A Mother’s Hope

A week before the wedding, Rose was packing and letting her mind go back over the hectic time since Millie had come round on the hospital ward. Her friend had made a miracle recovery, according to the medical staff, and within a couple of weeks of the car crash she was out of hospital, recuperating at Ty Isa and spending all her time planning her wedding. Actually, she didn’t have to do all that much, Rose thought now, carefully folding Ricky’s clothing and putting it into the smaller of her two holdalls, because there had been no difficulty in rearranging everything as November was not a popular time for weddings. The Grand Hotel had been happy to agree to have the reception later than originally planned, the rector at the local church saw no difficulty in marrying Peter and Millie at noon on the rescheduled day and the honeymoon hotel simply changed the dates and assured Peter that all would be well.

For her part, Rose would be moving out of Ty Isa the day before the wedding because, thanks she knew to Peter, she was to take over the tenancy of an empty cottage within half a mile of the factory. The place was badly neglected, not having been lived in for two or three years, so Peter had insisted on doing all sorts of repairs before he would let Rose move in. However, she had remained firm on one point, and when Peter had tried to override her Millie had intervened.

‘It’s kind of you, my darling, to want to redecorate and put in a few sticks of furniture, but if you do that you’ll take away a good deal of Rose’s pleasure in her new home,’ she had explained to her crestfallen fiancé. Then she had turned to Rose. ‘It’s natural that you want to feel you’ve contributed, partly because of the low rent and partly because the more you do, the more you will make it your own,’ she said, smiling understandingly at her friend. ‘Peter would put expensive paper on the walls and he’d have all the floorboards stained and polished. He’d do away with that ancient kitchen range and install a modern Aga. He’d choose curtains which were far too grand for a cottage and carpets so thick you had to wade through the pile. He’d—’

Everyone had been so kind, Rose thought now, folding nappies. Mrs Evans had assured her that there would be no need to leave Ty Isa before her son and his wife returned from their two-day honeymoon in Cardiff, but Rose was now very keen to move into her new home. She meant to start whitewashing the walls, cleaning up the floorboards and generally making the place fit for habitation and had the week off work, though she meant to take Ricky to the crèche each day, partly in order not to disturb his routine but mainly because at eighteen months Ricky needed a lot of attention and Rose knew he would hold up her work.

She had enough furniture, having been given an old double bed, two basket chairs and a kitchen table as well as the cot Ricky had used at Ty Isa and enough sheets and blankets to ensure that both she and Ricky were warm at night. She had also acquired an old and rusty bicycle with a carrier on the back, and though it was less than a mile to the factory she intended to ride there when winter was over.

But just now she was packing, going down to the kitchen every so often to make a pot of tea and have a brief chat with Mrs Evans, who was almost as excited over the old cottage as Rose was herself. They had settled that Mrs Evans would come to the cottage the day after Rose had moved in to show her how to cook on the old stove, and to make sure that Rose knew how to bring up water from the well without losing half of it, because the cottage, needless to say, had neither running water nor sanitation. Peter had insisted on installing a chemical toilet at the end of the garden and this, too, needed some demonstration, Rose thought now, putting Ricky’s little blue pyjamas into the holdall and reaching for a pile of small Chilprufe vests. She glanced around the room, deciding she had done enough for now and would go downstairs and help Mrs Evans to get the midday meal. Millie was out shopping for her own big, brand-new house on the opposite side of the town, but had promised to be back in time for lunch. She and Peter would be going off for an extended honeymoon – a whole month – though their destination was a closely guarded secret. Rose suspected Italy or Greece, but when she hinted Millie just laughed. ‘M.y.o.b.,’ she had said tauntingly when Rose had suggested the two countries. ‘You’ll know where we are when you get our first postcard . . . oh, Rosie, I can’t wait!’

At first, when the wedding arrangements were completed, Millie had nagged Rose on and on about trying harder to get in touch with Martin. ‘I want him at my wedding,’ she had wailed. ‘And brides should have what they want, it’s one of the rules. Why don’t you advertise? Or go back to Liverpool and search every nook and cranny? Oh, Rose, you know you want him here even more than I do!’

