One Who Kisses

by Marjorie Lewty

  He saw her embarrassment—of course he did, the brute—and a faint smile (or was it a sneer?) touched his long mouth. But he merely said, 'You're English?'

  'Yes,' she said through tight lips.

  'And your name?' He sounded like one of the French policemen who had interrogated her, only more officious.

  'Does it matter?' she said coldly.

  The dark, thick brows rose again and he said irritably, 'Of course it bloody well matters! I must know who Jules has been with all this time.'

  He made it sound as if she might have some infectious disease, or was likely to lead his nephew into a den of vice.

  She lifted her small, firm chin. 'My name is Polly West,' she said. 'What's yours?'

  For a moment he looked taken aback, then he said, 'St Just. Piran St Just.'

  Piran St Just—that rang a bell somehow, but she couldn't think where she had heard the name.

  He was speaking again, impatiently. 'Well then, Polly, if you will please give me any information you have about Madame Brunet and the name of the hospital, I won't trouble you further.'

  That suits me, Polly thought, the sooner I get away from this overbearing individual the better. And he had called her 'Polly' so patronisingly, as if she had been some inferior in his employment.

  She told him briefly all she knew and he jotted down the details. Then he took out his cheque-book. 'You must let me cover your expenses, Miss West. Train fares and so on.' He glanced at her, pen poised. 'And something for yourself, of course. For your trouble in this unfortunate matter.'

  Polly stared at him. 'You're offering to pay me? To give me a tip?' Her voice rose several tones.

  He sighed. 'Why not?' he said impatiently. 'Why be huffy about it? I wouldn't want you to be out of pocket on our account.'

  She went on staring for several seconds more. The man was incredible! It would have given her great pleasure to smack that superior expression from his face, but the occasion hardly called for that. The obvious thing to do was simply to walk out of the room, but Jules was still clutching her arm. She disengaged herself gently from his hot little fingers and gave him a push forward. 'There you are, Jules, you'll be all right now. Your uncle will look after you.' She wished she could believe it. She wished there was something more she could do for the little boy, but there was nothing. She was a complete stranger in a situation that did not in the least concern her.

  She nodded coldly to the man. 'I prefer not to take money from you, Mr St Just. If there's anything more I can do, please let me know. The police have my name and address in England, of course.'

  She turned to Jules, who was standing quite still, looking from one to the other of them apprehensively, a forlorn little figure. 'Goodbye, Jules. I hope your grandmother will soon be better.'

  The boy hadn't said a word or made a sound since they came through the door, but he made up for his silence now. He leapt at Polly and hung on round her waist. 'No, no, mademoiselle, you're not going to leave me!'

  She stroked his dark hair gently. 'But I must go, Jules. I'm going back to England tomorrow morning and I have to go back to my hotel and pack my bag. You'll be quite all right with your uncle now, and your grandmother will soon be home again.'

  Jules yelled, 'I don't want my uncle and I don't want my grandmother! I want you!'

  The man stepped forward and put a hand on the boy's shoulder. 'Come along, Jules, we'll have a meal together and get to know each other. And then you can look at television if you like.'

  He might not have spoken. Jules continued to cling on to Polly, his face buried in the frills of her white blouse, which, by now, was looking very much the worse for wear. He was crying in great choking sobs that racked his small body.

  Over his head she met the St Just man's eyes. 'He's had a bad shock,' she said apologetically, although why she should feel she had to apologise for the boy's behaviour she really didn't know.

  The man stood frowning down at his nephew. 'You'll have to toughen up a bit, my lad,' he growled. 'The St Just men don't snivel, you know. Come along, let Miss West go.'

  Jules didn't hear, or if he did he took no notice. He continued to hang on to Polly, crying unrestrainedly.

  What now? Polly's mind went into a flat spin, remembering all that Madame Brunet had told her about this man—that he was trying to kidnap Jules and take him to England, away from her, and away from his mother. And where was his mother? Madame had said that she was 'no longer able to look after him.' Jules himself had said that his mother had 'gone away.' The St Just man had hinted that she wouldn't be coming back. It was a mystery. Was she suffering from some incurable illness? Had she taken a job that necessitated her being away from Paris—travelling, maybe? Whatever it was, there seemed nobody, now, who could stop this horrible man from doing what he pleased with Jules.

