A Mistletoe Kiss (22 page)

‘Gareth Evans,' Hetty said. ‘You know, Miss … Agatha, I mean. He lived next door to Aunt Phoebe,
and was apprenticed at some sort of motor factory … I think they made cars, or aeroplanes, or something. But his family moved away a couple of years ago, when his dad finally got a job outside the city. So as far as I can remember, Gareth must have gone when his parents did.'

‘Did he go to Wales?' Agatha asked. ‘Not that there are a lot of jobs for motor mechanics in little Welsh villages.'

‘Don't know,' Hetty admitted. ‘The point is that I've not seen Gareth for ages, so it could have been him. And I suppose it could have been horrible Harry, the fellow who walked out on Gramps, do you remember me telling you? Only why should any one of them not tell me his name? It seems … oh, peculiar, to say the least.'

‘It does,' Agatha agreed, as they turned into Salisbury Street. ‘But you'll find out in due course, I imagine. Next time you pay a visit to your grandfather, you could sound him out. He might know something – whether any of the three lads you've mentioned owns a motorbike or lives in a small Welsh village, for instance.'

Hetty was much struck by the good sense of this idea. Presently they reached her aunt's house and bade one another good night. ‘I feel bad about letting you walk back home alone,' Hetty said anxiously, with one hand on the front door knob. ‘Are you sure you'll be all right? I know it's only a short walk, but …'

‘I'll be fine. See you on Monday,' Miss Preece said. ‘Goodnight, Hetty, and good luck with your hunt for
your St George and his mettlesome steed.' She looked a little self-conscious. ‘And not a word to anyone, particularly my mother, about Max … I mean Professor Galera.'

‘I won't say a word,' Hetty promised as she opened the front door, which would only be locked, she knew, when Aunt Phoebe was making her way to bed. But as she closed it behind her and walked up the short hall to the kitchen, she was thinking, So his name is Max, is it? And you want me to think he's only interested in your knowledge of illuminated manuscripts! Pull the other one, Miss Agatha Preece!'

As she had expected, she found her aunt sitting up for her, and on impulse she decided to confide in her about the young man on the motorcycle. She told her all about missing the coach, catching the wrong one, and being brought home on the back of a motorbike by someone who had not wanted to give her his name. She tried to make it sound jokey, but could not have succeeded very well since her aunt frowned thoughtfully, looking hard at Hetty as she did so.

‘Don't worry, love,' she said at last. ‘It
is
an odd thing, but I reckon the feller just didn't want to be thanked. Some folk is like that. And you think he knew you? Well, the only feller I can think of is young Gareth what lived next door, but then I never really knew your pals on the canal. I reckon you ought to pop round to Burscough tomorrer, see whether your gran or grandpa can shed light. Go straight after church on a Sunday and you'll always find them home, and old Matthew, too.'

‘Thanks, Auntie, I'll do that,' Hetty said gratefully. ‘I suppose it isn't important, but I'd like to know just who the chap was. And now I'm for bed, because I'm worn out.'

She expected to fall asleep the moment her head touched the pillow, but perhaps because she had twice retold the story of her exciting ride home on the unknown's motorbike or perhaps simply because she was so tired, sleep eluded her. She tossed and turned whilst her mind went over and over her wonderful day, and then she started thinking of all the boys, now young men, whom she had known whilst a part of the crew of the
Water Sprite
, and wondering which of them, if any, had been kind enough to bring her back to Liverpool in time to accompany Mrs Preece to Everton Terrace.

When she heard the church clock strike midnight she got out of bed and thought about going downstairs and making herself a hot drink, but decided against it on the grounds that she would undoubtedly wake her aunt and uncle. Instead, she went to the window and pulled back the curtains, then opened the pane fully and looked out at the sleeping street below. Nothing stirred, not a cat, not a scuffer walking his beat, not a late reveller reeling home after a lock-in at the local pub. Sighing, Hetty climbed back into bed, then threw the covers off; she was too hot, that was the trouble. If she lay with just the sheet over her …

