Some Old Lover's Ghost (6 page)

‘Potter.’ Emily handed him her shopping basket. ‘Emily Potter. And this is Miss Greenlees.’ Tilda and Daragh shook hands. ‘We go to secretarial school. It is terribly dull. I went to London for a weekend in December, and I thought it was absolute heaven.’ Emily’s face was much the same shade as her lipstick and she was talking too fast.

‘I’m more of a country boy myself. Those big cities can be awful lonely places. Where do you live, Miss Greenlees?’

‘In a village called Southam, about six miles from here.’

Daragh Canavan walked between them, carrying Emily’s shopping bag. When they reached the Potters’ home, Tilda climbed on her bicycle, called her farewells, and freewheeled down the slope.

That evening, after tea, Tilda washed clothes, and Aunt Sarah cut wood in the yard. Tilda wrung out the wet stockings, put them in the wicker basket, and opened the scullery door. As she stepped out into the garden, she heard voices.

‘I just thought, why not let me chop that wood for you, missus? I could do it in no time.’

Tilda, recognizing Daragh Canavan’s voice, almost dropped her basket.

‘I can chop my own wood, thank you very much, young man.’

‘Ah, sure you can, missus, I just thought to take some of the work from you.’

‘And why should you wish to do that?’ Aunt Sarah sounded suspicious.

‘Because my ma brought me up to be a good, Christian gentleman.’

Tilda heard Aunt Sarah’s snort of disbelief, and then the thud as the axe broke into the wood. She left the scullery and crossed the yard.

‘Good evening, Mr Canavan.’

Aunt Sarah paused in the act of swinging the axe. ‘Do you know this young man, Tilda?’

‘We met this afternoon in Ely.’

‘I see. Such a good, Christian gentleman.’ Aunt Sarah’s voice had taken the tone she used with tradesmen who tried to sell her short. The tradesmen tended to wither beneath Aunt Sarah’s scorn.

Daragh Canavan looked unabashed. ‘And I was just passing through Southam—’

‘No-one passes through Southam.’ Aunt Sarah raised the axe again. ‘Do not take me for a fool.’

‘Well then. You have found me out. I admit it. I’m a long way from home, and the young lady was pleasant to me today, and I wanted to see a friendly face. I miss my family – I miss my ma most of all. And my sister, Caitlin. She’s a fine girl, like Miss Greenlees. And as it was my evening off, and such a fine night of it, I thought a walk might cheer me up.’

Sarah’s eyes had narrowed. ‘Where do you work, Mr Canavan?’

‘At the Fox and Hounds in Ely.’

The axe crashed down with a disapproving thump, cleaving the log, splitting it in two. Aunt Sarah flung shards of wood into the log basket.

‘I was peat-cutting in March, and in the winter I was in London, doing this and that. London’s a terrible place, though. I was desperate to leave the city. So I came here to look for farm work.’

‘Times have been hard,’ Aunt Sarah said, softening a little.

Daragh glanced at the axe. ‘And I could cut that great pile of wood in the flick of an eye, if you’d be so good as to
allow me, missus. To say thank you for passing the time of day with me.’

Aunt Sarah said austerely, ‘I am
Miss
Greenlees, not Mrs, if you please, young man. Tilda is my niece, not my daughter.’ Yet she stood aside and handed Daragh the axe.

The metal axehead bit down on the log. Chips of splintered wood flew up in the air. The two women went back into the house. Daragh threw his jacket aside, and rolled up his sleeves. His body arched and his muscles tautened as he swung the axe back and brought it down again.

He called once a week, to cut the wood. After three weeks, Aunt Sarah relented and invited him into the house when he had finished. Daragh stood while he drank his tea, and was hurried out of the house the moment his cup was empty. Sarah, shutting the door behind him, turned to Tilda and said, ‘He’s a rascal. A rascal. You must remember that.’ Because Aunt Sarah thought all men were rascals, Tilda didn’t take much notice. She was evasive, though, about Daragh Canavan. Occasionally Aunt Sarah asked suspiciously, ‘He’s not bothering you, is he, Tilda? That young man isn’t bothering you?’

Tilda answered, with a degree of honesty, that he wasn’t bothering her at all. Daragh Canavan met her and Emily once or twice a week and chatted to them as they walked home. The chats had recently extended into an invitation for a cup of tea in a café, a new experience for Tilda. Aunt Sarah thought cafés were a waste of money.

Daragh made them both laugh, and relieved the boredom and pointlessness of Miss Clare’s Academy. One afternoon, they went to the cinema, where they saw
Hindle Wakes
. Emily sobbed into a handkerchief; Tilda, surrounded by gilt and crimson plush as she watched the huge, mouthing figures on the screen, was overwhelmed. When the film finished and they left the picture house, the sun was fiercely bright, the bustle of the street stupefying.

