A Bid for Love & A Chance of Happiness

by J. B. Sherrard

  He had so neatly summed up exactly what Petra did think about him, that she found herself unable to return his Steady look and lowered her gaze to the table.

  "Will you listen?" He spoke softly and yet his question demanded an answer.

  Petra looked up at him again and managed a faint smile. "Of course," she said.

  "Good," said Nicholas with satisfaction. "In that case I'll tell you all about it over coffee. In the meantime, tell me about your Northumbrian dig. Was that the one led by Roger Garfield?"

  Petra nodded and for the rest of the meal they talked, she realised much later, almost entirely about her. Nicholas was at his most charming, and Petra responded like a flower uncurling its petals to the sun.

  When at last the coffee arrived, Nicholas sat back in his chair while Petra poured a cup for each of them, then without further preamble he told her about his mother.

  "When she married my father it was her second marriage. Her first ended in divorce several years earlier, she'd been married very young after a whirlwind romance and I suppose they just grew out of each other, if you see what I mean."

  Petra nodded.

  "Well, some considerable time later, I was born and on my mother's insistence was christened Peregrine Nicholas. In this, as in every other way, my father let her do as she wished. He was very fond of her and I suppose was afraid of losing her. He did all he could to make her happy, but it didn't work. She hadn't wanted a baby at her age in the first place and begrudged the time and effort necessary to look after a child. My father was a solicitor and worked very hard, often bringing work from the office to do at home. Gradually the rift between them widened, and when I was four, she walked out, ran off with a man called Jack Arden. I didn't see her again until the other day, the day you and I met in her flat."

  Petra stared at him, unable to speak and feeling sick inside. She had thought he was arrogant, when all the time it was her own sanctimonious arrogance which hadn't allowed him at least the benefit of the doubt, at least the chance of an explanation. In her own overbearing way she had marched in, passed judgment before she was in full possession of the facts and condemned Nicholas. How right he'd been to use that word.

  Shame at her own behaviour overwhelmed her; she needed to apologise, to ask his forgiveness, but she didn't know where to start. But Nicholas hadn't finished.

  "Some time later, my father divorced her and he too married again. My stepmother, whom I regard as my mother, gave me all the love, care and attention I had missed from my real mother. She and my father and I were a happy and loving family, as close as any other. My father died recently, but my stepmother and I are still as close as ever. You can imagine the shock when I was informed by a social worker that my natural mother was living in dreadful conditions in a basement in a seaside town. A strange coincidence, too, that I had recently accepted your invitation to speak in the same place."

  Nicholas paused again, looking across the table where Petra sat pale-faced as if turned to marble, and for a moment there was silence. Then Petra buried her face in her hands, afraid the tears of mortification would overflow down her cheeks.

  "Oh, Nicholas," she whispered, "I'm so sorry. Of all the arrogant, domineering, overbearing…"

  "Who?" Nicholas interrupted with a grin. "Me?"

  "No, of course not." Petra jerked her head up to face him once more. "Me. Can you forgive me for all I said to you that time, all that abuse I hurled at your head?"

  Nicholas reached across the table and took hold of both her hands. "When you look at me out of those enormous blue eyes of yours," he said simply, "I can forgive you anything."

  Petra felt his grip tighten on her hands and smiled at him tremulously.

  Nicholas smiled too and then said briskly, "Now, let's have some more coffee, this lot is stone cold, and then I'll tell you what I propose doing about Mrs. Arden."

  He ordered fresh coffee and then sat back watching Petra.

  Still finding it difficult to come to terms with his story, Petra said, "But why Peregrine? I mean why does she call you Peregrine?"

  "I believe she always did—as I said, it was her choice of name. My father never liked it, and when she left us he began calling me Nicholas. I must say I'm quite relieved. Imagine having to answer to Peregrine for the whole of your life!"

