‘Miss Thomas?’
She looked up, uncomfortably, shyly, ‘Yes, Mr Blair?’
‘Have you actually seen your brother following her about? Has he spoken to her, have they met on occasions?’
‘He was once a good man, Mr Blair,’ she said.
‘He may not be the only one.’
She suddenly bowed her head; she felt as though she had been felled by an axe.
‘Please,’ she said, and again he felt his sleeve gripped, ‘Please. You don’t understand? It’s not right. His chapel will empty.’ Mr Blair sat bolt upright, fixed her with what might be the final stare, and said in the most casual way that she must really not upset herself like this.
‘The Archbishop of Canterbury voted for private buggery, Miss Thomas, but his church has not yet fallen.’
She covered her face with both hands, bowed low, ‘My God!’
The doorbell rang again, the door opened and closed, the curtains moved, and then the assistant was bending over Miss Thomas.
‘Are you all right, Madam?’
She saw that the woman had changed tables, noticed the spilt coffee.
‘Are you all right? Would you like me to …’ just as Miss Thomas’s head came slowly up, she seemed not to see the assistant there, her eyes wandering about the room, and then she saw her. ‘Er - - I - - what was - - -’
The assistant suddenly sat down by her, gave her a smile.
‘I didn’t know you knew Mr Blair,’ she said. ‘A very nice gentleman. He’s regular here.’ And after a pause, ‘He’s gone now, Madam,’ but the words were gibberish in Miss Thomas’s ears. She made to get up, but slipped back again.
‘Come along…’ and she felt an arm beneath her own. ‘Come …’
But Miss Thomas didn’t, and rose, and sat down again.
‘I’ll be all right in a moment, Miss,’ she said. ‘Leave me alone.’
‘You don’t look well, Madam, I’ll get you the station cab.’
Miss Thomas cried quietly at the table.
‘Poor thing.’
She got up abruptly. ‘I’ll get Mr Jenkins, the station,’ she said. ‘You really ought to go home.’
‘I’m quite all right, thank you,’ Miss Thomas said, struggled to her feet, clung to the table. She heard the girl on the telephone, who then returned, and said quietly, ‘Sit down, Madam. He’ll be here in a moment or two.’
They looked at each other, but said nothing, and there was much in the silence. She helped Miss Thomas into the cab, and she, so aware of the broad daylight and the main street of the town, bowed her head again, and thought of those that passed by, wholly unaware that the street at this moment was empty. Mr Jenkins looked at her. Mr Jenkins knew. He understood.
‘Had a little faint the girl said. Not like you it isn’t, Miss Thomas. You’ll be all right tomorrow, course you will,’ and he turned and smiled at the unsmiling passenger. A regular member of the Penuel chapel, Miss Thomas did not recognise him. She huddled in the back of the cab, longed to be home, alone in her room. Suddenly he stopped.
‘Sure you’re all right, Miss?’
She nodded, and it was enough for Jenkins, and they drove on quickly to Ty Newdd. He helped her out, linked arms up the path.
‘There now,’ he said, giving her a sympathetic pat, ‘that’s it.’
And at last she smiled and said ‘Thank you.’
‘Home you are, always best in the end, Miss.’
He waited until she had got the key in the lock, opened the door and entered.
‘Thank you.’
‘Welcome,’ he said, and drove back to the station, smiling all the way there, Miss Thomas being his first customer of the day. Margiad kicked back the door, and sighed with relief, made for the nearest chair, sat down.
‘Terrible,’ she thought, ‘terrible,’ remembering, with a kind of indefinable horror, the sight of the solicitor sitting at the table, so cool, so casual, almost indifferent to what she told him. ‘And the things he said, the things.’
The words were new, she did not even understand the language that he spoke, in the strange climate of that empty cafe, the nightmare morning. She sat, still numbed, frozen into her experience, and was still sat, stiff and motionless, when, at twelve o’clock she heard the footsteps on the gravel and the key in the lock. She had not removed her outdoor things, and was sat with her back to him as he entered the room.
‘Ah! There you are, Margiad,’ he exclaimed in a cheery voice, but it only had chill for her, and she made no reply, but sat with her hands in her lap, and he saw the restless, twisting fingers. The fire that had gone down badly needed rousing, but she made no effort with it. He went into the hall, hung up his coat and hat, came back, and sat opposite her in the armchair.
‘Well!’ he said, ‘here we are,’ and settled back, and began feeling for his pipe.
‘Margiad!’
She did not answer, and did not move.
‘Are you going out?’
