Roses For Rebecca

by Margaret Kaine

Genres: Romance; Historical Romance

Synopsis

A missing love. An unexpected baby. A huge decision. Orphaned and homeless, Rebecca Lawson, is forced to return to London to live and work with her aunt and uncle at their pub in the East End. Then one fateful day, Ian Beresford walks into the bar and eighteen-year-old Rebecca, longing for security and a home of her own, falls deeply in love. But Ian disappears and Rebecca discovers to her horror that she's pregnant. Frantic with worry, she travels to his family home in Stoke-on-Trent to find him. But awaiting her is the shocking news of an appalling tragedy. Will Rebecca keep her baby, and finally find the happiness she's been seeking? *********** Praise for Roses For Rebecca 'A sensitive and well crafted portrayal of a young, unmarried girl . . . How true to life it seemed' Historical Novels Association 'A touching and genuinely moving novel with a cast of brilliant characters' Maureen Lee '[Kaine] has a real gift for characterisation and for making the various people who bring her tales to vivid life totally believable' Leicester Mercury

Release date: November 10, 2011

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 467

Sample

“I’m a saggar-maker’s bottom knocker!”

Hearing the words, Rebecca glanced along the bar. She grinned – just as if! She wished the stranger had been her customer instead of Sal’s. He sounded far more interesting than “Beery Bill”, as he was known locally. The brawny docker leaned forward to tell her yet another of his tasteless jokes. “Oh, give it a rest, Bill,” she said with impatience. “Two of your tales in one day are enough for anyone!”

She knew he wouldn’t take offence. He was one of their regulars, as were most of the customers in the corner pub. But now, yet again, Rebecca’s gaze was drawn to the other end of the bar. The dark young man was tall, well built, and definitely good-looking. Intrigued, she sidled along on the pretence of needing a couple of tonics and bent to pick them up from a low shelf.

“Oh, yeah,” Sal was saying. “And what’s that when it’s at ’ome? I wasn’t born yesterday, yer know!”

“It’s a real job,” he began to protest, then paused as Rebecca straightened up. “Well, if it isn’t Aphrodite rising from the sea – or should I say from behind the bar!” Startled, she gazed directly into a pair of admiring grey eyes.

“Aw, Rebecca, you serve ’im,” Sal complained, turning away. “This bloke’s an absolute nutcase! He doesn’t even speak the King’s English!”

“Are you?” Rebecca challenged, taking his half-pint glass from him.

“Mild, please,” he said, and she pulled down the decorative handle of the beer pump.

“Well,” she repeated. “Are you a nutcase?”

He laughed. “No, but you can’t deny it’s a good chat-up line.”

“What? The saggar-maker’s bottom knocker, or the bit about Aphrodite?”

“The first. The second was just for you – I couldn’t resist it.”

“I take it Aphrodite had red hair, then?”

“It’s not red!” His gaze swept over Rebecca’s shoulder-length waves. “It’s burnished gold, and don’t you let anyone tell you different.”

“My, you’re a bossy type!”

“Comes of being a teacher.” He smiled. “My name’s Ian by the way, Ian Beresford.”

Rebecca hesitated, then said, “I’m Rebecca Lawson.”

“The full version! You don’t answer to Becky, then?”

“No, I don’t!” Her tone was sharp, final, and Ian raised his eyebrows. She had a temper to match then!

Rebecca began to move away. “Come back – please?” he said softly, then frowned as he watched a couple of men ogle the girl who seemed unsuited both to the area and to the work she was doing. And she certainly didn’t have the Cockney accent he was hearing all around him.

He glanced around the shabby pub, liking its old mahogany bar, the row of pewter tankards and Toby jugs above, the small intimate alcoves with their stained-glass windows. What history there was between these walls, and he wondered grimly how many men in the past had left its warmth and comfort to face the horror of fighting a war.

“Penny for ’em?” Sal had returned to use the optics.