Emily sighed. ‘Wasn’t it sad? Thank you so much, Daragh.’

A car drew up on the far side of the road. A young man leaned out and called, ‘Em! Emily! I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’

Emily stared and shrieked,
‘Roland
! Oh – Roland!’ She darted through the traffic. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were coming home, you beast? Come and meet my friends.’

Roland was short and plump, like Emily. ‘Rollo,’ said Emily, after she had hugged him, ‘let me introduce you to Tilda Greenlees, my dearest friend. Tilda, this is my big brother, Roland.’ Roland shook hands with Tilda.

‘And this is Daragh Canavan. We’ve just been to the cinema.’ Roland nodded at Daragh, but did not take his hand.

‘Good film?’

‘Oh
yes
! Almost as good as
The Constant Nymph
. That’s my favourite film.’

‘I know.’ Roland grimaced. ‘I had to take Em to see it three times, Miss Greenlees, when it came to Ely.’

‘Tilda’s never been to the cinema before,’ said Emily.

‘You enjoyed it,’ said Daragh, looking anxiously at Tilda, ‘didn’t you?’

Tilda smiled at him. ‘It’s been one of the best afternoons of my life.’

Daragh’s face lit up. ‘That’s grand, then. We could go again next week, if you like.’

‘That would be lovely, Daragh,’ she began to say, but Roland interrupted.

‘Why don’t you girls come for a spin?’

Emily looked at the car. ‘Is it yours, Rollo?’

‘Bought her with Uncle Jack’s money. Let me show you what she can do.’ Roland crossed the road and opened the passenger door. Emily bounced after him.

‘I’ll be getting back to the pub, then.’ Daragh was watching the Potters. ‘It’s almost five o’clock.’

Emily yelled, ‘Tilda! Come here!’ and Daragh strode off, his hands in his pockets, whistling. Tilda ran across the road. Emily poked her head out of the car window.

‘Where’s Daragh?’

‘He had to go back to work.’

‘Oh
blast
. I was going to sit in the back with him.’

The car was soft-topped, the back seat squashed and shallow, barely big enough for two people.

Roland held open the driver’s door. ‘Sorry it’s a bit of a squeeze, Miss Greenlees.’

‘Perhaps I should go home.’ Tilda had seen the look in Daragh’s eyes as he had turned to leave.

‘Don’t be a goose. Hurry up, Tilda.’

She allowed herself to be persuaded. She had never ridden in a motor car before. As Roland left Ely’s winding streets and headed for the open road, he pressed his foot down on the accelerator.

‘Where did you meet that chap?’ Roland shouted, over the noise of the engine.

‘Walking home one day,’ Emily screamed back. ‘He said that he felt as though he knew us already. Wasn’t that romantic?’

‘Corny, if you ask me. Probably got the line from some second-rate film.’

‘Roland
. Daragh is absolutely the most gorgeous man I’ve ever met.’

Roland Potter glanced at his sister, and slowed the car a little. ‘Not quite the thing, though, Em. He was wearing
boots
, for heaven’s sake. Frightful workmen’s things.’

After classes the following week, they picnicked beside the river. Rushes whispered on the banks, and lily pads floated on the surface of the water. Roland told the girls about his job in London, working for a newspaper. ‘I’m just a glorified tea boy, actually. I doubt if they’ll let me write a sentence for years.’

They dined on egg and lettuce sandwiches, and a blancmange that splayed out as soon as Emily shook it from mould to plate. Roland had brought a portable record-player, and he partnered Tilda and Emily in turn as they danced on the grassy meadow by the river. Afterwards, Tilda sat on the bank, dangling her feet in the water. Mud squeezed through her bare toes, and tiny
fishes darted along the shallows. The sun seared her shoulders and the back of her neck.

Emily sat beside her. ‘Daragh still hasn’t asked me for a date, and I’ve made it so easy for him. I almost begged him to take me to the fair in Soham.’

Tilda remembered that Roland Potter had not shaken hands with Daragh. She also recalled Roland’s comment about Daragh’s boots. It worried Tilda to think that Daragh had sensed how quickly Roland Potter had summed him up and dismissed him as not worth bothering with.

‘I’ve a plan. Don’t say anything.’ Emily raised her voice. ‘We could go for a drink, Roland. The Fox and Hounds has a lovely garden.’

Roland looked doubtful. ‘I don’t know … I’m not sure that Mother—’

‘Don’t be boring. Come on.’ Emily stood up, brushing grass from her skirt.

