One Who Kisses

by Marjorie Lewty

  She said in a choky voice, 'I would like to go tonight—now.'

  'Go tonight?' Piran's head jerked up. 'To Aubrey Pont?'

  'No, of course not,' Polly said wearily. 'Aubrey is nothing to me except a good friend. I shall go down to the village. Mrs Joe will give me a bed for the night. I shouldn't think she'd be surprised, she must have guessed there was something wrong with our marriage. And you can think of something to tell Jules. I—I couldn't tell him a lie about coming back.' Jules must not suffer the agony she had suffered, waiting for her mother who promised to come back and never came. He would be sad for a time, but it would be a clean break and he would get over it, with his new friends and starting school soon and everything.

  She said, 'I'll go up and pack a bag. I'll just take what I need for now. When I get settled somewhere I'll let you know and perhaps you'll send the rest on to me.' This wasn't her, talking so calmly, it couldn't be. This was a frozen shell. The real Polly was deep inside somewhere, sobbing, as her heart slowly broke.

  'Where will you go? What will you do?'

  She said, on impulse, 'I think I'd like to go to London. I could stay with Alice for a night or two, if that's all right with you. I'm sure she would have me.'

  'Alice?' Piran looked suddenly affronted. 'She mustn't—she'd be devastated—'

  Polly shook her head slowly. 'She wouldn't even be surprised. She told me all along that I was taking a terrible risk in marrying you. She wanted me to wait.'

  'But you didn't want to wait?' he said, and for the first time some of the old vital Piran was there.

  'I'd promised,' she said stonily. 'For Jules's sake, I couldn't go back on it.'

  'Ah!' he said, and it was as if he understood something that had puzzled him. 'Very well, then, if you must go now, you must. I'll give you a lift down to the shop.'

  All so ordinary! She might have been going down there to buy the week's groceries. She went upstairs and threw some things into a case. She pulled a light coat over her blue wool dress. Then she looked into Jules's room and a shaft of light fell across his sleeping face. He looked trustful, secure. Blindly, Polly closed the door gently and went downstairs.

  Piran was waiting outside the front door. He put her case in the boot of the car and they drove down the hill in complete silence. When they reached the village shop he got out and carried the case up the path and put it down by the door. 'I'll wait in the car to make sure she can put you up,' he said, and turned away without another word.

  Polly knocked at the door and waited. In a moment it was opened and Mrs Joe's face appeared, rosy and surprised. 'Oh, it's you, Mrs St Just. Have I forgotten something? I did bring the butter up like you asked.'

  'Could I—could I come in and speak to you a moment?' Polly forced the words through her tense throat.

  'Why, of course you could. Come right in.' Mrs Joe threw the door open. Then she spotted the car at the bottom of the path. 'Is Mr St Just with you? Will he—'

  'No,' Polly said sharply. 'He has to go.' She raised a hand in signal towards the car, a dim shape in the darkness, with just the sidelights showing. She couldn't see Piran sitting in the driver's seat, but as she dropped her hand the powerful engine revved up and the sound of it died away, back up the hill. Very slowly she followed Mrs Joe into the cosy sitting room behind the shop. Her husband got up from his corner and switched off the TV.

  Mrs Joe glanced at Polly's paper-white face and quickly away again. 'Here's Mrs St Just come to see us,' she told her husband rather awkwardly. 'Do sit you down, Mrs St Just. I've just made us some tea, it's quite fresh.'

  Polly sat down and took the cup held out to her. The hot, sweet liquid loosened her tight throat a little.

  'Joe—Mrs Joe—' she looked pleadingly at the couple sitting side by side on the sofa '—can I ask your help? Somehow I have to get to London as soon as I can. Tonight, if it's humanly possible.' The thought of staying here, so close to Piran and Jules, was agony. The only possible way was to put as much distance as she could between herself and them both. She had told Piran that she would go to Alice, in London, but that she couldn't do, either. She would write to Alice, or phone, and give her an address, but apart from that she must be on her own, to try to adjust to all that had happened. She would have to use the money that Piran had put into a bank account for her, but that couldn't be helped. Money was the last thing she wanted to think about.

