A Mistletoe Kiss (36 page)

‘Didn't I tell you? The loading and unloading is done by huge cranes, so your pretty hands won't get mucky,' Gareth assured them. ‘It's not far now to the wharf. Step out, fellers!'

His two companions did as he suggested and began to chat, whilst Gareth grinned to himself. He thought he had done a good job of putting his friends off Hetty and on to Sally and Alice, for he had realised, whilst the girls fussed round him in the
Shamrock's
cabin, that Hetty grown up was a very different proposition from Hetty the child. Then, he had thought her skinny and plain; now he found himself enchanted by her small, elfin face and pointy chin, by the big eyes, so dark a blue that one had to look twice to make sure they weren't black, and by the shape of her, slender yet strong. Even her hair, which he would once have described, if he had thought about it at all, as lank and mousy, was now thick and glossy and most definitely attractive, the colour of clear honey. Yes, Hetty was a real little smasher, and if anyone ended up asking her out, it must be he.

‘Ginger? Is that the
Shamrock
I can see ahead? And the other one … can't remember its name … yes I can, the
Clover?
' Phil's voice rang out, reverberating across the water, for the figure which had been at the tiller of the foremost boat turned, stared and then waved. ‘She's seen us … let's run!'

The three young men broke into a gallop, very soon
coming up alongside first the butty boat and then the
Shamrock
itself. ‘Ahoy there,
Shamrock,
' Gareth shouted somewhat breathlessly. ‘We've got your grub. Can we come aboard?'

Summer came, and the crew of the
Shamrock
rejoiced in the sunshine, the long, light evenings and, it must be confessed, Hetty told herself as she pinned out a line of washing above the cargo of the
Clover
,the company of any number of attractive young men. For her friendship with Gareth meant that he asked her out every time they tied up within two or three miles of Upper Heyford RAF station, and since he and his friends were now joint owners of an ancient car, they could go further afield than had ever been possible on foot.

Today, for instance, she and Gareth had planned to go in the old jalopy into the nearest town to see a flick. Hetty was looking forward to it, though she did feel a trifle apprehensive, because lately Gareth had been, as she put it, ‘getting heavy'. This meant that he had not only kissed her rather forcefully when they said goodnight, held her hand in the local cinema, and clutched her embarrassingly tightly when they danced together, but referred to her as ‘my girl', which was going a lot too fast for Hetty. The mysterious stranger on his powerful motorcycle still intrigued her and made it impossible for her to commit to anyone else, though she admitted to herself that she was growing increasingly fond of Gareth.

Fond, however, was one thing and in love quite
another. Last time she and Gareth had gone dancing he had started to tell her that he was in love with her, and it was only by being both quick and tactful that she had managed to avoid a declaration. On this outing she would have to be brave and explain to him that she didn't want to consider herself as anyone's girl, or claim that one man meant more to her than any other. She hated the thought of hurting him, but if their friendship was to continue then it must be just that: a friendship.

Hetty hung the last garment on the makeshift line just as Gareth appeared, a bag in one hand and a broad grin on his freckled face. ‘Hi, honey bunch,' he shouted, crossing the towpath and dropping his bag in order to put both arms round her. ‘What about a kiss for your feller, eh? There's no one watching, unless you count about thirty cows all peering over that perishin' hedge.'

Hetty pretended to look around her, though with a lurking grin. ‘I can't see anyone I'd describe as my feller,' she announced. ‘Aha, here comes our audience, so no funny business, LAC Evans!'

Approaching them at a leisurely pace was a horsedrawn narrow boat, and Hetty stopped what she was doing to wave and call out to the elderly woman at the tiller. ‘Afternoon, Mrs Buxton,' she said. ‘How are you and Mr Buxton? I can see old Rupert is in fine fettle, as usual. We envy you your marvellous horse-power when our engine's playing up.'

The old lady laughed, displaying pink and toothless gums. ‘We wouldn't see our old feller put out to
grass, not for the best bleedin' engine in the world,' she said. ‘I dare say you'm faster than us, but not be much, and when it comes to reliability we'd back old Rupe any day. Still, there you are; that's progress I reckons.'

