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"That night... by the river...."

"It doesn't matter." I smiled down at him with the com passion and understanding of all the mothers in the world, for now he was like a troubled child and I was not just twenty, I was old in wisdom. I did not want him to resurrect his humiliation, but he cut me short, saying,

"It's odd, but I've never been able to get you out of my mind.

It is the only time I ran away in my life. "

"It's a? right."

"It isn't all right. It's been on my conscience for years. Not because I love you, you understand." I nodded. And then he went on,

"But because I ran before that damned priest. He put the combined fear and terror of all the ages into me that night. He made his appearance at the wrong moment, for my uncle. Colonel Findlay, had been talking that very day about the power of the priests in this town. Apparently some time earlier my uncle's housemaid she was a Catholic married a Protestant in spite of the threats of the priest. The man had a mind of his own and wouldn't turn, nor say that the children would be brought up in the Church, and uncle said they were giving the girl hell."

I gazed down at him. What was he trying to tell me? That he would not become a Catholic? That he was afraid of the pressure? I would give up my religion tomorrow, this minute. What did my religion matter to me if it meant losing him? Not all the Father Ellises in the world could make me feel differently. He was still talking.

"Then the very next day Uncle had a phone call from a friend at the other side of the hill saying that one of the priests was on the warpath looking for a fellow who had been He dropped his eyes from mine as he said, 'carrying on was the word used." Then looking at me again he added, "I wasn't carrying on that night, Christine, I loved you. It was the greatest experience of my life. I have never felt like it since. I meant to see you again I remember what I said, " It's going to be a lovely summer" but I skedaddled home to France that very Sunday afternoon with a big push from Uncle."

Again I stroked his cheek and said, "I knew that was the house you had been living in. I knew that the colonel was some relation of yours."

Slowly I watched him pull back from me and I tried to draw him towards me again, as I said, "It's all right, I didn't say anything. My mother took me up, she made me go, and the colonel said there was no one of your name there. But I saw a picture of you with some other children.

You looked just like Constance does now. "

Slowly again he pulled himself from my hands and stood up and turned his back towards me, and I said softly, "I couldn't help it, Martin, I didn't want to go. It was my mother, she was so troubled."

He did not look at me as he said, "It isn't that, but they never told me you had been." Then he asked a question.

"Did you see anyone else beside my uncle?"

"Yes, a young woman as we were going out." I did not add that she looked as if she could have killed me. He sat down by the table, then got up immediately again and asked, "Could I have my greatcoat, there's a bottle in there? I think I need a drink, Christine."

I went into the front room and lifted his coat and held it to me tightly for a moment before taking it to him. From the inner pocket he pulled out a flask, and when I brought him a glass he said, "Where's the other one?"

There was no need to be polished any more, so I replied truthfully, "I dont drink. I thought the gin was terrible yesterday."

He stared at me in a sort of puzzled, bewildered fashion, then filling the glass to the top he drank it in one gulp, and as he set the glass down on the table he repeated what he had said earlier, "We've got to talk, Christine." But now he added as if to himself, "And I dont feel so badly about it now."

My look must have held a question, for he touched my arm quickly saying, "I dont mean about you. I'm referring to other things. We'll talk about them later, but now, Christine, some thing must be done.

How have you managed all these years? "

His tone was so business-like that it changed him. He had become the officer, and I smiled softly as I said, "Dad's good."

He gripped my hand at this and exclaimed in a low voice, "And you're good, you're so good it's frightening." He jerked himself upright now and his voice held the stiff note again as he said, "But you must have money. I must make pro vision, we must talk about money."

"Oh, money." I not only shook my head, but shook my body as if throwing the word off, then shamelessly I put my arms about him and cried, "Oh, Martin, Martin, dont talk about money, talk about us."