Ian smiled. “I was just admiring your pub and your barmaid. She’s not what you’d expect, is she?” he said. He grinned at her, his implication clear as his gaze swept over Sal’s ample cleavage and her bottle-blonde hair.

Sal bristled. “And I am, I suppose! I don’t just work here, you know! Ron Bowler – that’s my husband – he’s the landlord. And Rebecca, who you can’t take your eyes off, is my niece. So watch your step!” She moved away, and Ian gave a grimace. He hadn’t meant to offend her. He saw Rebecca glance across in his direction and smiled at her. She was an absolute stunner. He didn’t think he’d ever seen such a beautiful girl. And to think he’d only come in on the off-chance of meeting Johnny Fletcher!

The pub was beginning to fill up; Saturday lunchtimes were always busy, and covertly, Rebecca watched him, noticing how he always turned to look over his shoulder when newcomers came in. A few minutes later, having served the man next to him, she said curiously, “Are you expecting someone?”

Ian glanced up. “Yes, I am actually,” he said. “A bloke called Johnny Fletcher. He said I’d always find him in the Unicorn on Saturday lunchtimes, so I thought I’d surprise him.”

“Johnny Fletcher? Oh, I know him, I’ve served him lots of times. He used to live a few doors away. But he’s moved. It was his mum – she couldn’t stand living among all the bomb damage any more. They’ve gone to live with her sister, I think. Sal told me she keeps a boarding house in Southend.”

Ian frowned. “Damn!” he said. “I should have written first. I wanted to look him up so we could have our own VE day – we were demobbed a bit too late for the original one.”

“Tough luck!” As Rebecca moved away, Ian gazed despondently into his mug of beer. Not that he’d blame anyone for wanting to get away from all the destruction. He’d known, of course, that London had suffered greatly in the war. But not even the news-reels had prepared him for the scale of devastation he’d seen in the city that morning. How anyone could remain cheerful in such surroundings was beyond him, and yet there was an air of determination everywhere. It was as though people thought that if they could survive the last six years, they could survive anything.

“Fancy him, do you?” Sal said tartly, as she waited for Rebecca to finish using the till.

“What if I do?”

Sal shrugged. “No accounting for taste!” But Sal was notorious for her sharp tongue, and Rebecca ignored her.

“He’s come looking for Johnny Fletcher.”

A man standing nearby, with the apt nickname of “Dewdrop”, turned round. “Who did yer say was looking for ’im?”

“The bloke at the other end of the bar,” Rebecca said, wishing the man would invest in a handkerchief. She watched him saunter in Ian’s direction, and then began to serve a sudden rush of customers. But when a lull eventually came, Sal asked her to fetch another crate of brown ales.

“I know Ron usually does it,” she said, “but . . .”

“How is he?” Rebecca jerked her head in the direction of the ceiling.

“Still coughing his guts out. But never mind – I’ll sweat it out of him. Can’t have him laid up for Christmas, we’d never cope!”

With reluctance, Rebecca opened the cellar door, switched on the light, and began to make her way carefully down the steep, stone steps. She hated going into the cellar, even though her uncle kept it well. Her gaze darted around fearfully. Rats were a real menace since the bombing. Hiding among the rubble, disturbed and terrified, they were finding their way into everyone’s homes. She’d seen one down here once, a hideous black thing – its pink beady eyes glinting in the sudden electric light as she switched it on. She’d screamed, watching in horror as it scuttled away. The sound of the rat’s scrabbling feet had haunted her for days. Mice she could just about cope with, but rats? Never!

Rebecca shuddered, picked up the heavy crate and struggled back to the welcome noise and smoky atmosphere of the bar. Her gaze went immediately to where Ian had been standing. He’d gone! Desperately, she looked among the group around the dart-board, at the table where a couple of men were playing shove-halfpenny, at the skittles corner. But there was no sign of him. She might have known, she thought dismally, that nothing exciting would happen for her. Wasn’t it always the same? You’re unlucky, she reminded herself. Surely life’s taught you that?

