It occurred to her that perhaps she should not be riding in this one; it wasn’t quite respectable for a – a girl and a young man to be unchaperoned. However, it was too late; they were already clip-clopping into Torwood Street.
‘You really are wonderful company, Mercy.’ Peter was beaming by now. ‘There’s none of this blasé I’ve-seen-it-all-before nonsense with you. If something is new you admit it. You’ve no idea how refreshing it is.’
‘I’m glad you think so.’ Mercy was flattered that he considered her to be different; in her own eyes she seemed very ordinary.
The cabby, appreciating that they were in no hurry, took the journey at a leisurely pace, and when he finally deposited them on the Babbacombe Downs he pocketed a handsome tip.
The way to the beach was too steep for a cab horse to tackle, and Peter insisted upon hiring a donkey to take Mercy down.
With much laughing and argument she allowed herself to be lifted on to the side-saddle.
‘Ready?’ asked Peter mischievously. ‘Then away we go!’
Seizing the donkey’s bridle he led it off at a brisk trot which gathered momentum as they slipped and slithered down the increasingly steep incline which led to the cove, causing Mercy to cling on for dear life. By the time they reached the bottom they were going full pelt, until they finally collapsed on to the beach, donkey and all.
‘You mazed fools!’ The stout owner of the beast came puffing down behind them, her petticoats flying. ‘’Tis a wonder ’ee didn’t break your necks!’
‘There’s no harm done, madam, I assure you,’ said Peter with grave gallantry. ‘And let me congratulate you on having such a superior animal, a truly splendid steed.’ He slipped a coin into her apron pocket, then suddenly planted a kiss on her cheek.
The donkey-owner, who could recognize the chink of a half-crown when she heard it, gave a smile of surprising coyness.
‘Mazed fool,’ she said again in a very different tone.
Peter helped Mercy up.
‘The woman is right – “you’m a mazed fool”,’ she said.
To hear her lapse into broad Devonshire made Peter roar with laughter.
‘That cottage looks as though it might provide us with some tea to restore our nerves,’ he suggested.
Mercy, who was brushing the sand off her skirt, felt in definite need of a restorative. For this meeting with Peter she had made up her mind to appear elegant and worldly, at the very least to look her best, but circumstances were certainly against her. This final tumble on to the sand had spelt doom to her dreams of elegance, and she hoped fervently the fall had not revealed her bloomers.
‘Tea would be nice, thank you,’ she said.
Peter looked at her sharply. ‘Are you all right? You didn’t hurt yourself in the fall?’
‘No, why?’
‘You suddenly sounded different – subdued.’
‘It’s just I feel so… so untidy.’ Mercy held out her sand-covered hands to indicate her equally sand-covered skirt.
‘Untidy?’ Peter’s astonishment was sincere. ‘But you look delightful. I confess I’m as proud as Punch to be seen with the prettiest girl in Torquay, even if she is sprinkled with sand.’
‘Oh!’ said Mercy, her breath quite taken away.
‘And I feel honoured that you agreed to come out with me this afternoon. When I asked you I didn’t appreciate the difficulties you would experience. Here I am, I rose late, ate a leisurely breakfast, strolled into town and had an equally leisurely lunch at the Yacht Club, while all the time you were working. I suppose you hardly had any time to eat your lunch or have a rest, did you?’
Mercy, who had had neither rest nor lunch, felt the gulf between their worlds widen alarmingly.
Peter looked at her, with that sharp perceptive look she was beginning to recognize.
‘You did have lunch, didn’t you?’
‘Well…’ Mercy was never a comfortable liar.
‘You haven’t! How thoughtless of me! We’ll go to one of the hotels on the Downs immediately—’
‘I’m not hungry, honestly. Tea at the cottage will be fine!’
Mercy was panic-stricken at the thought of entering a smart hotel dining-room in her present dishevelled state. She could also have added that missing a meal was no novelty to someone from a household where money was perpetually short.
‘If you’re sure… We’ll see what the cottage has to offer?’
