The Backward Shadow Read Free Page B

don’t just let it dribble away
.
    I put the pot roast in the oven early, and David and I spent a restless two hours waiting for the ‘Michelin Man’. Finally I couldn’t keep the poor child hanging on any longer, and reluctantly gave him his supper and put him to bed. I waited another two hours, unable to settle to anything, listening attentively for a car. The oven was turned down to almost off, the living-room fire had had four replenishments of pine-logs and I was getting decidedly sleepy myself, not to say hungry and a bit cross. Perhaps the card was someone’s idea of a joke? Finally I could stand it no longer. I slammed down my book, stamped to the elegantly-laid table and swept one lot of cutlery back in the drawer.
    Right on cue came a double knock on the door.
    I’d heard no car, and there was no question of having missed it as you could always hear them, woomphing and protesting in bottom gear over that last half-mile of pot-holes. Even a cycle could be heard swishing through the puddles, and any light at all on the road shone through the big bow window onto the whitewashed wall opposite. I felt a marked twinge of fear, remembering poor Mrs. Stubbs and her chalk-dusted assailant (‘Like a proper
gole
he must’ve looked, dear, face and ’ands and clothes all white—but they wasn’t white for long, oh no!’) But there was a chain on the door, and after all, I was expecting
someone
.
    I went to the door, put the chain on it, and opened it resolutely to its full six inches. Through the gap a hand, a small, strong, familiar hand, snaked in and made a strangler’s gesture that was straight out of a Danziger Brothers B picture. I looked at it, dumbly, for a moment, until that well-remembered voice said plaintively: ‘Well, come on! How can I
do
you if you don’t let me in?’
    â€˜Idiot,
idiot
!’ I said a moment later, my face turned downagainst his shoulder and our arms round each other too tightly for normal breathing.
    â€˜Who’s an idiot? You don’t mean to stand there and tell me you didn’t know who to expect?’
    â€˜How could I?’
    He drew away and looked at me, the blackbird’s face that wasn’t like a blackbird any more wrinkling up with astonishment. ‘You mean there’s somebody
else
who sends stupid cryptic messages instead of just writing a sensible letter saying “I’m coming”?’ he asked on a bleat.
    â€˜I thought Dottie?’
    â€˜Dottie schmottie.’ He sniffed the pot-roast-scented air. ‘Ah, Bisto! Let’s be ’avin’ it. I’ve walked all the way from the village.’
    â€˜But it’s miles!’
    â€˜You’re telling me?’
    â€˜You’re mad!’
    â€˜You’re telling me?’
    He kissed my cheek lingeringly, and then my lips briefly, and looked at me for a moment. His wise bright eyes seemed to take in every detail, seeing my face and what lay behind it with equal ease.
    â€˜You’re all right, aren’t you?’ he asked, softly but with some surprise. ‘I thought your letters sounded almost too cheerful, but I see now you didn’t lie.’
    â€˜I never lie.’
    â€˜That’s fairly true, now I come to think of it.’
    â€˜It’s not to my credit. I can’t put a brave face on anything. If I’m miserable I show it. As you know.’
    â€˜I never did like these noble selfless women who never share anything important like misery,’ he said. ‘It makes a man feel left out in the cold. That’s one thing you never did with me.’ He hugged me again. With each minute that passed I was sinking back deeper and deeper into my love for him. It gave me a panicky feeling. I’d been congratulating myself during the last few months on the completeness with which I had let him go, just when I needed him most—I
had
feltsecretly rather noble and selfless about it,