‘Are there many horse-drawn narrow boats still plying their trade?' Gareth asked, as the other boat passed them. He jumped aboard the
Clover
,making Hetty squeak a protest as the boat lurched. ‘I know about the timber barges because we met one, if you remember, the last time you gave me a ride on your way back to the Smoke, but I didn't think there were many ordinary narrow boats still reliant on a good old nag.'

‘There aren't a lot, and they're all manned by experienced boaters,' Hetty chuckled. ‘But there are a great many of the big, horse-drawn barges you mentioned which carry timber or steel; loads too long or heavy for an ordinary canal boat. They used to put the fear of God into us when we met one. It just seemed impossible that we could ever get through, because they're all of fourteen feet wide, but the bargees know their business and now we exchange chat as we pass and never hang back or start sweating with fear. But Alice is in the cabin, making a cuppa. Have we got time for one?'

Gareth consulted his watch, then nodded. ‘If we're quick,' he said. ‘We don't want to walk in halfway through the big feature, though, and the car's parked a couple of fields away so we'll have to get a move on.'

They did so, and arrived at the cinema just as the
queue for the box office was beginning to edge forward. They joined it, and since they both preferred adventure to romance – on the screen, at any rate – they were still discussing the plot of the film they had seen as they made their way back to the car.

‘Fish and chips for the whole crew?' Gareth asked as the car nosed its way carefully along the village street. ‘The shop's still open and I'm flush at the moment, having not spent my week's pay on make-up or frilly underwear, the way you girls do.'

Hetty giggled. ‘I'd like to see you in frilly knickers,' she said. ‘As for us spending our money on such things, don't make me laugh! We've forgotten what pretty clothes look like aboard the old
Shamrock
. But we'd appreciate fish and chips if you're sure you can run to it for all of us, and yourself, of course.'

‘If I have to starve for the rest of the war I'll buy fish and chips tonight,' Gareth said, bringing the car to a halt outside the small shop. The tantalising smell was the only indication that it was selling fish and chips, for its blackout was rigidly maintained. ‘Because, my sweet, adorable Hetty, I've got some news which, no doubt, will dint your hard heart, if not break it. I'm off on a course in a couple of weeks. Me and Robby will soon know all there is to know about Wellingtons – the boots, you know – and when I've taken in all the knowledge available on their engines and passed whatever tests they give us, we'll be posted. Probably to somewhere in Lincolnshire, because that's where most of the heavy bombers fly from.'

Hetty stared at his profile across the darkened car.
She had told Gareth often enough that he was ‘just a friend', so why should she feel so dismayed? But she put a hand on his and gave it a little squeeze. ‘Well, it was what you wanted,' she said bracingly. ‘Fancy the air force teaching you all about footwear! Are they a bit like Spitfires, these Wellingtons? I seem to remember someone saying … but no doubt your knowledge of aero-engines will come in useful.'

‘Wellingtons, my dear little ignoramus, are not boots, as you know very well, and neither are they fighters; they're bombers, often called Wimpies for some little-known reason, and they're pretty big; very different from the aircraft I've been working on. So I expect not only the sort of goodnight kiss you've always denied me so far, but letters every week and promises of eternal devotion after every phone call. Right?'

‘Wrong,' Hetty said promptly, for she had heard the serious note in his voice despite his light-hearted banter. ‘I've told you a hundred times …'

‘We'll have to arrange meetings every few months, or I'll go mad,' Gareth said. He no longer sounded even slightly light-hearted. ‘I've told you over and over how I feel about you but we've met so often that I've not pushed it. Now, however, it's time for being a little serious. I suggest that we meet, say in five or six months' time, in some small town or large village halfway between wherever the
Shamrock
happens to be and my Lincolnshire billet. Then I'd like to book into a hotel for a couple of nights as – oh, well, I might as well be shot for a sheep as for a lamb – as Mr and Mrs Evans.' They were still sitting in the car and now
he slung an arm round her shoulders, pulling her close. ‘Please, Hetty, say you will!'

He accompanied the words with a kiss, his lips so warm and firm on hers that Hetty was tempted to give in, but then she remembered her mysterious motorcyclist and pushed him away. ‘I won't!' she said firmly. ‘Behave yourself, Gareth! I like you a lot, but – but not in the sort of way you mean. You're great fun, you make me laugh and you've been a good friend, but …'

Gareth let go of her and heaved a deep sigh. For a moment he said nothing, then he spoke, his voice very low. ‘Does
he
make you laugh?'