But Rose had merely tightened her lips. ‘The story about you and Scotty was even in the national papers,’ she had pointed out when Millie persisted. ‘Martin must know what happened and where we are, and he’s not attempted to get in touch. He’s probably married to someone else by now, and serve me right. Besides, I did advertise in the Liverpool Echo and no one replied.’ She had given a small, unamused laugh. ‘Well, I said I didn’t want to marry anyone, and now it looks as though I shan’t have the opportunity, so that’s all right.’

Millie had pretended to be chastened, had apologised, had said she would leave the subject alone in future, and had seen – with some glee – Rose’s guilty reaction. But really she was determined to do something, though at first she could not imagine what. She did not know the city of Liverpool at all, really, and had no friends there to whom she could appeal. There were what she called, in her head, the Authorities, which meant police, council officials and similar persons, but she was afraid she might get Martin into trouble by bringing him to their attention. Suppose he was sleeping rough again? She did not think it likely – he was both intelligent and resourceful – but one never knew . . .

Then she had a positive brainwave. Mrs Ellis! She had been, at one time, very much Rose’s friend, and Millie had thought all along that Rose had misinterpreted the older woman’s attempts to get in touch. She had tried to convince Rose that any desire on Mrs Ellis’s part to take Ricky would have long disappeared, but Rose, though she agreed, would not contact her one-time friend. And Millie knew that Mrs Ellis worked for the social services department, or had done only a little more than a year ago. Such jobs were well paid and secure, or so she believed. She could not imagine that Mrs Ellis was not still in her post.

Of course she knew that the other woman did not know Martin; had never, to the best of Millie’s knowledge, even met him. But Martin’s height, white dandelion-clock hair and strange complexion, the eyes which were so pale a greyish-pink that he needed strong spectacles for even the simplest task . . . yes, if only she could contact Mrs Ellis and the woman was agreeable, it would be . . . well, if not simple, at least not impossible to trace the young man.

Millie longed to confide in Peter, to see what he thought, only she had a shrewd suspicion that she would be told, though lovingly, to mind her own business. So she said nothing, but shut herself away in the parlour, pretending to be sorting through the names and addresses of various relatives who might – or might not – be invited to the wedding. But really she was composing a letter to Mrs Ellis, and that took some doing. She had tried telling the whole story, from the moment Rose and Martin had run away to the present, but even to herself it sounded too like rather bad fiction. Then she had begun with the baby’s birth and Martin’s fondness both for Rose and for her little son . . . but that had sounded too sentimental and might not persuade the older woman to search for Martin. Finally, she had written a very much shorter note.

Dear Mrs Ellis,

You don’t know me, but I’ve heard about you from Gertrude Pleavin – she calls herself Rose Thompson now – who is a great friend. I know that once you were her friend too, and so I thought I’d get in touch because she’s in trouble and you might be able to help . . .

The letter went on to outline the situation – how Rose had accompanied Millie when she had fled from Scotty’s violence and had lost touch with Martin – then gave Martin’s full name and description. Millie begged Mrs Ellis to try to find him, telling the other woman that the only thing they knew for certain was that he had returned to Liverpool. She had said that she herself was about to get married, and was anxious to find Martin so that Rose would not find herself alone when she, Millie, left the lodgings they shared. She explained about the cottage, and gave its address as well as that of Ty Isa. And then there was nothing more she could do but hope and wait.

For days after the letter was despatched she flew to the post each morning and evening, but there had been no reply so far and she was beginning to despair. Rose would move out of Ty Isa next Friday, and on the following day Millie and Peter would marry. And Rose would be alone in that cottage with its sagging roof and unkempt garden.

Millie had not said a word to Peter about writing to Mrs Ellis, but now she felt she must confide in someone. She could not tell Rose, who might be either angry with her for interfering or miserable because her interference had not succeeded. So she told Peter, who was unexpectedly supportive and never even hinted that she should not have written – quite the opposite, in fact.

