Unlike her own father, she thought, who, although a moderate placid man, hated injustice and had a strong sense of what was right and proper and would have seen justice done even at his own hands; and that might now be a problem, she told herself, for our Jack is his son and married with children whom Aaron adores; so what can be done in reparation? Her father would most certainly turn against her brother if he heard what had happened.
What a can of worms. She turned over on her pillow, bashing it with her fist to make a comfy nest for her head. I think I’ll have to tell Mother and I’m certain she’ll accept Robin – and then, of course, she thought suddenly, she’ll no longer be anxious about him, for as she’s his real grandmother no one will be able to say she can’t keep him. But I won’t tell Father. I’ll let Mother decide on that.
She fell asleep, and woke again an hour later. And then, if Delia stays in Hull, perhaps Robin could come here and see her. That’s it, she thought sleepily, her mind befuddled. That’s the way round it. A conundrum; there’s always a solitary – no, a soli-solvable – solution, if you think hard enough.
When Delia waved goodbye to Jenny, she felt drained of energy; the telling of her story had completely emptied her out and she knew she wouldn’t sleep. She turned her key in the lodging house door and, after locking it behind her as requested on the placard inside, opened the door into the small sitting room which the landlady called the theatricals’ lounge. A low fire was burning behind a fire guard and Giles Dawson was fast asleep in an easy chair in front of it.
Carefully she moved the guard to one side and with the coal tongs placed a few pieces of coal on the embers. He didn’t stir, and she sat down opposite and observed him.
In repose, his forehead was smooth, unlike when he was playing, when a small frown of concentration creased between his eyebrows. He had fine features, smooth skin and a generous mouth, rather like Arthur Crawshaw, she thought, except that their colouring differed; Arthur was dark-haired and dark-eyed and very aristocratic, with a short beard and a penetrating gaze, whereas Giles was fair, with friendly blue eyes and a clean-shaven chin.
He suddenly opened his eyes and smiled sleepily. ‘Miss Delamour, hello,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it odd that even when asleep you can sense when someone else appears?’
‘Can you?’ she murmured. ‘I don’t know.’
He gazed at her. ‘Mmm. Perhaps women don’t fall asleep as easily as men do. You take care not to be caught catching flies or snoring.’
‘You weren’t snoring,’ she told him, ‘and you had your mouth firmly closed.’
‘Really?’
Delia blushed even though she knew he was teasing her by suggesting that she had been watching him, which she had.
He sat up in the chair. ‘Have you had a pleasant evening?’
Delia hesitated; she probably looked a wreck, eyes reddened, drained. ‘I met my friend Jenny Robinson,’ she said. ‘We’re still catching up with all our news.’
‘Is she a married woman?’ he asked. ‘Or independent like yourself?’
‘She’s a single woman, a teacher.’ She looked at him curiously. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Forgive me if I seem inquisitive. It’s just that you meet late in the evenings and not during the day, but of course if she’s a teacher that explains it. She’s busy following her profession.’ He nodded thoughtfully. ‘I admire the strength of women who follow a chosen career, as you have done too. There are so many pitfalls for women, who generally are expected to marry and have children rather than live a life that they choose for themselves.’
Delia turned her gaze away from him. ‘Life doesn’t always allow you to choose what you do with it,’ she said slowly. ‘Sometimes it’s thrust upon you and there is no option but to follow one path.’
He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his long cord-clad legs. ‘Isn’t there sometimes an alternative?’
She gave a short sardonic scoff. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, thinking of her lowest ebb when she had contemplated the deep waters of the estuary. ‘An alternative indeed, and often the only solution.’
‘Miss Delamour!’ he said. ‘Are you – do you have troubles? Can I – can I help in any way? Listen to your problems? Be a shoulder to cry on?’
She lifted her head and turned to him. ‘Is it so obvious?’
He nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said honestly. ‘You have been through some difficult times, I think. You have a deep sadness within you.’
‘You’re very observant.’ There was a slight bitterness in her tone.
‘I am. When I see a beautiful woman who rarely smiles, I wonder why. Has she suffered great sorrow, been through some deep crisis in her life? Forgive me,’ he said again. ‘Life is often difficult and I don’t wish to pry.’ He put out a hand towards her. ‘But if I can help with anything, I would like to. I’d like to think that you would consider me as a friend.’
Delia stood up, ignoring the hand that he proffered. ‘There’s nothing,’ she said, her voice tight and strangled, and she felt the sharp stone of rancour lodged within her. ‘Nothing to be done. My life is what it is.’
He rose from his chair too and studied her perceptively, the small characteristic frown furrowed between his eyebrows. ‘I’m sorry,’ he began, but she raised her hand in rejection.
‘Don’t be,’ she said, turning away. ‘Goodnight.’
She was sorry, of course; she was not usually so abrupt or ill-mannered and the next morning, as she ate breakfast alone, she wondered if he had left and hoped that he hadn’t. It was nine o’clock, the
