with you, no good saying it wouldn’t, because it would. And, Charlie . . .’ Her eyes were grave as they held his. Grave and sad. ‘You know how it ended for him? Well, it’s going to end the same for you. And you know what? Call me a coward, if you like, but when it does , I don’t want to be there to see it.’
Charlie flung back the bedclothes.
‘Then I suppose I’d better just go,’ he said, grabbing his long johns and pulling them on with quick, angry movements.
There was nothing more to say.
Charlie left; and he was so angry, so bloody hurt , and he never thought any woman would have the power to hurt him as Rachel Tranter had just done. Out in the street he walked away, head down, uncaring and unseeing, scalded by her rejection and wondering if he was going mad, proposing marriage to a dried-up old stick like her. Just as well she’d turned him down flat. He’d had a lucky escape.
26
‘Joe, can I ask you something?’ asked Betsy.
She’d been very careful to find Joe when he was on his own. She wanted to talk to him about this; she didn’t want to ask Charlie, she didn’t want Charlie thinking she didn’t trust him and getting all indignant about it. There was of course some completely innocent reason for him going round to the widow Tranter’s as much as he did.
Innocent or not, though, Betsy didn’t like it. People had begun to talk . Her mother had mentioned to her that the gossips were saying there was something going on there.
Of course there wasn’t , and Betsy had told her mother so straight away. The widow Tranter was ancient. Charlie wouldn’t bother with her. He had Betsy. But . . . it niggled at her. After all, Betsy herself hadn’t put out since that first time, that one and only time, in the alley. And she knew men had needs, overpowering needs, her mother had told her that. But he couldn’t be doing anything like that with Mrs Tranter. Well, just look at her. Not only old , but ugly.
No, Charlie wouldn’t do anything like that, so there had to be a simple explanation and now, thank goodness, she had tracked down Joe. At last, she could stop her head spinning, stop coming to all sorts of frankly crazy conclusions.
‘You can ask me anything you like,’ said Joe.
Betsy liked Joe; she liked his air of stability. If anything was troubling you, you could go to Joe. Charlie . . . well, Charlie was Charlie . Hotter than Joe, more likely to fly off into a rage. But Charlie was the boss, he was the number one man, and she liked that.
She was already smarting over Ruby, who didn’t seem interested in spending time with her any more. Now Ruby was in tight with Vi, Betsy hardly ever saw her. But she was looking forward to this weekend, when Ruby had – at last – agreed to meet up.
‘I didn’t want to ask Charlie about this,’ she told Joe.
‘About what?’
‘I’m not sure I should even ask you.’
Joe looked at Betsy with a frown. This was – from what Charlie had hinted at in the past – his future sister-in-law. She was a pretty little thing; the sort he would almost have gone for himself. But Charlie had got there first. Charlie always did.
‘Come on, spit it out,’ he said. ‘You might as well, now you’ve started, or I’ll be wondering all day what this is about.’
Betsy paused. Then she blurted: ‘It’s about the widow Tranter.’
‘What about her?’
‘There’s been talk.’
‘Talk? What sort of talk?’
‘About Charlie always being round there.’
So far as Joe knew, Charlie went round to Tranter’s widow to pay her a wedge now and then, that was all. And he’d dumped the injured dog there on the night of the mail van robbery. Which suggested . . . well, all it suggested was that Charlie wasn’t as big a bastard as everyone thought he was. He’d wanted to help the poor suffering animal. It also suggested that he trusted Mrs Tranter to care for it.
‘He looks after her,’ said Joe. ‘Pays her a wedge.’
‘Yeah, but is that
Charlie flung back the bedclothes.
‘Then I suppose I’d better just go,’ he said, grabbing his long johns and pulling them on with quick, angry movements.
There was nothing more to say.
Charlie left; and he was so angry, so bloody hurt , and he never thought any woman would have the power to hurt him as Rachel Tranter had just done. Out in the street he walked away, head down, uncaring and unseeing, scalded by her rejection and wondering if he was going mad, proposing marriage to a dried-up old stick like her. Just as well she’d turned him down flat. He’d had a lucky escape.
26
‘Joe, can I ask you something?’ asked Betsy.
She’d been very careful to find Joe when he was on his own. She wanted to talk to him about this; she didn’t want to ask Charlie, she didn’t want Charlie thinking she didn’t trust him and getting all indignant about it. There was of course some completely innocent reason for him going round to the widow Tranter’s as much as he did.
Innocent or not, though, Betsy didn’t like it. People had begun to talk . Her mother had mentioned to her that the gossips were saying there was something going on there.
Of course there wasn’t , and Betsy had told her mother so straight away. The widow Tranter was ancient. Charlie wouldn’t bother with her. He had Betsy. But . . . it niggled at her. After all, Betsy herself hadn’t put out since that first time, that one and only time, in the alley. And she knew men had needs, overpowering needs, her mother had told her that. But he couldn’t be doing anything like that with Mrs Tranter. Well, just look at her. Not only old , but ugly.
No, Charlie wouldn’t do anything like that, so there had to be a simple explanation and now, thank goodness, she had tracked down Joe. At last, she could stop her head spinning, stop coming to all sorts of frankly crazy conclusions.
‘You can ask me anything you like,’ said Joe.
Betsy liked Joe; she liked his air of stability. If anything was troubling you, you could go to Joe. Charlie . . . well, Charlie was Charlie . Hotter than Joe, more likely to fly off into a rage. But Charlie was the boss, he was the number one man, and she liked that.
She was already smarting over Ruby, who didn’t seem interested in spending time with her any more. Now Ruby was in tight with Vi, Betsy hardly ever saw her. But she was looking forward to this weekend, when Ruby had – at last – agreed to meet up.
‘I didn’t want to ask Charlie about this,’ she told Joe.
‘About what?’
‘I’m not sure I should even ask you.’
Joe looked at Betsy with a frown. This was – from what Charlie had hinted at in the past – his future sister-in-law. She was a pretty little thing; the sort he would almost have gone for himself. But Charlie had got there first. Charlie always did.
‘Come on, spit it out,’ he said. ‘You might as well, now you’ve started, or I’ll be wondering all day what this is about.’
Betsy paused. Then she blurted: ‘It’s about the widow Tranter.’
‘What about her?’
‘There’s been talk.’
‘Talk? What sort of talk?’
‘About Charlie always being round there.’
So far as Joe knew, Charlie went round to Tranter’s widow to pay her a wedge now and then, that was all. And he’d dumped the injured dog there on the night of the mail van robbery. Which suggested . . . well, all it suggested was that Charlie wasn’t as big a bastard as everyone thought he was. He’d wanted to help the poor suffering animal. It also suggested that he trusted Mrs Tranter to care for it.
‘He looks after her,’ said Joe. ‘Pays her a wedge.’
‘Yeah, but is that
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