Another Chance for Love Page 2

  “With so few available young men, she really ought to smarten herself up and look sharp with it,” Mrs. Merryweather’s homily had concluded.

  Her younger and milder sister who usually ignored such gall for the sake of peaceful family relations had, for once, stood up to her. She’d replied that Cat did not need any instruction as to what to wear and was not yet ready to be courted again.

  Not only Cat’s parents but Adam too wondered if that time would ever come, since she and Christopher were each other’s halves and had fitted together seamlessly. Since his death, headstrong, indestructible Cat had been stopped in her tracks and most of her relatives tiptoed around her, giving her time and space to come to terms with her bereavement.

  She looked around at Adam and catching his eye, Cat grinned. “Better?” she asked.

  “Much,” he replied, and leant back on his elbows, breathing in the fresh air, feeling more at peace.

  “How’s the office?” Cat asked.

  Adam shrugged, “Same as always,” he replied, knowing Cat was well aware of his frustrations as far as work was concerned.

  “How are the brats?” he asked in the same vein.

  Cat laughed. “Bratty!”

  She had followed her father into the teaching profession, now open to women, which was another reason for her aunt to disapprove of her as she found the idea of a young woman of their class choosing to go out to work as being incomprehensible.

  Christopher had been a fellow teacher and had taught at Adam’s old school of Clifton College, with Cat teaching at a local girls’ school. She had been kept busy during the war, filling in for male colleagues who were called up. With Christopher’s death, she had temporarily lost heart in her vocation and also, with the return of men from the front, most teaching posts were occupied once again.

  For the time being, she was biding her time tutoring the children of a few local worthies, which may have filled empty spaces of her days but was well below her capabilities. Her parents gently hinted about future directions and likely vacancies, but Adam realised she was still struggling with the gaping hole in her life.

  This was a double blow for her. Not only was Christopher gone, but also the hope of their future life together. Adam knew she simply could not see beyond that as yet.

  Cat’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Have you seen Delia recently?”

  “Last week at the theatre. And she and Roger will probably be at the Hamiltons too,” he replied casually. It was a relief to drop the act and not to have to pretend to have hurt feelings or seething jealousy in front of at least one member of his clan.

  Delia’s current beau revelled in his position of being the chosen one and delighted in sneering at Adam in the role of a rejected suitor. At every opportunity when they met, he tried to rub Adam’s nose in their changed situation.

  Adam reflected he seemed more proud of snatching Delia from her former fiancé than having gained her hand. Adam blandly ignored his taunts. After all, he could hardly share what he truly felt and say cheerfully, “You’re welcome to her, old fellow.”

  Adam had offered for Delia purely out of expectation and good manners, which were hardly the best foundation for an engagement, let alone a marriage. Delia was delightful to look at and was a complete fashion plate. But there wasn’t much more to her beneath her attractive veneer. She was the archetypal social butterfly, who lived for the next pretty dress and social occasion to wear it to.

  It was flattering to have such a beauty on his arm and she and Adam had made a striking couple, but there was no more to their connection. They had only been convenient social acquaintances and not even friends.

  Despite his fundamental indifference to his ex-fiancée, Adam had to admire her decorative qualities. Her height and slender frame suited the new shorter, less fitted fashions and her daringly cropped hair (cut by a fashionable salon in London) shone like a golden halo. She was always easy on the eye and would make Roger (or some other man) an enviably good-looking trophy of a wife.

  “Have you written to Alf recently?” Cat asked in the same calm tone. Adam looked up at her sharply but her eyes were trained on the horizon.

  He sighed, answering slowly, “I don’t see the point, really.” He hesitated. “I mean he hasn’t answered any of my letters so far.”

  “Keep trying,” Cat said, turning to look at him, steely determination in her eyes.

  Knowing that expression of old, and how pointless it would be to argue, Adam replied easily, “All right, I’ll write again. I promise.”

