A Mistletoe Kiss (20 page)

So now, in her own bedroom, she selected her very best suit. She had bought it for a friend's wedding, many years ago, and had only worn it a couple of times, but it still fitted her. It was royal blue wool, with a pert little matching hat, black high-heeled court shoes and long gloves. Looking at herself in the mirror, she thought she looked just right and not as though bound for a wedding. She had worn her hair in a neat bun for years now, but decided to be truly daring and do it today in a French pleat, since this would complement the little blue hat.

Presently, hair smoothed down, hat perched on top, she looked at herself again. I still look like a librarian, she thought sadly, then laughed at herself. What a fool she was being! Why should she not look like a librarian, when she was one, and usually proud of it? But she was so pale …

Five minutes later she was in her mother's room, guiltily pulling open the dressing table drawer in which Mrs Preece kept her small store of face powder, lip rouge, and various other aids to beauty. Miss Preece, who had
never used such things, plonked herself down on her mother's small stool and, after much thought, selected a dark rose-coloured lipstick. She applied it lightly, then scowled at her reflection and applied more. That was better! She tried some rouge on her cheeks, then scrubbed it off. She had never considered her ivory pallor attractive, but now she realised that for some mysterious reason her black hair made rouged cheeks look … oh, artificial, overdone, like a Dutch doll she had once owned. One last glance in the mirror told her that she had done her best and must leave it now, though she had plenty of time before she was due to arrive at the museum.

She had eaten breakfast with her mother and now decided that if she remained in the house she would simply grow more and more nervous, turning what should be a pleasurable experience into an ordeal. It was such a lovely day that she would not need her coat, so she set off into the sunshine, telling herself briskly that once she reached the museum she would be sure to find colleagues she knew. Just as she arrived on Shaw Street, a tram drew up beside her and a glance at its destination board showed her that it was bound for Islington, which would take her at least halfway to where she wanted to go. Climbing carefully aboard, she paid her fare, settled herself in a seat and checked her wristwatch. She was going to be early, but what did that matter? She seldom had the opportunity to window-shop at the big stores in the centre of the city; she would enjoy doing so now.

She left the tram and made for the nearest store,
and was peering at a display of summer dresses when she happened to glance sideways and saw a remarkably pretty girl, also examining the wares for sale. The girl was very much a modern miss, and Agatha was interested to see how her jet-black hair had been cut and fashioned to draw attention to the beautiful shape of her head. Almost unconsciously Miss Preece's hand went to her own French pleat. My hair has been ignored for most of my life, she told herself, and before she knew quite what she was doing she had turned round, walked briskly to a hairdressing salon she had noticed earlier and entered its portals.

Half an hour later she emerged, wondering at her own courage; or had it been that of the hairdresser? He had brushed out her long rain-straight locks, tutted at something he called ‘split ends' and asked her what style she had in mind. When Miss Preece had shrugged helplessly, muttering that she had come in on impulse, simply wanting a change, he had patted her shoulder, run his fingers through her hair a couple of times, then seized his scissors and started to cut.

The scrunching of the blades, only just below her ear, had frightened Miss Preece so much that she had closed her eyes and kept them closed until the hairdresser invited her to examine her reflection. Then she had been astonished to see in his mirror a pale-skinned young woman whose short, sleek hair fell in two shining wings on either side of her face and who seemed at first to bear no resemblance to Miss Agatha Preece, librarian of this parish.

The hairdresser had eyed her reflection with satisfaction and begun to brush stray hairs off the shoulders of the cape in which he had enveloped her, saying as he did so: ‘It's not a style which would suit everyone, but for you I think it is perfect; you like it?' He had smiled at her through the mirror and had seemed content when Miss Preece could only nod and return his smile, bereft for the moment of speech.

So now, emerging on to the pavement and turning her steps towards William Brown Street, Miss Preece quite literally felt like a different person. A far more sophisticated, self-confident person, who would hold her own in the select company she was about to join. Nevertheless, it would be idle to pretend that she was not both relieved and delighted when, upon showing her invitation and entering the foyer of the museum, she saw coming towards her Susannah Trimble, with whom she had been at university.

