by Betty Neels
When she had gone he took Olivia’s letter from his pocket and read it again, and this time he was smiling.
The following day, with Nel beside him, he drove over to England.
Sylvester Crescent looked unwelcoming. It was drizzling with rain, the ferry had got in late, and so of course the boat train up to London was late too. Olivia was tired and hungry and unhappy, and the sight of the prim, net-curtained houses depressed her still further. She got off the bus at the corner, carried her case to her grandmother’s flat and knocked on its door.
Her mother opened it. ‘Darling, what a lovely surprise. And how sudden.’ She looked at Olivia’s tired face. ‘Come on in. We’ll have a cup of tea and then you shall go and have a nap. You can tell me all about it later.’
‘Granny?’
‘She has gone to that old Mrs Field for lunch. We’ll have something in the kitchen. Sit down while I make the tea, then you can have a hot bath while I get something to eat.’
The best part of an hour later, sitting at the kitchen table with her mother, supping soup, and warm from her bath, Olivia felt decidedly better. It wasn’t the end of the world. She would find another job and start again. Forgetting Haso wasn’t going to be easy, but nothing had been easy for the last year or two.
Her mother hadn’t asked any questions while they ate, but over another pot of tea Olivia told her what had happened. She told it without trimmings and in a steady voice, and when she had finished her mother said, ‘I’m sorry, my dear. But you have nothing to reproach yourself with. You’ve done the right thing, although I think that Rita should have left it for Mr van der Eisler to say goodbye to you. I said before that he was a good, kind man, and I still think that. He wouldn’t knowingly hurt you or anyone else.’
‘It’s better this way, Mother. I feel such a fool—Rita made me feel like a silly, lovesick teenager. I’m sure she didn’t mean it like that, but that’s how it sounded to me.’
Mrs Harding kept her thoughts to herself. ‘Well, love, you’re home now. Go to bed for an hour or two and I’ll break the news to Granny when she gets back.’
‘Poor Granny—lumbered with me again. But I’ll get a job just as soon as I can.’
Sooner than she expected! Going to Mr Patel’s shop for extra groceries, which her grandmother had proclaimed would be necessary now that there was another mouth to feed, her ears still ringing with the old lady’s pithy comments about great healthy girls idling their time away at home, she found Mr Patel darting around his shop in an agitated manner, muttering to himself and wringing his hands.
‘What’s the trouble?’ she asked sympathetically.
‘Miss, my wife is ill in bed and my daughter is by the side of her husband, whose mother is being buried today. I have no help—I am in a state…’
‘Will I do?’ asked Olivia. ‘I don’t suppose I can serve, but I can fetch and carry and arrange things on the shelves.’
His gentle brown eyes widened. ‘You would do that, miss? Help me in the shop? It will be only for a day or two—perhaps for one day only. I shall pay you.’
‘Just let me take this stuff to my grandmother’s and I’ll be back.’
He lent her an apron, showed her how the till worked, and handed her a broom. ‘I have no time,’ he said apologetically, ‘and I cannot keep the customers waiting.’
She swept the floor round the feet of the customers, smiling at the astonished faces of the ladies who lived near enough to her grandmother’s to know her by sight. That done, she stacked tins of food, pots of jam, packets of biscuits and then, since there were any number of customers now, went behind the counter and did her best. She was quite worn out by the end of the day and thankfully too tired to think. She sat at supper with her mother and grandmother, listening to the latter lady’s comments on suitable work for young ladies and not hearing a word of it. After supper she went back again to the shop, to help Mr Patel arrange his stock for the morning. By the time she got into bed nothing was important any more, only going to sleep as quickly as possible. Which she did.
Mr Patel opened his shop at eight o’clock. It was a chilly, dark morning and spitting with rain, but he was his cheerful self again. His daughter had phoned—she would be back in the evening—his wife was feeling better and he had willing help. Together they handed over bottles of milk, bags of crisps and Mars bars to the steady flow of customers on their way to work. There was just time for a cup of coffee before the housewives came and the day’s work really got going.
There was no closing for lunch at Mr Patel’s; they took it in turns to eat a sandwich and drink more coffee in the little cubbyhole at the back of the shop before facing more housewives and presently the children, coming home from school wanting their tins of Coke and crisps.
Olivia, pausing for a cup of tea, reflected that Mr Patel would be a millionaire before he was fifty, if he didn’t die of exhaustion first. There was a lull from the shoppers; she went outside and began to pile oranges from a crate on to the bench where the fruit and vegetables were displayed. Since it was the end of the day she hardly looked her best—her bright hair coming loose from its pins, an elderly cardigan over the outsize pinny Mr Patel had been kind enough to lend her.
Mr van der Eisler, driving fast round the corner in the Bentley, let out a great sigh when he saw her, swept the car across the road and stopped in the shop’s small forecourt.
The passing traffic had masked any sound he might have made; he was inches from her when he spoke.
At the sound of her name Olivia shot round, dropping oranges in all directions. She said, ‘Oh, it’s you,’ in a hollow voice and backed away. Not far, though, for he put out an arm and drew her gently towards him.
‘My darling love…’
‘No, I’m not,’ said Olivia, and blinked back her tears.
‘None of it was true,’ he told her gently. ‘Not a single word. When we came on Sunday, Rita and I, it was to tell you that she had decided to go on with her career, that Nel was to go back to school and stay with Lady Brennon and that I would drive you and Nel back here. I was going to ask you to marry me too…’
‘Then why didn’t you?’ snapped Olivia crossly. ‘You never said a word…’
‘My darling, I was afraid that you would turn me down…’
‘Turn you down? But I love you….’
He smiled. ‘Yes, I know that now.’ He put his other arm around her. ‘Tell me, why are you here, tossing oranges about?’
‘I’m helping Mr Patel until this evening—his wife’s ill and his daughter is away for the day.’ She gave a wriggle without much success. ‘You can’t park the car here…’
She felt his great chest shake with laughter. ‘Dear heart, stop being cross and keep quiet while I propose to you. This is hardly the place I should have chosen for such a romantic occasion, but it is a matter which needs to be dealt with at once. Will you marry me, Olivia? I find that my life has no meaning without you. I suppose that I have been in love with you since we first met and now I cannot endure being without you.’
‘Oh, yes, I will,’ said Olivia, ‘but I must know about Rita and Nel, and what—’
‘Time enough for that,’ said Mr van der Eisler, and bent his head to kiss her, an unhurried exercise which held Mr Patel’s admiration from where he stood in the shop doorway watching them. It was a good thing that there were no customers, for Mr van der Eisler was obviously intent on making the most of the opportunity. Mr Patel, a sentimental man, watched with ready tears in his eyes as Mr van der Eisler reached up and took the pins from Olivia’s hair and it tumbled down in a tawny cloud.
‘Love,’ said Mr Patel, and started to pick up the oranges.
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IMPRINT: Special Releases
ISBN: 9781460892305
TITLE: A CHRISTMAS WISH
First Australian Publication 2013
Copyright © 2013 Betty Neels
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilisation of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Harlequin Mills & Boon® , Locked Bag 7002, Chatswood D.C. N.S.W., Australia 2067.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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