  "No wonder I couldn't find you in any of the phone books," mused Petra. "I was looking for a Peregrine Arden. How on earth did the social worker find you?"

  "Quite simply, I believe. My mother, Mrs. Arden, knew the address. It was where she had lived herself when she was married to my father. I expect they caught her on a lucid day and she told them."

  The coffee arrived and Petra was glad to pour it out. It gave her something to do, but even as she did so she found her hands were shaking and the cups chattered on their saucers.

  Nicholas appeared not to notice, for which she was grateful; she herself couldn't decide which had given her the shakes, her humiliation and subsequent apology or the strength of his hands and the level gaze in his eyes when Nicholas had accepted that apology.

  "Anyway," he continued, "I've arranged for her to go into a home where she can be looked after properly. I know she thinks she can cope where she is, but she can't really."

  "And are you going to pay for all this?" Petra asked in amazement.

  "Of course," said Nicholas lightly. "You aren't going to tell me I shouldn't be supporting my mother now, are you? There's no pleasing some people!"

  "In the circumstances, I'd have said it was more than generous," said Petra. "You don't owe her anything."

  "She gave me my life," pointed out Nicholas with a grin. "It's had its ups and downs, but I'm grateful for it, you know."

  "Oh, be serious," said Petra.

  "I'm quite serious," he replied gravely. "I've discussed it all with my mother—my stepmother," he corrected himself easily, "and we both feel she should be cared for."

  "Does she know yet? About moving, I mean?" Petra wanted the subject turned back to the more practical side, away from the motives and reasons for Nicholas' actions. She recognised now that she was incompetent to comment upon those, and wished with all her heart she had refrained from doing so before. Nicholas might have forgiven her, but it would be a long time before she forgave herself.

  "Yes, we've told her, though whether she's really taken it in I can't say. I'm coming down to move her on Saturday. We're lucky to have found a place so quickly."

  Nicholas settled the bill and once more they braved the elements outside. There had been no drop in the wind, if anything its strength had increased, and they were glad to reach the car.

  As they drove along the promenade towards the road where Petra lived, the waves were actually breaking over the sea wall, driven by the fury of the gale. Spray engulfed the car more than once as the water was flung high above the wall and cascaded on to the road, draining back over the edge only to be gathered in by the next wave and pounded to pieces once more.

  "It's a high tide," remarked Nicholas as they turned into the comparative shelter of Petra's street.

  "I've seen it breaking on the wall before, but never as badly as this," Petra said. "It's the wind that's driving it on."

  Nicholas went into the house with Petra and waited while she opened the door, then he took her hand and said with a smile, "I'm glad you were mine for the day."

  Petra looked up at him silhouetted against the light, and said in a voice that was not her own, "So am I, Nicholas."

  His fingers tightened their grip for a moment and Petra found herself being drawn inexorably into his arms, until she rested against him, her head on his chest and every line of her body pressed against his. For a moment they stood so, each sheltered in the arms of the other, he with his cheek against her hair and then he relaxed his hold.

  She raised her face to look at him, and there was a moment when she thought he wasn't going to kiss her. Then his eyes darkened and his mouth came down on hers, his lips bruising and demanding as
he crushed her against him once more. Petra clung to him, her head spinning, her lips parted to devour his kisses and to offer him her own. She had never known such passion in herself, she had never recognised such need in another, but finding both now she was carried away on a tide of desire which would have denied him nothing.

  It was Nicholas who finally broke away, dragging his lips from hers and with the hands which had explored and caressed her willing body earlier, set her away from him.

  "What a temptress you are, Petra," he said with a twisted smile. "But this is neither the time—" he glanced round the hallway—"nor the place."

  Petra leaned weakly against the door post and, as he spoke, suppressed a quick vision of herself in Tom's arms as Nicholas had seen her last time he was there. Perhaps he had had the same thought, she didn't know, but he didn't touch her again.