For a moment Hetty was bereft of words. Then she said uncertainly: ‘What do you mean? Who is
he?
And why should you think I'm – I'm interested in someone else?'

‘If you aren't, then that's even more insulting. You should grow up, young Hetty,' Gareth said, and his tone was cold, almost stern. Hetty felt her cheeks flame. Gareth had never been so nasty to her before, and she did not like it.

‘I don't know what you mean,' she said, hearing her own voice as cold and annoyed as his and not caring; in fact she hoped that he was upset. He had upset her, hadn't he? ‘I never said I liked another fellow.'

‘But you do,' Gareth said. ‘Come clean; it's better for both of us.'

Hetty took a deep breath. He was right; she knew that in her heart. So, haltingly at first and then more firmly, she told Gareth about the missed coach, the
mysterious meeting, and how she had never been able to forget her rescuer.

Gareth listened in silence and then, to her surprise, he turned and gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘All right; you aren't in love with a flesh and blood man, but with an idea,' he said at last. ‘And since I'm off to Lincolnshire quite soon, we won't try to meet; what's the point? But just for friendship's sake, will you telephone me a couple of times a month? I'll give you the number of my mess as soon as I know it myself. And you'll write?'

Relieved to have got off lightly, Hetty agreed to both ring and write, and then suggested that they might meet, though definitely not as Mr and Mrs Evans, but Gareth shook his head firmly and opened the driver's door of the car. ‘Better not,' he said. ‘And now let's buy those fish and chips!'

Agatha was finishing her breakfast after a long night fire-watching when her mother came into the kitchen. ‘I've got the post,' the old lady said rather breathlessly. ‘I saw the postman coming up the street from my bedroom window, so I hurried down to save you leaving your breakfast and going out to fetch it.' She smiled at her daughter and laid the envelopes in front of her. ‘It'll be mostly government leaflets and bills, I expect, but there's one from Hetty. You could read it to me whilst I eat my breakfast; I take it you've left my porridge warming on the back of the stove?'

‘Yes, that's right,' Agatha said, getting to her feet. She ladled porridge from the pan into a round blue dish, sprinkled it sparingly with sugar – sugar had been rationed for ages so Agatha usually sweetened her own porridge with golden syrup, but her mother preferred sugar – and set the dish down on the table before the older woman. She picked up Hetty's letter and pushed it into her pocket. ‘I haven't got time to read it to you now, Mother,' she said briskly. ‘And anyway, I expect there's a good deal of it that wouldn't really interest you. But I'll read it to you tonight, when I get home from work. Do get on with your breakfast; Mrs Simpson was working in the NAAFI last night,
so there's only me to help you put on your shoes and stockings.' She stopped speaking to give an enormous yawn, then shook herself. ‘Goodness, I'm tired! There were a lot of aircraft about last night but it seems they were on their way somewhere else, thank God, or they were ours, of course. We've not had a really bad raid since Christmas, so we've a lot to be thankful for, especially with the docks so full of shipping.'

Mrs Preece stopped spooning porridge. ‘I'm sorry, Agatha, I forgot you were fire-watching last night,' she said remorsefully. ‘Why don't you open the library an hour or so later when you're on duty? As for my shoes and stockings, I can manage without both, at a pinch. I can wear my slippers, and Mrs Simpson will pop in around lunchtime to make sure I'm all right. She can help me on with my stockings if I've not managed to get into them myself by then.'

Agatha laughed, stood up and gave her mother's hand a squeeze. ‘Oh, Mother, it doesn't take me two minutes to put on your stockings and shoes, and I
like
to do it. As for being tired, that's unavoidable. Mr Gower and I discussed opening the library later but decided it wasn't on; as you know, ever since the war started, our membership has doubled, or even trebled, and a good few of our borrowers are WVS, ARP or fire-watchers, like Mr Gower and myself. They come off duty, get a couple of hours' sleep, and then come out to get their messages and to renew their library books, so we can't let them down by opening late.'