Paper Doll (5 page)

Martin finished hooking the last curtain on to the rail, descended the stepladder and reached for his jacket. ‘Thank you for your help, sir.’

‘Oh, I daresay you’d have managed without me.’ The older man rubbed his hands together. ‘It’s getting cold. Can I give you a lift anywhere?’

‘Thank you, but there’s no need. I welcome the exercise and I have some shopping to get done before the stores close down for Christmas.’

‘Then I’ll leave you to it. I’m off to the factory to give the staff their Christmas bonuses, then they can go home early.’

No wonder Howard Toys was running at a loss, Martin thought, as he watched Benjamin head up the steps to where his bull nose Morris was parked. His employer hadn’t said how much debt he was in, but it would be considerable, he imagined.

If he couldn’t turn the downward trend around and get the stock shifted then he wondered how long he’d remain employed, especially if Latham Miller was after the place. Not that Martin had ever met Miller, except for that chance encounter, but his wealth and reputation was legendary.

But his employer hadn’t seemed bothered about Miller’s desire to buy the place, so neither would he be. He thought instead of Julia Howard, and wondered, what did one buy a girl who seemed to have everything?

‘Y
ou invited Lee-Trafford for Christmas Day! Oh, Daddy, how could you when he’s such a misery?’

‘I felt sorry for him. I told him the invitation came from you so he wouldn’t feel awkward.’

Julia offered him a stern look. ‘You feel sorry for half the population of England, so I hope you haven’t invited them, as well.’ A sudden thought brought panic racing through her. ‘Goodness, we haven’t got a gift to put under the tree for him. Whatever will he think of us?’

‘Yes . . . we have. I bought something on the way home.’

‘What is it? Let me see.’

He shook the bag he was carrying. It gave a solid thunk rather than a rustle. ‘It’s a pair of socks.’

She caught his grin and held out her hands. ‘He must have very large feet then.’

The bag her father placed in her hands contained a brown leather attaché case.

‘I thought it would be useful now he has a new position and purpose. He can take his lunch to work in it, if nothing else.’

‘It’s perfect, you clever old thing,’ she said, and held it to her nose. ‘I love the smell of new leather, don’t you?’

‘Not particularly; you’re probably inhaling the chemicals they use in the tanning process.’

‘Ugh! How horrid a thought . . . almost as bad as your cigars then.’

‘Which I’ve more or less given up on doctor’s orders.’

‘More more, or more less?’

He smiled. ‘A man can’t give up all his pleasures, and I no longer smoke at home. I am trying.’

‘I know. I’ve bought you a cigar to enjoy on the way to the midnight service. And I’ve made a holly wreath to put on mother’s grave, so remind me to find the torch before we leave.’

He sank into his chair. ‘I’m tired. I’m going to visit your mother in the morning, when it’s light.’

‘Then I won’t be able to come with you, since I’ve got dinner to prepare.’

‘I know, but you visited her on her birthday, and I’m sure she knows you think of her. Martin Lee-Trafford is a nice young man, don’t you think?’

‘I’ve only spent a few minutes in his company and he didn’t make much of an impression on me.’

‘But wasn’t it you who just referred to him as a misery?’

‘Yes, I did, but then I remembered that he’d been ill, so I expect he was feeling sorry for himself and will improve on further acquaintance. And since you’ll have more to do with him than I will, all that matters is that he suits you.’

She gazed at the insignia on the attaché case. Insall and Sons of Bristol. It was a rather expensive gift for a new acquaintance. Had it been left to her she’d probably have bought him a packet of handkerchiefs or a leather card case. Well, it was too late to take it back to the shop and exchange it for something cheaper, so she would go and wrap it.

She carried the attaché case off, wrapped it in some green crepe paper and tied it with a red and gold ribbon. She hesitated over the Christmas card, one that had been surplus to her needs. It had a Dickensian scene of rosy-cheeked children gazing in round-eyed wonder at a flatulent-looking Christmas pudding of gigantic proportions. An uncompromising ‘Have a Happy Christmas’ was printed inside the card in black. It was more like an order than a sincere wish, but the card would have to do.