  "Good night, Petra," he said gently and turning abruptly crossed to the outside door. He opened it and the wind howled in, then he closed it again and turning back saw her still leaning shakily against the door jamb.

  "I'm moving Mrs. Arden on Saturday," he said. "Will you have dinner with me afterwards?"

  Petra nodded, still unable to speak and Nicholas smiled before he disappeared into the night.

  Chapter Four

  Petra didn't sleep easily that night despite the strains and stresses of her day. The wind howled and moaned round the house, rattling the windows, a perpetual cacophony, but it was not the raging storm outside which kept her from sleep, it was the turmoil in her mind as she lived and re-lived the strange events of the day.

  Each happening might have been enough to keep her awake, but all of them together made sleep impossible. She had run the whole gamut of her emotions, from fear and anger through to shame and love. She accepted this last emotion in its widest sense, recognising she had been tremendously attracted to Nicholas, his strength and his masculinity drawing her to him in a way no other man had.

  She was, however, quite realistic enough to accept that Nicholas had had no further thoughts than an evening together, the idea of it culminating in bed had not occurred to him and when it did present itself as a possibility, he had held back.

  Petra was glad he had, though she still felt physically weak when she remembered the feel of his hands on her body, of his mouth against hers, because she didn't subscribe to the idea that for an evening to be enjoyable it had to end up in bed. It was one of the differences she had with Tom, and it was one where she was not prepared to give way lightly. But then Tom had never stirred her as Nicholas had tonight. Considering everything she was surprised Nicholas had kissed her at all. She was still stricken when she thought of the way she had behaved at their first meeting, and determined not to interfere in his life again. But she smiled as she recalled his invitation to dinner next week.

  Turning over yet again, she thumped her pillow and in doing so knocked her book off the bedside table. It splashed to the floor. For a moment Petra didn't register the sound then, puzzled, she reached out with her hand and felt on the floor beside her bed. It was wet. There was at least an inch of water.

  Startled, she sat up with a cry and reached for the bedside lamp, but something stayed her hand. Electricity and water do not mix. Carefully, she pulled open the drawer of her bedside table and felt round inside for the little flashlight she always kept there. Taking it out, she quickly switched it on.

  What she saw made her gasp with horror. She was marooned on her bed, entirely surrounded by water. Her bedroom door, which she always left ajar, now stood wide, pushed open by the pressure of the water.

  How long she sat and stared in disbelief Petra didn't know, probably only a matter of minutes, though everything seemed so unreal it could have been longer. It was the sight of her slippers bobbing gently across the room which galvanised her into action. She reached for her dressing-gown, which lay across the foot of the bed, but quickly discarded it again, the end of it had trailed in the water and was soaked. Hitching her nightie up above her knees, Petra swung her legs over the side of the bed and stepped down on to the floor. The water which lapped her ankles was icy and she hastily drew her feet back on to the bed.

  Think, she said to herself. Think carefully. Boots, A pair of Wellingtons she used for college field trips stood in her wardrobe and braving the cold water she paddled across and opened the wardrobe door. She grabbed the boots and collected a thick sweater from the shelf, and trousers from a hanger. Carrying them back to her island bed, she quickly put them on, feeling much less vulnerable than she had when clad only in her nightie. Dry in her boots, she left her bedroom to look at the rest of her flat. There was water everywhere, right up to her front door.

  Petra was still confused. Where on earth had the water come from? Her hands were wet and unthinking she licked her fingers. They tasted of salt. Then at last she realised. It was the sea. Driven by the violence of the gale, the sea at high tide had breached the sea wall and flooded the surrounding streets.

  Petra returned to her bedroom and looked out of the window which faced the street. Her eyes widened in disbelieving horror as, by the light of a distant street lamp, she saw a dark river of water swirling past, already well above the bottom of the outer front door.

  She ran to the living-room windows and peered out. There was no light this side of the house and, using her torch, she probed the darkness of the garden. She could actually see very little, but she could hear the water cascading relentlessly down the slope on which the house was built.