In seconds, she was asleep. And dreaming. She was walking through a beautiful wood, only when she looked more closely at the trees which surrounded her
they were not trees at all, but young men, all of whom were wearing full motorcycling gear complete with helmet and goggles. It was night, but instead of being a delicate crescent this moon was full, making the silver light stronger and the shadows deeper, blacker. A little frightened, she kept to the path which wound its way between the trees and the thick undergrowth, but she soon realised that the young men who stood talking and laughing amongst themselves were not interested in her, though they glanced at her as she passed them by. She knew, suddenly, that one of these men was important to her, and that the reason she was here was to discover which of them it was. She went up to the nearest young man, and as she stretched out her hand to touch him he grinned at her and for an instant she saw his face, lean, tanned, a lock of dark hair hanging across his forehead. But it was not the face she sought and rather regretfully, for he was a pleasant-looking fellow, she shook her head and moved on to the next, the next, the next.

She found him. She put her arms round his neck, trusting as a child with a well-loved adult, and looking up into the face above her own said simply: ‘So it
was
you, after all! Oh, why didn't I recognise you, when I do believe I've loved you all my life long!'

He said something; she thought it was, ‘Wake up, silly!' and suddenly she was awake and in her own bed, with Aunt Phoebe shaking her shoulder and saying laughingly: ‘What a dream you was havin', queen! But if you're goin' to visit Burscough today you'd best gerra move on or you won't have time for no breakfast, and
there's a bowl o' porridge wi' your name on it coolin' on the kitchen table.'

Hetty shook her head violently and sat up, feeling extremely foolish. ‘What did I say, Auntie?' she enquired apprehensively. ‘I was dreaming about my trip to the seaside …'

‘You didn't say nothin', or not that I could make out,' Aunt Phoebe said, going over to the washstand and pouring water into the round blue basin. ‘Come along, show a perishin' leg!'

Hetty slipped obediently out of bed and stripped off her nightdress as her aunt left the room, shutting the door firmly behind her. Splashing cold water into her face, she tried to remember the dream, and presently some of it came back to her, but not all. She could not remember so much as one feature of the young man who had held her in his arms and smiled down into her eyes with such teasing affection. She could not remember whether she had spoken to him or he to her. And by the time she was descending the stairs and beginning to look forward to her porridge and toast, the dream had disappeared like snow in spring, and all she could think of was her visit to her grandparents and her hope that they might be able to throw some light on her mysterious motorcyclist.

After she had eaten her breakfast, Hetty accompanied her aunt and uncle to church, then checked the times of the buses out to Burscough. She had only visited her grandparents twice since they had moved in with Uncle Matthew, because the journey was quite expensive and the times not always convenient. But
today she was visiting with a purpose and hopped aboard the half past eleven bus, knowing that her grandmother would insist that she share their dinner, and knowing also that there would be plenty of food for an unexpected guest since Gran always over-catered.

When she arrived at Burscough she could not resist walking down to the towpath and glancing first to her left and then to her right, hoping to see a barge managed by people she knew, but despite the fact that it was a fine and sunny day the water was empty save for a flotilla of ducks and a solitary barge – engine driven – chugging away from her, already almost out of her sight. Sighing, Hetty turned towards Uncle Matthew's neat little slate-roofed red-brick house. If she had been able to warn the occupants of her arrival she would have gone round the back, but since she was not expected she went to the front door, plied the brass knocker vigorously, opened the door and stepped inside just as her grandfather emerged from the kitchen, releasing a wonderful smell of roast beef, roast potatoes and Yorkshire pudding, which made Hetty's nostrils twitch even as she ran towards her grandfather's welcoming arms.

‘Hetty, my love, it's as good as a tonic to see your smiling face,' her grandfather said, hugging her warmly. ‘You're just in time for dinner; Gran must have guessed you were coming because she's roasted parsnips along with the potatoes, and we all know they're your favourites.' He gave her a kiss, then turned his head to shout over his shoulder: ‘Dulcie, my dear,
it's our Hetty. Get out another plate and a set of eating irons! Well, well, well. When I woke this morning and saw the sunshine, I nearly accepted old Joshua's suggestion that I should go for a ride – just as far as the next bridge, you know – in his barge. He's had a new engine installed, the very latest thing, but something must have told me not to take him up on his invitation today, and wouldn't I have kicked myself if I'd gone with Josh and missed seeing my favourite granddaughter!'