Her disappointment must have shown, because Sal came along and nudged her. “Don’t worry, he hasn’t done a runner. He’s in the Gents!”

“Oh!” Rebecca felt her cheeks redden.

“A pint of bitter, beautiful, and have one for yourself.” A portly middle-aged man fished in his pocket and offered a ten-shilling note.

“That’s very kind of you.” The money for her free drink would go into a small pot she kept at the side of the till. In any case, she only ever had lemonade. Most women coming into the pub, unless they drank stout, preferred a short to beer. Gin and orange, or port and lemon were the most popular, but she didn’t like either. On her birthday, Ron and Sal had treated her to a couple of liqueurs, but they’d only given her a headache. In any case, Rebecca had her own reasons for not wanting to acquire a taste for alcohol.

“Penny for ’em?” The customer obviously expected a chat for his money, and Rebecca made an effort to be friendly. “Are you all ready for Christmas? It should be a good one, being the first since the war ended.”

He looked glum and scratched his liver-spotted bald scalp. “Can’t think what to buy the wife! I know she wants a new frock, but she’s used up all the clothing coupons.”

Rebecca’s gaze slid away as she saw Ian pass behind him. He looked over the man’s head and gave what was, for Rebecca, a heart-stopping smile. When he walked slowly to the other end of the bar and glanced along at her, she said hurriedly, “Buy her something romantic, like scent.”

“That wouldn’t do for my Gertie,” he told her. “She’d just think I’d been up ter summat.”

Flashing him a sympathetic smile, Rebecca walked slowly along to where Ian was obviously waiting to talk to her. “I only missed Johnny by a couple of weeks,” he said, “his next-door neighbour came over and told me.”

“Same again?” Rebecca stretched her hand to take his glass. He shook his head. “Not for me. I must be off soon. I’m only down here for a couple of days.”

“Rebecca!” Sal was struggling to meet the impatient demands of a group of football supporters.

“Sorry! The local team are playing at home!”

“Football!” he said with a shrug, as she began to move away. “Not for me – give me tennis any day.”

Frustratingly, it was fifteen minutes before she was able to speak to him again. He was quietly smoking a cigarette, and she knew he’d been watching her. “Hello,” he said.

“Hello.” She suddenly felt shy – after all, he’d already told her he didn’t want another drink.

“I was wondering,” Ian said, his eyes holding hers, “believe it or not, this is my first time in London. You wouldn’t fancy coming sightseeing with me, would you?”

Rebecca’s nerve-ends tingled. She didn’t need to think about it – of course she would go! But it wouldn’t do to seem too eager. “Okay,” she agreed after a suitable pause. “I can’t get any time off today – but I could meet you tomorrow.”

“Where?” Ian spoke hurriedly. The pub was beginning to fill up again, and as two men crowded behind him, he stood up and leaned across the bar. “Trafalgar Square, by the lions, ten o’clock!” she whispered. He nodded, and began to push his way out through the crowd.

Rebecca saw him wave as he left, then said to her next customer, “Your usual, Charlie?” She was flustered as she served him, her mind racing. Maybe this was her lucky day after all! What was the title of that song – “Life is just a bowl of cherries?” Not in her case it wasn’t – at least not so far, and her throat tightened as the dark, haunting memories threatened to surface. But she pushed them resolutely away and forced her mind to think of the more immediate problem of what to wear. Maybe Sal would let her borrow her new hat, the one with the jaunty feather. Yes, that was it. It would go well with her warm check coat. And court shoes of course. Everyone knew that high heels flattered a girl’s legs. It would be not only her first proper date; she was exhilarated at the thought of wider horizons, new experiences. She’d become almost like a hermit since her return six months ago – living and working with Ron and Sal, never straying from the East End.

