I don’t know anything about anyone, she realized as she drank the weak and tasteless coffee. I never enquire in case anyone, in return, asks about my situation. She put her hand to her forehead. A headache was hovering. I know nothing about Arthur either, she sighed. In all the years I’ve known him I’ve never asked why he doesn’t have a regular spot, or where he has been recently, and he never questions me either, though he must have drawn his own conclusions.
She pushed away from the table and glanced through the net curtains and out of the window. The outlook was grey but it wasn’t raining, and she decided to take a walk to clear her head. She went upstairs for her coat and on impulse knocked on Giles Dawson’s door as she passed. She had noticed the number on his key, which they always laid on the table as they were too big for pockets or handbags.
There was no immediate answer and she was about to walk away when she heard the key turn and he looked out. His hair was tousled and he was wearing a dressing gown.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry to disturb you.’ Delia was embarrassed at finding him in a state of undress.
‘That’s all right. I was up, just being lazy.’ He smiled. ‘I didn’t sleep well.’
‘Nor I,’ she admitted. ‘Mr Dawson, I’m ashamed of being so abrupt when you were only trying to be kind.’
He lifted his hands in a careless dismissal. ‘Where are you going now?’ he asked. ‘Have you had breakfast?’
‘Yes, I’m – just going for a walk to clear my head.’ She touched her forehead, signifying a headache.
‘Can you wait? We could perhaps have coffee and muffins; that would be nice, wouldn’t it? Breakfast on me! And I’ll promise not to ask questions.’ He raised his eyebrows.
‘I’m sorry,’ she began again, but he shook his head.
‘Give me ten minutes and I’ll be down.’
In ten minutes exactly he appeared in a warm overcoat, scarf and hat. ‘Where would you like to go, Miss Delamour? I know a place, but if you have a preference?’
‘No, wherever you say. I …’ She hesitated. ‘Last night Jenny and I went to the Maritime Hotel.’
He took her elbow as they walked and she felt strangely comforted. ‘You don’t have to tell me anything,’ he assured her.
‘I know, but I want to explain.’ She felt the icy cold of winter on her cheeks and huddled into her scarf. ‘We were at school together, and were great friends, but when I left the district I … we lost touch. My fault entirely. I could have written to her, but I chose not to.’
He steered her towards Market Place, and as they crossed over the bells of Holy Trinity began to peal. ‘We could go to church first, if you wish?’
She glanced up at him to see if he was serious, but his face was impassive. ‘I don’t – as a rule.’
He smiled. ‘Forced to as a youngster were you, as I was?’
‘Oh, no! My father said it was mumbo-jumbo and I wasn’t allowed. The only time I went was from school, Easter and Christmas, you know, and he didn’t know about that. I would have liked to go more, because then I could have sung.’
‘Couldn’t you sing at home?’
‘No. There wasn’t anything to sing about.’
He pushed open a door to a small café on the edge of the street and the steamy warmth closed around them, as did the aroma of roast coffee beans and frying bacon.
‘I’m going to have coffee, bacon, eggs and sausage,’ he declared. ‘And then muffins.’ He greeted a woman behind the counter, who indicated a table in the corner already set with cups, saucers and cutlery.
Delia sat down. ‘This is very cosy. I think I might have the same. The breakfast that Mrs Benson supplies is all right but not very sustaining.’
He unfastened his coat and scarf and put them on the high back of his chair. ‘I quite agree. But as lodgings go it’s quite good. Shall I take your coat?’
Delia undid the buttons of her coat and handed it to him but kept on her scarf. She was so cold; how she hated winter.
They were brought coffee instantly and ordered breakfast, and Giles murmured, ‘It’s a role reversal here. The woman deals with the customers and her husband does the cooking.’
‘That’s the kind of husband I’d like,’ Delia answered, ‘and for him to sweep the floors and do the dusting as well.’
He picked up her hand and examined it carefully. ‘Doesn’t look to me, Miss Delamour, as if you’ve ever done any!’
‘Not lately I haven’t’ – she retrieved her hand – ‘but I used to when I was a girl.’ The statement slipped out without her thinking. ‘It was expected of me,’ she added lamely. ‘Families like ours – that’s what we did.’
‘Of course, and that’s the way it still is for many.’ He poured them both a cup of coffee and with practised ease put hers at her side of the table. ‘And you’d perhaps have been expected to go into service if you hadn’t chosen the theatre, wouldn’t you? It’s the way of life unless you were born into the upper classes.’
Delia poured milk into her coffee. ‘No,’ she muttered. ‘I was expected to stay at home and be the household drudge, just as I had been since I was old enough to hold a scrubbing brush or a duster.’
He paused in the act of taking a sip of his black coffee and put the cup back on the saucer. ‘Then – well done in making your escape,’ he said slowly. ‘How very
