A Mistletoe Kiss (38 page)

Mrs Preece sniffed. ‘I don't know about coincidence; Hetty's been promising us that she'll get proper leave for months, but so far all she got last year was four measly days, and she spent them with her grandparents. I'm not denying that it was her duty to go to the old folk, because they won't be here for ever, any more than I shall, but if I were you, girl, I wouldn't count my chickens.'

‘Oh, Mother, Hetty came up to the library when she was free and we had a good old gossip,' Agatha protested. ‘And as for the professor, he's bound to get some leave. After all, he's been away for fifteen months, so he must be due for time off. I mean, they get embarkation leave when they're going away, so they should get …'

Mrs Preece gave a wheezy chuckle. ‘Disembarkation
leave, I suppose you mean,' she said. ‘But I'm not interested in Max; it's my little Hetty I want to see again.'

‘You will, I'm sure of it,' Agatha said soothingly. ‘Just keep watching the post; Hetty's a good girl, she'll be bound to write when she gets definite dates.' She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘I'm helping out at the NAAFI this evening, but I'll give you a hand to get into your night things before I leave.'

Mrs Preece scowled at her. ‘You'll do no such thing,' she said crossly. ‘It may take me a while, but I can manage perfectly well, thank you. Mrs Simpson comes round during the evening so if I need help, she'll give it.'

Agatha tutted, getting up from the table and carrying their plates over to the sink. ‘Just because there were no raids in January or February, that doesn't mean to say there won't be any in March,' she reminded her mother. ‘Not that I think there will be; why, a couple of days ago there was a flurry of snow as I came back from fire-watching, the last thing you'd expect at the beginning of March. And come to think, unless there's a raid we shut the club at half past ten, so I'll be back with you by eleven at the latest. And the raids never start before then, so we'll have time to get down to the Anderson before bombing starts.'

‘I am
not
going down into that beastly cold shelter,' Mrs Preece said sharply, her eyes flashing. ‘It's cold and dirty and smelly, and I hate it. If there's a raid – and I mean if – then you'll find me under the stairs. I admit that should the house get a direct hit I'll be a
goner, but then I'd be just as dead if a bomb landed smack on the Anderson.'

Agatha sighed but did not argue, since she was well aware of the truth of her mother's remarks. It wasn't so bad in summer, but in winter she thought it quite possible that if they slept in the Anderson shelter they could easily catch their deaths from pneumonia, even if they escaped being blown to bits. So she smiled at Mrs Preece and went over to the stove to fetch the kettle. ‘Right you are; I'll join you under the stairs if there's a raid,' she said cheerfully. ‘And because you're an obstinate old woman, I'll leave you to wash up our supper things.' She stood the kettle on the draining board, put on her coat and a pink headscarf, and headed for the back door. ‘Be good, and I'll see you later.'

Agatha had a good evening at the club, but was not sorry when Mrs Hetherington, chairlady of the local WVS, told her that the clock had struck ten and she might as well go home and get some sleep. ‘You're working at the library all day tomorrow and fire-watching at night. There's no sense in staying on here when most of the customers have gone, and we've plenty of helpers to do the cleaning up,' she said. She examined her rota. ‘I'll see you again in a week's time. Good night, Miss Preece, and don't forget to put aside a copy of the latest Agatha Christie for me. If I'm too busy to pop in, perhaps you could bring it with you next week.'

Agatha agreed that she would put aside the book
in question –
One, Two, Buckle My Shoe
, an Hercule Poirot mystery – for Mrs Hetherington, and set off for home. It was very cold, with a sharp little wind which caused her to tighten her headscarf and wish devoutly that she had thought to bring the woollen muffler her mother had knitted for her the previous Christmas. Because it was late she thought about catching a tram, but she would need to change, and would still have a good distance to go at the end of her ride, so she decided she might as well walk. Everywhere was in darkness, of course, but she could see enough to make her way through the streets safely and presently passed a house with a beautiful window box crammed with spring flowers, including crocuses of every possible colour. It reminded Agatha of her pretty blue pot with its display and she wondered whether the flowers would still be unfaded when Max came to visit her.

