Late Whitsun (Charlie Woolf Book 1) by Jasper Kent

Author:Jasper Kent [Kent, Jasper]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: UNKNOWN
Published: 2016-10-13T04:00:00+00:00

*

It was approaching mid-afternoon when we got back to Brighton. Rachael’s presence had made the whole occasion rather more pleasant than many a lunch with my mother, in that it cut off one regular topic of conversation: the question of when I was going to find myself a nice girl. And for me Rachael was pleasant company in herself, whatever her effect on mum might be.

That had still left one line of attack open to mum: when was I going to get myself a proper job? It was, apparently, an even more pressing matter now that I had a young lady to look after - didn’t Rachael agree? To my annoyance, Rachael did agree, and took evident pleasure in doing so. We could only leave once I had promised mum that I would get in touch with my great-uncle Graham, who knew everybody in Whitehall and would easily find me gainful employment – if not on his home turf in the War Office then in any one of a dozen other departments. It was the second proposal of a career in the civil service I’d received that week. I probably would call Uncle Graham, but only because he told good stories and paid for dinner. I pictured the scene, and pictured Rachael there too, charming him. But I knew that was unlikely to happen. Today had been a one-off; a departure from the reality to which I had to return.

I walked with her back to Furze Croft. The return journey was uphill, and it was warmer now, too, but Rachael didn’t seem to display the physical effects of either. At the flats she unlocked the front door and held it open for me. I hadn’t been planning on going up to her apartment – I had things to do – but the gesture was so natural that I’d stepped inside before I’d even had the chance to think about it. Upstairs her flat was just as it had been the previous day, and we took the same seats as before, though she now sat rather than reclined on the chaise longue. I put the parcel that I’d picked up at mum’s on the floor beside me.

‘What’s in there?’ Rachael asked.

‘It doesn’t matter.’

Suddenly she lunged forward and grabbed it. ‘Let me guess.’

She started to squeeze it, like a child with a Christmas present. She grinned. ‘It’s money, isn’t it? Ten-bob notes, I reckon. There must be twenty-five quid in there.’

She’d judged the thickness precisely, but got the denomination wrong. I held out my hand but she ignored me. She knelt on the floor in front of me, clutching it to her chest. ‘You got all this money and you made us take the bus?’

‘It’s not my money,’ I said. ‘It’s just passing through my hands.’

‘I know what you mean.’ Still she kept hold of it.

‘It’s for O’Connor … for Al. Or for his widow, at least.’ Some of it was, anyway.

‘Oh,’ she said meekly. She handed it back.

‘I ought to get over there now,’ I said.

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