Free Gates of Paradise by Beryl Kingston Page B

vengeance. The sea was the colour of swords and rolled inexorably in to shore in long ponderous waves, while above it the sky was ominously white, leeched of all colour by impending snow. And what a snowfall it was, goose-feathering the village for days on end, and lying thick and heavy over fields and gardens, blotching Betsy’s bright cloak with patches of icy dampness, freezing the breath in Johnnie’s lungs and the last remaining hope in his heart. There was no chance of walking out now, he thought miserably. It was all very depressing.
    But on that first snow-muffled Sunday when the roofs were white-thatched and the overnight fall had frosted so that it crunched under his feet, he had a surprise. He’d set off for church feeling thoroughly miserable. There was no point in suggesting they might walk to the barn, not that day, in that weather. If a little light rain had been enough to deter his pretty Betsy, snowfall would be an impossible barrier. So when they emerged from the comparative warmth of the church into the chill of the air beyond the porch, he merely nodded at her, hunched his shoulders against the cold and prepared for the short trudge back to the house. But instead of nodding back as he expected and then giggling off with the others, she put a hand on his arm to detain him. Actually put a hand on his arm.
    â€˜We could walk up to the barn if you’d like,’ she said. ‘’Tis dry enough.’
    He was so surprised his jaw dropped. ‘What, you and me?’ he said. ‘You mean, walk out like?’ What an amazing girl she was! After all these months saying, no, no, no, all the time, and on the one day when he hadn’t asked her, there she stood, actually asking
him
. Then he realised what a fool he must look, standing there gawping, and he closed his mouth and recovered himself enough to tease her. ‘What’s brought this about?’
    That was a question she couldn’t answer, at least not without revealing something rather shameful. The truth was, saying no to him had become a game. On that first Sunday she’d refused him because she’d been cold and tired and not in the mood for traipsing into the fields in the pouring rain, but, when she saw how put down he was, she’d had such a sudden and delightful sense of power that she couldn’t resist a repeat performance the next time he asked. She was the prettiest girl in the village and she could reduce a young man to stammering simply by saying no. It was irresistible. True, as the weeks passed and he became more and more miserable, the game grew less and less attractive, but by then she’d established a pattern and, besides, he asked as if he expected rejection, so he only had himself to blame. She told herself he should stand up for himself and go in for a bit of argyfying. That’s what
she’d
do if she was in his shoes. But her reasoning was unkind and in theprivacy of her thoughts she knew it, and eventually she began to feel ashamed of the way she was treating him. At Christmas, when the hymns and carols were all being sung of goodwill and loving kindness, she made a bargain with herself. If he asked, she would go on saying no, that was only to be expected, but if he didn’t ask, she would offer. It was perverse and she knew it but as it didn’t seem likely that he would ever
not
ask, she wasn’t unduly worried by it. And now this morning, just when she wasn’t expecting it, he hadn’t asked and he’d walked away from the church looking so cold and downcast that her heart was squeezed with pity for him. Not that she could admit it. Nor answer his teasing question. She’d made her bargain and she’d kept to it. Now there was nothing for it but to take refuge in flirting. ‘Thought you might like to,’ she said, flashing her blue eyes at him. ‘Howsomever, if you’ve lost interest…’
    â€˜No, no,’ he said, eagerly.