They drove back to Ely, the car bouncing on the uneven road. In the back garden of the Fox and Hounds, Roland found an empty table.

‘There he is.’ Emily smiled, pleased with herself. In a corner of the garden, Daragh Canavan was loading glasses onto a tray.

‘
Em
.’ Roland sounded annoyed.

Emily stood up and waved. ‘Daragh! Hello, Daragh!’

Daragh crossed the grass towards them. His smile was fleeting. ‘Miss Potter. Miss Greenlees.’ He turned to Roland. ‘Sir?’

Roland lit a cigarette. ‘A pint of best and two lemonades. And’ – Daragh had turned to go – ‘be quick about it, won’t you?’

Tilda noticed the small pause in Daragh’s stride, the whitening of his knuckles as his hands gripped the tray.

Emily touched Roland’s sleeve. ‘Let me have a cigarette, darling Rollo.’

Roland shook his head. ‘You’re too young, Em. And girls shouldn’t smoke in public.’

‘Roland!
So stuffy.’ Emily took one from his case. ‘I smoked
one last Christmas, you know. I tried one of Daddy’s.’ She placed the cigarette between her lips and struck a match.

‘You have to inhale, silly,’ said Roland.

Emily persevered. Tilda watched for Daragh. Roland’s fingers drummed the edge of the table. ‘Where’s that fellow? Damned ridiculous—’

Daragh came out of the back door, carrying a tray. As he reached the table, Roland said, ‘You took your time.’

Daragh’s face whitened. He placed the glasses of lemonade in front of the girls, and took the tankard from the tray. Then he seemed to slip, and the beer spilt over the front of Roland’s white shirt.

‘So sorry, sir. Terrible clumsy of me.’ Daragh walked back into the pub.

Roland, gasping, stood up. Emily dabbed at him with her handkerchief. Tilda, knocking over her chair, ran through the garden.

The bar room was dark and busy, full of farmers, the floor dusty with mud from their boots. She could see no sign of Daragh. Men whistled at her; someone grabbed at her, pulling her towards him. Tilda cursed and shook him off, elbowing through the crowds to the front door. But though she looked frantically up and down the road, she could see no-one, only the purplish shadows of the buildings.

Roland and Emily walked out of the garden, along the street. When they reached the car, Emily said tentatively, ‘Rollo …?’

‘Better walk home. Don’t want beer on the seats.’ He still dripped. Roland glanced at Emily. ‘I behaved like an ass in there. Not sure why. I probably deserved this.’ He wrung out his shirt.

‘Daragh’s not so bad, Rollo. He’s kind and he’s good fun. And he hasn’t tried anything … you know.’

Roland nodded slowly. ‘All the same, Em, you should keep away.’

‘But I
love
him!’ she howled.

He shook his head. ‘Don’t be an ass, Em.’

‘But I do! You don’t know what it’s like, Roland—’

He said, quite kindly, ‘Emily, he’s just not our sort. And besides, the fellow’s madly in love with Tilda.’

She stared at him for a long moment. She could see the truth in his eyes. Painfully, she forced herself to acknowledge it, and, in doing so, understood the ugly little scene in the pub.

‘Like you, dearest brother.’

‘Yes.’ Roland fumbled in his pocket, and drew out his cigarette case. As she accepted the cigarette that Roland handed her, tears trailed down Emily’s face, and her shoulders heaved.

Roland passed Emily his handkerchief. ‘Mop your face, old girl. Stiff upper lip and all that. He won’t make her happy, you know. There isn’t the slightest chance that he’ll make her happy.’

Tilda found Daragh halfway to Southam, leaning against a bridge, looking down at the water. She braked and called out to him, and slid off her bicycle.

He looked up at her. ‘Where are your smart friends, Tilda?’

‘I’ve no idea. Are you all right, Daragh?’

His arms were folded on the parapet. ‘I’m great. Just great.’

‘In the pub—’

‘In the pub, I acted like a complete buffoon. I was jealous.’

‘Of Roland?’

He flung out his hands in an angry gesture. ‘The car … the suit … the cash the fellow has … even his bloody
socks
, for heaven’s sake.’

Tilda giggled. ‘His socks?’

The corners of Daragh’s mouth twisted in a smile. ‘You know, neat little things with diamond patterns on them. Not like these.’

He kicked off his boot. There was a hole the size of a potato in his handknitted sock.

‘Oh,
Daragh.’

‘Mary, Mother of God, me feet are as black as night.’ He waded
into the stream. The water came up past his knees, and he called, ‘Come on in, love – it’s great.’