Free The Dreaming Suburb by R.F. Delderfield

attentively. He was a refreshing change from the men Reggie had brought from the Officers' Training Unit—men who invariably referred to the German as “the Hun”, and flirted with her cautiously, much as they might have flirted at an Edwardian soirée. And as she noted his clumsy handling of the knife and fork, and his strong whiteteeth, and the movement of his powerful shoulders, she yearned for him with the unreasoning desire of a strong woman who has outgrown modesty, but is a long way from resignation.
    When he had finished, and had risen, wiping his mouth, she suddenly experienced panic. Her reason told her that he was far too young to be rushed, that forwardness on her part might easily frighten him off, that the way to handle this situation was to throw out a casual invitation for a repetition on their cosy supper, say, this day next week. But as he stood by the kitchen door, his big limbs relaxed, and a rather shy smile on his full lips, she realised that she could not wait a week, or even an hour, and she made up her mind to accept the risks, whatever they were. She was judging on appearances at this stage, and had no means of knowing that the risk was very slight indeed.
    She moved quickly round the table, amazed at the violence with which her heart was beating. Looking straight at him, and forcing a smile, she said:
    “Well, Big Boy, aren't you going to say ‘thank you' properly?”
    He knew what was expected of him. Up to that moment he had felt flattered, and amused. His experience with women was more limited than he would have cared to admit, a few fumblings in the stock-rooms, and on the windswept links, nothing real, nothing like this. He was conscious of a swift spasm of fear, of being trapped, and although merely momentary the quirk was strong enough to prompt him to turn and run. Then his egotism flooded in, and he felt uplifted. He reached out like a vigorous young bear, and gripped her, kissing her full on the mouth, and thrilling to her responsive shudder.
    He was not, however, prepared for her next move.
    She wriggled out of his embrace, reached swiftly behind him, and locked the kitchen door.
    “Wait here,” she said, a little breathlessly; “the girl doesn't come back until ten.”
    She almost ran out of the room, leaving the door to the hall half open. He moved over and stood by the hissing gas-fire, conscious of the inadequacy of his seventeen years.His throat was dry, and his eye caught the whisky battle on the littered table. He slopped a measure into a used glass and gulped it down, gasping as the unfamiliar spirit struck his palate. The loud ticking of the clock on the mantel-shelf seemed to fill the stuffy room.
    Presently, he heard her call and went slowly into the hall. He remembered then that this was a flat, not a house, and that there were people living upstairs. He moved quietly, like a big cat, fighting down another spasm of fear and forcing himself to savour, in advance, the obvious delights of this gloriously unexpected encounter.
    She had made her bedroom out of the old dining-room, and the door was open. He saw the light go out as he crossed the hall, but a warm red glow remained, and when he reached the threshold he saw to his surprise that there was a bright coal-fire in the grate.
    She was standing, quite naked, beside the heavily curtained window. Her mass of thick, dark hair reached to her broad buttocks, and he noted with satisfaction that she did not appear nearly as old as when he had faced her, a few moments ago, over the kitchen table.
    He stood there, just inside the door, staring at her in quiet wonderment. A subtle change revealed itself in her manner, as though the forced smile, and incongruous coyness of her original invitation, had been scornfully discarded with her clothes, now stacked neatly on the big armchair beside the fire.
    “All right, shut and lock the door!” she said briskly.
    He was disconcerted by her directness, and a sense of bewilderment took