‘You did the right thing,’ he told her approvingly. ‘Rose has been a very good friend to you and you were trying to do the one thing which would please her most – persuade Martin to get in touch. And don’t forget, you sent the letter to a department rather than to a personal address. If this Mrs Ellis is working part time or has a few days off, she might not even have received it yet. Or she may be searching the city for either Martin himself or someone who knows where he is to be found.’

‘Oh, darling Peter, how I love you,’ Millie said rapturously, throwing her arms round her fiancé’s neck and giving him a hard hug. ‘I’ll stop worrying from now on, and start dreaming about the wedding. Rose didn’t want to wear pink because of her hair being ginger . . . sorry, red, I meant . . . but that very pale shade, candy pink they’re calling it, looks wonderful on—’ She clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘Heavens, you aren’t supposed to know what we’re wearing and now I’ve given the game away.’

Peter picked her up and whirled her round, kissed her, and stood her down. ‘That’s my girl,’ he said tenderly. ‘And don’t worry about it, because I’d marry you if you were wearing sackcloth and ashes. Or nothing at all,’ he added, with a wicked grin. ‘Oh, sweetheart, I can’t wait for Saturday!’

She had walked back to her car and in the driver’s seat she had opened the letter and read it, whilst her heart bounded about in her chest and a smile kept spreading across her face. She was in touch with Gertrude – with Rose, rather! Well, not in touch exactly, but she knew where the girl was and would go there today, explain, see if she could help in some way . . .

But she could help, she knew that! Rose – she must remember to call her that now – wanted to get in touch with a young man called Martin Thompson. It might take Isobel a day or two, possibly even longer, but she was sure she could trace him. Then she would give him Ger— Rose’s address and the two could be reunited whilst she, who had brought them together, could explain why she had sought so desperately to get back in touch with her young friend.

She had been sitting behind the wheel of her car, staring into space and thinking, but now she started the engine, selected first gear, and headed for Bold Street. She had always had her hair done by Mr Mann at his salon above the modelling agency and this time she ran up the stairs, eager for once to get her appointment over so that she could start her search for Martin.

Mr Mann, however, was an old friend, and as soon as she was settled in the chair he must have sensed her excitement, because instead of automatically calling a girl to shampoo it he ran his fingers through her shoulder-length, light brown hair and asked her if she would not try something different this time.

‘I believe the gamine style which Miss Hepburn has brought to popularity in that film about Rome would suit you,’ he suggested. ‘Several of my ladies have had their hair cut and shaped to their heads, but it does not look well on everyone. I think that it would look very good on you, Mrs Ellis. May I suggest that we go for a more – more adventurous cut on this occasion?’

‘He’s lost touch with an old friend who is desperate to find him. It won’t be easy, because I’ve never actually set eyes on Mr Thompson,’ she said blithely. ‘But he’s an albino, or so I’m informed. Apparently he’s got white hair, odd blotched skin and pinkish eyes.’

Mr Mann met her eyes in the mirror, looking thoughtful. ‘He’s one of my clients,’ he said. ‘His hair is very fine, almost like a dandelion clock, and difficult to cut. I did it for him free – oh, it must be at least a year ago, probably more – but now he’s a regular customer, comes in every four weeks and chats away about his job, his lodgings . . . I’m afraid I can’t give you his address, but I can tell you where he works, if that would help.’

Then the story came tumbling out – how she had meant to help Rose by adopting her baby, how Rose had fled, how she, Isobel, had searched and searched, intending to tell Rose that she would not dream of trying to adopt the baby if that was not what Rose wanted . . . and Mr Mann listened quietly and clipped away and nodded and smiled his understanding, interpolating a question now and then when it seemed that his client had come to a halt.

When her story and his ministrations had both ceased, he picked up a thick, soft brush and began to dust the stray hairs from her shoulders. ‘Well? What do you think?’ he enquired, and Isobel realised that the stranger who looked back at her from the big glass was herself, but looking so different, so much younger and . . . and livelier, somehow, that she had not, at first glance, recognised her reflection.