  Then Petra had an idea. She dragged open the glazed door which led out on to her balcony and thus allowed the water in her flat an escape route. It gushed out spreading the length of the balcony and pouring over the edge in a cascade. Petra could hear it splashing into the river already sweeping through the garden outside the windows of the basement flat.

  The basement flat! With a heart-stopping jolt, Petra remembered Mrs. Arden. Her flat could be completely flooded by now and Mrs. Arden drowned because she couldn't escape.

  Petra's first instinct was to grab her key and rush down to the basement flat, but she made herself stop and consider. If she opened the door to the basement flat, the water from the hall would flow down the steps. Could she climb down from the balcony and approach Mrs. Arden from that direction? The climb was possible for there was a cast iron drainpipe running down the wall, but what would she do once she was down? She could never get Mrs. Arden up that way, and though the water seemed to be running down beyond the house, she had no idea how deep it was.

  'And if I can't make Mrs. Arden open the windows,' thought Petra, 'I could well be stuck down there myself, for I'm sure that drainpipe climbing is not as easy as they make it look in films!'

  There was no other way into the basement except for the bedroom window which looked out over a little area below the pavement, and this would already be under water, so Petra decided that she must risk opening Mrs. Arden's front door to try and get the old woman out.

  Quickly she found the key and paddled out into the hall. The outer door was still holding most of the water out, but by the light of her torch she could see it pouring in under the door. Opening her balcony door had indeed helped to lower the level of the water, but it still swirled round Petra's feet as she shone the torch on the basement door.

  She eased the door open and peered down into the unbroken darkness below her. The water from the hall rushed, gurgling, down the stairs.

  Petra made her way cautiously down the stairs, calling to Mrs. Arden as she did so. The beam of her torch showed her that here the water was also several inches deep. She swung the light round the living-room and discovered the old woman asleep in her chair, her feet propped up on a stool, as yet above the encroaching waters.

  Petra crossed the room and shook Mrs. Arden gently to waken her.

  The old woman woke with a jolt and a frightened cry. "Who's that? Why's it dark? I don't like the dark."

  "It's me, Petra, from upstairs. There's a power cut—"at least I
hope there is, thought Petra privately. "Now, don't be frightened, Mrs. Arden," she began but was interrupted by a loud wail.

  "It's all wet."

  "Don't worry," soothed Petra, "I've come to take you upstairs. We'll get you dry up there."

  "What's happening? Put the light on, I can't see." The old woman was completely confused and struggled away from Petra as she tried to help her to her feet.

  Petra spoke to her firmly. "Now, listen. The sea is coming in. Your flat is flooding and we must get you out. Come on, Mrs. Arden, we must try to get you upstairs."

  The old woman continued to ask questions, but she did allow Petra to take her arm and pull her to her feet. As her feet, still in their carpet slippers, plunged into the cold water she gave another wail of dismay, but Petra had been ready for her and keeping a tight grip on her arms, refused to let her sit down again.

  "You've got to come with me," she said desperately. "Don't sit down again, please." There were tears of frustration in her eyes as she hung on to the old lady. Petra's torch was the only light they had to guide them to the door, but at last, still protesting, Mrs. Arden allowed herself to be helped across the room, following its yellowing beam to the staircase.

  Water continued to pour down this and the level was rising with alarming rapidity. Petra realised it must be coming into the flat in other places as well, perhaps the bedroom window had given in under the pressure of water outside. The thought frightened Petra and she tried to hurry Mrs. Arden's progress, but it was impossible, particularly as the old woman was still dressed in her voluminous nightgown, the bottom of which was now soaked and clinging to her unsteady legs.

  Shining the torch ahead, Petra made Mrs. Arden go in front and came up the stairs close behind her in the hope of catching her if she fell. At length they reached the hallway and Petra could see to her relief that the front door was still holding.