Always I'Ll Remember

by Bradshaw, Rita

  ‘Good idea or not, I’m going,’ said Abby, forcing a smile to soften her words.

  Clara recognised defeat. ‘I’m coming in with you then.’

  ‘You are not! This is something I have to do by myself. Anyway, he may not even be in this afternoon.’

  ‘There’s another thing, Abby,’ Lucy said. ‘There was an accident a few years ago, a car accident. Both his parents died.’

  Abby stared at her aghast.

  Jed broke the silence. ‘I’ll take you both in my car if you like. Clara can wait with me while you see Mr Benson.’

  Abby smiled her thanks as Clara said animatedly, ‘You have your own car, Jed?’ Clearly he had gone up a notch or two in her estimation.

  ‘Aye, Morris Minor.’ Jed tried unsuccessfully to appear offhand about his pride and joy. ‘She’s one of the first models so she’s getting on a bit, but she drives well. Me an’ Da did a bit of work to her when I got her last year, and we all used to go for a run in the country on a Sunday afternoon, me, Da and . . . and Mam.’ Jed’s face changed on the last word and for an awful moment the three women thought he was going to cry, but after swallowing hard he turned away. His voice thick, he said, ‘I had to move her up the road a bit this morning with the funeral cars coming but come and have a look if you want.’

  ‘You go, Clara. I’ll be with you in a minute.’ Abby pushed Clara after Jed and turned back to Lucy. ‘Jed will tell you how we get on,’ she said quickly, ‘but Clara and I won’t come back again to the house. Give Wilbert my love and tell him I’ll write soon. I’m sorry about all this, lass, with you having worked so hard to put a good spread on and everything.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault, Abby, it was your mam’s. She’s a perfectly horrible old woman. It just amazes me that you and Clara and Wilbert are so lovely. You must take after your da.’

  Abby forced a smile. ‘He was a grand man,’ she said softly.

  ‘I don’t know how much longer I can stand her, to be truthful, but Wilbert won’t see her put in a home. And it’s not as if he even likes her.’

  ‘I don’t think any of us ever have.’

  The two women looked at each other, pity for the other’s plight in their faces. After hugging Lucy, Abby turned and walked to where Clara and Jed were waiting by the car.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  James Benson leaned back in his comfortable leather chair and stretched his legs. He glanced at his gold wristwatch. It was getting on for four. Damn it, where had most of the afternoon gone? It didn’t seem a minute or two since he’d sat down after lunch and started work again. He still had a couple of urgent matters which needed prompt attention; tonight would be another occasion when he wasn’t home till eight or nine o’clock. But he couldn’t complain, not when the business was doing so well and he was looking to hire another junior accountant within the month.

  He’d decided to branch out by himself at just the right time, he thought, his mind flicking back over the last years. The postwar housing crisis had produced a host of enterprising private contractors keen to satisfy the demand for houses, and new homes needed new furniture, which in turn saw fresh modern firms springing up to meet the need. It was all good business for him. He nodded to himself. One thing everyone who was starting out needed was an honest, reliable accountant who wouldn’t charge too much but would do a good job. He was building his name with such folk and it was proving lucrative.

  He rose to his feet to relieve the touch of cramp his gammy left leg was disposed to, automatically flexing his left arm as he did so. He could manage to hold a fork or other light objects with his left hand now and to all intents and purposes appeared fine to a casual observer, but the arm would take no weight of any consequence and his fingers were still inclined to be stiff and cumbersome first thing every morning. But this was a small price to pay for still being alive.

  He walked round the large mahogany desk that dominated the room, the available space made narrow by filing cabinets along one wall. He peered through the glass panel above the four-foot partition wall and looked into the outer office. His young assistant who had yet to take his accountancy examinations had his head down and was working hard, but his secretary was on the telephone. She caught his eye and smiled. ‘Time for a cuppa?’ she mouthed, to which he replied with a thumbs up before returning to his desk. Instead of immediately taking his seat he stood looking down into the busy street below for a moment or two.

  A good part of the view was obscured by the awnings stretching out in front of shop windows, and as always James found himself clucking in irritation. He could understand the need for the sheets of canvas on hot sunny days when they provided welcome shade for shoppers and protection for some of the consumable goods on show, but a drop of rain never hurt anyone and it had only been drizzling all day. Then he caught himself, shaking his head slightly as he continued to stare down into the street. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t carp on about such trivialities only yesterday and here he was doing it again. He’d turn into a cranky old man long before he should if he didn’t take himself in hand. He refused to acknowledge here that his whole life was an irritation for a good part of the time. To do so would mean digging deep to the cause of his dissatisfaction and that was forbidden territory.

  A car stopped just in front of the jewellers above which James rented his three rooms, the third being divided into a tiny kitchen and separate cloakroom with a toilet and washbasin. His gaze idly followed the young man who leaped out of the vehicle and folded his seat forward to allow his passenger in the back to alight. It was a sombrely but well-dressed woman, the sort of client the jewellers were used to. Just before the woman crossed the pavement to the shop, she glanced upwards and he caught a fleeting glimpse of the face the dark hat had been hiding.