And presently, armed with her new knowledge, Isobel got back into her little car and drove to the address she had been given. There, she parked in the yard and went into the small and rather stuffy little reception area and asked, tentatively, if she could have a word with one of their employees, a Mr Martin Thompson.

Martin sighed when the girl came trotting through and told him he was wanted in the front office, but he went anyway. First thing that morning he had delivered a couple of thousand flyers, printed in red and black, to an awkward customer who almost always dreamed up some complaint about their work in the hope that the firm would reduce the price. Martin thought that this time they would be objecting to the fact that the flyers had been printed in a larger font than usual, and prepared for battle.

Mrs Ellis nodded. ‘I know exactly where she is,’ she said quietly. ‘Her friend Millie wrote to me. I’ll let you read the letter. Millie is the girl whose child was snatched by the father, who drove into a tree and killed himself. Didn’t you read all about it in the papers?’

‘No. I have to do rather a lot of reading in my job and my eyes are weak so I tend to avoid newsprint,’ Martin explained. ‘My God, are you trying to tell me that Scotty kidnapped Alex and then drove into a tree and killed himself? Is Alex all right? And Millie? Scotty was very possessive. If he snatched Alex then he might easily have hurt Millie. And it was in the papers, you say, and I never saw, never knew . . .’ He looked wildly round him, then headed for the door which led into the yard. ‘We’d best go outside. I can’t believe you’re going to tell me where I can find my Rosie. It’s what I’ve longed for more than anything these past dreadful months.’

They reached the car and slid into the two front seats. Martin began to nod his head eagerly, then changed his mind. ‘No, it wouldn’t be fair on my employers,’ he said. ‘They’ve been awful good to me, and . . . well, there’s something I have to do here before I can face Rosie, something I’ve – I’ve achieved. I want to make her proud of me, make her see . . . oh, hang it, I can’t explain, but I’ll see my boss, finish off here, and then come down to Dinas Newydd by train. I can’t drive – never shall be able to because my eyesight is so poor – but I’m an old hand at reading timetables and getting to my destination as quickly as can be. And now may I read the letter, please?’

Mrs Ellis handed it over and Martin read and reread, his eyes shining. ‘Oh, bless Millie, she’s a real brick,’ he said at last. ‘If I didn’t love Rose with all my heart I declare I’d love Millie! So she’s getting married? Well, Scotty was a real bad lot; she’s better off without him. I just hope the feller she’s marrying on Saturday loves Alex the way I love Ricky, and will treat them both right.’

‘I hope so too,’ Mrs Ellis said. ‘I hope you’ve guessed that I’ve been trying to find Rose to tell her that I never would have suggested adopting her child if I’d known she didn’t like the idea. I saw her in Rhyl, you know, and tried to speak to her, but she simply turned and ran.’ She smiled wryly at Martin. ‘But if I beard the little lioness in her own den I’m sure she’ll hear me out and understand that when I suggested adoption I meant it for the best.’

Martin laughed, and saw a smile lurking on his companion’s lips. He said curiously, ‘I never could understand Rose’s fear of you, because you’d been so good to her. You got her the flat, bought baby clothes, took her little treats . . .’ He hesitated, then blurted out what had been on his mind now for some time. ‘Why did you help Rose, Mrs Ellis? Oh, I know your husband ra— well, Rose always said “interfered with” her, but I’ve a feeling it wasn’t just that. Most women would have drawn away from someone who had . . . oh, dear. You know what I mean, though.’

‘Yes, I know what you mean. In fact, it was a sort of fellow feeling which made me want to help Rose. I’d – I’d been in the same position, you see. Alone, frightened, and pregnant. But my baby was killed in the Blitz, and I don’t think I ever quite got over it. I’d – I’d abandoned her, you see, left her on a doorstep and fled. So when the opportunity came to help someone in a similar position, I jumped at it.’ She gave him a rather shaky smile. ‘I’ve never told another living soul and I don’t quite know why I told you. But please don’t repeat what I’ve said.’

