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They had just started eating when a young woman swung into the chair beside Gabriella.
“You doin’ all right, Mr. Rodney?” The woman leaned forward on her elbows.
“I am, Catherine. Have you met my neighbor, Gabriella?”
Catherine turned to look at her, and Gabriella wondered if she had ever seen anyone as beautiful as this woman.
“Very pleased to meet you.” Gabriella extended her hand.
Catherine gave her hand a firm shake, her eyes watchful. “You got your sights set on my Solomon?”
Mr. Rodney made a sound of surprise, but Gabriella ignored him. She shook her head. “I don’t.”
“True?”
“True,” Gabriella confirmed.
“Well then, very pleased to meet you, too, Gabriella. Have a good evening.” She slipped out of her chair—wide, colorful skirt swirling around her knees—and disappeared into the crowd.
“That girl.” Mr. Rodney shook his head. “Her mother was a tear-away, just like her, back in Trinidad.”
“She’s very beautiful. And she knows what she wants.” That was probably a very good thing if she had picked Solomon for her own. He would need a strong personality to stand up to him.
After dinner, when the two of them were walking home, Mr. Rodney told her stories about some of the regulars at the club she had danced with after dinner. Men who were in their sixties, who’d served in the war or had come over from the Caribbean after the war to find a better life.
She noticed none of the younger men had stayed after their meal, all slipping out in ones and twos.
All hands on deck, indeed.
Gabriella wondered what they were up to, but guessed she would never know.
They reached the house just after nine, and Gabriella could see Mr. Rodney was tired. She walked him up, settling him in with a cup of tea, and then remembered she’d forgotten to check the late post.
Mr. Higgins, who lived on the ground floor, was in the hallway doing the same as she skipped down the stairs.
The look he gave her was unfriendly as he tossed letters into the pile on the table, holding a few in his hands. “I saw you come back with Mr. Rodney.”
Gabriella didn’t like the way he said it, as if he was accusing her of something.
“Yes.” Her answer came out short.
“Maybe you Australians don’t have a care for your reputations, but here in England, it matters.” Mr. Higgins clutched his letters to his chest, and his hands were shaking.
Gabriella didn’t know if it was with rage or nerves at the confrontation.
A confrontation created by him, and him alone.
“What do you mean, my reputation?”
“Not that I mind his sort, but others do,” Mr. Higgins said. “Have a care for yourself, missy.” With that, he darted down the short passage and into his flat.
She stared after him, eyes narrowed, feeling grim.
“Limey bastard.” She said it softly, but she could hear the venom in her own voice. “Racist limey bastard.”
“What was that about?” Solomon seemed to coalesce out of the darkness, and Gabriella only just suppressed a shriek of surprise.
She clutched at her throat and he winked at her in reassurance.