Fronting on to the beach, below a steep wooded cliff, was a row of cob and thatch dwellings, and set outside one of these was a table. Although it looked rather rickety, it was spread invitingly with a fresh white cloth and laid with cups and saucers.
‘Is it possible to obtain anything to eat here?’ Peter asked the neat little woman who came to open the door.
‘Indeed ’tis, sir. Strawberry jam and cream and cut rounds fresh-made, as much as you wish.’
‘Splendid! And a very large pot of tea also, if it isn’t too much trouble.’
Beneath the warmth of Peter’s smile the woman positively glowed in her eagerness to please. Her friendliness prompted Mercy to ask if there was somewhere she might wash and tidy herself, something she would never have dared to do in a large hotel. As she splashed cold water on her face in the back scullery of the cottage she reflected that Peter had quite a way with women. At first it had not been so obvious, overshadowed as he was by the more aggressive charms of Freddie Parkham, but she was growing more and more aware that his boyishness was very appealing – and that he had no qualms about using it.
Refreshed and feeling more self-assured Mercy went out to join him.
‘Just in time. I’m afraid these looked so tempting I’ve already started.’ Peter waved a half-eaten bun in the air as proof.
Mercy persuaded herself she was not hungry, because her grandmother had told her that to eat too much was indelicate. She took one of the small soft bread-buns, slowly spread it with home-made jam and crusty yellow cream, then ate it with deliberately slow nibbles. Peter ate with gusto. For a man who had had both a hearty breakfast and lunch he managed to make great inroads into the fare provided. He ordered more; and gradually Mercy’s stomach turned traitor and she, too, tucked in. Far from being shocked Peter regarded her with approval, and soon they were arguing happily about whether it was correct to put on the jam before the cream or the cream before the jam.
It was a pretty beach, with pink-tinted sand and shingle reaching from the green wooded cliffs to the clear aquamarine sea. With its cluster of cottages and small stone jetty curving into the bay it was a fishing port in miniature, alive and bustling. Several old men and women sat among the upturned boats mending nets, and children scampered about the shore, while every now and then neat-hoofed donkeys would be driven along the steep tracks leading to the cliff top, their twin panniers swaying as they picked their way through the trees.
On the jetty a handful of onlookers watched a crabber unload the last catch of the day. A young boy, who was supposed to be helping with the unloading, had picked up a spider-crab; its spindly legs and elongated claws waved frantically in the air, and holding it at arm’s length he was chasing a small girl. His antics made Mercy laugh.
‘He’s so like Joey,’ she said. ‘That’s just the sort of mischief he would get up to.’
‘Joey? Is he your brother?’
‘Yes.’
‘The only one?’
‘No, I have three, but Tom and Eddie, they’re older and they are both married and live up-country.’
‘Joey is your favourite.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because of the way you look when you speak of him. He is a lucky boy, having you as a sister.’
Mercy felt her cheeks flush, not so much because of his words as the appreciative way in which Peter had said them.
‘I don’t think he would always agree with you,’ she smiled. ‘I’m afraid I’m often a great trial to him. He’s always in trouble with me for playing tricks.’
>
Soon she was telling Peter of the time when Joey painted the eggs in a neighbour’s henhouse green and the poor woman thought her precious birds had caught a dreadful disease.
Peter listened with rapt attention, demanding more of her family’s adventures whenever she stopped.
‘I want to hear about you,’ she pleaded.
‘There’s nothing to tell. It’s all very dull,’ was his reply.
There was nothing for it but to carry on relating incidents at home and in the village, though she was careful to be selective in what she told him; her tales bore no whiff of the squalor in which she lived nor of the heartache caused by Blanche’s drinking or Lizzie’s wantonness.
Peter seemed particularly fascinated by the idea of so many people occupying such a small house.
‘Seven of you! How do you do it?’
‘Nine of us when the boys were home. We managed somehow. There are many people far more overcrowded than we are.’
‘No!’ Peter was astonished.
Mercy found his fascination puzzling until he said, ‘You all have such fun,’ in a voice of great wistfulness.
‘Don’t you have fun too?’
