An Awfully Big Adventure - Beryl Bainbridge [57]
O’Hara took a long time to kick-start the motorbike from the kerb. ‘Which way?’ he asked, when at last the engine spluttered into life, and she directed him the wrong way round so that they might overtake and confront the trio lurching towards Midnight Mass.
She shouted contradictory commands. ‘Faster, faster,’ she ordered, as they puttered up Brownlow Hill, empty of Meredith. ‘Not so fast,’ she cried as they thundered along Rodney Street. She didn’t care what O’Hara thought. She didn’t care about anything; she just wanted Meredith to see her on the back of the Prince’s white charger. Perhaps then, when he realised he was in danger of losing her, he and O’Hara would exchange a hostile, challenging glance. If looks could kill, she thought, clinging to O’Hara’s leather-clad waist, the river wind whipping her hair into her eyes.
She had almost given up hope when she saw Meredith arm in arm with Grace and Bunny stepping off the kerb outside the Women’s Hospital. ‘Slower, slower,’ she screamed over O’Hara’s shoulder, fearful they might pass unnoticed.
Bunny and Grace saw her, she was sure. Startled, Bunny stepped backwards, dragging Meredith with him. Grace swung her handbag in recognition, and a ball of wool jerked out and fell to the gutter. Stella kept her arm in the air, waving, waving long after O’Hara had swerved the motorcycle round the corner.
She wouldn’t let him take her to the Aber House Hotel. Instead she made him stop in the next street; she didn’t want Uncle Vernon storming up the basement steps and putting his oar in. ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea,’ offered O’Hara. ‘I only live two doors up.’
‘If you like,’ Stella agreed. ‘It’s interesting to see how other people live.’
When she saw she was disconcerted. The room was tidy enough, after a fashion, but there was nothing of value on the mantelpiece and not one stick of furniture that wouldn’t have been better employed on a bonfire. She was surprised he lived so poorly, him being a successful man. ‘It isn’t very salubrious, is it?’ she said, eyeing the scuffed skirting-board, the mushroom growths on the wall.
‘I was happy here once,’ he told her.
There was nowhere to sit but on the narrow bed beside the fireplace.
‘I can smell something,’ Stella said. ‘I’ve a very good nose for smells.’
He apologised for the damp and she shook her head. ‘I know about that sort of smell. It’s sweet. This is different.’ She sat there wrinkling her nose, trying to identify what it was. ‘Turpentine,’ she cried at last. ‘Turpentine and linseed oil.’
He was impressed and proceeded to tell her about Keeley, recalling some inflammable occasion on which Keeley had set fire to something or someone. Her jaw ached with smiling her appreciation. What fun they’d had, he concluded.
‘Where is he now?’ she asked, thinking he was possibly behind bars.
‘I lost touch with him when he joined the Air Force. I’m not entirely convinced he survived. I’ve a painting of his at home, of this room with me standing by the door. I’m very fond of it.’
‘Mr Potter knows about paintings. He took me round the Walker Art Gallery. He likes the religious ones best.’
‘He would,’ said O’Hara.
She could tell there was something bothering him. He wasn’t quite comfortable with her. He was looking at her intently, as if he expected she might do something surprising, like flying up the chimney.
Suddenly he kissed her. She opened her lips obediently and remained perfectly still. When he let her go she wiped her mouth on her sleeve.
He said, ‘Perhaps I ought to take you home.’ He sounded grumpy.
‘I don’t mind staying if it’s all the same to you,’ she said. It had to happen sometime and now was as good