  He took a sharp step backwards as something like a blow in the solar plexus hit him. The breath left his body in a whoosh of shock and he sat down heavily in his chair. For a moment he was quite still. Then he wiped his hand across his mouth, angry to see it was shaking slightly. Damn it, but the woman had reminded him of Abby so strongly. He stood up again and peered cautiously through the window. The car was still there but the woman was nowhere to be seen.

  He raked his hair back from his brow, more shaken than he would care to admit. He wasn’t going to start the old trouble again, was he? Seeing her in every woman’s face, hearing her voice at odd moments and, at his worst, actually watching her walk towards him and reaching out to her, only to find there was nothing and no one there. The doctors had assured him eleven years ago when he was recovering from his breakdown that his mind wouldn’t play such tricks on him again, and he didn’t think he could stand it if it did. But no, he was running away with himself here. He forced himself to sit down and pick up his pen. People the whole world over were reminded of other people they knew in strangers’ faces. It was natural, normal. It happened. It didn’t mean a thing. And he had work to do.

  As he ran his eyes over the row of figures in front of him he heard the door to the outer office give its customary loud creak which was better than any bell, and then the sound of voices. Sitting as he was now he couldn’t see out through the glass panel, but he had a four o’clock appointment and assumed it was old Fairley arrived early. On his desk were Fairley’s company books, tied up and waiting for him. The old man had a tiny locksmith’s business involving just him and his son, but as he was barely literate and his son wasn’t any better, bookkeeping was beyond them. Fairley was one of what Mrs Howard, his secretary, called his ‘wing and a prayer’ cases because he charged them only a tiny fee and ended up doing more work than was financially sensible. But he liked the oldtimer and his son very much and had plenty of cases which did bring in the bread and butter, not that Mrs Howard accepted this as a reason to work for next to nothing.

  The very able lady in question now knocked on his door and opened it. James waited for her to announce Mr Fairley - she always gave him his full title even though she strongly dis
approved of him. Instead she came into the room and closed the door behind her, her voice low as she said, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Benson, but there’s a lady who wishes to see you. I’ve explained you have an appointment at four o’clock but she, well, she’s most persistent.’

  ‘A lady?’

  ‘A Mrs Wilmot.’

  He wrinkled his brow. ‘To my knowledge I know no one of that name.’ And to the tiny question mark in his mind and his churning stomach he said silently, It’s impossible. Quite impossible.

  ‘Do you want me to tell her to come back another time? To make an appointment?’

  ‘No, no.’ He checked his watch. ‘Tell her I can give her ten minutes but that’s all. If that won’t do she would be better making an appointment as you’ve suggested.’

  The door hadn’t closed behind Mrs Howard above a second when it opened again, and now, as his secretary stood aside and the woman he had seen in the street came into his office, James remained perfectly still. Even before she raised her head so he could see more than just her lower face, he knew it was Abby. His gaze was riveted. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. And she was another man’s wife.

  Somehow he managed to rise and say quite normally, ‘Hello, Abby. It’s been a long time.’ And then, before his secretary shut the door, ‘I was just going to have a cup of tea. Would you care to join me?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Two cups then please, Mrs Howard. Come and sit down, Abby.’

  She remained standing when the door had closed, her eyes enormous and her face pale. He looked so like his father. Older, more rugged than in his youth but just as handsome. ‘I’m . . . I’m sorry about your parents, James.’ It wasn’t how she had meant to start at all.

  ‘Thank you.’ He became aware he was staring and cleared his throat, indicating the seat in front of the desk with a wave of his hand. ‘Do sit down and tell me what I can do for you. I presume it wasn’t just to offer your condolences about my parents that brought you here?’

  ‘No.’ She sat, swallowed, and then found herself unable to continue.

  James made a small movement with his head, his eyebrows raised as he prompted her. It was only then that Abby managed to say in little more than a whisper, ‘I don’t know where to start.’

  ‘Are you in some kind of financial trouble? I’ll try to help you if I can.’

  He was so distant, so correct. She hadn’t known what to expect but this wasn’t it. He didn’t love her any more. But of course he didn’t love her any more, she hadn’t expected him to, had she? Not after fifteen years and with him having married and divorced and probably had other women since then. And he thought she’d betrayed him, fallen in love and married someone else long before the war ended. No, of course she hadn’t expected he would still care.

  But she had. Because she still loved him.

  With a quick drooping movement of her head she said, ‘I’m not in trouble, not in the way you mean, but this afternoon I found out that my mother had lied to you when you returned from the war. It was my aunty’s funeral today and I came back’ - here the nerves which had caused a huge lump in her throat overcame her and she had to swallow twice before she could go on - ‘I came back to pay my respects. There . . . there was a row and she told me, my mother told me she’d said I was married when you called at the house.’

  ‘You did marry, you’re Mrs Wilmot.’