‘I might tell her one day, but not yet,’ Mrs Ellis said quickly. ‘I’m still ashamed of what I did. And now let’s change the subject. Since I’ll be driving down to mid-Wales at once, I’ll arrive at the cottage well before you can. May I tell Rose that you’ll be with her just as soon as you can manage it?’

Rose had spent all day at the cottage, whitewashing walls, scrubbing floors and generally tidying up. Millie had offered to pick Ricky up from the crèche, in order that her friend might continue to work on the cottage until she felt she had done enough for one day, so Rose scarcely glanced at the old alarm clock perched on the sloping wooden mantelpiece and only realised how much time had passed when the light began to fade.

Feeling very housewifely, she lit the oil lamp and then, because it was growing colder as day turned into evening, she considered putting a match to the logs in the parlour grate. It would certainly give the place a more homely feeling, but on the other hand she was growing tired and did not intend to work for very much longer. It had been agreed that she would walk as far as the main road and telephone Huw Williams from the box on the corner, and he would come and fetch her and take her back to Ty Isa in time for the evening meal. So lighting the parlour fire or the kitchen range would be foolish, and she had the Primus, after all.

Having made up her mind that she would leave in a few minutes, Rose was halfway up the stairs, going to check that the bedroom windows were closed, when someone knocked on the door. She smiled to herself and began to descend to the ground floor. She had told Millie that she would walk down to the main road and ring when she was ready to leave, but after her awful experience with Scotty Millie worried over even a suggestion that a woman might go out unaccompanied once dusk had fallen. Doubtless she had persuaded either the young taxi driver or her fiancé to drive to the cottage and pick up her friend.

For a moment she did not recognise the tall, slender woman standing on the doorstep. Then Mrs Ellis smiled and held out her hands, and quite without meaning to do so Rose simply clutched the hands and then hugged their owner, saying brokenly: ‘Oh, Mrs Ellis, I’m so sorry! Only I were young, and very alone . . . but you’d been so good to me I should have known you wouldn’t take my baby once you knew I wanted to keep him!’

Mrs Ellis returned the hug. ‘It was all my fault for not being frank,’ she said remorsefully. ‘I – I do think that perhaps, in my heart, I knew you wanted the baby, but I wanted him too, so I let myself think that you’d part with him willingly. But, dear Rose, I’ll swear on the Holy Book that I’d never, never have stolen him from you.’ She smiled crookedly, and Rose realised her guest was biting back tears. ‘May I come in? Only I’ve been driving for what seems like days, and I would so like to sit down.’

‘Oh, how rude I am!’ Rose said remorsefully. ‘Come in and sit down and I’ll light the Primus and put the kettle on. I’ve no fresh milk ’cos I don’t move in until Friday, but there’s conny-onny. I wish I could introduce you to Ricky, but he’s at Ty Isa with my friend Millie. Oh, I suppose you don’t know about Millie, or Ty Isa for that matter. But how did you find me? At first I hid because I was frightened, but then I thought you’d do best to forget me, so I never tried to get in touch.’

‘I’ll start by telling you that Mr Ellis and I have separated,’ she said. ‘I found he was having an affair with a seventeen-year-old girl in his office. It had happened before and I’d blamed myself – if I’d been more loving, more outgoing, if I’d given him the child for which he said he longed, if, if, if – but this was just one time too many. After the pain and misery he had caused you . . . well, I told him to go and then I sold the house, so there was nowhere for him to come back to. I accepted the offer of a better job with the same department, and then Alice and I – you’ve never met Alice, but she’s been with my family since I was born – moved into a flat in Liverpool, and though I thought I’d miss having Mr Ellis about the place and be lonely and miserable I couldn’t have been more wrong, because I’ve never been happier.’ She smiled at Rose. ‘And that just about wraps up what has happened to me over the past months.’

