A Christmas Candle

by Katie Flynn

  ‘It’s not just me involved,’ he said quietly. ‘If you must have the truth, only don’t you breathe it to a soul, I’ve been in love with Lily from the very first day she walked into her bedroom and found me sprawling on her bed. Satisfied?’

  ‘Of course I am, but if you love her why haven’t you whisked her up in your arms and told her so? Why haven’t you booked an extra berth on that ship? We’d miss her, of course, but you and she were made for each other, so whichever country you decided to settle in would be the right one. Oh, Hank, once you get aboard that ship you may never come within a thousand miles of Lily again, let alone good old England.’

  Hank shrugged. ‘It takes two to make a successful marriage. Lily could have anyone; why would she want me? Why do my crew call me Plug, as if you didn’t know? If I did as you suggest and whisked Lily back to my father’s farm, who can say whether she might not hate it, or her love wouldn’t simply die, and there she’d be, in a strange country with no friends or kind mom to advise her. She would be far too polite – far too nice – to admit she had made a mistake, so she’d be landed, wouldn’t she? Hiding her unhappiness and pretending everything was fine for my sake.’ He pulled Eve to a halt, took hold of her shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. ‘My dear girl, don’t you think I’ve longed to do just that? But I’ve told myself a hundred times that such an act would be unfair for all sorts of reasons, reasons a kid like you would never understand.’ He smiled down at her. ‘Well, now I’ve told you more than I’ve told anyone else, so you must just accept that I’m not going to change my mind. I love Lily more than I ever thought I’d love any woman, so I don’t intend to ruin her life, okay?’

  ‘Okay, I suppose,’ Eve said grudgingly. ‘But if you ask me you’re being a complete twerp and ruining two people’s lives just because you’re afraid Lily might change her mind, which I’m sure she wouldn’t. She’s not a changeable girl, you see. But I won’t nag you, if you’ve honestly told me the truth.’

  Hank looked at her solemnly. ‘I’ve told you the truth. Now, where’s this deep pool you’ve told me about?’

  Chapter Fourteen

  The day before Lily and Hank were due to leave Drake’s Farm everyone sat down to breakfast together, for it was a Wednesday and Auntie Bess always made bacon and eggs on a Wednesday as it was market day and lunch would be later than usual.

  The only vacant chair was Chrissie’s, and just as Auntie Bess began to say it wasn’t like him to miss bacon and eggs the back door burst open and he entered the room, clutching a pile of post.

  ‘I put the new young bull in the small meadow by the old byre, like you told me, Auntie Bess,’ he said, smiling blindingly at his hostess as she took a very full plate from the Aga where it had been keeping warm and put it down in front of him. ‘Nothing for us, Evie, but there’s one for Lily and the rest are for Uncle Reg,’ he went on cheerfully, handing out the letters. Lily’s was from her mother, who had a lively and interesting style and knew what would most interest Lily and her friends, and Eve knew she would be given it to read later. Uncle Reg’s post included a copy of the Farmer’s Weekly, and he had just opened his mouth to comment on a piece about Hereford cattle when there was a brief knock at the door and Freddie, the telegram boy, came into the kitchen, smiling broadly at everyone.

  ‘Morning, Mrs Faversham,’ he said, then nodded his head in Uncle Reg’s direction. ‘Mr Faversham.’ He looked down at the envelope he was holding in his hand. ‘I’ve got a telegram for a Hank Ruskin.’ He peered around the assembled company and smiled at Hank, who had got to his feet, hand held out to receive the envelope.

  ‘Well dang me!’ he exclaimed when he had read the message it contained. He turned to Lily. ‘Remember me telling you about my friend Billy Treble? He’s a doughboy, and not only is he in England, he’s stationed not far from here. I sent a telegram to his base asking if we could meet before I left Devonshire and he says he can. How about that?’

  ‘Oh, that’s wonderful, Hank,’ Lily said, beaming. ‘Where are you meeting him?’

  ‘He’s suggesting somewhere in town called the Cosy Café. It’ll be grand to see him.’ He turned to Uncle Reg. ‘Do you think I could borrow the old truck? Only as you know I’ll be sailing for the States in a couple of days’ time and may not see Billy again for years.’