  She had a wild idea of going to the police, but if she did, what could she say to them? Even if her French had been up to it she doubted whether she could explain her suspicions. No, she would have to leave poor Jules to take his chance. The St Just man wouldn't actually ill-treat him, somehow she was sure of that. She remembered how he had put his hand quite gently on Jules's head this morning in the coach, and the friendliness of his welcome just now. Not that Jules had responded in the slightest degree. If this man were his uncle he simply didn't want to know.

  As the boy clung and sobbed she looked up at the man standing beside them, both hands plunged into his pockets, a picture of angry frustration. 'Well, what do we do now?' she said.

  'God knows, this is something I didn't bargain for.' He gave her a look she couldn't interpret. 'There's only one way out as far as I can see, Miss West. If he won't let you go without screaming the building down, you'll have to stay.'

  'Have to?' she queried. Her blue eyes sparkled frostily.

  The dark brows lifted. Then, for the first time, the faintest of smiles touched that long, hard mouth. 'Do I have to go down on my knees and plead with you?'

  She said coolly, 'I don't see that happening. But I don't have to do what you tell me, Mr St Just. I imagine you're very good at giving orders, but I'm not very good at taking them.'

  'Hm.' He looked hard at her. 'Well, Miss West,' he said with heavy irony, 'can I persuade you to give up a little of your valuable time to assuage the fears of a small boy?'

  'And get his uncle out of a jam?' she said, with what she hoped was similar irony.

  'All right, all right,' he burst out irritably. 'Have it your own way. Will you stay or won't you?'

  Jules had stopped howling but was sobbing silently, his whole body shaking. He was still clinging on to her, but more weakly now. If she exerted a bit of strength she could easily disengage herself and hurry away from the apartment and the whole extraordinary adventure.

  The man was waiting for an answer, just standing there, dark and formidable, and yet, in the circumstances, helpless. Almost as helpless as Jules, in a different way.

  She sighed. 'All right, I'll stay. Just for an hour or so, to get him settled down. And the first thing is to get some food into him. All he's had since this morning is a drink of lemonade and a bar of chocolate at the station. I didn't want to wait to have a meal, I wanted to get him home as soon as possible. Shall I' look around and see what's in the larder?'

  He shrugged. 'You can look, you won't find much. I've already looked and most of what I found has gone down the waste chute. Unfit for human consumption. There's a fair amount of gin,' he added with a cynical twist of his mouth. 'I imagine that's Madame's favourite tipple.' He moved towards the door. 'You have a look round and I'll go out and buy some provisions.'

  The door closed behind him with a snap and Polly was left alone with Jules, who quickly became a changed little boy now that he knew she wasn't going to leave him.

  Polly said, 'You'll have to show me where everything is. Suppose we go and wash our hands and faces first. I feel rather grubby, don't you?'

  Grubby was the right word for the bathroom, too. Expensi
vely fitted in pink, with multiple mirrors and a shower-curtain covered with pink and blue fishes, it would have looked quite pleasing if it had been cared for. Instead, it was a mess. Rows of bottles and pots stood on the windowsill, most of them without their tops, so that their contents had dribbled over the top and run gooily down the side. The pink bath had a grey ring half-way up and the washbasin was blocked and had a sliver of soap disintegrating in the murky dregs at the bottom.

  Polly shuddered and turned on the cold tap of the bath. She swilled her face and hands and dried them on a tissue from her handbag. 'Let's do you now, Jules,' she suggested. 'Or would you rather wash yourself?'

  'Of course,' he said with dignity. 'I always do.'

  He washed quite carefully and dried on a towel that hung limply behind the door. After that he showed her round the apartment.

  'This is my room,' he told her, leading her into a fair-sized room with two beds. 'I used to share with Grand'maman,' he explained, 'but when Maman left Grand'maman took her room. I like it better when I'm alone,' he added. 'I can read a lot.'