She had brought the crocuses into the library partly to cheer up both borrowers and staff with this first sign of spring, and partly to celebrate Max's return. Apart from that first cablegram announcing that he would soon be coming home she had heard nothing, but this did not worry her; cablegrams would be as strictly treated by the censor as letters, and Max had already told her all that he was allowed to pass on, which was simply that he would soon be back in Britain.

As she walked, she wondered whether she should dig up some more of the bulbs which flourished in her back garden and pot them up to beautify her work
place against Max's return. Pheasant eye narcissi were in bud and not only would look lovely but would fill the air of the library with their frail, sweet scent. However, South Africa was famous for its wonderful gardens, so Max was probably accustomed to having blossom all around him and would not be particularly impressed even if she could deck the place with rare orchids. Yet there was something about the homely beauty of the brave little crocuses which pleased her and her readers – Mr Gower, too – so she would leave them on the counter until they withered and were beautiful no longer.

Having made up her mind, Agatha slowed her pace to glance in one or two of the darkened shop windows as she passed. A greengrocer with imagination had got large sheets of blank newsprint from somewhere and drawn pictures of various fruit; next to bananas, oranges and grapes he had carefully written the words
None today
, which made Agatha smile. Tropical fruit had to be brought from abroad, and merchant shipping needed room for far more important cargo.

Despite the lateness of the hour, there were still a good many people about, so when she heard herself hailed she turned her head, guessing that it was a library member wanting company on the walk back to Everton. Glancing over her shoulder but not slackening her pace she saw a tall man dressed in air force uniform, but it was only when he took off his cap and grinned at her, white teeth flashing in his tanned face, that she recognised him. Without giving a thought to her crippled foot, she spun round, crying: ‘Max! Oh,
is it really you?' and before she could steady herself she was falling, falling, her stick flying in one direction and her bag in another, whilst the pavement seemed to leap up to meet her, cracking her knees and grazing her hands so that even as she laughed with joy she was aware of tattered stockings, bleeding hands and knees, and – for her handbag had flown open – possessions skittering freely across the paving stones.

‘Agatha? Oh, my dear, how could I have been such a fool, to startle you so!' He was bending over her, both hands seizing hers in a firm grip, hauling her gently to her feet. ‘But when I saw it was really you I just couldn't bear the thought of you disappearing into the throng, so I shouted.' He held her away from him, gazing anxiously into her face. ‘Are you much hurt? You went down with such a crack … no, no, don't stoop to gather your things; you may leave that safely to me.' He began to pick up her scattered possessions, saying as he did so: ‘Do you always throw yourself at the feet of any man who calls your name?'

‘Not always, and I'm fine; bloody but unbowed, in fact,' Agatha said gaily. Her heart was hammering out a fast rhythm and though there were tears on her cheeks, for her grazes stung and her joints ached, she thought she had never felt happier. ‘But Max, wherever did you spring from? I got your cablegram, but I assumed you'd go to Durham first to see your relatives. I thought you'd not be in Liverpool for several days, perhaps even weeks.'

‘Are you sure you aren't hurt?' Max repeated. He had
gathered up all her bits and pieces and bundled them into her handbag, and now he found her stick and her gas mask case and restored them to her. Only then did he anxiously examine her hands, tutting over the blood and the dirt. ‘We'll go to the small hotel where I'm booked in for the night; I'm sure someone will clean you up and make us a pot of tea. We can drink whilst we talk – by God, England seems cold after South Africa – and I'll tell you all my news, which is quite a lot. Take my arm, my dearest girl. The hotel is only a few yards further on.'

They reached Maple's Hotel and went inside, where Agatha's hurts were cleaned and bandaged to the accompaniment of much tutting and questioning, and the two of them were settled in the lounge and given a large pot of tea.