  Joe was looking at his watch and shaking his head doubtfully. 'There's only the one train now, Mrs St Just, and that's lateish. You'd not get into London until about half-past three in the morning. I'm sure Mr St Just wouldn't like you to be about at that time on your own.'

  Polly said in a tight little voice, 'Mr St Just wouldn't care where I was.' She heard Mrs Joe's gasp and went on, 'You must have noticed, Mrs Joe, that things weren't right between us. We're—we're splitting up now, and—oh, please, both of you, help me to get away tonight,' she finished desperately.

  A glance passed between the two on the sofa. Then Joe nodded slowly, 'If that's what you want, Mrs St Just, I'll drive you into Wareham and see you on the train.'

  CHAPTER NINE

  Polly sat in the swaying, jolting railway carriage that was taking her further and further away from Piran every moment and looked out at black, empty windows that reflected a face that she hardly recognised as her own. It was pinched and white— ghastly white—and her hair was flat and straggling against the collar of the light coat which was all she had brought with her to cover the thin wool dress she was wearing when Piran had delivered his ultimatum.

  Why had everything gone so desperately wrong? She tried to search her tired brain for an answer. Had it been her fault, as he had cruelly thrown at her, for expecting too much of the marriage—more than he had offered?

  Had it been her fault that she had fallen in love? Could that ever be called a fault? Polly leaned forward, elbows on knees, burying her face in her hands, and the bewhiskered elderly gentleman at the other end of the seat spoke for the first time on the journey. 'Are you feeling quite well, young lady? You don't look very good.'

  Polly lifted her head. 'Thank you—I'm not ill, just very tired.' She was grateful for his presence in the carriage. From further down the carriage came the sound of raucous singing and the clatter of beer cans. Polly had noticed the young men come in at Bournemouth and guessed that they were students, probably from one of the language schools. But the elderly gentleman looked like a retired Army man and she was sure that he could deal promptly with the riotous brigade if they became embarrassing to her.

  He smiled behind his moustache. 'Why not have a sleep, then? I'll keep the hordes at bay.' He indicated the noise coming from further down the carriage. He looked at his watch. 'You're going on to London? We don't get in until some unearthly hour, so have a good rest.'

  Polly murmured, 'Thank you,' and closed her eyes, but she had never been further from sleep. Her head felt as if it were full of buzzing insects. Where would she go? What would she do? She would have to try and find a hotel, but what hotel would take her in in the middle of the night?

  She wouldn't go to Alice, though. Alice would be kind and sympathetic, but Polly knew that kindness would destroy her at this moment. She would give in and that mustn't happen. She was on her own. Completely on her own, and that was how it was going to be for a long time. Perhaps for ever. She couldn't imagine any man taking Piran's place in her heart.

  And he didn't love her—didn't even want her to stay. The bitterness of rejection worked its way coldly through her, touching every part of her, eating into her very soul, leaving her like a spent firework, lying somewhere in a gutter, all the life burned out of it.

  And there was something else too, something that she couldn't face yet. A possibility—growing to a probability over the last two weeks—and now almost a certainty. She thrust the thought away; she only knew she couldn't run to Piran for protection if she was going to have his child.

  The train rumbled on and on endlessly th
rough the darkness, stopping for interminable spells, and then clanking into motion again. The elderly gentleman unscrewed the plastic cup from a flask of coffee and insisted on Polly drinking some. She was grateful for the hot, sweet liquid, but she still could not control the shivering inside.

  Then at last, when she had almost begun to believe they would never arrive, they were there, grinding slowly into Waterloo Station, jolting to a stop.

  There were only a few passengers getting out. The elderly gentleman helped Polly down the steep step with a gallant gesture, and she walked stiffly beside him along the cold, almost deserted platform. The students were jostling each other along in front, keeping up the noise to the end. Their voices echoed through the huge empty station.

  At the barrier the elderly gentleman paused, looking down at Polly a trifle worriedly. 'You'll be all right, young lady? You're being met? I wouldn't like my own daughter to—'

  'Oh yes, I'll be quite all right, please don't bother about me.' Polly spoke hastily, urgently. He was kind, but she didn't want him, she didn't want anyone. She was terrified that she would break down, and if she did start to cry she didn't know when she would stop. It was a tremendous physical effort to hold back the tears.