  Cat squeezed his hand briefly then clambered to her feet. “Good,” she said. “Now are you going to race me up this hill?”

  After running around the Downs like they were at least ten years younger than their actual age, they both returned to his nearby flat, breathless and laughing. They made a much-needed pot of tea together with none of the elaborate ceremony of the Merryweather seniors’ household.

  When Cat left, Adam felt more content with the world. Feeling his conscience prick him, he glanced over at his slightly battered writing desk, which had been in his old bedroom at home. Having brought up the subject of writing to Alf, he knew Cat would ask again and that behind her insistence, she had his best interests at heart. But if he did put pen to paper, what could he say?

  He puffed out a breath. He had written four or five letters since Alf’s disastrous visit to him in hospital, not that he had been coherent enough to register his presence. That was the occasion when Alf had found out that Adam was engaged to be married, from some casual reference by a nurse. Cat was already at Adam’s bedside when this happened and had raced after Alf, trying to explain the situation as it was in reality. But Alf but had abruptly left the building and Adam’s life.

  Once Adam had revived sufficiently and Cat had broken the news about the unfortunate turn of events, he had written to Alf at Christmas and then again at Easter, carefully phrasing his letter in the terms of any army pal, rather than something more intimate, in case the letters got into the wrong hands.

  He knew his phrasing was awkward and stilted, asking after Alf’s and his parents’ health. He couldn’t say what was in his heart: “I’m a bloody idiot, I should have told you at the very start. Please forgive me. I love you.”

  Adam ran his hand through his hair, exasperated with himself. Even out of loyalty to Cat, he couldn’t quite face penning another bland and pointless letter quite yet. Suddenly restless, he grabbed his old tweed jacket, shrugged it on, and left the flat to seek solace in the nearest pub.

  Chapter 5

  The week started like any other, with Adam arriving at nine sharp to fulfil another tedious day. Just after lunch, a rather flurried Mr. Briggs was called suddenly into his father’s office, leaving a sheaf of papers on Adam’s desk momentarily.

  Adam glanced over what seemed to be a list of calculations, more to relieve his boredom rather than anything else. However, his eye caught on a mistake early on in the column, which he could see unravelled the whole page of sums.

  Mr Briggs came back through and picked up the sheaf of papers to return them to his own desk. Adam cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Mr. Briggs,” he said diffidently.

  “Yes, Mr. Adam,” the elderly clerk paused briefly, purely out of courtesy. Adam could see his eyes darting to the door of his own office and an extensive mental list of things to do.

  “On that top sheet of paper, I noticed an error,” Adam began.

  “An error?” echoed Mr. Briggs, “Oh, I don’t think so,” he added automatically.

  Not taking umbrage at the dismissive attitude, after all, he had no right to any professional respect, Adam simply pointed on the page clutched in Mr. Brigg’s hand.

  “There,” he said, his finger tracing the written-out numbers. “I just happened to see that this sum was incorrect and affects the whole calculation.”

  Mr. Briggs now had his whole attention. His pressing duties temporarily forgotten, he placed down the offending sheet, perusing
it carefully as Adam explained the initial miscalculation and how it skewed the following thread through the entire list of figures.

  “Yes, I see,” Mr. Briggs said finally. “You are absolutely right.” His lips tightened. “It’ll be that young Mr. Martin in accounts. You can’t trust these wild young fellows and their slapdash ways,” he retorted crossly.

  Adam repressed a smile. Mr. Martin easily had at least ten years on Adam, was a rather meek man, and lived a quiet bachelor existence in suburban Bristol with his ailing mother.

  Mr. Briggs continued, “With all the papers I have to collate this afternoon, I simply don’t have the time to check through all these calculations to see if there are further errors.” He tutted, obviously annoyed at the whole situation.

  Then he hesitated, a thought evidently striking him. When he spoke again, it was a good deal more cautiously than his usual crisply assured manner. “Would it be an imposition, Mr. Adam, if you looked through the rest of these for me?”