Our faces were close, our breaths were mixing as they had done once before, then we were kissing and I was quite un ashamed that it was I who had made the first move, though once I had done so there was no need to press further for it would seem that he wanted to eat me alive with his love. My body was at ease for the first time in years. It lay heavy on the bed, weighted down with content and the release that I longed for, and deep within my stomach there was the old gurgle of mirth. It could have been that we were once again lying on the grass ready to roll with our laughter. I had not cried this time. I felt I would never cry again; there was nothing that could make me cry. I told myself that if this love was snatched away from me within the hour, so intense, so solid was the feeling burning through me that it would take a life time to extinguish. His hands were moving lovingly over me and I was so unashamed that I was sorry it was dark, and then he whispered, "Darling, darling, you're out of this world, they dont come like you today, high or low. You're a woman, Christine, a woman, and there are women and women. But you wouldn't know that. Listen, I want you to remember this...."

I did not speak, only my heart repeated slowly, "Yes, Martin, yes, Martin."

"There's never been anyone like you and there never will. Remember that, will you, and I love you. I dont think I've ever stopped loving you. That's why oh what does it matter. Wake up!"

"I am awake and I'll remember."

At that moment there came a rap on the front door and I felt him stiffen. I stiffened myself, then said, "Ssh! they'll think I've gone to bed."

Whoever it was rapped three times before going away, and after that the enchantment was somehow broken and Martin said, "I'm afraid I'll have to make a move, Christine, but God, how I'm loath to go. And we haven't talked, and we must talk, it's important that we talk."

With my lips on his I silenced him saying, "Tomorrow we will talk."

Fifteen minutes later, after clinging together for another long moment, I let him out the front door into the dark street, which, as far as I could make out, was empty. Then I bolted the door and went straight upstairs and lay down again, and was surprised when I awoke and it was daylight. I put my arms upwards and stretched, then turned over on to my face and murmured, "Martin. Oh, Martin," and went to sleep again.

"I was awakened by Dad saying, " Come on, lass, you going to sleep all day? "

I sat up with a bound, asking, "What... what time is it?"

"Just on nine."

"Nine o'clock!"

"Aye, nine o'clock." He handed me a cup of tea, and as he left the room he said, "It must have been that washing and all that running round. It used to tell even on your mother and you're not half her size."

"Constance?"

"Oh, now Dad flapped his hand at me 'she's all right. She came in to me over two hours ago and got me up. She's had her breakfast, so dont worry. You lie on a bit if you want to."

"I'll be down in a minute," I said.

"Now there's no hurry." He went out, closing the door after him, and I drank the tea, then lay back. I felt rested as I had never known rest, I felt that I had been asleep for the first time in my life. I was purged of all weariness yet consumed with a delightful languor, and my body seemed to draw this feeling from my mind which was bemused with happiness. I was a young girl again, walking blindly in the white mist of love.

I hummed as I dressed, and in the middle of the morning Dad came in from the yard where he had been chopping sticks and, standing in the doorway, he said, "It's good to hear you singing, lass. You look as if you've had a new lease of life. It's sleep you want."

No, not sleep, Dad, not sleep.

In the afternooon Sam came in, and after a few minutes he too cast a closer sidelong glance at me and said, "You got the spring feelin', Christine?"

I laughed, and answered, "No, I just feel this way." I had unconsciously misquoted a line from my favourite song and he nodded with a laugh, "You're only painting the clouds with sunshine?"

As I laughed outright his face became straight and he stared at me.

Sam had a much keener perception 'than Dad, and he asked quietly,

"Something happened, Christine?" I turned from him, then swiftly to him again. I wanted to tell him every thing for I knew he would understand Sam would always understand but it was too new, too much mine yet. ours, so all I said was, "I've got something to tell you, Sam, but later." His eyes were still fixed on me, but being Sam he did not press to know what my something was. Sam could always wait. Sam had patience. I, too, had had patience, for five years I'd had patience and had waited, but now I had no patience left. The minutes could not pass quickly enough until Martin came again. His last words had been,

"We must talk." They seemed reminiscent of our Ronnie's, but unlike his words, they left no foreboding.