  'Well, if you're sure—' he still hesitated uncertainly. And then, raising his hat courteously, 'I'll wish you goodnight, then.' He moved away towards the exit.

  For a moment Polly stood quite still, made helpless by the sudden tears that blinded her. She squeezed her eyelids together, willing the tears to stop, biting her lower lip until she tasted blood, her fingers stiffly gripping the handle of her travelling case. A small, unhappy, lost figure in the chilly expanse of the station forecourt.

  Then her eyes flew open in sudden alarm as the sound of running feet echoed through the empty area. She saw the figure of a man tearing across the forecourt in her direction and her first frightened thought was, It's a chase—someone escaping from the police. But there didn't seem to be anyone chasing him. He was still coming straight towards her and she stumbled back out of his line of approach, but he changed direction and a moment later she was caught in a powerful grip. There was a moment of icy, confused terror, and then Piran's voice, breathing jerkily, came in her ear. 'Hallelujah! I made it. Next time the Le Mans Road Race!'

  It couldn't be true—she was dreaming. She opened her eyes and over Piran's shoulder saw the elderly gentleman standing at the exit, looking very hard in her direction. He must think she had been attacked by a maniac. She lifted a hand and waved to him in reassurance, and he waved back before he turned and walked on.

  Piran loosed her and followed the direction of her glance. 'Who's your friend?' he growled.

  Suddenly Polly bubbled over. He had come after her—he hadn't let her go. Never mind why, never mind if it was still just for Jules's sake. He was here beside her, unbelievably, magically, wonderfully. 'An Army type,' she said gaily. 'An absolute sweetie! We travelled together.'

  'Oh, you did, did you? I hope you didn't arrange to meet again because if you did he's going to be disappointed.' His arm held her as if he was afraid she would dart away from him at any moment. 'Come along, my car's outside. I shouldn't be surprised if the tyres are burned up. I've never driven so far in such a short time in my life, and that's saying something!'

  He hustled her out to his car and pushed her inside. Polly relaxed into the soft leather of the seat with a long, long sigh. Piran was silent as he drove out of the station and into the London streets, never quite empty of traffic, but almost empty at four o'clock in the morning. A few minutes later the car stopped outside a tall old house in a square.

  'Come along,' said Piran, and yanked Polly out unceremoniously.

  He rang a bell and a large man in trousers and a thick pullover opened the door. 'Hullo, Mr St Just, glad you managed to get here. And your wife.' He gave Polly a wide grin. 'Number eight's ready for you, and I've put a bottle of your favourite in there and some sandwiches and biscuits. O.K.?'

  'Splendid, Reggie, you're a pal. We'll go right up and let you get some sleep. Thanks for waiting up.'

  The big man chuckled as a note changed hands. 'Always pleased to oblige, Mr St Just.'

  Piran tucked an arm through Polly's, his other hand carrying her case. 'Number eight's on the second floor, I'm afraid, and the lift goes off at midnight. Do you feel strong enough to walk, or shall I carry you?'

  Polly giggled. She felt lightheaded, as if she had drunk champagne. 'I'll do my best.'

  Number eight was a spacious room, furnished for comfort rather than show. A writing desk, a side table, deep chairs, a positively enormous double bed. Polly looked away from that quickly and sank into a chair; Piran took the chair beside her and proceeded to open the bottle of wine that had been placed on the low table between them, together with a plate of wrapped sandwiches. 'Drink that up,' Piran ordered, handing her a glass. 'You look as if you need it.'

  'All right, so I look a wreck,' said Polly, wrinkling her nose at him. 'You needn't rub it in.' It was extraordinary, the way she felt, as if she could say anything at all to Piran now. It was as if everything had changed between them, because he had come after her, even although she didn't yet know exactly why.

  Jules—of course! She said sharply, 'What about Jules? You haven't left him on his own?'

  He moved his shoulders impatiently. 'To hell with Jules—it's you I've been thinking about.'