‘I’m real glad for you, Mrs Ellis,’ Rose said. ‘That you’ve left Mr Ellis and found that you’re happier without him, I mean. But it’s different for me. I miss Martin all the time, and wish – oh, that I’d told him how I felt about him, how much he meant to me. But I didn’t, and now the pain of missing him is rather like toothache. You may forget it for a bit whilst you’re concentrating on something else, but the moment you’re alone, back it comes, ache, ache, ache, until it nigh on drives you mad.’

Mrs Ellis got to her feet. She was smiling. ‘Well, you’re going to get the opportunity to tell him how you feel about him very soon,’ she said. ‘Your friend Millie didn’t write to ask me to get in touch with you again so that I could explain. She asked me to find a Mr Martin Thompson, who was living somewhere in the city. It sounded like a pretty tall order, difficult if not impossible, but I had an enormous stroke of luck . . .’

She told the story simply and well and Rose felt her heartbeat quicken and the hot colour rise to her cheeks. ‘So he’s on his way?’ she said breathlessly. ‘You’re trying to tell me that he might be here any moment? Oh, Mrs Ellis, if you’re right I shall be the happiest person on earth – happier even than Millie, and she’s getting married on Saturday!’

‘I don’t know whether he’ll be able to make it today,’ Mrs Ellis said rather doubtfully. She got to her feet and began to pull on her gloves, then perched her fashionable little hat on her smooth hair once more. ‘I drove, you see, and your young man will be coming by train and bus . . . or perhaps a taxi, if there’s one at the railway station. It may well be tomorrow, or even the day after, before he arrives.’ She glanced at the window. ‘I’m not too keen on driving in the dark, so I’ve booked myself into a bed and breakfast place.’ Rose saw that she was flushing. ‘I wonder . . . I would so much like to meet your little boy. I shall still be here tomorrow . . . would it be possible . . . ?’

‘Of course it would,’ Rose said heartily, and meant it. ‘I’m awful proud of him, Mrs Ellis, and love showing him off to folk. He’s at Ty Isa right now, and if I know you’re coming I’ll not take him to the nursery in the morning.’ She hesitated, and then said shyly: ‘Martin and I have got no relatives that we know of, so Ricky has no grandparents, not even step-ones. Would you like . . .’

Rose, however, shook her head. ‘I’m getting a lift, thank you,’ she said. ‘And when I think of your generosity to me I feel ashamed that all I can offer is pretend grandmotherhood, if there is such a word. Goodnight, Mrs Ellis, and – and thank you for everything. See you in the morning!’

Rose waited until the older woman had driven off, then sat down with a fresh mug of tea and wondered why she had refused Mrs Ellis’s offer of a lift. It would have made sense . . . yet despite the difficulties of getting from Liverpool to mid-Wales, she felt she could not leave the cottage if there was the tiniest chance of Martin turning up. On the other hand, Huw Williams would be waiting for her call, not putting his car away knowing that she would be ringing. And Millie, too, would be expecting her. She had said she would not continue to work after eight o’clock, or nine at the latest, and it was already ten past eight.

She finished the tea in her mug and stood up, glancing towards the darkened window. She began tidying away – tomorrow was another day and she still had plenty to do – yet still she hesitated. Martin might come! How would he feel if he arrived to find the place cold and deserted? She glanced once more at the alarm clock on the mantelpiece. I’ll give him another twenty minutes, and if he’s not arrived by then I’ll leave the door unlocked and a note on the table, telling him . . . oh, telling him to go to the telephone box at the end of the lane and ring for a taxi . . . only suppose he doesn’t have enough money for a taxi? I could say I’ll pay when he reached Ty Isa, but somehow . . .

Martin turned into the narrow lane which led, he had been told, to the cottage. By now it was full dark, the cold beginning to bite and the stars overhead twinkling frostily whilst the moon, newly risen, was casting long shadows. She may not be there, Martin told himself, but he felt in his bones that he was going in the right direction. He was late, of course, later than he had intended, but he had had to wait for the packet in his pocket, the packet which would prove to his Rosie that there was more to her Martin than she had dreamed. More than I dreamed myself, Martin thought with an inward grin. More than his boss had dreamed when at the interview he had asked Martin for a sample of his handwriting, since in his new job he would be addressing parcels and packages, envelopes too, and it was important that these should be clear and easily read.

