Winter on the Mersey(86)
‘Very well,’ he said, settling himself opposite her, as for once they had the space to themselves. ‘I take it that you have your copy of the agenda for tomorrow?’
‘Naturally,’ said Kitty brusquely, reaching for her handbag, which she’d left on the floor. ‘It’s right here. Shall we go through it now?’
‘That’s just what I had in mind,’ said Frank. ‘We should make sure we’re properly prepared. I don’t want any of the London bigwigs to think we’re in any way inferior to them just because we are based in Liverpool.’
‘I should say not,’ said Kitty vehemently. ‘Well, then. Here we are. We’d best be quick as we don’t want to do this in front of any other passengers who may join us. Right, item one.’
Frank glanced up at her but she was staring at the piece of paper, the top of her pen resting against her mouth, resolutely not meeting his eyes. She was the picture of professional efficiency and he had no cause to complain. Yet every cell in his body wanted something else from her. He’d tried to make himself think it wasn’t true, that he might have had a future with Sylvia. But now he knew Sylvia had been right: he had placed a barrier in the way of their relationship, and he realised he finally understood why. He was destined to long for Kitty, no matter what happened. It was her or nobody for him. Sighing, he forced himself to concentrate on the business in hand, the long list of dry points that they would labour through tomorrow, all without the comforting knowledge that she would be waiting for him after the meeting, to laugh about it together, to take the edge off the inevitable disagreements, and to add her spark of humour to the whole affair.
Kitty kept her gaze on the agenda, trying to put her heart into the work, knowing it was vital to her colleagues that she did the best she could. However, her thoughts kept slipping to Frank, so close she could brush his knees with her own if she sat forward, and yet so far away in every other respect. She must not on any account let him guess how humiliated she had felt when she realised she wasn’t his first choice. She had to show him he was wrong, that she was at the top of her game. She was upset and angry he’d thought otherwise. She would prove to him that she was more than capable of taking part in this big meeting. She gripped her pen with determination and ticked off the points as they made their way through them. Whatever happened, she would not reveal her deep hurt.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
‘For God’s sake, stop fussing.’ Alfie pushed his mother aside as he reached for his coat. Even though it was now March, the weather was still cold and, as he’d barely set foot outside his own front door for what felt like a lifetime, he knew he’d be grateful for its warmth. However, his mother was standing by holding a scarf and thick gloves, anxiously pressing them on him.
‘You’ll catch your death,’ she warned. ‘You don’t want to rush into things. What do you need to go outside for, anyway? I can bring you everything you need right here. Why don’t you stop inside and build up your strength?’
‘Because I’ve got to get away from you, and the one thing I really need is more whisky,’ Alfie muttered under his breath. He felt like a schoolboy again, being forced to take the hand-knitted gloves he’d hated so much. He hadn’t worn them back then – he’d always just shoved them in his pockets the moment he’d rounded the corner out of her sight – and he wasn’t going to wear them now. He’d had enough; he’d reached his limit. If he didn’t get away soon his head would burst, with all the furious thoughts that were swirling around it.
The shock of the outside air made him gasp, but he gulped it in, relishing the freshness of it, after so long being cooped up in the small terraced house, with its constant smell of cooked cabbage and damp walls. He turned his face up to the sky. It was grey and it would probably rain but he didn’t care. He was free again. It was all he could do not to shout out loud.
He knew he should go down to the docks and see his boss, explain he was on the mend and would soon be back at work. He needed to start earning again, for a start. His feet decided otherwise, heading in the opposite direction, as if he had no choice in the matter. He moved along in a direct line as if driven by a secret mission. After a while he arrived at the nondescript pub to which he’d taken Tommy all those months ago. The sign still swung in the breeze, but now the new paint could be distinguished on it: a bright figure and the words, The King’s Head. Alfie glared at it, squinting upwards. The king hadn’t done much for him, he thought angrily. Still, it was a pub, and one he hadn’t yet been banned from, so it would do as well as any other. He was gasping for the taste of proper beer.
If he’d hoped for any kind of welcome, any comments that he hadn’t been seen in there for a while and he’d been missed, he was doomed to disappointment. The morose barman simply grunted at him and pulled the pint without comment, setting it down silently and holding out his hand for money. Alfie didn’t care. He wasn’t at home, his mother wasn’t going to fill his head with information he didn’t want, and he had a decent pint of bitter before him.
In fact, there was one piece of information he’d seized on the other day when his mother had come in from the shop, complaining about Tommy Callaghan being a danger and a menace, riding his bike too fast, and about how slow that daft Ruby was. She’d mentioned in passing that Danny wasn’t around at the moment, having been sent off on some course or other. Alfie had stored that nugget away and brooded on it; it was typical of that smug devil that he’d landed yet another cushy number, but on the plus side it left the field clear for Alfie to pursue Kitty.