  Her eyes flew open wide in amazement. Never had she expected to hear him say that. He saw her expression and grinned faintly. 'No, of course I didn't leave him. Mrs Joe promised to go up and stay with him until we get home. And that won't be until tomorrow. I couldn't face a drive back tonight, even if you could.'

  Until we get home. He had said 'we'. 'You—you mean you want me to come back with you?'

  'I want you to come back with me,' he said, and there was something in his voice that she had not heard there before—a deep, throbbing emotion.

  He didn't move towards her, or try to touch her. He just sat quite still, gazing at her as if he couldn't believe that she was there beside him.

  Then, still not moving, he said wonderingly, 'I love you, Polly. I'm fathoms deep in love with you. I never thought I should hear myself say that, but there it is, and I'm at your mercy.'

  He passed a hand across his brow and she saw that it was damp. 'I know damn well,' he went on, 'that you're not in love with me—how could you be after the way I've treated you—used you—' his face darkened '—raped you. But if you'll give me time I truly believe I could make you forget all that. I believe I could persuade you to love me.'

  Polly looked into his eyes, and what she saw there sent spasms of warm excitement trembling through her. Her blue eyes met his dark, pleading ones, and she said quietly, 'I was always taught that it was wicked to waste time. Don't you think we've already wasted enough?'

  For a moment he seemed transfixed, incredulous. Then she reached out a hand and touched his knee, and the touch seemed to electrify him. With a whoop of joy he was on his feet, pulling her into his arms, straining her against him as if he needed to fuse their two bodies together.

  His mouth came down to hers hard and demanding and her lips parted gladly to his probing mouth. For a long time they stood locked together, then she felt him begin to tremble against her.

  'There's only one place for us now,' he muttered, and he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the big bed. He laid her down and stood for a moment looking down at her, his eyes glittering black under their heavy lids. 'You want it too, Polly, don't you?'

  'Yes,' she sighed languorously. 'Oh yes!'

  This was different from what had gone before. Not the gentle, soothing sensuousness of the night Polly had had her nightmare. Not the brutal plundering of her body that had happened when he had worked himself into an angry passion.

  This time he was all dominant, confident male. With firm, loving hands he undressed her, peeling off the final flimsy garment with a sigh of delight as his eyes devoured
the smooth paleness of her slender limbs, stretched out on the woven bedspread.

  Then, with a couple of quick movements, he had stripped off his own clothes, turned back the covers and lifted her beneath them, before he began his arousing exploration of her body.

  Polly's eyes closed as his hands and mouth moved over her, awaking some new delight every moment, until she moaned with an aching need, all the more potent for having been denied all these weeks.

  'Polly, my darling, my darling girl—' The broken words came close to her ear as he buried his mouth in the hollow of her neck before the final, shattering culmination of their mutual love, and she heard her own cry of fulfilment before they both lay quiet, clinging together, flesh against flesh, heart pounding against heart, in the wide bed.

  It was Piran who stirred first. 'Sleep, my sweetheart,' he murmured, easing them both until she lay moulded into the curve of his body, their heads close together on one pillow. 'Sleep now.'

  Utterly blissful, Polly slept.

  She wakened to light pouring in through uncurtained windows and a feeling that the whole world was shining new. She wriggled round to see Piran, propped on one elbow, looking down at her, smiling with such tenderness that her inside seemed to turn over slowly.

  She smiled back at him, her mouth twitching with mischief. 'Would it be permitted to enquire exactly where we are? This isn't a hotel, is it?'

  He shook his head. 'No, it's a small club, mostly patronised by writers. I've been a member for years and I often stay here when I don't want to impose on Alice, or when I know she's working on some important commission. Reggie, the caretaker, is a gem—ex-Naval. I managed to get through to him on the phone just before I left last night to warn him we were coming.'

  Polly asked, 'What exactly did happen last night? It still seems like a dream to me.'

  He reached out and stroked her bright hair. 'A good dream, I hope?'

  'A wonderful dream,' she told him fervently. 'I thought, all the way to London, on that slow, beastly train, that I was quite alone again. I'd been trying to face it when—' she laughed shakily '—when you pounced on me in the station.'