So it was over cups of tea that Agatha and Max began to get to know one another all over again after their long months apart. Max insisted that Agatha should start off by telling him all that had happened to her since they had last met, as a good few of their letters would undoubtedly have gone astray. Agatha cast her mind back; how dull her life seemed. In fact the only excitement had been his letters and Hetty's, but it really would not do to say so; instead she told him how she and Mr Gower had shared the task of fire-watching from the turret of Everton library and how she had taken her turn at helping to man the mobile canteens. Max asked her whether the library was still open for borrowers after a night raid had kept the staff from their beds, and was gratifyingly
astonished when she assured him that not only did they always open on time, but had grown accustomed to being constantly busy for readers had multiplied, especially during the winter months. ‘I think that's about all I've done since I saw you last,' Agatha said apologetically, but Max shook his head and wagged a reproving finger.

‘You've sold me short, young lady,' he said accusingly. ‘What about the raids at Christmas? One of your letters about that time did get through and it sounded pretty horrendous. Was much damage done?'

Abruptly, Agatha remembered the raids that had taken place in November and December the previous year, which had caused enormous damage and loss of life. For a moment, she relived the terror she had felt then as the bombs whistled down and the flames leapt up, for this had been, so to speak, Liverpool's baptism of fire. Everyone knew that London was bombed every night, that people were living in the Underground, or in public shelters, but this was the first time Liverpool had suffered a sustained attack and even remembering it for Max's benefit brought back the sick horror she had felt on learning of the terrible tragedy which had occurred when the Ernest Brown School in Durning Road had received a direct hit, causing it to collapse inwards into the public shelter beneath. Next day, Agatha had heard that though the rescue services had started work immediately, over a hundred people had died and many more had been seriously injured. Haltingly, she began to tell Max what she had seen and reported from her post every time a new fire
started, or a building crashed to earth, but her voice grew shakier with every word.

Max, however, must have realised how recalling such horrors upset her, for he leaned across and stroked her cheek, a gesture so gentle and loving that Agatha felt tears rise in her eyes. ‘That's enough, my love; I never meant to make you cry,' Max said. He wiped away her tears with one finger. ‘I'm a swine to bring back memories which are best forgotten, especially as I was so far away and so safe.' He looked at her ruefully, raising one dark brow. ‘Agatha, my dear, I'm going to tell you something which I should have told you months ago; when we met at the museum opening. I'm afraid it's going to distress you and I know you will be very angry, so would you rather I told you in a less public spot than here?'

Poor Agatha felt her heart descend into her boots. He must be going to tell her that he was happily married, with half a dozen children and a large house somewhere in the north of England. Or perhaps he had married a Spaniard during the Civil War, which would explain why he had been attracted by her black hair and dark eyes.

But he was looking at her quizzically, one eyebrow still raised. Agatha looked round. When they had entered, there had been other people in the lounge. Now it was empty, save for an elderly couple in one corner who could not possibly overhear their conversation. Agatha looked steadily across at him, meeting his gaze squarely. ‘Here is fine,' she said quietly. ‘Carry on, please.'

Max sighed deeply. ‘I've lied to you twice, but I don't mean to do so ever again, and now I'm going to set the record straight,' he said. ‘When we met at the museum opening and were introduced, someone had told you that I had a brother very similar to myself. That is true in one way because Michael and I are very alike, though not quite in the way you imagined. Michael takes after our mother; his hair is lighter than mine and his eyes are blue, not brown. He's quite a bit shorter than I am, at least four or five inches, but we are both academically inclined and have similar interests. So do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?'

‘Not really,' Agatha admitted. She felt positively light-hearted with relief; he was
not
married! But why should it matter that he had let her believe he and his brother were virtually identical? It wasn't as if … suddenly, she knew. She could feel a bubble of laughter welling up inside her, knew that her cheeks were pink and her eyes sparkling. ‘So it was
you
who knocked me down in the street and were so exceedingly rude,' she said, trying to sound indignant but feeling only relief and amusement mingling. ‘But why didn't you tell me, Max? Why not admit it and just say you were sorry? I expect it was just as much my fault as yours, because thinking back I did stop very suddenly, when your brother – I mean you – cannoned into me.'