Later, however, to her dismay, Sal was scornful. “You must’ve been born yesterday, girl, to believe anything a bloke tells you in a pub!” she said. “Meet you in Trafalgar Square? It’d be a fool’s errand, you mark my words.” She glanced sharply at her niece. The girl was such an innocent in some ways. Well, it wasn’t surprising when you considered where she’d been living for the past few years! “If you’ll take my advice you’ll forget it.”

But the following morning found Rebecca standing on the outskirts of the imposing square. Would he be there? And then suddenly she saw him. Although it was December, he wasn’t wearing a hat, his only concession to the chill being a camel scarf. Ian stood tall and straight – his dark hair, free from the constraints of Brylcreem, lifting gently in the breeze.

When Ian saw her threading her way through a small cluster of sightseers, his immediate thought was – how Titian would have loved to paint her! He moved forward to meet her. “You came!”

“I did!” For a few seconds they stood in awkward silence.

“I thought we’d go to the National Gallery,” he suggested, “seeing that it’s so near.”

“I’ve never been.”

He glanced at her in surprise. “Would you like to?” When she nodded, he explained, “Art is one of the subjects I trained to teach, so while I’m down here, I want to see as many paintings as I can. And,” he grinned, “I promised my dad I’d try to see the The Fighting Temeraire.” Rebecca bit her lip. She didn’t know anything about art. Nor had she ever heard of The Fighting Temeraire. The only painting she had heard of was the Mona Lisa, although in the small sitting-room behind the pub there was a gloomy-looking print called The Stag at Bay. She decided to remain silent, and within seconds they were climbing the steps up to the imposing building, only to be met by a notice: “Due to extensive bomb damage, only nine of our 36 rooms are in use.”

“The remainder of our collection is still in store,” a helpful curator told them, “but we hope to have more rooms open, and a lot more paintings on display by the end of January.”

Curiously, Rebecca followed Ian as he walked into a large, airy room, with framed paintings lining the walls. They both glanced up at the corrugated iron roof. “It’s going to be a massive job renovating this place,” Ian said grimly, “the Nazis have a hell of a lot to answer for!”

Rebecca looked around, amazed by the sheer size of some of the paintings, but her first impression was one of an almost reverent silence. There were a few other people there, but they rarely spoke, and then only in hushed voices. When Ian paused before a still life, Rebecca began to wander round, studying what she knew must be well-known works of art.

“What do you think?” Ian joined her after several minutes. She hesitated. “I know they must all be famous, but I’m not keen on some of them – that one over there for instance.”

Ian smiled down at her. “Of course you’re not. Art is all a matter of individual taste.”

“But this one,” she said, “I think this is absolutely wonderful. The scene is so peaceful, you almost feel you’re there.”

“You obviously like landscapes. Now I’m more of a portrait man, myself.” As they walked slowly through the nine rooms, Rebecca became more and more absorbed. All this, only a few miles away, and yet she’d never been, not even before the war. Briefly, she wondered how many people lived all their lives in the capital without ever visiting one of the famous art galleries.

“Right,” Ian said later, “now for Buckingham Palace.” He took a map out of his pocket and concentrated. “Perfect! We can go down the Mall to Admiralty Arch, and then stroll through St James’s Park.”

“You sound like a guide book,” Rebecca laughed.

“Sorry! Is that okay with you?” He looked doubtfully at her high-heeled shoes. “You did quite a bit of walking and standing in the gallery.”

“I’m fine,” she said, hoping that the pinching around her toes wouldn’t get any worse.

“I suppose you’ve seen the Palace before,” he said, as they made their way along the wide road.

She nodded. “I came as a child.”

He glanced at her, but Rebecca didn’t elaborate. St James’s Park was a peaceful oasis after the busy London thoroughfare, and at first they walked beside the water in companionable silence. Then Ian took out his cigarette case, opened it and offered it to her, but she shook her head.