  Adam had to resist from snatching the sheets of paper out of the senior secretary’s hand in his eagerness. “I’d be delighted, Mr. Briggs,” he replied courteously, trying to hide his delight at having something to do to make the rest of the afternoon pass more quickly.

  This minor incident set a precedent. A few days later, Mr. Briggs appeared at Adam’s desk with a further sheaf of papers, asking diffidently if he would take a look through them. The same thing happened again during the following week, with a hesitant, “Would you mind?”

  Before Adam knew it, this was a regular occurrence, with Mr. Briggs depositing lists of calculations with him without any need for comment. Even in a minor way, it was a relief to use his brain again and feel a positive part of office life.

  He still hadn’t written to Alf, and although Cat had not badgered him further, that was looming large in his mind. Also, his mother was stepping up her intensive campaign for his social life, almost throwing young ladies in his path.

  It was a relief to switch off from his worries and check through the columns of figures without any need for expending emotion.

  He was surprised, however, when his father called him into his inner sanctum one Monday morning.

  Adam knocked at the door and walked in, “Dad, you wanted to see me?”

  Mr. Merryweather looked up from a ledger he was perusing and glanced briefly at his son. “Come and take a seat. I won’t be a minute.”

  Adam thought it was a bit like being called into the headmaster’s office when a pupil at school. On such occasions, whether the summons was for praise or blame, when being made to wait, Adam would rack his brains for any offence he might have committed against the school rules.

  However, all these years on, he didn’t think he had blotted his copybook as far as Merryweather’s was concerned and his father’s smile as he closed the leather-bound tome assured him he was not about to get a dressing-down.

  “Well, Adam,” he began. “I have a proposal for you. Or rather, Mr. Briggs does, but he was worried you might be insulted by such an idea.”

  Adam raised a quizzical eyebrow in response. Mr. Merryweather continued, “You have been doing such sterling work on double-checking our figures that it was agreed that you are wasted at reception and could only be an asset to our accounts department.” This was such a surprising announcement that it made Adam’s eyebrows lift to his hairline.

  “Mr. Briggs was very concerned for your dignity and that this might perceived to be a demotion in your eyes, as you would lose your own space and have to share an office.” Mr. Merryweather smiled. “I assured him that this would not be an issue and you would be gratified by the recommendation.”

  Adam felt inordinately pleased that the dry stick and stickler for hard work who was his father’s personal secretary could rate him in any way. “I am indeed more than simply gratified. It’s nice to feel that I’m of slightly more use than your paperweight,” he pointed to the glass globe on the grand oak desk.

  Adam’s father laughed. “I thought you’d take it that way. Mr. Briggs is clearing a space for you in accounts as we speak and he is ready to move you down there after lunch. I’m very proud of you, my boy,” he said warmly.

  “Thanks, Dad, for giving me this opportunity,” Adam began.

  “No thanks needed,” Mr. Merryweather interrupted with a flick of his hand. He paused for a second before continuing, “Adam, my dear chap, you have nothing to prove. With your experiences in that dreadful war—” he gathered his thoughts and feelings briefly, “—we were just glad to get you back in one piece. You’ll always be a credit to us, you know.”

  Adam felt an unexpected lump in his throat.

  “It’s a pleasure to have you here in the office and I know you do your best to circulate socially on your evenings out. Don’t mind your mother,” Mr. Merryweather added with a perceptiveness that surprised Adam. “I know she is only doing what she thinks is best for your future happiness. But having come through everything you have, well, I can understand that you might not feel ready to settle down quite yet. War can do that to a man.”

  Adam met his father’s eyes but said nothing. He could not begin to explain that this was far more to do with his natural inclinations, rather than the rigours of combat. He was just glad and grateful for his father’s vote of confidence, which meant more to him that he could possibly voice.

  “I know you’ll be an asset to the accounts department,” Mr. Merryweather said with an understanding smile, watching the emotions flicker over his son’s face.