‘Not at home. It’s so empty and quiet. Just great rooms with no one in them but Mother and me.’
‘Haven’t you got servants?’
‘Oh yes, but they’re not… not…’ He struggled to find the right words. ‘They’re not family. They’re not close,’ he concluded.
Mercy, who had never thought of her life as enviable, had to do some rapid reconsidering. She tried to imagine life without Joey and Baby William, without Blanche. Her family were often a trial, and yet the idea of being without them invoked a strange emptiness. She began to understand some of Peter’s interest in a way of life so divorced from his own.
The shadows cast across the beach were beginning to lengthen as they left the cottage and started the slow climb up the hill. The going was steep; it was natural for Peter to take Mercy’s hand, and even more natural that he did not release it when they reached the top.
‘You don’t have to go home for a while, do you?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Good, because I don’t want this afternoon to end yet.’ Peter’s hold tightened on her hand and though his fingers were smooth they were strong.
They walked along the cliff top in the sunshine, gazing out to sea, identifying the places just visible round the long hazy curve of Lyme Bay – Teignmouth, Dawlish, Exmouth – Mercy had never felt happier. She found it hard to believe her day had started so disastrously. The incident with Mr Hoskins and his wife’s spiteful revenge might have been no more than part of an unpleasant dream. Even the loss of her precious hat no longer stung.
If Mercy had tried to imagine her ideal man he would have resembled Peter pretty closely – tall, good-looking, amusing, courteous and considerate. And there were things about Peter which far exceeded her imagination. He was interesting to talk to, and shared her love of books, though he was better read. He enjoyed the theatre – an unknown territory as far as she was concerned. He had travelled widely. He was fond of sailing; and she listened entranced as he told her about the yacht racing at the Regatta and the people involved. She was more puzzled than ever how he could find stories of her home life intriguing when he knew such interesting people. It seemed that everything he did added to the golden aura she was building around him.
The shadows lengthened further and the time to part could be put off no longer.
‘When do you have your next free day?’ asked Peter. ‘Don’t say next Saturday; it means waiting a whole week to see you.’
Mercy shook her head reluctantly. ‘It’s worse than that. I only get one Saturday off in four. I don’t work Sundays, though.’
‘Only Sunday? That’s terrible! How about in the evenings? No – I’m being thoughtless, aren’t I? You’ll be tired then, won’t you? I’m beginning to learn enough about that dreadful laundry to know they keep you working there until all hours.’
‘We do often have to work late,’ admitted Mercy. Then she added shyly, ‘But I would like to see you again on Sunday.’
‘Sunday it is, then. Waiting so long won’t be easy!’ Peter’s smile faded as he looked at Mercy, his expression softening. ‘No, it won’t be easy at all,’ he whispered. Then slipping his hands about her waist he drew her to him and kissed her. They were on a secluded part of the cliff top, shielded from the public gaze by a thicket of hawthorn. Mercy would not have cared if the whole world had been watching. Her response to the warmth and sweetness of his lips was startling, a sudden flaring of emotions she had scarcely been aware she possessed.
At last Peter released her, letting her go as if she were a delicate piece of porcelain.
‘I should apologize for that,’ he said, ‘but if I did I’d be telling a lie, because I’m not sorry.’
Mercy was having difficulty collecting her thoughts.
‘Nor am I,’ she said eventually.
Peter smiled, and taking her hand once more pressed it to his lips.
‘Until Sunday,’ he said softly.
Chapter Three
‘Who is he?’
At the sound of Blanche’s voice Mercy started guiltily. For some weeks now she had been meeting Peter regularly, whenever she could steal the time. She had parted from him not half an hour since, and crept stealthily into the bedroom so as not wake her grandmother. She saw that the old woman was propped up on one elbow, looking at her with dark eyes that glittered in the wavering candlelight.
‘Who’s who?’ she asked unconvincingly.
Blanche gave a snort. ‘Do not play games with me, girl! These days you are always mooning about the place, in a dream half the time. What other explanation could there be? Who is the man? One of our country bumpkins?’