“I was just thinking,” he said, “that Charles I walked through here on his way to be beheaded in Whitehall in 1649.”

“You know, you’re a mine of information!”

Ian affected an American accent. “Stick with me, kid, and you’ll go places!”

She laughed. “Yes, I know – to Buckingham Palace!”

They stood outside the gates, and Rebecca smiled at one of the impassive guards in his smart red uniform and bearskin. Expressionless, he stared ahead. “Do you think the King and Queen are in there?” Rebecca peered up at the blank windows of the Palace, hoping for a glimpse of the two princesses.

Ian glanced up at the masthead. “No, the flag isn’t flying. I expect they’ve gone to Sandringham or Balmoral.” Seeing her disappointment, he teased, “Never mind, you’ve still got me.”

She smiled up at him, liking the warmth in his eyes. “Where next?”

“I thought we’d get some lunch. I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.”

“Me too.” Rebecca hesitated. The best place would be a Lyons Corner House, and the nearest was at Charing Cross – the one she’d been taken to on her eleventh birthday. She brushed aside the memory, trying desperately to block it out. “Good idea,” she said. “I know just where to go.”

He held out the crook of his arm, and she tucked her gloved hand in to link him. It was chilly and their pace was brisk, but despite that, Ian was anxious to learn more about the girl at his side. “What do you like to do, Rebecca? When you’re not working, I mean.”

“I don’t get much time for hobbies,” she told him. “Running a pub’s a seven-day-a-week job, so as I live there, I try and help Sal as much as I can. I do get days off, of course, but I have to catch up on things then.” Seeing his enquiring look, she laughed, “You know, washing my hair, laundering and mending. All the things women have to do and men don’t.”

“I have to wash my hair, as well, you know!”

“Oh yes?” She glanced at his “short back and sides” haircut, and then lifted a tress of her own hair. “No comparison!”

He laughed. “Accepted.” But Ian felt curious. Rebecca didn’t talk like a Londoner. There was the hint of a lilt there. “Have you always lived in London?”

She shook her head. “No. I was evacuated to Wales when the war broke out.”

“Ah, that explains it. The way you talk, I mean.”

“What’s wrong with the way I talk?” Rebecca’s voice was sharp, indignant, and Ian hurriedly said, “Nothing at all. It’s lovely. Different, that’s all.”

“Different from what?”

Gosh, she’s spiky, he thought. “How everyone else down here talks, that’s all.” He glanced at her, as they went into the café. “Hey, I’m not criticising, I was actually paying you a compliment.”

Rebecca reddened. There she went again! Her temper rose far too quickly. But she hated people commenting on the way she spoke. She got it all the time in the pub. “Sorry,” she said briefly.

Ian asked for a table for two, and to her delight they were shown to one by the window. Rebecca, studying the menu, was savouring the moment. To be sitting here, opposite an attractive young man, was certainly an improvement on how she normally spent her Sundays!

“Let’s have the full three courses,” Ian suggested. “I certainly won’t get much at the place I’m staying at! At least it’ll be ‘off ration’, here.”

Rebecca pulled a face. “I know food is restricted, even in the big hotels, but don’t tell me that people who can afford to eat out don’t do better than the rest of us, even if the restaurants can’t charge more than five shillings. After all, they can save their coupons and then use them at home!”

He laughed. “I can see you’re a bit of a rebel!”

“Of course I am! I warn you, people with hair my colour can’t be passive about things!”

“I’d better watch my step!” But his eyes were smiling at her, and it was with reluctance that she looked down again at the menu.

“I’m going for the oxtail soup,” she declared. “Followed by roast lamb.”

“Snap!” Ian said promptly. “How about pudding?”

“Definitely treacle sponge.”

“I’ll join you. But I bet it’ll be light on the treacle and only a spoonful of custard.”