Hetty laughed, kissed his cheek, and ran over to where her grandmother was just dishing up. ‘Dear Gran, it's too bad of me to arrive at dinnertime, but I knew you'd probably cooked enough food for an army and wouldn't grudge me a bite.' She kissed her grandmother's rosy, wrinkled cheek, then went over to Uncle Matthew, already seated, his empty plate before him, and gave him a hug. ‘Sorry, Uncle Matt; this is your house I'm invading, but I hope you don't mind!'

‘Course I don't, since your gran is the best cook in the world, and would feed half the neighbourhood given a chance,' Uncle Matthew said. ‘Nice to see you, queen. Sit yourself down and prepare for a treat, 'cos there's a treacle puddin' for afters – and if roasted parsnips is your favourite, then treacle puddin' is mine.'

At her grandmother's request, Hetty helped her to dish up, ladling potatoes, cabbage and carrots on to each plate, whilst her grandfather carved the joint of beef and Gran produced from the oven a square tin,
bubbling with Yorkshire pudding, and cut the contents into four large pieces. Hetty smiled to herself as a large pot of home-made horseradish sauce and another of rich beef gravy were handed round the table. Aunt Phoebe did her best, but no one could cook a roast like Gran. When everyone was served, Uncle Matthew bent his head and said grace and Hetty loaded her fork and began to eat.

Presently, she thought it only fair to say that she had come to visit them since she had a problem she hoped they might help her to solve, but as she knew he would, her grandfather shook a reproving head at her and put a finger to his lips. ‘You know our rules, young Hetty. Casual conversation of an easy nature is allowed at the dinner table, but anything which needs consideration waits till we've done the washing up.'

Hetty laughed. ‘I thought that was just aboard the
Water Sprite,
' she protested. ‘But it's fair enough, Gramps; I'd much rather have your full attention, so I'll abide by the rules. I say, Gran, when we've had our dinner, can I have some stale bread to feed the ducks? There were a whole lot of them on the canal as I passed.'

Her grandmother agreed that there were always a few crusts left for the ducks, and then conversation lapsed as the family polished off their main course and started on the treacle pudding, helping themselves from a large jug of custard.

‘I'll wash up!' Hetty said eagerly, collecting crockery and cutlery and carrying the heavy kettle across to the
sink, but her grandmother shook her head and handed her a string bag full of stale bread.

‘No you don't, queen, you go and feed the ducks. Your Uncle Matthew, your grandfather and myself have got washing up down to a fine art. We take it in turns to wash the crocks and pots, dry them and put them away. Today, I shall wash, Uncle Matthew will dry and Gramps will put away. Then I shall make a nice pot of tea and we'll discuss your problem whilst we drink it. Off with you now.'

Hetty took the bag of scraps and was soon casting a positive feast before the ducks and wondering whether her grandparents would be able to help in the identification of her mysterious rescuer. Returning to the kitchen, she found the tea poured and everyone seated round the table, eyeing her with considerable curiosity. ‘Sit down and tell us your problem, and we'll see if we can help,' Gramps said encouragingly. ‘Only I just hope it isn't a mathematical one, or anything to do with history, because neither your Gran nor myself were any good at schoolwork.'

Hetty laughed. ‘As if I'd bring you that sort of problem when I'm having special coaching lessons from Miss Preece at the library,' she said. ‘No, this is something quite different …'

Hetty explained, giving as many details as she could about her rescuer; he was tall, broad-shouldered and, so far as she could judge, quite slim, though it was difficult to tell, clad as he was in leathers. Her grandparents wanted to know if he spoke with a Liverpool or a Welsh accent. Hetty frowned thoughtfully, for it was a question
that had puzzled her every time she thought about it. ‘Well, at one point he called me “cariad”, at another “chuck”, and he also referred to me when he first spoke as “lass”. The Welsh say “cariad” – I think it means “my dear” – Liverpudlians say “chuck” and Lancastrians call one “lass”. So that isn't much help.'

Her grandfather nodded wisely. ‘He really didn't want you to recognise him, did he?' he asked. ‘A lot of Scousers speak with a trace of a Welsh accent, or even a Lancastrian one, but in view of the fact that he wouldn't tell you his name I think he misled you purposely by using forms of address common to Wales, Liverpool and Lancashire.'