  ‘That was much later.’ She hadn’t raised her head. ‘He was a doctor, an American doctor and we didn’t marry till the war was over. I . . . I thought you were dead, you see.’

  There was utter silence in the room now and Abby didn’t dare look at him, dreading what might be on his face. Disinterest? Puzzlement at why she had bothered to come even if what she said was true? Worse, pity or embarrassment that she thought it might matter to him now? She shouldn’t have come, she was such a fool. She should have written, phoned - anything but this. What should she do now? She didn’t know.

  And then he made a sound, a tiny sound in his throat and she raised her head and saw the look on his face. Suddenly it was the easiest thing in the world to say, ‘I’m sorry, James. I’m so, so sorry. I never knew. I never knew.’

  He bent forward, his elbows on the desk as he held his face in his hands, and when the door opened and Mrs Howard took a step into the room with the tray of tea, Abby turned and said, ‘I’m sorry, could you give us a minute or two?’ She wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand as she spoke. For a second she thought the woman was going to protest but then she put the tray down on a table just inside the door and backed out, shutting the door behind her.

  Abby didn’t realise James was crying until she saw the tears run through his fingers onto the papers beneath, and then it seemed the most natural thing in the world to walk round the desk and gather him against her. He jerked away from her, visibly pulling himself together. He rose and put a few feet between them, standing with his back towards her as he wiped his face with a handkerchief. ‘Your husband?’ His voice was cracked and thick. ‘Does he know you are here today?’

  ‘Ike’s dead.’ She saw the words register in the stiffening of his back. ‘He died two years ago. A heart attack.’

  It was a moment before he turned and then he said, ‘I’m sorry. And I’m sorry for reacting like this, what must you think of me? It’s the shock. All those years . . .’

  ‘I know.’ She was looking into his eyes and she knew she was trembling. ‘I heard you came home and married someone else. I thought you’d decided we’d made a mistake and you’d fallen in love with this girl—’

  ‘I’ve only ever loved one woman, Abby.’ He made no move towards her. ‘And the marriage was a disaster from day one. Hell!’ Anger stirred, sharpening his voice. ‘I should never have believed your mother, I wouldn’t have if I’d been in my right mind but I was ill, how ill I didn’t realise till much later. And she was convincing.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again.

  ‘And you found out today she had lied?’ His eyes were moving from one feature of her face to another. ‘And you came straight here?’

  There was a question in the words which had nothing to do with what he’d asked. It was to this she replied when she said, ‘Of course I did, what else could I have done?’

  ‘And if your husband had still been alive? Would you have come then?’

  Again it was a question within a question and this time Abby paused. Then she said simply, ‘I loved Ike.’ She watched him blink. ‘I wouldn’t have married him otherwise. It wasn’t the same as with us but it was good.’

  He didn’t like the jealousy he felt towards a dead man but he managed to cover it when he said, a little tersely, ‘You were happy then?’

  ‘Yes, we were happy.’

  He should say he was glad but he wasn’t. What kind of a man did that make him? Almost certainly less of a man than this husband of hers had been. ‘Bairns?’

  ‘Two boys. The youngest was only a few months old when Ike died.’

  This time he could say and mean it, ‘I’m sorry, that must have been a bitter blow for you but at least he saw them before he went.’

  She nodded. ‘Aye, yes he did.’ She had thought it was going to be all right a minute ago but now, since the talk about Ike, she wasn’t sure. But then what did she mean by all right? She heard herself saying, ‘I’ll get the tray, shall I?’

  ‘No, no, let me.’

  She watched him as he walked across the room, noticing the slight limp with a rapid beating of her heart. She hadn’t known if he’d survived the war intact but he seemed fine apart from the limp. He was one of the lucky ones. But then he’d spoken of being more ill than he’d realised. What had that been about?

  James lifted the tray with his right hand, steadying it with his weak one but the contents weren’t equally balanced and as the small plate of biscuits beside the cups, sugar bowl and milk jug began to slide, he made a hasty effort to tilt the tray upwards. The extra weight mad
e his left arm give way completely and the result was disastrous as the whole lot crashed to the floor. Tea and milk mingled with broken biscuits and sugar lumps, along with a few choice words from James. As Abby rushed to help, embarrassment at his inadequacy made his voice a bark as he said, ‘Leave it, leave it. It doesn’t matter.’

  He repeated this when Mrs Howard flung open the door. As she stood hesitating on the threshold, saying, ‘The carpet, Mr Benson, the carpet,’ he growled something distinctly rude about the carpet which caused Mrs Howard to turn pink and close the door very quickly, deciding it wasn’t the moment to announce Mr Fairley had arrived.

  ‘James?’ Abby’s touch on his arm was tentative. There was a second when she thought he was going to brush her away but then he turned, his arms going round her and his mouth taking hers in a kiss which took her breath away. Even in the emotion of the moment she was conscious that only one arm was really pressing her to him and the rush of feeling this caused was painful.

  When eventually his grip lessened they were both trembling, and his voice was gruff as he murmured, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. A bull in a china shop, that’s me. Abby, you’re not going to go out of my life again?’