They greeted each other with enthusiasm, Miss Preece suspecting that Susannah felt as friendless as she herself did. Then they exchanged news of what they had been doing in the years that had elapsed since their last meeting. Susannah worked at the British Museum and was accompanying the exhibition of illuminated manuscripts from London, first to Liverpool and then to various other venues across the country. She was a tall, earnest young woman with light brown eyes behind thick spectacles, and a great deal of wiry and undisciplined pale brown hair.

After their initial greetings, she looked Miss Preece up and down and, speaking with more than a trace of
envy, said: ‘I say, Aggie, aren't you smart! I love that suit – wish I had one like it – and I nearly didn't recognise you with your hair cut in that smart style.'

‘It's the suit I wore when Mary got married,' Miss Preece explained. ‘You must remember Mary Cartwright; she was the only one of us to get a poor degree, but since she caught herself a husband within three months of leaving university, I don't believe she was particularly bothered. As for my hair, it's as new to me as it is to you, since I only had it cut half an hour ago, but I'm glad you like it. And now tell me about this professor who is going to give the talk on illuminated manuscripts; do you work for him?'

‘Well, I work in his department, but only for one of his junior staff; the prof is a very important person,' Susannah said. ‘Well, he's giving the main lecture, which should tell you something.' She giggled. ‘Come to think of it, I was wondering why you were here, but of course I've just remembered that you specialised in illuminated manuscripts when we were both in college. In fact, when I went to the interview for my present job, I half expected to see you amongst the applicants.' She gave Miss Preece a wide, ingenuous smile. ‘I was jolly glad you weren't there,' she added honestly. ‘If you had been, I'd have known I wouldn't have had a hope of getting the job, and I do love it. Why didn't you apply, Aggie?'

‘Oh, my mother would never have consented to move to London,' Miss Preece said at once. ‘She's spent all her life in Liverpool and would simply say she was too old to live amongst strangers. And anyway, I enjoy
being a librarian, though I'm sure it isn't as exciting as your work. Now tell me about this professor. I expect he's quite old?'

Susannah laughed. ‘No, he's quite young, or young for a professor at any rate,' she said. ‘He's not yet forty, and very highly regarded by …'

But Miss Preece was no longer attending. She was staring across the crowded foyer at the man who had just entered; tall, with crisply curling dark hair touched with grey at the temples, and a harsh but unmistakable face. Even as she gasped and clutched Susannah's arm, the other woman turned to follow the direction of her gaze.

‘That's him, that's Professor Galera. But you recognised him, didn't you, so you obviously know him …'

‘No, I wouldn't say I knew him, exactly,' Miss Preece said, trying to shrink behind the other woman. Of all the rotten luck! Professor Galera was the man who had knocked her down as she had left the library some three years before. For a moment she was panic-stricken, fearing that he would approach her, demand what right she had to be attending this function, perhaps even turn her out. Then common sense reasserted itself; he could not possibly remember her after so long. If she kept her walking stick out of sight and tried to reduce her limp, he would simply pass her by, and anyway she was not the only woman in Liverpool with a limp. She had only remembered him because he was so striking, with his high-bridged nose, dark complexion and aggressively jutting chin. She turned to Susannah. ‘I – I think he's probably come
into the library at some time, and that's why he seemed familiar at first glance.'

Susannah pulled a doubtful face. ‘It's possible, only I believe this is his first visit to Liverpool. He has a brother who's said to be very like him; he was in Liverpool for a short time a couple of years ago, but apparently he went to Spain to join the International Brigade when the Civil War started, and he's there still. The professor is talking of going to Spain as well, but perhaps it will come to nothing. It's really only a rumour at present.'

‘Oh, I see,' Miss Preece said. So the professor could not possibly be the man who had knocked her down in the street; it must have been his brother. But Susannah was looking at her curiously, so she hastily broke into speech once more. ‘Galera's a Spanish name, isn't it? I suppose that's why he's rather dark-skinned.'

