Chapters (20)
‘I’m glad you feel like that, because I’m terribly afraid,’ Joan whispered. ‘You do mean you’re my sweetheart, don’t you, John? I’m far too old to be ruined. Not that I have been ruined yet. I mean at all. I mean —’
Smith’s face hardened. ‘Stand up,’ he told her.
‘Oh no, John…’ Joan’s voice sounded utterly lost. ‘No, please don’t. You won’t tell, at least say you won’t tell, I’ll give you anything —’
‘Hush.’ Smith sternly walked into the hall and picked his hat from the peg. He positioned it carefully on his head.
Joan ran to the door, and pushed herself between it and him. She’d had time to become angry now. ‘How dare you use me this way!’ she demanded. ‘To think I trusted you! I may be ruined tomorrow, but I’ll tell you what I think of you first!’
‘And what’s that?’ Smith grinned.
‘That —’ Joan frowned. ‘That… what are you grinning at?’
‘I’m grinning at time. At circumstances. At my sweetheart.’
‘You mean —’
He tipped up the brim of his hat, and, against her slight protest, kissed her again. ‘I won’t tell anyone, because I don’t tell people things I can’t believe. You can tell me all about it again tomorrow. And tomorrow. And tomorrow.’
Joan laughed with relief and kissed him again, longer. ‘So why are you going?’ she asked. ‘I mean, you could stay for a little while longer at least.’
‘I could — but I wouldn’t want you to think anything was ruined. Least of all you.’
He put a finger to her nose and opened the door. ‘Good night, Joan.’
‘Good night, John. Oh —’ She stopped him. ‘I just realized. Smith and Joan.’
‘Well,’ said Smith, kissing her knuckle, ‘that does sound like a double act.’
And then he was gone, off into the night.
Joan gazed after him until he vanished, him turning and smiling back at her at intervals.
Then she closed the door and leant on it. ‘Oh my goodness,’ she exclaimed, putting a hand to her breast. ‘I think I just started getting younger.’
Smith skipped down the lane, his hands in his pockets, whistling a tune that the Isley Brothers hadn’t written yet, a grin that was unwipeable spread across his face.
Up ahead, he glimpsed a street lamp that hadn’t ignited, the last one on the corner before the darkness of the countryside swept in.
He looked up at it and raised a hand, intending to tap the pole.
In romantic stories, the gas filament would then ignite. He tapped.
Nothing happened.
Still indomitable, he shrugged, turned and made his way off down the lane.
Behind him, a little corner of light sprang up. He glanced back at it and nodded.
‘Yes.’