Shelter from the Storm Read Online Free Page B

clothes and when he had walked away his feelings it was well past dinner-time. He had gone much farther than he intended, so it was the middle of the afternoon by the time he came back to the village. As he did so he could see a small figure standing in the middle of the Cutting Bridge not far away from the houses. He recognised her immediately. Every man in the village knew the figure of Esther Margaret Hunter; she was the bonniest thing that had ever lived. She was one of the better-off lot and ignored him although she went to church and was supposed to be a Christian. Dryden didn’t really care; he didn’t expect people like the daughter of the Store’s manager to speak to him. He would have walked straight past her but for the fact that Esther Margaret was crying.
    ‘Here,’ he said, pushing a handkerchief at her. She took it without looking at him. She mopped her face and blew her nose thoroughly three times and then she tried to return the soggy, slimy ball of cotton.
    ‘No,’ he said.
    She stuffed it into her coat pocket.
    ‘He came to tea,’ she said, glaring at the cut below, where the railway lines were. ‘With his mam and dad. He’s boring and … he looks like a pig. After this morning too, for them to plan it and …’
    In Dryden’s opinion she shouldn’t cry. Crying did nothing for women’s looks, though there had been a great number of times when he had enjoyed their tears, usually when he left them. He wasn’t enjoying Esther Margaret’s tears at all. They were ruining her looks, had deprived him of his best handkerchief, which he had stolen off the market, and he had no idea what she was talking about. He leaned back against the bridge and put his hands in his pockets and waited. He imagined her stripped and under him with her golden hair free and that was quite nice, except that she sniffed loudly twice and ruined the image. She had an exquisite mouth. She took his handkerchief out of her pocket and assaulted it further. Dryden was of the opinion she would have done better to throw it away rather than return it once again to her coat pocket.
    ‘He tried to kiss me,’ she said finally. ‘He got me in the hall near the coats and then he …’
    The lad had done more than kiss her, Dryden thought ruefully, and he had made a mess of it. He had frightened her.
    ‘He’d probably never done it before and it was a mistake,’ he offered.
    She looked at him properly, realised who he was and stiffened. Dryden leaned back farther against the stone wall and looked away across the fell, giving her time to decide whether to stay or not.
    ‘He was all hands and …’ She pulled a face.
    ‘Not nice, eh? First time, was it?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘You remember.’
    ‘I’ll never forget it.’
    Neither of them said anything else after that, but she didn’tseem to have any inclination to go back and he didn’t blame her. Maybe the dreaded whoever-he-was was still at the house, which he would be if he had been invited for tea because it wasn’t teatime yet. He had mucked his chances up good and proper, and before they had even sat down to eat. Manners were important in these things. She came closer (not to him especially, and he wasn’t surprised — she probably wouldn’t want to get near a lad again for months) but she leaned and looked over the bridge and he remembered being a child and doing something similar just as the train went under, waiting for the steam to come up towards him and the heat and the smell and the idea of going somewhere. He had sometimes thought of catching a train and going away. He had sometimes thought of putting himself in front of one.
    And then she was looking at him. Had she got bored with the view, nothing but railway sleepers and rails?
    ‘You have got the most amazing eyes,’ she said, staring.
    Dryden was very uncomfortable. Women were always saying such things. It made him feel like a circus animal. He turned away but then it got worse. She squeezed his arm in