There had been no definite time stated.

"Any time after seven," he had said. He did not arrive until half past eight, and this time there was no awkwardness between us, for before we passed through the front room our arms were holding, and on the threshold of the kitchen we embraced with a fierceness that left us breathless. Gone was the gentle element that had been prominent in last night's loving.

When we let each other go he held me from him and said, "I've thought of you all day, I haven't been able to get you out of my mind for a minute... a second."

"And me, it's been the same with me. Oh, Martin." I was on his breast again saying softly, "I love you so, I love you so."

We did riot talk but went upstairs, and even hours later we still did not talk. It was as he was leaving the house for the second time he turned to me at the door and said, "I really must talk to you, Christine, before we go on. There are things I must say. There are things to be straightened out."

Just for a fleeting second a fear tore through me, and I gasped, "You want me. You love me? You'll not leave me again?"

"Never. Never. It's all in your hands now. I'll want you as long as I breathe." His mouth came on mine, hard yet tender. And after a moment he went on, "But in the meantime you've got to live, and I want you to live ... well--' he smiled 'comfortably. You understand?"

I gave a soft chuckle and for answer fell against him. And time stood still once again. Then, taking me by the shoulders, he shook me gently, saying, "Be practical. Look, take this." He pulled a wallet from his pocket and out of it a thick wad of notes.

"No, no. No, I dont want any money, I'm all right."

"Look, dont be silly. All these years. You must take this. It's nothing. I'm going to arrange about money for you."

When he could not get my hands from behind my back to take the money he rolled it up and threw it into the far corner of the room, behind a chair, saying, "Now you'll have to find it."

"Oh, Martin." Again we embraced, and then with the latch in his hand he whispered, "The same time tomorrow night, or about it anyway. And then, mind He gripped my chin in his hand and, shaking my face, he said, " We'll talk first, under stand? "

I nodded happily. Then even once again he pulled me into his arms and murmured, "There's so much to be said, we really must talk, Christine.

Look, come out tomorrow night, to that pub where we went on Monday.

"

"No." I shook my head.

"Come here. I promise you I'll let you talk as much as ever you like, and I'll agree with every thing you say."

"You mean that?"

"Yes, yes, my love."

"God bless you."

I had always considered "God bless you' as a saying the prerogative of Catholics. It sounded funny coming from his lips, and there was something ... a trace of sadness in it. And there was a touch of sadness on his face, too, as he took my hands and pressed them on to his cheek. Then he opened the door and passed out into the darkness. I did not watch him go but returned slowly into the kitchen, dazed and happy.

It was as I was about to go upstairs that I remembered the money.

Gathering it up, I did not even count it properly, but guessed there was more than twenty pounds and thought:

"Fancy being able to carry so much money around with you." When I got into my room I noticed with a start that he had forgotten his wrist-watch. I picked it up. It was a lovely watch and, I surmised, solid gold. I pressed it to my face, then, placing it on top of the notes, I laid them both in the bottom drawer of the chest. The next morning Don Dowling came in with a pound box of chocolates for Constance. Chocolates were rationed, and to see a fancy box was something unusual. Before I could do anything the box was in her hands, and when I said, "Let me have it, Constance," she put it behind her back, then ran away into the front room. And I turned to Don and said in a voice that I tried to keep ordinary, "You mustn't give her things like that, Don. She's too young for them."

"Nonsense," he said.

"It's little enough she gets."

"She gets all she needs."

"You know, Christine, you sounded just like your mother then. You're getting like her."

"I couldn't get like a better person."

Before he made his next remark he rasped his great hand up and down the stubble on his cheek.

"That's questionable. You know, if it hadn't been for her..."

"Look, Don, I'm not going to discuss my mother with you."

"All right, all right." He wagged his finger at me.