  He opened a cupboard to show her rows of books, stacked up one on top of the other. 'These were my daddy's books,' he said proudly. 'Now they are mine, unless—' he caught his lower lips with his teeth '—unless Grand'maman sells them. Sometimes when I'm naughty she says she'll sell my books.'

  Polly said, 'Oh, I'm sure she won't. Keep the door tight shut and then she'll forget all about them.' She wished she could believe it.

  'Do you want to see Grand'maman's room?' Jules enquired, and Polly shook her head. If it was anything like the rest of the apartment she would prefer not to.

  The state of the kitchen wasn't any better than that of the bathroom. Again, it was adequately equipped, but everything was dull and neglected, and the smell of stale food when she opened the fridge was nauseating. The St Just man had, as he said, emptied the fridge, but it would need a good clean-out to remove the smell of stale cheese and sour milk and other items which would for ever be nameless.

  'We have our meals in here,' Jules told her, and Polly glanced towards the plastic-covered table in the corner and said quickly, 'I think it would be nicer to eat in the living-room tonight, don't you? Let's set a table there and have it all ready for when your uncle brings back the food.'

  She led the way into the large room. It smelled stuffy and dusty, but at least it was an improvement on the kitchen. There was a folding table in the window and she pulled out the legs and searched in the drawers of the chiffonier for a cloth and cutlery.

  Jules was standing behind her, silent. When she turned, with a smile, he said, 'Mademoiselle,' in a strained little voice.

  'Yes, Jules.'

  'Is that man going to stay here?'

  'He's your uncle, Jules. You'll be able to have lots of fun together.' Well, it was possible, she thought, just possible. He might not be as grim as he seemed. 'Your uncle Piran,' she added feebly.

  Piran. That was the name of a Cornish saint, wasn't it? Anything less saintly than Piran St Just she could hardly imagine. 'I expect he'll enjoy looking after you while your grandmother is away,' she added with an encouraging smile, but her heart sank. What would he do? Whisk Jules away to England with him? There didn't seem much to stop him now, provided he could get over the rules and regulations for taking a child out of the country. And no doubt he had that matter taped already.

  'I don't want him to look after me,' Jules stated definitely. 'I can look after myself.'

  Polly went down on one knee and gave him a little hug. 'Darling, do you really think you could? How about the shopping, and the cooking and everything?'

  'I can shop,' he said stubbornly. 'And I wouldn't need to cook. 'I'd eat sausage and fruit and milk.'

  'H'm, not such a bad diet,' Polly agreed, 'but you might get a bit tired of it, don't you think?'

  'Well, you could do the cooking, mademoiselle,' he announced.

  Oh dear, this was becoming very awkward. But before Polly could think of a reply that wouldn't raise his hopes too much the door of the apartment flew open and Piran St Just appeared, his arms full of provisions.

  He dumped them on the table. 'Sausage, cheese, bread, butter, coffee, milk, fruit. And this.' He pulled the wrapping from a litre bottle of red wine. 'This should cheer things up a little. Somehow I don't fancy drinking Madame's gin.'

  He grinned encouragingly at Jules. 'Come along, old man, tuck in. I bet you're starving!'

  Jules turned his back. 'No, I'm not,' he said sulkily.

  The man slanted an angry glance at Polly, as if this were her fault, and she said quickly to the little boy, 'I think you're rather tired, Jules. How about getting into bed and I'll bring you some supper on a tray and you can read one of those lovely books you showed me.'

  'Oh yes, mademoiselle, I'd like that,' he said eagerly.

  He glanced quickly at his uncle and then away again.

  'Can I go now?' he said, as if he recognised that this man would have to be obeyed. But he certainly wasn't going to give an inch more than he had to.

  The man shrugged. 'O.K. Run along, then,' and Jules shot out of the room without further ado.

  Polly hesitated. 'I was just setting the table in here. The kitchen's too awful for words.' She wrinkled her small, straight nose.

  'I've seen it,' he said darkly. He slumped down in a chair and closed his eyes.