  Uncle Reg agreed, of course, and Lily said that she did not wish to horn in on the meeting of such old friends but would love to meet someone who had known Hank from childhood. Auntie Bess, however, shook her head. ‘The lad doesn’t want to spend his time introducing this Billy to strangers,’ she said reprovingly. ‘You should know that, Lily my dear. And when is this meeting to take place?’

  Hank looked down at the telegram in his hand and then up at the clock on the wall. ‘Mrs F, you’re a genius,’ he said. ‘Ten o’clock! I’d better hurry.’ He got to his feet and smiled at Lily. ‘I’d love you to meet my old pal, honey,’ he said gently. ‘But this is a fellers’ get-together and pretty damned brief at that. I’d rather it was just the two of us, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind – I quite understand,’ said Lily gaily, but Eve, watching her face, thought that she did mind, and felt sad for her. She rushed into speech.

  ‘Are you going to change, Hank? You’ve probably got time, so Lily and I will clean the old truck up a bit so you don’t meet this Billy with straw in your hair and cow muck on your boots.’ She turned to grin at the telegram boy. ‘Thanks, Freddie, but it doesn’t look as though you need to wait for a reply. Hank will get there before the message does at this rate.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Auntie Bess, slipping one of her fruitless scones into Freddie’s hand. ‘Here, take that for the journey back to the village. It’ll give you energy.’

  Freddie smiled gratefully. ‘Ta, Mrs F,’ he said, taking a large bite out of the scone and waving a cheery goodbye at the rest of the folk gathered in the kitchen.

  When the door had closed behind him, Chrissie started to pout. ‘I want to go with Hank,’ he said. ‘If it’s a boy thing then they ought to want me there.’ He ran to the foot of the stairs. ‘Hank!’ he bellowed. ‘Can I come? I won’t be any trouble, honest to God, but it just so happens that I’m Superman this week and it would be a feather in my cap to meet a real American doughboy.’

  Hank reappeared at the top of the stairs. ‘Well you can’t come. I forbid it,’ he said. And then, as Chrissie began to protest, ‘That’s the end of it. If you pester me to change my mind you’ll be sorry.’

  Chrissie stomped up the stairs, feeling aggrieved. Hank had told him a few stories of the adventures he and his pal Billy had had as children, and when Hank mentioned that his buddy had appeared in the crowd scenes of a couple of cowboy films his fascination with the famous Billy Treble had been complete. They had done all the things that he most wanted to emulate, with Billy usually the leader, and now his chance had come to meet his hero, or at least to catch a glimpse of him. Yet he had been told in no uncertain terms that this was not to be.

  Of course, he could understand the girls not being wanted, for so far as he could recall, no girls had ever been involved in the pair’s exciting exploits. In the past twelve months or so he and his best friend, Alex Ryder, had led a gang of would-be adventurers. Taking it in turns to be Superman, wearing an old blanket from Uncle Reg’s truck which passengers spread across their knees in wintry weather, they engaged in all sorts of imaginary derring-do, and enjoyed themselves very much in the process. To be sure, Eve did not always approve of their games, so they did their best to see that she knew as little as possible about Superman and his exploits.

  Reaching the attic, Chrissie pulled the rudest face he could conjure up and sank down on the foot of his bed. Today he knew he would not be seeing Alex, because during the holidays Wednesday was the day Alex helped his father by tidying up the Sunday school corner of the church, mowing the grass and doing any necessary cleaning of the sunken gravestones which marked the death, mostly m
any years ago, of members of the rector’s flock.

  ‘Damn, damn, and bloody hell,’ he said loudly, secure in the knowledge that the rest of the household, with the exception of Hank, were still downstairs. ‘And it was my turn to be Superman, too! If only Alex was free we might think of some way to get a peep at Billy Treble, but of course it’s out of the question since today is Wednesday. Oh, damn, damn, damn, and I can’t even go and try to persuade him to let the rector do his own dirty work because he made me promise not to plan anything for Wednesdays and I always keep my word even if horrible Hank doesn’t care.’

