The Girl From Penny Lane (32 page)

Lilac got to her feet.

‘I had almost finished,’ she said. ‘If I may, I’ll take my coffee up with me. I’d love to know what Mr Robeson said to Miss Jenkins though I don’t suppose we’ll ever find out. Thanks for a very nice luncheon, Monsieur Arrat,’ she added diplomatically.

The chef, about to serve home-made bread rolls with cream of asparagus soup, nodded distractedly, and Lilac took the reservations book and left the room, climbing quickly up the stairs to the reception hall. She sat behind the desk and drew the account book towards her; best check who had already paid their bills and who still needed reminding.

Her head was bent over the book when the swing-door from the lobby was pushed open. She saw, out of the corner of her eye, a tall figure enter, and so instead of studying the figures she pushed the accounts to one side and drew out the reservations book. She ran her finger down the page . . . it appeared they had only three new guests so far today, and as Miss Jenkins and Mr Robeson had both left and the Elgin family had paid and gone soon after breakfast there were still a fair number of the better rooms available.

The man approached across the well-polished wood-block floor. Lilac kept her finger on the new line but looked up at him, beginning the bright, pleasantly professional smile with which she greeted would-be guests.

‘Good aftern . . . Oh! Oh, oh, oh!’

She was out from behind the desk and throwing herself into Art’s arms before he could even open his mouth. She clung like a burr, like ivy to a wall, like a lass to her lover, whilst Art held her gently, then tighter, then tighter still, and kissed the top of her red-gold head and then lifted her off her feet to claim her mouth.

Lilac pressed unbelievingly against him. The warmth of him, the strength, the wonderful familiarity of him – yet they had never cuddled properly before, just the odd snatched kiss, her scolding, him apologising, and the feel of his hand, big and warm, round hers, their sides touching as they walked along the pavement, argued, fought . . . made up. She sighed, a great sigh fetched up from her boots, and relaxed, letting happiness, incredulity, stunned belief in the miracle, all wash over her in turn.

He was here! She knew that this must be a dream because really he was hundreds of miles away, on that little rock sticking out into the Atlantic Ocean which was Gibraltar, but yet he was here, in her arms. They were going to get married, he was coming back in a couple of months and they would marry and . . . oh dear God, the feel of him, the safeness, the security of his touch!

Art broke the embrace first. He held her away from him, his grey-green eyes scanning her face as though he could never see enough of it, his toffee-coloured hair crisply short as she remembered it, his teeth white against the tan she had never before seen on his normally city-pale face. But it was the face she wanted to see, and the fact that she suddenly saw that he was not only her beloved Art, but also an extremely handsome young man, did not matter. It was a bonus, but one that was simply not necessary. I would love him, she thought with deep contentment, if he was ugly as a pan of worms; when he’s old and bent and grey I’ll love him still. What a curious thing love is, when just his touch can start a long, slow burn of desire for him within me, yet I don’t want to go to bed with him particularly, I just want to be with him!

‘Well, sweetheart – surprised?’

‘Oh, darling Art –
so
surprised! You said not for another eight or ten weeks, my hair’s a mess . . .’ she touched the smooth, red-gold mass of it, bunched up on her head in a velvet band, falling on either side of her face in tiny, wispy kiss-curls. ‘And I’m wearing the most miserable old dress and ugly old flat shoes.’

‘You look wonderful. You’d look wonderful in rags, in—’

‘Miss Larkin! Whatever would your fiancé say?’

Mrs Brierson’s voice cut across his words, and despite the laugh in her voice they jumped apart guiltily. Lilac’s cheeks felt suddenly hot and she saw Art’s eyes shift uncomfortably. She turned towards her employer, standing behind the reception desk.

‘Mrs Brierson, I’m sorry, I took one look at Art – Mr O’Brien – and everything just went straight out of my head! He isn’t supposed to be here for at least a month . . . I still don’t know what’s happened . . . it’s just so wonderful to see him! Oh Art, I’m on duty for another five hours . . .’

Art turned to Mrs Brierson and sketched a tug at a non-existent cap.

‘How do you do, Ma’am? You’ll be the Mrs Brierson I’ve heard so much about,’ he said gravely, extending a broad, tanned hand. ‘I was about to book meself a room in the hotel when this young person rushed round the desk and grabbed ahold of me. Your staff can be very welcoming to a man fresh from a long sea voyage, I must say!’

Mrs Brierson laughed and blushed and shook Art’s hand.

