Then as the family went back to its business, Tom, who for the first time in his life had none, slipped out of the house, and jogged quietly down the drive towards the village. There would be just time before dinner to call at the shop.
The blind was down, for the sunshine was streaming in at the little leaded window, threatening the perils of dissolution to the sugar mice (made before the sugar scarcity, indeed, it must be confessed, before the War) and of fermentation to the tinned crab. Tom’s hand may have shaken a little as he pulled down the latch, but except for that his manner was stout, very different from his sheepish entrances of months ago.
Buzz ... ting ... Thyrza looked up from the packing-case she was breaking open behind the counter. The next moment she gave a little cry. She had just been thinking of Tom at Waterheel, wondering if it was his dinner-time yet, and what Cookie had put in the stew; and then she had lifted her eyes to see his broad, sunburnt face smiling at her from the door, with his hair curling under his khaki cap, and his sturdy figure looking at once stronger and slimmer in its uniform.
“Tom!” she gasped, and held out her hand across the counter—hoping....
But he had gone beyond the timid daring of those days. Before she knew what was happening, he had marched boldly round behind the counter and taken her in his arms.
14
Tom’s family gave a poor reception to his news that this was “last leave” before going to France.
“I knew as that there telegram meant something tar’ble,” wailed Mrs. Beatup. “It wurn’t fur naun I cried, Nell, though you did despise me.”
“I didn’t despise you,” said Nell; “you’re very unjust, mother.”
“Unjust, am I?—wud my boy going out to be slaughtered like a pig.”