Susannah raised her thick straight eyebrows. ‘Yes, you could describe his colouring as Mediterranean … his father came from Spain originally.' She lowered her voice to a confidential murmur. ‘All the women who work at the museum would give their eye teeth for a smile from him. Don't you think he's most awfully attractive?'

Miss Preece was about to say unequivocally that far from finding him attractive she considered him plain as a pikestaff – in fact she thought him downright ugly – when the big double doors at the end of the wide hall were thrown open and a tall, thin man in a black suit, wearing a monocle on the end of a gold chain, clapped his hands for attention and announced that he would be obliged if everyone
would form a queue and begin to make their way into the lecture hall.

Susannah had linked arms with Miss Preece, and now she bent her head to whisper, ‘The man with the monocle is the fellow who organised this whole affair, and has done it pretty well, according to my boss. But we must stick together, Aggie; what a bit of luck my spotting you as you entered the foyer! I'll introduce you to my colleagues when the lecture's over. You'll like them; they're a friendly bunch.'

As Miss Preece emerged from the museum that evening, flushed with pleasure and looking forward to telling Hetty and her mother what a wonderful day she had had, she felt a hand on her arm and swung round to find the professor himself smiling down at her.

Returning the smile, she found herself wondering how she could ever have mistaken him for the bad-tempered, impatient man who had knocked her down. To be sure there were superficial likenesses; both men had curly, dark hair, greying at the temples, and were above average height, but when the professor smiled his dark eyes gleamed with humour, and his voice when he spoke was pleasant. She could not remember her attacker, as she now thought of him, smiling at all, but if he had done so she knew it would have been mockingly. However, looking up into the dark face above her own, she raised her eyebrows. ‘Yes, Professor? I do hope you aren't going to scold me for asking so many questions!'

He laughed, and Miss Preece's heart did a double
somersault. Why on earth had she ever thought him ugly? Certainly, he was not handsome, but he had a craggy attraction which she had dismissed, denied, because he had reminded her of that other. But he was laughing still, shaking his head. ‘My dear madam, I blessed your courage, because there's nothing more embarrassing for a speaker than asking for questions and hearing only a deathly silence. What is more, your questions were searching and intelligent; helpful, in fact. So I wanted to express my gratitude before you left.'

Miss Preece smiled but shook her head. ‘It's kind of you to say so, but if I'd not spoken up, someone else would have done. The man in the velvet smoking jacket, for instance …'

‘Ah yes, what we might call an enthusiastic amateur. But your interest is of a more practical nature.' He hesitated, looking up and down the road. ‘Is someone meeting you? Might I walk you home, as we used to say when we were young?'

Miss Preece felt the hot colour invade her cheeks, and was about to invent a reason to refuse this perfectly acceptable suggestion when the professor said hastily: ‘If I were not leaving the city tomorrow I would ask you to join me for a meal so that we might discuss my work and your own in more comfortable surroundings. But I'm engaged with friends tonight and then giving lectures at Durham University, York and Edinburgh before going, as I intend, to Spain, so … may I walk you home, Miss Preece?'

‘Of course,' Miss Preece said at once, telling herself
that to refuse would be both rude and churlish. ‘But you're surely not going to embroil yourself in that dreadful war! It would be extremely dangerous.'

‘You are very right, and I agree that to go to Spain as things are at present must seem strange,' he said. ‘But I have a younger brother – twelve months younger than myself, in fact – of whom I am very fond. He joined the International Brigade at the start of the Civil War, but for the past three months I've heard nothing from him. As you must realise, Spain is in a terrible state, but there's a little village in the Pyrenees where the peasants have never faltered in their support for the Republicans. If I can make my way there, I might get news of Michael. But I mustn't bore you with my troubles.'

‘I'm not bored,' Miss Preece assured him. ‘War is always terrible and civil war, they say, is the worst. You must be dreadfully worried about your brother – someone told me he is very like you. You both obviously knew the country very well before the conflict started; but I've never been out of England and have always been intrigued by Spain. My grandfather was a Spaniard, you see, which accounts for my interest. If it wouldn't upset you, can you tell me a little about the country and its people?'