  Presently, however, Chrissie’s natural good temper reasserted itself. He swirled an imaginary cloak across his shoulders, pulled a face at himself in the piece of mirror over the washstand and set off down the stairs once more. He knew better than to try to change Hank’s mind, but surely there must be some way of solving this dilemma. Perhaps if he spoke to Hank, begged for just a glimpse, explained about the Superman game and his own urgent desire to meet the legendary Billy Treble, then he might be allowed to shake the man’s hand and tell him how much he was admired – and imitated – by two British boys who, since the advent of Hank, adored all things American.

  Half an hour later Chrissie was curled up under Superman’s cloak in the back of Uncle Reg’s old truck. Hank had got behind the wheel without so much as glancing into the back and Chrissie thought, triumphantly, that the first hurdle was cleared.

  He had heard Uncle Reg telling Hank that driving the truck demanded all one’s attention. ‘If you’re careful and stick to the rules of the road you’ll be all right. But if you try any fancy tricks or go faster downhill than thirty miles an hour you’ll end up in the rector’s churchyard, so don’t you forget that, my boy. It’s a bit different from a Liberator, I dare say, so it’s best to be prepared.’

  So now, with the wind of their going even penetrating the rug, Chrissie waited rather apprehensively for the steep descent where the road turned sharply in front of the church. He hoped that Hank would not be so excited that he forgot Uncle Reg’s advice, but this did not prove to be the case, and quite soon, by raising his head the tiniest bit and peering about him, Chrissie could see the suburbs beginning to appear and hugged himself gleefully. They had reached the point of no return, where it would be quicker to go on than to turn back. It seemed the success of his venture was assured.

  When the truck came to a juddering halt and Chrissie heard voices he thought for one awful moment that he had been spotted, but no avenging hand swept the rug aside. Squinting from his blanket nest he could see that they had come to a halt outside the café and Hank, without a glance into the back, was standing on the pavement consulting his watch. Then, to his dismay, he heard him murmur to himself that he might as well go along to Bibby’s Animal Feed to see if there was anything waiting for the Favershams. If so, he might as well pick it up as not.

  Hank set off down the street, and Chrissie, knowing that discovery was inevitable if he was still in the truck when Hank returned with a couple of sacks of meal, did not hesitate. He jumped out of the truck, crossed the pavement in two strides and nipped through the café’s open door to dive beneath the only cover he could see, which was one of the chequered tablecloths with which the Cosy Café’s tables were covered. More by luck than judgement he had chosen a table with an unusually long cloth, and he realised with some relief that it actually touched the ground and would hide him completely from prying eyes.

  Breathing more easily, he crouched in the semi-darkness of his refuge and began to consider his next move. He had no intention of emerging from beneath the cloth like a child playing a children’s game. He meant to stroll into the café, greet Hank in a man to man fashion, shake hands with Billy Treble and then take himself off to walk back to Drake’s Farm. He needed to go back outside and find a spot where he would not be seen by Hank when he returned from Bibby’s, then wait there until he saw the two Americans enter the café.

  He was about to put this plan into action when he recognised the voices of Mrs Carstairs, the owner of the Cosy Café, and her helper Cathy. Cathy was a great favourite with everyone on Drake’s Farm because on market days she brought homemade fudge into the café and sold it in tiny bags to her favourite customers. There was some murmuring about the sugar ration from those who were not offered the chance to buy, but Cathy was generally so well liked that no one made any serious complaint. Now, however, thoughts of fudge were far from Chrissie’s mind. If they discovered him, what could he say? Could he pretend to be a customer who had, perhaps, dropped something on the floor and was searching for it? Chrissie gnawed his lip. The last thing he wanted was to make a fool of himself in front of Hank and Billy, and the thought of crawling out from his hiding place under the startled gaze of the two men made him cringe. If he could just get away before they entered the café …

  The bell by the entrance tinged and Mrs Carstairs, a friendly soul, greeted these early morning customers with her usual good nature.

  ‘Morning, fellers; come in for a nice hot cup of coffee and one of me new-baked scones?’ she suggested. ‘They’m so hot the butter on ’em melts straight through on to your plate, what about that, eh?’ She chuckled. ‘You’ll be used to a well-buttered scone staying with the Favershams the way you are, but your pal here may not be so lucky.’