‘How d’you do, Mr O’Brien,’ she said, twinkling up at him. Lilac saw proudly that his looks and charm had quite won her employer’s heart. ‘I’m sure you really are Mr O’Brien, for Miss Larkin is a most restrained young person as a general rule.’ She turned to Lilac. ‘In the circumstances, Miss Larkin, perhaps you would like to take the rest of the afternoon off? I’ll book Mr O’Brien into Room 6, with the compliments of the management.’

‘I can pay me whack,’ Art protested. ‘I was going to do so, it never crossed me mind . . .’

‘My dear young man, Miss Larkin is as good as an extra right hand in this hotel; when you and she come back to Liverpool, if she is still interested in this sort of work, I intend to ask her to take her job back, and how I’ll manage for the year or so you’ll be in Gibraltar I don’t know,’ Mrs Brierson said frankly. ‘That is why I’ve been talking to business friends about getting you employment over here . . . but having met you, I’m sure you’ll find yourself work very quickly – and good work, too.’

‘Oh, Mrs Brierson,’ Lilac sighed, still clutching Art’s arm as though reluctant to let him go, and beaming at her employer with starry eyes. ‘We’ll come back as soon as we can, won’t we, Art? And nothing would make me happier than to work here again . . . I so love the work, the staff . . . you’ve been so good to me, made me so welcome, taught me so much . . .’

‘Good, that’s settled then. Now if Mr O’Brien would just sign the register, I’ll show him to his room whilst you get your things together, Miss Larkin. Then if you could bring Miss Skidmore in from the office and tell her to stay on reception until she’s relieved we shall be organised. And we’ll see you in the morning.’

‘Miss Larkin, you’re a very fortunate girl; that is the nicest young man I’ve had under my roof for a long while. And to think you sent him packing years ago – and you could have been happily married all this while!’

‘I didn’t appreciate him until he went,’ Lilac said happily. She had come into the hotel next day to find all the staff singing Art’s praises. He was sensible, helpful, he made the girls laugh, and had sent a message to the chef to say that dinner last night had been the best meal he’d eaten for many years. And now to have Mrs Brierson, a woman she respected deeply, telling her all over again how lucky she was to be engaged to Art, put the seal on her pleasure.

‘What’s more, you’re having the day off,’ Mrs Brierson said now as Lilac went to slip out of her jacket. ‘You’ve got a great deal of arranging and planning to do; Mr O’Brien explained. He says it will be an early December wedding – such a festive time of year, my dear – so we’re doing the reception here, a really first-class buffet, the chef told him what would be seasonal then. And Mr O’Brien wants you to get your dress at Blacklers, I told him they do the most beautiful wedding gowns . . . I’ve already discussed menus, the guest-list, bridal attendants . . .’

‘Is there anything left for me to do?’ Lilac said, standing behind the reception desk and looking round her rather dazedly. ‘Flowers? My bouquet? Who are my bridesmaids?’

‘Well, Mr O’Brien knew you wouldn’t want too much fuss since it’s got to be a Register Office wedding, so he thought your niece Elizabeth should hand you a lucky horseshoe, and his sister Etty and your friend Charlotte might be your attendants.’

‘Lovely, just who I’d choose,’ Lilac said. ‘Did Art . . . Mr O’Brien I mean . . . tell you what he gave me, yesterday afternoon?’

‘No, dear,’ Mrs Brierson said vaguely. She appeared to be making more lists and was running her eye absently down the latest one as she talked. ‘What was that, then?’

Lilac held out her left hand, waggling the third finger slightly.

‘Look!’

‘Oh, the prettiest ring!’ Mrs Brierson exclaimed, taking Lilac’s slim fingers in hers. ‘I declare, that
is
a lovely ring. What is the stone?’

‘It’s an amethyst surrounded by diamond chips,’ Lilac said proudly. ‘Art said it was the nearest he could get to Lilac – isn’t it pretty? I love it so much! And it fits, so he even got the size right.’

‘And have your bought the wedding ring?’

‘We’re getting that today,’ Lilac said. ‘I telephoned my sister Nellie to tell her the date and talk about the arrangements – we’ve booked a wedding car and the Register Office for eleven o’clock – and she and Stuart will definitely bring little Elizabeth up the day before, so we can all be calm and relaxed on the day itself.’

‘Wonderful,’ Mrs Brierson said. ‘You’ll make the prettiest bride, Miss Larkin – we at the Delamere will all be very proud of you!’

