Питер Ловси - On the Edge

‘I was a plotter, like Antonia. In an underground control room. Very hush-hush. We had to sign a paper promising not to say anything about our work.’

He seemed to find this amusing. ‘Ladies talk so much they can’t keep no secret.’

‘You’re mistaken. We’re much more discreet than the average man.’

‘Yes?’ He gave her a silly grin and she almost lost patience with him. His own life was threatened and he was so complacent that he hadn’t a hope of finding out.

‘Take Antonia. She’s much more guarded than you appreciate. If she has a reason to keep something to herself, nothing will drag it from her.’

‘You think?’

‘I’m certain.’

His expression changed. ‘Rosie, you are right about Antonia. She is a plotter still.’

She hesitated. He was an eager listener and she was on the brink of saying too much. ‘Most of us women have our secret hopes and plans, if that’s what you mean. Anyway, I was telling you about Kettlesham Heath. It was demanding work — sheer hell sometimes — and we couldn’t afford to make mistakes. Actually Antonia was the most reliable of all the girls on watch. She didn’t get tense. She could talk and joke and keep everyone smiling and never lose her concentration.’

‘She was popular?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Plenty of officers went out with her. It’s all right, she told me this.’ ‘Well, yes.’

‘And you, Rosie? Did you have plenty?’

She allowed herself to smile. ‘I wouldn’t describe it in quite those terms. I wasn’t so popular as Antonia. If I’d been asked I’d have gone out with almost any officer with wings. Any of us would. It was a question of prestige. Good looks and age came a long way after rank. They had to have stripes on their sleeves and the more the better. Funny, isn’t it? There were some good-looking fellows among the sergeant pilots, but to go out with them was slumming. It was the service mentality, I suppose. Silly. I married a wing commander.’ She stopped and lowered her eyes. She hadn’t wanted to mention Barry.

Anyone with a modicum of tact would have moved to another subject. Hector sat up in his seat and leaned on his elbows and gave her a penetrating stare as if nothing interested him so much. ‘Tell me, Rosie, do you miss your husband?’

She frowned. His dark eyes locked with hers and it was almost like being interrogated. She wondered for a petrifying moment if he suspected something. Then with a sense of relief she realized what this was about. How typical of a man, she thought. He thinks I’m on the lookout for someone. How can I possibly convey to him that those stories about freshly widowed women falling for the next man who passes the time of day with them are untrue, quite monstrously untrue?

‘I should never have got married.’

‘You don’t miss him, then?’

‘I’d rather talk about something else.’

‘Won’t you try again?’

‘It’s most unlikely.’

‘You will get lonely.’

‘I don’t suppose I will.’

‘You are very pretty. Some fellow will ask to marry you soon.’

It was a long time since anyone had paid her any kind of compliment. In her situation it was inopportune, but better than an insult. Or an interrogation.

‘Shall we look at the menu again?’

He looked mystified. ‘I spoke something wrong?’

It might have been uncharitable, but she had a suspicion that Hector was overplaying the part of the foreigner baffled by English. He’d lived in America and England for fifteen years or so and must have used the language pretty effectively to earn the money he had.

They decided to have coffee instead of desserts. He offered her a liqueur. She thanked him and said no, adding that she didn’t want to stop him from having one. She smoked a cigarette while he had a brandy. She needed the smoke. She’d staunched the flow of personal remarks, but she felt uneasy. His eyes never left hers. She didn’t know if it was her imagination or if he was planning something.

As they were collecting their coats, he suggested she waited inside the restaurant while he fetched the car, which he’d parked in a side street.

‘That isn’t necessary. I’ll take the tube from here. The meal was delicious. Thank you.’ She thrust her arms into the coat and made a decisive move towards the door. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Rosie!’ He caught up with her outside and clutched her arm to restrain her. ‘I said I will drive you.’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Excuse me, but why not?’

She was flustered, so the words that came out sounded more ungrateful than she intended. ‘You wanted a meal and I came with you out of politeness. Now would you please let go of my arm?’

He walked beside her as she set off smartly along Euston Road. ‘Please, did I say something wrong tonight?’

‘You’re making this very difficult.’

‘I cannot allow this, Rosie.’

‘Hector, I’m not your property.’

This had a startling effect. He flung up his arms as if in surrender. ‘Forgive me. I should never have said such things. You are Antonia’s friend. You come specially to my house to cook a nice meal for me. What disgusting manners I have!’

They’d reached a street corner and had to stop for the traffic. Some people standing there had picked up Hector’s last remark and turned round. He must have seemed comical making an exhibition of himself in his expensive overcoat and porkpie hat. Rose didn’t find it amusing.

She made a sideward step and tried to give the impression she was unaccompanied. Hector didn’t move. He simply raised his voice. ‘Please forgive me. Allow me to be a gentleman and drive you safe home.’

She looked to right and left, hoping to God that the underground sign was somewhere about. An elderly couple had joined the group at the curb. The woman was trying to prompt Rose by nodding and smiling.

Hector was oblivious of his audience. ‘Don’t go down the tube, Rosie.’

It was like an echo of the old tear-jerking ballad ‘Don’t go down the mine, Daddy’. Ludicrous. This could only get more embarrassing. He wouldn’t give up. And she didn’t want it to end in a blazing row.

She spun around. ‘All right. Which way is the car?’

After all, she’d made her point. He could be in no doubt now that she wanted him to remain at arm’s length.

During the drive to Oldfield Gardens Hector behaved impeccably. He was charming and witty. He talked glowingly of the curry she had promised him the next day and how in order to put his mind at rest he planned to lock the toilet door and hide the key. She took it in good part and said she could think of dozens of ways of disposing of a curry and some of them were very messy indeed, so he’d better leave the toilet open and trust his luck and hers.

‘This your street, Rosie?’

‘Yes, don’t you remember? The house at the end, opposite the hoarding.’

He drew in and braked.

She turned and leaned back slightly in the same movement to keep her face out of range. ‘Thank you. It was a splendid meal.’

‘Only second best.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘We’ll find out tomorrow, eh?’

‘If you’re still willing to risk it. Hector...?’

‘Yes?’

‘There is still some meat in the fridge. You won’t use any, will you?’

‘You think I want to cook a midnight feast? Without anyone to share?’

‘I just wanted to mention it.’

He laughed softly. ‘Rosie, believe me, I don’t touch nothing.’

She opened the car door, profoundly relieved at getting home without incident. On an impulse she reached out and put her hand over his, squeezing his fingers slightly. ‘Tomorrow, then.’