  For several moments the talk was all of food; Billy was explaining that the American troops were fed by their own countrymen since Britain was hard pressed enough without having to feed their overseas visitors. Then Billy asked about various British customs and Mrs Carstairs and Cathy talked of pictures they had seen at the Odeon in town and film stars they admired. They were most impressed when Hank told them that Billy had had bit parts in a couple of Westerns, and promised to look out for him the next time they went to the cinema. As they talked the café began to fill up and the two Americans, who by great good fortune had sat down at the very table under which Chrissie crouched, lowered their voices so that he had to strain hard to hear what they were saying.

  There was a rustling from the table over Chrissie’s head and he realised that they were showing each other photographs. He heard Hank’s voice.

  ‘The one halfway up the apple tree is Lily; I expect I mentioned her in most of my letters. What do you think?’

  Billy gave a long, low whistle. ‘What a smasher! Wish you’d brought her with you.’ He chuckled. ‘Bet she’d fall for my manly charms even if yours have left her cold.’

  More rustling. ‘Here, this is a better one; she’s smiling straight into the camera.’ There was a pause, then another rustle and Chrissie guessed Hank was returning the photographs to his wallet and his wallet to its usual place in his pocket. ‘They call the girls in these parts English roses, but I prefer to call them lilies myself. Now, if you want to take a look around the town we’d better pay our shot and get going. There’s a very good pub up the road where we can have an excellent meal for a few shillings. My treat, of course.’

  The two men began squabbling light-heartedly as they went over to the kitchen door to pay their bill. Billy began sorting through a handful of change, but he finally gave up and held out his hand to Cathy so that she could pick out the required coins. Then he turned to his friend.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve lived in the same house as that Lily and not tried to fix her interest,’ he remarked. ‘I’m your oldest buddy, Hank, and I saw the look in your eyes when you showed me the photos. But I won’t press you; maybe she’s all looks and no character, and you’ve always been a feller who likes his girls to have brains as well as beauty.’ As he spoke they were heading for the door, and Chrissie only just caught the words which Hank murmured in reply.

  ‘She deserves more than I can give her,’ he said quietly. ‘A girl like Lily shouldn’t have to be content with half a man.’

  Half a man? What on earth did that mean? Was it anything to do with ‘bit part’, another expression strange to Chrissie? But before he could give much though
t to either phrase the men were thanking the café owner and her assistant and leaving the premises.

  It was the perfect moment. Customers were heading for the only empty table and Chrissie was able to stand up in the most natural manner, as though he had indeed dropped money on the floor, and pull out a chair so that a very large woman, who was panting and wheezing, could sit down and recover herself whilst her three companions followed suit. She thanked Chrissie profusely and then turned to her friends whilst Chrissie slipped unobtrusively out of the Cosy Café.

  He looked cautiously around, and saw that Hank and Billy had already reached the end of the street and were about to turn out of sight. For a moment he considered breaking into a run and pretending he had begged a lift from someone in order to get Billy Treble’s autograph, but then it occurred to him that Hank would almost certainly put two and two together and accuse him of ignoring his commands.

  Chrissie sighed, but turned away. He had had phenomenal luck so far; why risk being discovered? He would have liked Billy’s autograph, but at least he had seen him – and in the circumstances that could be made into a thrilling tale. Chrissie grinned to himself, imagining Alex’s reaction when he heard of his pal’s exploit. And not only Alex would be impressed; the rest of the gang would think him ‘one helluva guy’ as Hank would probably put it. Whistling merrily at the thought of the praise to come, Chrissie speeded up. He was longing to tell them all about his adventure, and as he walked and whistled he went over his story several times, embroidering it until it bore, in truth, little resemblance to what had actually happened.

  And Chrissie was in luck. Just as he was beginning to think he would have a bit of a rest an old van drew up beside him with a cheerful pip pip of its horn and Mr Spindlebush leaned across the passenger seat and grinned at Chrissie.

  ‘You’re about bright and early,’ he said approvingly. ‘Want a lift? Or would you prefer to continue walking?’