The day Art sailed he looked down at the dock and remembered his homecoming a couple of days earlier. Then, not a face turned in his direction, not a hand waved. Now he could see Lilac and Charlotte clutching each other, waving, Lilac blowing kisses. Near them stood Mrs Brierson, also waving and daringly blowing kisses whilst in the background Monsieur Arrat, Miss Skidmore, some of the chambermaids and the girls from the kitchen clustered, waving hankies and tea-towels and shouting to him that it wouldn’t be long before they saw him again.

They had taken him to their hearts because of Lilac, of course. She was such a marvellous girl, no one could resist her. But he was not just a passenger on the ship, he was still the purser, so after waving until Lilac was just a tiny dot amongst all the other dots, he went below and began on the pile of paperwork which sailing always brings in its wake.

He wished he could have had long enough to take her to New Brighton, though. They had almost got there so often, it would have been nice to have arrived home and whisked her across the Mersey on the ferry to the seaside place which had been their childhood Mecca. Odd how the place haunted them – always there, always beckoning, but they somehow hadn’t managed to make it. Well, never mind, they would honeymoon there, it had been agreed between them.

He was just finishing his paperwork when there was a slight commotion outside the cabin door and a woman entered, holding a young girl by the hand. She was a pretty, dark-haired woman in her fifties, Art guessed, and the child must be about eight or nine. She held a skipping rope negligently but Art got the impression that for two pins she would have started skipping, there and then, in his neat and tidy office. Young rip, he thought, and then looked properly at the child. Immediately he was struck by the little girl’s extraordinary likeness to the young Lilac – she had the same gleaming, reddish-gold hair, the wide blue eyes, the trick of looking down at the ground and then up again through her thick, light lashes. And somehow the same jaunty, devil-may-care attitude, too, though Lilac had been a penniless orphan and this was a little lady with a family rich enough to send her to Gibraltar aboard a cruise ship.

‘Ah, purser; my name is Nicholson, Mrs Edward Nicholson. My grand-daughter and I are travelling with you to Gibraltar, where Lucy’s father is stationed with the Royal Navy. Lucy’s going to stay with him for a few weeks, but unfortunately we have been allocated an inside cabin and I was wondering, since the ship isn’t fully booked, whether I might pay the extra and move to an outside one? The truth is, Lucy needs fresh air. She suffers from asthma and finds the cabin stuffy, which has already led to one attack.’

‘I’m sure something can be arranged, Mrs Nicholson,’ Art said, getting out the big passenger-list. ‘Let me see . . . ah yes, I’ve found you: Mrs Edward Nicholson and companion, travelling from Liverpool to Gibraltar. You’re on ‘B’ deck, in cabin three, right?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, we’ve an outside cabin free on ‘A’ deck. Yes, it would probably suit you and your granddaughter quite well. I’ll just lock up here and then I’ll take you up to it myself.’

‘That’s most kind,’ Mrs Nicholson said gratefully. ‘Although Lucy sits up to dinner with everyone else, she goes to bed straight afterwards and since I like to sit with her for a little while before she sleeps, an outside cabin would be more pleasant for me, too.’

On the way to the cabin Art mentioned, casually, that Lucy bore a remarkable resemblance to his fiancée, a Liverpool girl named Lilac Larkin. Mrs Nicholson raised her brows.

‘Indeed? Well, Lucy takes after her father, not her mother . . . my daughter Alicia was as dark as I am myself. I don’t know Frank Dobson very well, in fact this will be only the second time I’ve met him, so for all I know your fiancée and he might be closely related.’ She paused to glance at the child, now running ahead with her skipping rope, occasionally skipping as calmly and efficiently as though she were still on dry land and not the heaving deck of the
Queen of the Straits
. ‘To tell you the truth, Mr O’Brien, there was a family disagreement.’ Mrs Nicholson lowered her voice. ‘My daughter married to disoblige us, as the saying goes. She had been engaged to a suitable young man . . . he was heartbroken when she eloped . . . but I daresay he’s happy now, with his new wife and little family. And much though I miss my dearest Alicia – it must be nine years since she died – Lucy is a great comfort to me. She is the sweetest, most thoughtful girl.’

‘And is she going to live with her father?’ Art asked as he waved Mrs Nicholson ahead of him down the companionway. The child was already at the bottom of the stair, skipping in earnest now, the rope banging with smooth regularity against the well-polished floor. ‘Is he settled in Gibraltar, for a time?’