gentleman—and they danced the whole evening through.’
When she had turned her face towards him he had ended for her, flippantly, ‘And they married and lived happy ever after.’
‘No, she married my father.’
What could he make of that? Her last call was at Mawson & Swan’s in Grey Street, where she purchased a number of books.
By the time they reached the railway station he likened himself to a donkey, he was so loaded down under parcels, and he thanked God he wasn’t likely to come across anyone he knew. When they arrived at Shields she hired a cab, and they drove through the drizzling rain to the house, and into warmth and comfort and elegance.
Elegance was another new word he had of late added to his vocabulary; it was the only word to describe this house, its furniture and the comforts of it.
‘Ah, isn’t it nice to be home?’ She had returned from upstairs, where she had evidendy combed her hair and applied some talcum powder to her face for her chin had the same appearance as Ruth’s had when she wiped it with a floured hand.
‘It’s an awful night; you must have something before you go, something to eat that is. Did Mr Taylor bring the takings?’
‘Yes; I’ve checked them, they’re all right.’
This was a new departure; he no longer went to the office to collect the rents. Mr Taylor had been promoted and so came each evening to the house.
On the days she did not send him off on tours of inspection he would receive the money from the old man, count it, then check the books, and never did he hand them back to him but he saw himself as he was a year ago, a younger edition of this man. That was the only difference, a younger edition; the old man’s insecurity did not make his own position in comparison appear strong, quite the reverse.
Only a week ago he had felt he could play his hand for a good while yet, but today, the anniversary of Janie’s death, he had a feeling in his bones that soon all the cards would be laid face up, and as always they would show a winner and a loser; there could never be two winners in any game . . .
Why not?
Oh my God! He’d been through it all before, hadn’t he, night after night? He was what he was, that was why not.
Below his outer covering, his jaunty aggressive air, the look that gave nothing away while at the same time suggesting that what it had to hide was of value, behind all this, only he himself knew the frailties of his character. Yet, in this particular case, he wasn’t going to be weak enough—or did he mean strong enough?—to cheat at this game and let her be the winner.
And again he told himself he had to stop hoodwinking himself on this point too, because it wasn’t really the moral issue that would prevent him from letting her win, but the fact that he didn’t think he was up to paying the stake. It was too high. Yet he liked her. Oh aye, it was very odd to admit, but he liked her. He liked being with her; she was good company, except at those times when she made him feel so small that he imagined she could see him crawling around her feet. Once or twice she had done this when he had dared to contradict her on some point with regard to the business. And yet she never took that high hand with him when they were in company. At such times she always deferred to him as a woman might to her husband, or her boss.
She was a funny character; he couldn’t get to the bottom of her. He had never known anyone in his life so knowledgeable or so self-possessed. But then, never in his life had he been in contact with women of her class.
‘You will stay for something to eat?’
He hesitated, then said, ‘Yes. Yes, thank you.’
‘Good.’ She smiled at him, put her hand to her hair and stroked it upwards and back from her forehead; then she said, ‘Don’t sit on the edge of that chair as if you were waiting to take off in a race.’
His jaw tightened, his pleasant expression vanished. This was the kind of thing that maddened him.
‘Oh! Oh, I’m sorry.’
Now she was sitting forward on the edge of the couch leaning towards him. ‘Please don’t be annoyed. I have the unfortunate habit of phrasing my requests in the manner of orders.’ She made a small deprecating movement with her head. ‘I . . . I must try to grow out of it. All I intended to say was, please relax, be comfortable . . . make yourself at home.’ The last words ended on a low note.
After a moment he slid slowly back into the chair and smiled ruefully at her.
Settling herself back once again on the couch, she stared at him before saying, still in a low tone, ‘I’m going to call you . . . No’—she lifted her hand—‘again my phrasing is wrong. What I mean to say is, may I call you by your Christian name?’
He did not answer but stared at her, unblinking.
She was looking down at her hands now where they were joined on her lap, her fingers making stroking movements between the knuckles. ‘You see, I . . . I want to talk to you this evening about . . . about something important, if you can afford me the time after dinner. Which reminds me. Would you mind ringing the bell, please?’
He rose slowly to his feet and pulled the bell by the side of the fireplace, and they didn’t speak until the maid appeared; then she said, ‘Mr Connor will be staying for dinner, Jessie. How long will it be?’
‘Well . . . well, it’s ready now, miss, but’—The girl cast a glance in Rory’s direction, then added, ‘Say five minutes’ time, miss?’
‘Very well, Jessie, thank you.’
When the door was closed on the maid, she said, I have never seen you smoke, do you smoke?’
‘Yes. I have a draw at nights.’
‘My father never smoked. I like the smell of tobacco. About . . . about your Christian name. What does the R stand for . . . Robert?’
‘No, Rory.’
‘Roar-y. What is it short for?’
‘Nothin’ that I know of. I was christened Rory.’
‘Roar-y.’ She mouthed the word, then said, ‘I like it. My name, as you know, is Charlotte. My father once said it was a very suitable name for me.’ Her head drooped again, ‘he was an unkind man, a nasty man, a mean nasty man.’
He could say nothing to this. He was so amazed at her frankness he just sat staring at her, until she said, ‘Would you care to go upstairs and wash?’ He blinked rapidly, swallowed, wetted his lips, and as he drew himself up from the chair answered, ‘Yes. Yes, thank you.’
She did not rise from the couch but looked up at him. ‘The bathroom is the third door on the right of the landing.’
He inclined his head towards her, walked out of the drawing-room, across the hall and up the stairs. This was the first time he had been upstairs and he guessed it would be the last.
After closing the bathroom door behind him he stood looking about him in amazement. A full length iron bath stood on four ornamental legs. At one end of it were two shining brass taps, at the foot was a shelf and, on it, an array of coloured bottles and fancy boxes. To the left stood a wash basin, and to the left of that again a towel rack on which hung gleaming white towels. In the wall opposite the bath was a door, and when he slowly pushed this open he found he was looking down into a porcelain toilet, not a dry midden as outside the cottage, or a bucket in a lean-to on the waterfront, but something that looked too shiningly clean to be put to the use it was intended for.
A few minutes later as he stood washing his hands, not from any idea of hygiene, but simply because he wanted to see the bowl fill with water, he thought, I’m a blasted fool. That’s what I am, a blasted fool. I could use this every day. I could eat downstairs in that dining-room every day. I could sit in that drawing-room, aye, and smoke every day. And I could sleep up here in one of these rooms every . . . He did not finish the sentence but dried his hands, gave one last look around the bathroom, then went downstairs.
The meal was over and once again they were sitting in the drawing-room.
