Free Snowstop by Alan Sillitoe Page B

cleansed her face, cooled fire, caused her to laugh with surprise.
    The living person, like a demented cat set free by the wind, reached for a shapelier object behind and kicked its dusty covering off, scattering flaps of dull white over the floor and walls. ‘I couldn’t undo the bleeding handle.’ She swung her arms, red-raw hands out of her gloves and clapping. ‘It’s all right, I’m not a ghost, though I nearly turned into one. What are you doing here, anyway? I only went outside to fetch his luggage, and I expect he’ll say it took me long enough.’
    The case held her weight when she sat on it, lips at an angle of such resignation that Jenny was ashamed of her laugh. ‘Are you all right?’
    The pale but pleasant face emphasized a vein down her cheek. ‘I’d better take his stuff in.’
    Jenny bolted the door against the weather. ‘He should have fetched it himself. Men are so bloody selfish.’
    He had rescued her from the moor and brought her to this cosy place till the thaw let them go, so it was only right to fetch his case from the car. ‘I’m not frightened at a bit of rough weather.’ She rubbed her nose. ‘All I need is a cold, though. It’d make my day.’
    To take the case in was the least she could do for the poor girl. ‘You should get yourself warm. Do you have a room here?’
    Eileen pulled it from her. ‘I’ll give it to him, if you don’t mind.’
    Who wouldn’t want a pat on the back for effort? ‘Suit yourself.’ It was mean to envy her reward, as to a dog after fetching a newspaper, the dog turning into a doormat at a smile of appreciation for having been allowed to become of no more significance than a rag to wipe some swine’s car down. She saw it all, but couldn’t think of how best to explain it to the exhausted girl, who walked into the cigar-smelling warmth as if she had brought the case from the South Pole.
    The newspaper slipped from Aaron’s fingers as he dozed. ‘Would you like to see the room?’ Keith asked her, the key tied to an oblong piece of bone swinging from his hand.
    He sat as if with nowhere to go, though in such clothes he fitted into this sort of place. It was hard to be sure where she belonged, clad in her everyday gear, a mixture of Oxfam cast-offs and stuff from home not yet worn out. She nodded, hoping her smile was bright enough since it needed some force to put it there.
    â€˜You had better warm yourself before we go up.’ He took a hand from the side of his face. ‘Have a drink, and something to eat.’
    Jenny made space by the fire, but there was plenty of room. Keith knew he ought to get into his car and drive on, but the weather hemmed him and all of them in. On the other hand there was justice in being unable to leave, after what he had done. He had betrayed Gwen many times and had been betrayed by her in turn, but neither of them could survive without loyalty, and had used betrayal as a weapon to destroy the other. What began as love had ended in murder, and he could expect neither pity nor forgiveness. The only fit response was to die, because to live on under such a burden of guilt and failure tortured his pride.
    He pulled the heavy leather-backed chair across the floor as if it were cardboard. ‘Sit down and dry yourself.’ When she took her shoes off, the landlord looked as if she was plummeting the reputation of his hotel, for which shade across his sanctimonious mug she would have told him to drop dead if Keith hadn’t been present.
    He didn’t even turn while asking: ‘Bring a double whisky, and a plate of your best sandwiches.’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’ Though Fred the landlord knew his place he would have liked a please or thank you with his orders. Business might be business but he didn’t think much of the crew that had dropped in on him. The only gentleman guest, with the young tart he