“What a feast!” She laughed, and Ian studied her face, liking her wide smile. He hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind the previous night, had counted the hours until he saw her again. Watch it, my lad, he thought – you’re in danger of getting in deep with this one. But as he watched Rebecca’s shining eyes gazing around the room, he could only think that he didn’t care. With that rich hair and pale, almost translucent, skin, she was absolutely gorgeous.

Eventually, a waitress in a white cap and frilly apron came to take their order, and afterwards Rebecca told Ian that they were called “Nippies”.

“I can see why,” he grinned. “They certainly seem to be quick on their feet!” He relaxed back in his chair then, as he gazed at the girl sitting opposite he suddenly realised that he knew hardly anything about her. “Tell me about yourself,” he said impulsively.

She looked at him, and he saw a shadow pass over her face, and when she smiled, it was forced. “Age before beauty! You go first.”

“Well,” he paused, “I live in Stoke-on-Trent. And you already know I’m a teacher. At least I would have been if Hitler hadn’t got in the way. Would you believe that war broke out just as I was about to start my first job? Luckily the same school took me on when I got back. As you know, there’s a huge shortage of us at the moment.” He paused as the waitress brought their soup and rolls, then added, “I’ve been really lucky. I was in at the beginning, and came right through without a scratch.”

“Where were you?” Seeing his eyes cloud, Rebecca half wished she hadn’t asked the question. Everyone knew that servicemen didn’t like to talk about “their war”. As one weary soldier had told her when, hot and dishevelled in his uniform, he’d called in the pub on his way home, “We just want to put it behind us and get on with ordinary life. I’ve dreamed of this pint for months, girl. Don’t spoil it!”

So now, when Ian said tersely, “I was in a prisoner-of-war camp for a couple of years,” Rebecca didn’t pursue the subject.

“I wonder how long it will be before rationing finishes,” Ian mused. “I bet it will be longer than people think.”

“I can hardly remember life without it.”

“No, you’d have been – how old? When war broke out, I mean?”

“You’re fishing?” she grinned. “I’m eighteen, if that’s what you’re trying to find out.”

He smiled, took a bite of his roll, and after a few seconds, said, “I’m quite a bit older than you, then.”

“What? Fifty?” she teased.

He laughed. “Twenty-seven.”

She looked at him, liking what she saw. Ian’s brow was broad, his dark eyebrows expressive, and then there were those unusual grey eyes. Definitely handsome, she decided, and said, “Twentyseven’s not old. Anyway, you look younger.”

And you, Ian thought, look older than eighteen, but he managed not to say so. Maybe, at last, he was learning to be more tactful! He studied Rebecca’s face, trying to assess what made her seem older than her years. It was something in her eyes, he decided, and wondered just what she’d experienced during the past few years. These days one never knew.

The waitress came to remove their plates. “All right, ducks?”

“Very nice,” they both said in unison, and laughed.

“And how do you like being a barmaid?” It was obvious that Rebecca was reluctant to talk about the past, so Ian decided to keep the conversation light.

She smiled. “It’s okay. You meet some real characters, I can tell you. But they all treat me with respect. Ron would soon sort them out otherwise.”

Ian frowned. “That’s your uncle, isn’t it? I didn’t see him.”

“No, he’s got the flu.” She laughed. “You couldn’t miss him! He used to be a heavyweight boxer – he’s even got the cauliflower ear to show for it.”

“Sounds scary!”

“Oh, he can be tough all right. But he’s been good to me.”

They both looked up expectantly as the roast lamb arrived, and almost with reverence, Rebecca began to eat. Surreptitiously, Ian watched her, noticing how carefully she cut the small slice of meat. Then, hungry, he ate too, and for a few moments there was silence between them. The rest of the meal passed in a similar manner; light conversation, enjoyment of their pudding, and yet, when their eyes met, the magnetism between them brought colour to Rebecca’s cheeks. She gazed at his hands as they lay on the table. Most of the men she knew had rough calloused hands. Ian, with his well-cared-for nails, seemed to belong to a different world.