At the end of that first month, however, he had asked Martin casually whether he had been keeping diaries for long. Martin had explained that he had kept notes even at the children’s home and had expanded them into a proper diary as soon as he moved into Rose’s tower block. The boss nodded and looked undecided, then asked Martin, almost shyly, if he might read one or two of the exercise books.

Martin knew and trusted – indeed, liked – Mr Renshaw by now and handed over the diaries willingly, but, as he told his fellow workers, you could have knocked him down with a feather a couple of days later, when Mr Renshaw had called him into his office. ‘I’d like to tidy the first couple of books up a bit and publish them as a true story, which they undoubtedly are,’ he had said. ‘It would make you a bit of money, and if it sells well, which I think it will, I’d like to consider the later ones for publication too.’

Martin had stammered out that he would be delighted . . . honoured . . . and had scarcely believed his luck. To be a published author before he was twenty-one! He had longed and longed to tell Rosie, to make her proud of him, but he had begun to despair of getting in touch with her. Then, on the very day that the first completed book, The Happy Orphan by Martin Thompson, was due back from the binders, there was Mrs Ellis, asking for him, giving him Rose’s address, saying that his poor Rose had been desperate to get in touch, had even advertised in the Liverpool Echo, though without result. She had offered him a lift to Dinas Newydd but he had known his book – HIS BOOK! – would be delivered later that day. When the books had arrived he had gone to Mr Renshaw and asked for time off, which had been willingly granted.

And now here he was, in the one place in the world where he most longed to be – approaching his Rosie at long last. After his conversation with Mrs Ellis all his doubts and fears had disappeared. Of course Rose loved him! She might not have known it when they had last been together, but she knew it now, must have known the same aching, gnawing hunger for him that he had felt for her. He was not looking forward to telling her that Don had been killed, but he knew that she would understand, would grieve for Don as he had grieved, but would not blame him for the accident.

He continued to walk up the lane, quickening his pace a little as the high banks on the left-hand side grew lower and lower, the winter hedges sparse enough, now, for him to see through them, though still far ahead, a glimmering light. Lamplight. Martin shoved a hand into his overcoat pocket, checking for the hundredth time that his book – HIS BOOK! – still nestled within. Then he lengthened his stride until he was almost running, until he was almost opposite the golden glow which lit the window of a small thatched cottage. Nearly there! Another few yards and he could see, in the moonlight, a small wicket gate set in a broken-down fence.

Rose sighed as she doused the lamp and put the note she had written to Martin in a prominent position, then turned to the door. She was already dressed in coat, hat and gloves, the pennies she would need for the telephone in her pocket. It would have been lovely if Martin and dear old Don had somehow managed to arrive in time, but she was sure that they would make it next day. She cast one last glance round the moonlit kitchen, then opened the door and stepped on to the path.

Martin saw her shape and never hesitated. He fairly flew up the path and held out his arms, knowing it was Rose though she was still half turned away from him, doing something to the door, he could not tell what. She gave a little squeak of surprise, then turned in his embrace and hugged him hard. Then she said: ‘Don?’ her voice trembling, and he knew she had guessed that, had Don been alive, he would never have left the dog behind.

Slowly, he lowered his mouth to hers, knowing instinctively that a kiss could say all the things that he could not, just yet, put into words: his grief over Don’s death and his love for his Rose. Then he must have pressed Rose against the door, which could not have been properly shut, for the pair of them tumbled into the kitchen. Hastily, Rose disengaged herself and crossed to the table, picked up the matches, and relit the oil lamp. Only when it was burning evenly did she turn to him once more. ‘Oh, Mart, I’ve missed you so!’ she uttered, clutching his hands as though she would never let him go. ‘Has anyone ever told you that you’re tall, dark and handsome? Well, I’m bleedin’ well tellin’ you now! Will you marry me?’