Enduring Passions Read Online Free Page A

revealing a bit of the happy young woman of another, earlier time, long since past.
    ‘Your father has decided to pay off your coat – don’t argue now, it’s decided.’
    ‘But Mum—’
    ‘No, that’s it.’
    He felt wretched, and relieved at the same time. He would be able topay for the sax’s repair straight away and start earning some extra cash again.
    He shook his head, but said, ‘I’ll make sure you get it back – I promise. It’s just a loan.’
    His father managed to speak, his voice hoarse and whistling. ‘You’re a good lad, never given us any bother, and you’ve helped us keep afloat this year. So take it – we want to help you for a change.’
    A lump came into his throat, and a burning resolve that he would make something happen to help them have a better life.
    But what? There wasn’t much scope for immediate wage improvement in his day job, even though it was dependable, respectable and had good prospects.
    But he’d start looking around – think of something. Meanwhile tomorrow, aching or not, he had to drag himself off to work.
     
    The ringing was like a fire alarm exploding in the blackness of the room. His hand came down smack on top of the twin bells on the alarm clock, cutting off the murderous noise. He leapt from the bed. As the eiderdown was thrown back it crackled with the icy film that had formed during the night from his breath.
    He reached for his underpants, pulled free the tie in the white cord of his pyjama bottoms, stepping out of them and kicking them away.
    His collarless shirt was soon on, hands fumbling at the buttons. In seconds he was into his trousers, pulling the braces over his shoulders, wincing with pain from his beating, before tucking the shirt tails around his bottom. He didn’t do his flies up straight away, getting the chamber pot from under the bed.
    Downstairs, his face in the pitted mirror, he applied a thick white lather as he soaped up with brush and stick. He used a Gillette safety razor, not like his father who still used a cut-throat, but even so he managed to cut himself under his chin.
    When he was satisfied he cupped his hands with water and splashed his face several times to try to remove all the soap. He finished the job, dabbing with the towel.
    Teeth cleaning came next. He rotated the brush head in the flat tin of Gibbs paste, the metal showing through in the middle.
    His hair was the last thing to be tackled. He scooped up some Brylcreem and spread it on the palms of his hands before vigorously attacking the crown of his head, finishing with a comb, making a pencilsharp parting on his left side, and sweeping the gleaming black hair almost straight back.
    He checked his appearance. Everything seemed in order. He regarded his nails. Clean. He rinsed his fingers and palms. After a struggle he fixed his collar and stud, and then his tie. Between sips of tea he did up his waistcoat, careful to leave the bottom button undone.
    With his loose change stowed, handkerchief in pocket, wrist-watch checked – his father had wanted him to have Grandad’s Albert but it looked too old-fashioned for his taste – he was finally ready. And, as he wasn’t coming back that night, he had packed his little brown overnight case.
    There came a creaking of floorboards above his head. Tom finished his tea just as his mother came in, wrapped in her thick woollen dressing-gown .
    ‘Darling, are you sure I can’t get you a hot breakfast?’
    He flung his arms around her, then regretted it as his ribs ached.
    ‘Mum, I’m going to have breakfast on the company.’ He gave her a big kiss. ‘Go back to bed, the room will be warm in another half-hour. See you tomorrow – home about six.’
    At the bottom of the garden he got his bike out of the shed, swung his leg over the saddle, and pushed off. It was all downhill, thank God.
    Later, after a mountainous fry-up, he began to feel better.

CHAPTER TWO
    The maid paused at the door, shifted the tray to one hand and