook her head. ‘I can't do that. He's been very ill apparently, and feeling terribly low after he received the divorce papers. I'm worried he might do something silly.'

Ron knew it wouldn't do his own cause any good at all if he voiced his thoughts on Tommy. The man was a shark, a womanising spiv and double-dealing all-round bastard, and if he slit his wrists, he'd be doing the world a favour.

‘You've gone very quiet, Ron,' Rosie said. ‘I know you don't like him, but please try to keep the peace with him, for my sake.'

‘You're too soft, Rosie,' he replied sadly. ‘But I'll not be the one to cause trouble, as long as he behaves himself and doesn't upset you. When is he due to be released?'

‘Monday.'

‘But that's only three days away,' he gasped.

Rosie stood and tugged at his hand. ‘Let's go upstairs where we can be more comfortable, and I'll make us some lunch. We only have this weekend to ourselves, and I don't want to spoil it by talking about my brother.'

Despite her thick overcoat, scarf, gloves and beret, Mary was feeling cold and miserable as she huddled on the doorstep and tried to shelter from the rising, bitter wind. She'd attempted to pass the time by reading, but found she couldn't concentrate. In an effort to keep warm she's wandered back and forth across the front garden, and even over the road to the park to watch the swans regally swimming on the pond.

The hours dragged slowly by, and it would soon be dark, the thick clouds gathering overhead and threatening rain. She'd tried the garage door, but it was firmly padlocked, so there would be no shelter there – and the porch offered little respite from the elements either. If there was an air raid she didn't know what she'd do, for she had no idea where the nearest public shelter was, and she hadn't spotted an Anderson shelter in any of the other gardens.

She wrapped her arms about her, closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the front door. If she stayed here much longer she would freeze to death. Perhaps she should go back to the station and ask Stan's advice – but she didn't like to do that, for it would be admitting she needed help, and she didn't want to appear feeble. But where could Mrs Williams have gone? Surely she hadn't forgotten she was coming?

‘Hello. What on earth are you doing there?'

Mary's eyes flew open and she stumbled to her feet as a girl approached. ‘I was waiting for someone to come home,' she stammered. ‘I was supposed to be moving in today, but Mrs Williams seems to have gone out and—'

‘Yeah, she 'as an 'abit of going out, does Old Mother Snooty Drawers,' the girl replied with a grimace. ‘I'm Ivy, by the way,' she said and grinned. ‘You must be Mary.'

Mary's face was so cold she could barely smile back as she shook the rather grubby little hand. Ivy was about Mary's age, but small and thin, with a mop of brown curly hair, an urchin face, dimples, and dark brown eyes. Dressed in overalls, jacket, boots and headscarf, her face smeared with grease, she'd clearly just come home from work.

‘Yeah, I look a proper mess, don't I?' Ivy said without rancour as she fished a key out of her gas-mask box. ‘I work with oily machinery every day up at the factory estate, so it can't be 'elped.' She opened the front door. ‘Let's get you inside. You look 'alf frozen.'

She led the way into a square hall that had an expensive Turkish rug covering part of the highly polished parquet floor, an oak table with a telephone on it and a mirror above it. There was a coat stand and several ornately framed seascapes and landscapes on the white walls, and carried on the relatively warm air inside the house was the overall scent of beeswax.

‘Better get them shoes off. She don't like us getting her posh floors mucky.'

Mary slipped off her shoes as Ivy stood on the doormat to unlace her boots and toe them off. ‘Is she very fussy, then?'

‘I'll say, but at least the billet's comfortable and warm, and the food ain't bad either. Her old man is the manager or something of the Home and Colonial, so there's always tins of stuff from under the counter.' Ivy picked up her boots and the dimples reappeared as she grinned. ‘It's a bleedin' long way from 'ackney, I can tell yer, so I keeps me 'ead down and gets on wiv it.'

Mary didn't know how to reply to this, so she clutched her shoes and case and awkwardly smiled back.

‘I expect you need the lav and a cuppa after sitting out there in the cold,' said Ivy. ‘The lav's in there.' She pointed to a door. ‘Make sure you clean the basin when you've finished and try not to use too much soap or get 'er towel dirty. I'll be in the kitchen which is just at the end of the hallway.'

Mary put down her case and shoes, slipped the straps of her handbag and gas-mask box off her shoulder and tentatively opened the door to what turned out to be a very smart, spotlessly clean cloakroom. She was almost afraid to use the lav, and when she'd finished she polished the handle with the pristine towel, washed her hands with the merest smear from the luxurious bar of sweetly scented soap, and dried the basin before putting the towel back exactly how she'd found it.

‘I'm in here,' shouted Ivy from the other end of the hall.

Mary left her belongings neatly at the bottom of the carpeted stairs and found Ivy in the well-equipped kitchen, busy making a pot of tea. She'd clearly washed her face and hands in the kitchen sink, for there was a tidemark of dirt around it, and her coat had been thrown over the back of a kitchen chair.

‘I'll show yer round when I done this,' she said. ‘There's only you and me billeted here now. The other girls went off in a huff after their mate got thrown out over some Yank shinning up the drainpipe to her bedroom.'