‘Certainly not!’
‘Then who? Must I go through the rhyme? – Tinker, tailor, soldier—’
‘He’s none of those!’ cried Mercy, unwilling to put up with Blanche’s taunting. ‘He’s a gentleman.’
‘A gentleman? You fool!’ Blanche sat bolt upright. ‘I thought you had more sense than to follow Lizzie’s road.’
‘I’m not following Lizzie’s road, as you call it. He treats me with the greatest courtesy and respect.’
‘Ha!’
‘He does!’ Mercy was stung by her grandmother’s scornful disbelief. ‘He’s a perfect gentleman.’
‘And what does a perfect gentleman want with a laundry-maid, eh, if it is not to get her behind the nearest bush with her skirts around her neck?’
‘Grandmother!’
‘There is no need to blush. You know nothing of gentlemen or you would never call them perfect. If he has not got what he wants from you yet it is only a matter of time.’
‘But he’s not like that!’
‘No, of course not. He is completely honourable. You have no doubt spent an evening with his family. Tell me, how did his father greet you – and his sisters, are they agreeable girls? And what of his brothers— ?’
‘He has no brothers or sisters and his father is dead,’ Mercy cut in.
‘The only son of a widowed mother! You are a greater fool than I took you for. I had always credited you as the one person in this family with some sense. But I was wrong! Totally, totally wrong!’
Before Mercy could protest Blanche blew out the candle, leaving the girl in darkness. There was a rustle of bedclothes as the old woman pulled the blankets over her head, cutting short any further conversation on the subject.
Undressing in the dark presented no problems for Mercy, she had had to do it often enough when her grandmother was in a bad mood. As she prepared for bed she had to admit Blanche had a point. What future was there for her with Peter? Over the weeks since she had known him she had tried to school herself to look no further forward than their next meeting, but sometimes she could not help looking beyond; next month, next year, where would her relationship with Peter have taken her? She kne
w the greatest agony she could suffer would be never to see him again. She had fallen in love with him; no amount of telling herself she was the biggest fool on earth could alter that.
At work even the ever-optimistic Dolly viewed the situation with misgiving.
‘I suppose ’ee know what you’m doing,’ she said cautiously. ‘I mean to say, where’s it going to get ’ee? This gallivantin’ is all very fine. But it won’t lead nowhere, will it? ’Cepting trouble. Can’t ’ee settle for someone a bit more suitable? Shall I ask Tom if he’s got a decent friend?’
Contrary to expectations Dolly was still seeing Tom, the young man from the Electric Company, a good- natured soul who adored her.
Mercy declined the offer politely but firmly.
‘You’m sure?’ Dolly was not easily deterred. ‘Us could ’ave a rare old time, the four of us.’
‘Thank you, no,’ repeated Mercy.
Undismayed Dolly was content to continue with Tom as her main topic of conversation.
‘Did I tell ’ee I went to tea with ’is folks on Sunday? I was scared, I don’t mind admitting, but there was no need. They were as nice as ninepence. Do ’ee know what ’is mother did? ’Cos it was such a raw day, Tom and me couldn’t go for a walk to be on our own, like, so ’er banked up the fire in their front room and let us go in there. Made everyone else shift to the kitchen. There’s not many as would’ve done that, not first time of meeting, is there?’
She went on to sing the praises of her Tom, the kindness of his family, the splendour of their tea. Mercy wished she would stop. She envied Dolly her comfortable courtship, warm by the fireside, surrounded by loving kindness. She knew such pleasures were not for her. It was unlikely she would ever meet Peter’s mother, never mind being welcomed into the bosom of the household. Black despair weighed her down.
‘If the irons moved as fast as the tongues in this room we’d all make our fortunes,’ snapped Mrs Hoskins from the doorway. She strode purposefully down the aisle between the rows of tables, her footsteps heavy, her keys clanking menacingly at her waist.
Without turning her head Mercy knew she was heading in her direction. Sure enough, the woman stopped beside her table. An ominous silence followed.
To Dream Again Page 6