Her father’s new manager had made it very clear that he didn’t welcome familiarity from her, so he probably wouldn’t notice anything unfriendly about the card. As for the rest, she wouldn’t be dictated to over what she should call him, but would please herself. He’d just have to put up with it.

She uncapped her fountain pen and wrote swiftly,
For Martin, with best wishes from Benjamin Howard and Julia
.

Before she put the card back in the envelope she gazed at the message again and an imp of mischief grew in her. She grinned as she added at the end
(beware of the pudding!).

Martin’s nostrils were filled with the delicious aroma of roasting turkey as the door to the Howard apartment opened and a woman dressed in outdoor clothes let him in. His stomach rattled with hunger as she showed him to the sitting room, saying, ‘Miss Howard will be with you in a moment, sir.’

The whispered conversation that took place in the hall just after she left, easily reached his ears.

‘I’ll be off then, Miss Howard. Your gentleman is in the sitting room.’

‘Thank you, Jean . . . Have you got your Christmas envelope?’

‘Yes thank you, Miss. Happy Christmas.’

‘And to you.’

The outside door gently closed.

The mansion flat was warmed by radiators. Even so a coal fire burned in the grate, so the room was welcoming as well as warm.

A Christmas tree hung with gaudy baubles and twinkling with artificial frost stood in the far corner of the peach and grey sitting room. Martin’s lips twitched. There were no chocolate soldiers hanging from the tree – such were the things excuses were made of. He placed his offerings with the other parcels, a bottle of single malt for his host and a box containing a small porcelain figurine of a woman dancing. It had reminded Martin of Julia with her slim body and bobbed hair.

He gazed at the tree, smiling as he inhaled the scent of pine and instantly recaptured a snatch of a Christmas past.

He’d been a boy. His father had been bristling with smiles and excitement as he’d blindfolded him and led him up to the attic. There had been an odd noise, he’d remembered. When the blindfold had been removed he’d seen a clockwork train speeding around the track.

His father had said, ‘I made the countryside myself, while you were at school, out of papier mâché.’ There were stations with people waiting and fields with sheep and cows. Martin and his father had spent hours up there in the attic, and had given all the people names and made the appropriate chuffing and shunting sounds and conversation. That was the last Christmas he’d remembered his parents being together, and happy.

He touched a fingertip against a tissue paper lantern, spinning round guiltily when she said from the doorway, ‘Merry Christmas, and welcome to our home.’

She came in, her socially practised smile appearing on cue. Yet it possessed enough distance to keep them strangers. She was struggling to untie the strings to her apron, which had somehow become knotted. He imagined that she wasn’t used to wearing one often. He told himself to stop sitting in judgement on her. ‘Am I too early?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Can I do that for you?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind . . . It seems to have knotted itself, such a nuisance.’

It took him a few moments to unravel the mystery of the apron strings as he stood within the expensive and fragrant space her body occupied. She emerged from it in a cream, two-piece outfit consisting of skirt and long tunic made of a knitted material so delicately patterned as to appear cobwebby. He could see the outline of the lace on the silk lining beneath it. A thin gold belt circled her hips and matched her shoes. His mouth dried and he took a quick step backwards. It was not the type of outfit to cook the Christmas turkey in. There was a flash of impatience in him, not only because of her impracticality, but because he could see no flaws in her.

‘Would you like a sherry, or would you prefer something stronger?’

He swallowed his annoyance; something he wasn’t entitled to have, since he wasn’t here to pass judgement on her. ‘I’d actually like a glass of beer if you have any.’

‘We do. Daddy likes to have one occasionally. I can make myself a shandy at the same time.’ She moved towards a cupboard, which opened into a mirrored interior lined with glasses and bottles and liquor.

‘The tree looks pretty,’ he said as her many mirrored images went about their task.

‘Thank you . . . It makes Christmas seem real, though I imagine it’s a sad time now for so many families. The next generation might be able to celebrate it with more pleasure.’

‘As each Christmas takes them further and further away from the war, people will begin to heal.’ His words sounded unreal, hypocritical even. There had always been war, and always would be.

She opened a bottle of Whitbread’s pale ale, neatly foaming it into the slanted glass, so there was half an inch on top when she finished.