  Polly stood looking at him, taking in the dark, masculine strength in every line of his face. Very male, she thought, and certainly very chauvinistic too. He had been out to buy food and that was all he was prepared to do. The rest was up to her.

  She shrugged and went back to the kitchen. Here she found a tray and arranged it with sausage, buttered bread, a ripe peach and a cup of milk.

  Jules was already sitting up in bed, in pink-striped pyjamas that looked as if they could do with a wash. Polly felt angry. What a dump of a place this was—no sort of place to bring up a child in.

  'Oh, merci, mademoiselle.' He took the tray on his knees and put the book he was reading down on the bed beside him. 'I have a book all about Chartres Cathedral. See?' He patted it lovingly. 'My daddy told me all about the cathedral once, a long time ago. And he told me I could be an architect when I grew up,' he added proudly.

  'That's a splendid idea,' Polly said warmly. 'Now, you eat up all your supper and then I'll come and see you and say goodnight.'

  Back in the living-room she put plates and knives on the table and spread out the food in the middle. She looked at the crusty bread and yellow butter and felt as if her inside were dropping out with hunger. She glanced doubtfully at the man in the chair. He seemed to be asleep.

  'Food's ready,' she announced loudly.

  He started, opened his eyes, and blinked at her uncertainly. 'What the—oh yes, of course. You're Miss West, my nephew's guardian angel.' Again the heavy irony.

  'And you,' Polly returned lightly, sitting down at the table, 'are Jules's wicked uncle.'

  He sat up, scowling. 'What the hell gave you that idea?'

  'The wicked uncle bit? Oh, that was Madame Brunet.' She cut off a slice of bread and buttered it thickly. 'I was regaled with your sins all the way to Chartres this morning.'

  He levered himself out of his chair and joined her at the table. 'I see,' he said slowly. 'I trust you were entertained.'

  'Oh, vastly entertained,' Polly said airily. 'This bread's delicious. Shall I cut you a slice?'

  He took the knife out of her hand and held it as if he were thinking of carving up someone, or something, apart from the loaf. 'That bloody woman!' he said savagely, and said no more until he had eaten four slices of bread and a hefty piece of sausage.

  Polly tucked in too. She was very, very hungry and the food was delicious. The peaches were heavenly, full of flavour and juice. She ate two of them.

  Piran St Just took a formidable folding-knife from his pocket, and selected a corkscrew from among its array of tools. He opened the bottle of wine and as the cork popped he looke
d across the table at Polly. 'Glasses?' he queried.

  Oh no, Mr High and Mighty, I'm not going to run around at your bidding. She pretended not to hear and he said it again, 'Did you find any glasses?'

  'I didn't look,' she said.

  'Well, go and look now, there's a good girl.'

  'I'm not—' she began furiously.

  He was studying her face. 'You've got juice running down your chin,' he said.

  Muttering under her breath, she threw back her chair and retreated to the kitchen, where she peered into a cracked mirror on the wall and cleaned up her chin. Then she selected the thickest tumbler she could find and carried it back, thumping it down on the table.

  He raised dark brows. 'Temper!' And then, 'But you've only brought one glass.'

  'I don't want any wine,' she said rather sulkily. He had made her look an idiot and she hated him.

  'Rubbish,' he said. 'I can't drink alone. Perhaps you'd like to share my glass?' he added silkily.

  Oh dear, she didn't like the way he said that. While he was slanging her she felt safe, but now—

  He was looking across the table at her in a lazy, amused way and it was doing something very odd to her breathing.

  'Of course not,' she said crossly. 'I just don't want any wine.'

  He poured out half a tumblerful of the rose-coloured liquid and took a long swig of it. Then he held the glass between his two hands and stared at her over the rim. 'Scared?'

  The dark, hooded eyes were lethal. 'Of w-what?' she stammered.

  'Of me, of course. The wicked uncle.'

  'Oh, don't be silly,' she said, standing up. 'I'll just go and see if Jules is settling down. Then I'll take my leave of you, Mr St Just.'