Free The Forgotten Story by Winston Graham Page A

consider it quite respectable.’
    â€˜Oh,’ he said. ‘It is not so much where one goes as the company one keeps.’
    Anthony felt rather than saw the girl begin to flush darkly. ‘Then,’ she said, ‘I am sure you would not wish to be admitted to our society. Good night.’
    â€˜On the contrary,’ he said, quickening his pace with hers. ‘I thought you might sit with me in the theatre.’
    â€˜Thank you,’ said Pat. ‘I’ve promised to take my cousin. We’d prefer to sit alone.’
    â€˜So this is your cousin,’ said Tom. ‘How d’you do?’
    â€˜How d’you do, sir,’ said Anthony, lifting his cap, not to be outdone in the frigid courtesies.
    They climbed the hill towards the tent. From the summit of the ‘theatre’ a flag fluttered briskly in the breeze.
    â€˜I suppose you know,’ Harris said, ‘that I’ve resigned my job.’
    Patricia looked at him quickly. ‘You’ve –’
    He nodded. ‘I want a change.’
    She seemed to suspect some calculated manoeuvre on his part. ‘Why did you do that?’
    They had come now to the crowd of people who gathered about the entrance to the tent.
    â€˜I said before I should like a word with you in private. Otherwise,’ he added, ‘I might take the seat next to yours and spoil your evening’s enjoyment.’
    She hesitated a moment longer, biting her lip.
    â€˜Anthony,’ she said, ‘will you buy our tickets, please. I’ll join you when you’ve got them.’
    She passed him the money and he fell in reluctantly at the back of the queue, already aware that Tom Harris had begun to speak to the girl in a steady undertone.
    The queue was slow in moving. There was some dispute at the booking window.
    Then a voice in front of him said: ‘That’s Joe Veal’s girl over there.’
    Anthony glanced up quickly at the speaker. He knew him by sight, a tall man with a drooping moustache called Treharne, who kept the public house on the corner of the street. Anthony had often seen him standing at the door of his place, and sometimes he had been in to Smoky Joe’s for a meal. Treharne belonged to that strange breed of people who always have confidential, advance information upon any subject which crops up for discussion. If the King has gone to Scotland they know why; if there has been unrest in the Welsh coal districts they know where; if a fine ship has run aground in a fog they know how.
    â€˜Who’s she with?’ asked his companion, peering. ‘He’s a new one to me.’
    â€˜Well, not to her ,’ said Treharne. ‘That’s Tom Harris, her husband , from Penryn, that’s who that is.’
    The other man whistled. ‘ I thought they was estranged. I thought they was separated.’
    Treharne speculated. ‘Hm, well, maybe he’s trying to make it up. Lawyers usually have an eye on the main chance. She’ll have a tidy little packet to her name one of these days soon.’
    â€˜Yes, I s’pose.’
    â€˜Smoky Joe’ll be a very warm man, mark my words. He had a tidy nest egg when he came back here six or seven years ago, and since then he’s made big money. Big money. He’s never spent a penny, y’know; and that restaurant idea of his was a gold mine. Then there’s the shipping and one or two side lines. Young Harris will have to play her pretty careful; she’s a ’andsome piece of goods but flighty, and there’ll be plenty of other wasps round the jam-pot when she comes in for the money.’
    â€˜Well, maybe they’ll have to wait a bit yet. Old Joe –’
    The man broke off as Treharne emphatically shook his head. Then he went on: ‘I didn’t know Smoky was as ill as all that …’
    Treharne shook his head again. ‘ Same thing as his wife, you know.’ He made the observation in a confidential