‘You would make a good barmaid.’

She gazed at him, her expression bland. ‘Would I really? I must bear that in mind.’ Hardly any of the beer went into her own glass, just enough to colour the lemonade. She raised her glass to her lips, murmuring her approval as she took a swallow and put the glass down. ‘My father has gone to the cemetery to place a wreath on my mother’s grave. He should be home soon.’

‘How long has she been gone?’

‘About three years; it was Spanish flu. I understood the disease took your father, as well. It’s sad when you lose a parent.’

Martin hadn’t known about his father’s death until he’d returned to England after the war. His father’s letters had found their way home, full of encouragement and plans for the future. Even though he was an adult, he’d felt cheated.

It had been a surprise to discover his father was no longer alive. When he’d come home it had seemed too late to grieve for him, as if the mourning period had passed and was buried under the layer of stale dust in his childhood home.

His father’s lawyer had arranged everything. All that had been required was Martin’s signature and what had once been the sum of his father’s life had become officially his. The train set was still up there in the attic, he imagined – the train waiting to pull out of the station with its load of passengers and the same sheep still grazing in the same fields.

‘Mr Lee-Trafford?’

He pulled his thoughts into the present. ‘I’m so sorry, I was wool-gathering. Yes, it is sad, but our parents gave us life and they expect us to enjoy it while we have it – so we must.’

‘That sounds a little bitter. Do you enjoy life?’

‘I try to.’ She was circling him, looking for an opening and getting too close. He didn’t want to talk about what was past or the effect the war had on him. They’d given him a medal he didn’t deserve, for he didn’t have the courage to face himself in the mirror some mornings. He shrugged. ‘I enjoy life in my own way, I suppose. I take pleasure in small things. It’s obvious that you enjoy being alive—’

‘How obvious?’ Colour flamed in her cheeks, as if he’d slapped her. He’d intended to tell her that she had a happy disposition but she’d cut him off, so he was not about to elaborate. He must learn not to say the first thing that came into his head, he thought.

There came the sound of a key in the door and relief flooded through him, bringing an involuntary exclamation. ‘Oh, good . . . your father is here.’

‘Saved by the bell.’ Over the layer of her chagrin, her green eyes were cat-like and filled with the instinct to claw and bloody him. ‘Could you at least pretend to like me a little when my father comes in?’

He didn’t know whether the shock of that undeserved reprimand showed on his face or not, but guilt roiled inside him. He’d deserved it. His remark about her father’s arrival had come across as sarcasm as well as a dismissal of her. It had been unforgivable of him. To make his apology and depart at this point would only add fuel to her fire.

‘I beg your pardon, Miss Howard. Is the hope that you’ll forgive me a non-existent one, perhaps?’

To which she smiled. ‘Nothing is entirely unforgivable, and you are a guest. Let me put my cards on the table. I disapprove of you just as much as you seem to disapprove of me, but for the sake of my father can we try to get on with each other? Can you manage that?’

‘Of course I can manage it, and dare I say that you’re wrong about one thing? I don’t dislike you; how can I when I hardly know you?’

Amusement flooded through him and he eyed a bunch of mistletoe hanging from the decorations overhead. Now there was an invitation, and he had an irrepressible urge. One step forward and he stooped to capture her mouth, just a short, sweet caress that caught her unawares, for she responded for just a second before she remembered she didn’t like him.

‘That was underhand of you.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I thought that was why you were standing under the mistletoe. If you stay there I might perform an encore.’

She moved swiftly, stepping back, and Martin smiled, mostly at the annoyance in her eyes. ‘Happy Christmas, Miss Howard.’

Benjamin came in, surrounded by an aura of cold. His face was pale and slightly haggard – his mouth had a faintly blue tinge and he was breathing heavily.

She was at his side in an instant. ‘Are you all right, Daddy?’

‘I should have taken the car, it seemed further than I remembered.’ He sank into an armchair near the wireless. ‘I’ll be fine after a rest. A cup of coffee with a small measure of brandy in it would go down well, my dear.’

‘I’ll make you a cup.’

‘Lee-Trafford, you’re here. I’m pleased to see that you made it. Has my daughter been treating you well?’