  “I’ll do my very best,” said Adam, rising from his seat. “At least I’ll be using that degree you spent good money on.”

  Mr Merryweather laughed at that sally as Mr. Briggs entered the room to be told of the good news and that Adam was delighted rather than offended about the prospective move.

  At lunchtime, Adam had only time for a snatched sandwich as he took his box of paltry possession downstairs to the back of the building. His new office was certainly darker and more cramped, with four desks and only enough space for a man to squeeze around them.

  However, Adam wouldn’t have cared if it was the Black Hole of Calcutta. He was now part of a team, welcomed as an extra help with the workload. He had a function and some responsibility, and he wasn’t there to be tolerated simply because he bore the Merryweather name.

  Having finished checking through his current batch of calculations, Mr. Briggs had indulgently let him leave the office a little early as he hadn’t had a proper lunch break. However, this was with the promise that the job proper would start the next day, full steam ahead.

  Once out in the fresh air, Adam felt elated and restless and decided to go to the Old Duke near the docks for a solitary pint or two in celebration of his new position. He was strolling in that direction, cutting through the once-gracious Queen’s Square, some of the rather tired-looking buildings now converted to offices, as it was so close to the commercial heartbeat of the city.

  He was walking along a path bisecting the green, almost completely lost in his thoughts and not believing his good luck. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a man coming down the steps of a house and take the same path ahead of him.

  At first, he barely noticed the figure, but some instinct made him look again and register recognition. The uniform might be replaced with civvies but once seen properly, the resemblance was unmistakable. The average height, spare build, the way he held his head, and that particular way of walking was distinctive.

  On impulse, before he could stop himself, he called his name. “Alf,” he called. And again, louder and with more urgency, he shouted, “Alf.”

  The man ahead hesitated then stopped and turned. For a fleeting second, Adam could see a brief flicker of acknowledgement before that froze on his features.

  Adam, heart thumping, arranging a smile on his face to cover his surprise and his nerves, walking briskly up to him before the other man could escape.

  “What are you doing down here in the West
Country?” he asked, his voice sounding overloud and falsely jovial.

  “Business,” Alf said briefly in his flat Midlands accent, indicating the attaché case he was holding. He flushed slightly, as if aware that such brevity was bordering on rudeness.

  He expanded a little. “The engineering works in Birmingham sent me down here to talk to a lawyer concerning our shipping business patents,” he nodded his head towards the office building he had just left.

  “Do you have time for a drink?” Adam asked on impulse, his voice deceptively casual. “I was just heading to a good pub around the corner from here.”

  For a moment it looked like Alf was going to take to his heels and flee in the opposite direction. His hesitated for a little too long and bit his lip. With his heart sinking in his chest, Adam was certain that he would refuse his offer tersely and walk out of his life again.

  Adam felt a tinge of helpless despair. He couldn’t blame Alf, of course, but what were the chances of bumping into a second time? He might never see him again.

  Suddenly, just as Adam had resigned himself to a rebuttal of his tentative suggestion, Alf met Adam’s gaze, his eyes glinting beneath his spectacles. He nodded his head briefly. “All right then,” he said rather stiffly as though he was accepting against his better judgement. “Just the one, though.”

  Before Alf could have second thoughts about his decision, Adam started walking, steering Alf in the same direction, “Jolly good show,” Adam agreed mildly as if this was a polite meeting between casual acquaintances and rather than an encounter that made his heart pound so fast he could almost hear it.

  Chapter 6

  Once they were settled at a table in the tavern, Adam racked his brain to keep up a polite flow of conversation. At least the place was relatively empty at this time of day, though no doubt it would get busy as soon as dock, warehouse, and office workers clocked off their shifts.

  Alf, sitting opposite Adam, clutching his half-pint mug, looked no more comfortable than he had outside and as though he was regretting the impulse to join Adam.