“You’re so lovely, Rebecca,” Ian said quietly, and as she looked up at him, he caught his breath at the shy, soft look in her eyes. Suddenly, he felt a desperate urge to leave. He wanted to be away from other people, to have her to himself.

“Come on,” he said, fishing in his pocket for money to pay the bill. “Let’s get out of here. I thought we’d go and see the Houses of Parliament. What do you think?”

“Could we catch a bus? To be honest, my feet are killing me.”

He grinned. “I’m not surprised in those shoes.” He noticed her wince as they stood up. “Change of plan. How do you fancy the pictures, instead? Although we won’t have time to see the full programme.” Ian laughed at the relief on her face, and Rebecca couldn’t believe it when the thriller they saw, starring Googie Withers in Pink String and Sealing Wax, portrayed the murdering wife of a pub landlord.

“I’d better warn Ron to be on his guard,” she joked as they came out into the early evening.

Ian glanced at his watch. “Time’s getting on, sweetheart. I’ll have to think about collecting my things from the YMCA, and catching my train.”

Although Rebecca felt a glow of pleasure at the endearment, the thought of his leaving London deflated her. Ian hadn’t said anything about seeing her again! And suddenly she knew that she couldn’t bear the thought of this being just a single date!

Ian, meeting her gaze, could hardly drag his own away, but time was running out. After studying his map again, and one of the Underground, he said quickly, “We could walk down one of those streets to the Victoria Embankment, and then later take the Tube. What do you think?” Then he grinned. “Hang on, just listen to me, telling you about your own city!”

She smiled. “It’s not, really. I wasn’t quite twelve when I was evacuated. And I’ve only been back about six months.”

Then, minutes later, they were strolling hand-in-hand to look at the ships on the Thames, but in reality both immersed in their own thoughts and emotions. Rebecca, acutely aware of the magnetism between them, and of how attractive she found him; Ian, relieved that as he had hoped, here in the dusk, there was a chance of some of privacy. Gently, he led her into one of the gardens, and at last was able to draw her into his arms. For a moment he just held her close, and then looking down into her vivid green eyes, lowered his lips to her willing ones. Their first kiss was gentle, questioning, but when their lips met a second time, it was with swift and unexpected passion. Shaken, Rebecca leaned her head on his shoulder for a few moments and when they eventually drew apart, Ian gazed down at her, his face taut, his eyes searching her own. “Rebecca, you do know what’s happened, don’t you?” She shook her head.

“I think I’ve fallen in love with you!” He touched her hair in bewilderment. “I just can’t believe it’s happened so quickly!”

He kissed her again, then said with desperation, “I’ve got to go!” They turned to retrace their steps and glancing across the river, Ian warned, “Look at the mist coming over, you’re in for some fog.”

“Yes, we get real pea-soupers down here,” Rebecca said, but she wasn’t worried about the fog, she was still reeling from the storm of emotions that Ian’s kiss had aroused.

They made their way to Charing Cross Underground Station so that Ian could take the Northern Line to Euston, and Rebecca the District Line to Stepney. When eventually they faced each other among the milling crowds, Ian said quickly, “I’ll write, I promise!”

He kissed her again, a brief farewell kiss, and Rebecca stood watching until his tall figure disappeared from sight. When she turned away, she fervently hoped he had meant what he said. That he would write – after all, she realised with panic, how else could she get in touch with him?

“Well, what do you expect when he never gave you his address!” Sal’s tone was almost complacent. “And you know what I think about that!”

“I’ve told you – he said he’d write, and what’s more I believe him,” Rebecca snapped, her shoulders rigid with resentment. Furiously, she scoured the frying pan, rinsed it and put it to drain.

Sal picked up a tea towel. “Your cousin Bert said he was going out for a bottle of milk, and that was ten years ago!”

“Give it a rest, Sal,”