Shelter from the Storm Read Online Free

which had made its way over the top of the heather. From down below in the kitchen came the clatter of pots and pans, dulled by space and floorboards, but the room was safe, the door shut, the bedclothes a landscape of heaps and troughs, the pillows soft like clouds.
    The girl was still asleep, the landlord’s niece, Betsy, up from Darlington for the weekend. It had taken him two days to get her here, and that was a record. Dryden yawned. It was Sunday morning and there was no rush. She opened her eyes almost the moment he willed her to and smiled in response to his smile, and Dryden moved nearer and kissed her.
    ‘What are we going to do today?’ she said.
    The trouble with women, Dryden thought, was that they always wanted to make plans, instead of just enjoying the moment. He kissed her harder to shut her up and leaned over her and in a little while she had stopped talking and was concentrating on what they were doing. It was mid-morning before Dryden got out of bed and poured water into a bowl andbegan washing his body. She watched. He didn’t mind that. Most of the women he knew had never seen a man naked. Strange. Then he began to dress and she sat up.
    ‘You’re not going?’
    This was the tricky bit. Sometimes he left before they woke up, which was easier. The trouble was that having a woman in the morning was very different to having her in the night, and he enjoyed it. But you had to leave, and doing it neatly was a problem.
    ‘I have to,’ he said, and made it sound regretful. She let the bedclothes fall away from her body. It was a good idea, Dryden thought, one of the best. That and crying. He smiled politely as her eyes filled with tears. Dryden watched them cascade down her cheeks, then he edged the window open farther and left without a backward glance, dropping into the back lane. She was at the window, he heard her speak his name, but she wouldn’t dare shout or make any fuss.
    He walked quickly out on to the main street. People were going to church, all done up in their Sunday best. Drunks from last night were lying in doorways, one or two still asleep. Children were playing in the road. He walked into Mrs Clancy’s boarding house at the bottom of the street. It always smelled like the aftermath of a party, with cigarettes, beer, grease and just now the overwhelming smoke of frying. Mrs Clancy herself came out of the kitchen, eyes red and watering, a spoon in her hand. Dryden followed her back in. The kitchen was dark and contained a big table. There was evidence of other people’s breakfast; the table was littered with empty plates, crumbs and mugs that had contained tea. Somebody had used one mug as an ashtray. Mrs Clancy thrust a plate of food under Dryden’s nose. It was all cooked hard but he was hungry. The tea came out of the pot almost black. Dryden put three spoonfuls of sugar into it and drank it down, and then he left the kitchen and trudged upstairs.
    It was almost dinner-time so most people had left their bedsand he had the luxury of a couple of hours without anybody snoring beside him before he judged that the pubs would be open. The bed was lumpy and smelled of other people’s feet, but he was used to it. He slept. He woke up at exactly the right time and put on his clothes and his shoes and walked slowly down the street, savouring the idea of beer.
    The pub was only just open. The fire was on and several men were already inside. Dryden took his beer without a word. Nobody spoke to him. He was used to that. The men here were people he worked with. They didn’t talk to him at work and they didn’t talk to him here. There had been a time when he had cared, but that was long gone. He had thought that he might leave, though it occurred to him that if you could not be accepted in the place where you had been born then it was very unlikely that you would be accepted any place else. As he drank his beer he could see his reflection in the mirror behind the bar and he knew — he had