Free Poor Tom Is Cold by Maureen Jennings Page B

married by now, probably with a babe, and he himself would have been struggling with the complexity of fatherhood.
    Oh, but I would have wanted it
. The words were so strong in his mind, he thought for a moment he’d said them out loud. At times, his grief at her death seemed as fresh as ever. He looked for her in the women he passed on the street, dreamed of holding her in his arms, dreamed that she wasn’t dead but merely gone away. After those dreams he awoke angry; after the loving dreams he awoke aching.
    However, over the past few months he had found himself actively seeking for a sweetheart. He had started dancing lessons, taken to it quite well really, even though his only dancing partner at first was the instructor himself, Professor Otranto, who took the lady’s part.Then in the summer he’d attended his first mixed class and met a young woman who worked at the music store on King Street. She had seemed most receptive toward him until she discovered he was Roman Catholic. She was Methodist. “My father would disown me. And I’m all he’s got now,” she had said sadly. As a result, Murdoch had given up his dancing classes, reluctant to see her there and be tantalised by what he couldn’t have.
    And now, stronger all the time, were his feelings for Enid. Would he change his faith in order to fit with a woman’s? He tried to be honest with himself, sighed, and had to admit, fair or not, he couldn’t see himself doing that. He’d never even set foot in a church other than a Catholic one. In that respect he’d been thoroughly indoctrinated by the priests of his childhood. About time I gave this some thought, he said to himself, again not for the first time. But later, not when his head was pounding, not when the rain had washed all colour from the world, and certainly not on the same day a fine young man had been ripped from life before he’d even lived much of it.
    As he approached the house, he experienced a rush of pleasure. The lamps were lit in the front parlour and he knew Mrs. Kitchen would have his supper waiting for him. She prided herself on being a “plain cook,” which meant that the meat was often overdone and the potatoes boiled into tastelessness, but he didn’t mind.Since he had moved in with the Kitchens three years ago, they had become dear friends. The closest thing to a family he had ever known. He opened the door and entered the narrow hall, also well-lit tonight. He had hardly taken off his hat and coat when his landlady came hurrying out of the kitchen.
    “Oh my, what dreadful weather. Come and get yourself warm this minute. The fire’s going in the parlour and your tea is all ready. I’ll bring it right in.”
    Murdoch blew on his cold hands.
    “I forgot my gloves this morning.”
    Then he noticed that the chenille curtains across the rear door were lowered.
    He nodded in that direction. “How’s Arthur?”
    “A bit poorly. This damp weather is hard for him.”
    She took his astrakhan hat from the coat tree where he’d hung it and shook off the rain drops. “I’ve minced up some lamb for you and mashed potatoes. And I’ve boiled up the rutabaga. I thought you’d be glad of soft food. I’m sure that tooth is bothersome. I don’t suppose you’ve had it tended to, have you?”
    “I confess I have not. Cowardice won out.”
    “I’ll bring you some more clove oil.”
    “Thank you, Mrs. K. Can I go and see him?”
    “Of course. He’s been brooding too much. See if you can take his mind off things.”
    As he lifted the curtain aside, Mrs. Kitchen said, “He asked me to close them, said the draft was botheringhim. Fact is he’s wrapped up tight so I don’t know what it could be.”
    The ever-present worry about her husband was close to the surface tonight. Usually, she acted as if he were suffering from a bad head cold that would clear up before long.
    She returned to the kitchen and Murdoch went into the room.
    Arthur Kitchen was wrapped in a tartan blanket,