Bride Required

‘Good.’ Baxter nodded in relief and fell in step beside her as she took the steps down to the eastbound platform.

He considered making conversation with her, but her profile didn’t invite any. She was unusually self-contained for a young girl. Was that good or bad for his purpose? Good, maybe. Less likely to be indiscreet.

Dee, for her part, was quite aware of the stranger beside her. She could hardly not be. She had always been tall. It had caused her untold agonies as a child. At sixteen she’d been five feet eleven inches and had thought she might go on growing for ever, but then, thank God, she had suddenly stopped. Still, she towered over most people. But not this man.

She was glad when a blast of cold air heralded the arrival of the tube. They boarded together and went through five stops in silence until they reached Newhouse station.

It was only when they approached the ticket collector that she confessed, ‘By the way, I haven’t got a ticket.’

‘Great, a fare dodger,’ he said in exasperation. ‘I should have known.’

What should he have known? That girls like her had to be dishonest? Dee glared at him.

‘You know nothing,’ she responded. It was an accusation, and they exchanged hostile looks for a moment, before she thrust Henry’s lead at him. ‘Don’t worry about it. You take him. We’ll meet up outside.’

‘Hold on, wait a—’ He didn’t get the chance to finish.

He watched, with a mixture of horror and fascination, as she veered towards the closed booth next door and leapt over the metal barrier.

He thought she was home free, but the collector caught a glimpse of her flashing past and sent a shout up.

The dog shot forward, too. Baxter found himself making excuses as they queue-jumped, and emerged from the barriers in time to see two underground officials restraining the girl.

He could have walked away. He might have if he hadn’t still been attached to a dog who was suddenly barking with surprising ferocity at the guards holding his mistress’s arms. So much for discretion.

Quick at thinking on his feet, Baxter took the initiative. ‘I suppose you think that was funny?’ He addressed the scolding comment to the girl before speaking to the guards. ‘Kids these days, and their idea of fun! I’m awfully sorry about this—’

‘You know her?’ one of the men interrupted.

‘I wish I could deny it,’ Baxter ran on, ‘but, yes, believe it or not, this scruffy urchin is my niece, Morag.’

Both officials were silent for a moment, deciding whether they should believe it or not.

So was Dee. Morag? What kind of name was that?

‘She had a ticket but lost it.’ He seemed to lie with ease. ‘I was, of course, going to buy another at the exit, but the silly girl decided to leap the barriers instead. I believe it’s the latest craze among teenagers. Slightly safer, I suppose, than playing chicken on the motorway.’

‘But more expensive,’ the second guard stated, unmoved. ‘I’m afraid if you’re going to ask us to let her off, sir, you’re going to be disappointed. London Underground have initiated a drive to catch fare dodgers, with the intention of fining them.’

‘Well, I don’t blame you,’ Baxter returned, which made Dee wonder whose side he was on. ‘You’ve been a very silly girl. What’s your mother going to say?’

‘I don’t know,’ Dee mumbled, not sure of her words in this play, but realising she should at least act contrite.

He shook his head at her and asked of his fellow grownups, ‘What can you do with them? It’ll break her mother’s heart… What now…? An on-the-spot fine?’

The first guard weakened. ‘Well, I suppose if you were to pay the maximum fare possible for your route, then that might be acceptable.’

He looked to his colleague, who in turn stared at Dee as if he really would have preferred to hang, draw and quarter her, but then gave way with a shrug. Perhaps it was just too much bother at the end of a long day.

‘Thank you very much.’ Baxter shook both men’s hands in gratitude as they released Dee. ‘What do you say, Morag?’ he prompted her.

‘I…yes, thanks,’ she trotted out dutifully, feeling five years old.

‘Right. Take Henry.’ He handed her back the dog and asked of the guard, ‘How much do we owe you?’

‘I’ll find out.’

One guard went to the ticket office while the other remained with them.

Dee waited till he glanced away for a moment, and mouthed at her ‘uncle’, ‘We could run.’

It drew a black look and a terse but distinct, ‘Forget it,’ in return.

Dee still could have run but it didn’t seem a very honourable thing to abandon him after he’d rescued her. So she waited with him, and just stopped herself from making a rude comment when they were asked for some exorbitant sum—much more than five stops on the tube—to cover her misdemeanour.

The stranger took out his wallet once more and paid it without quibbling.

As they finally emerged into daylight Dee fought a battle with herself. She knew she should thank him for what he’d done, but she resented it as well. It put her in his debt, and she hated that.

‘Normally it’s no problem. They’ve barely enough staff to collect the tickets.’ She justified what now seemed a silly action on her part. ‘Anyway, you should have just left it.’

‘And let them cart you off to jail?’ He reminded her of the alternative.

‘It wouldn’t have come to that,’ she told him knowingly. ‘Even if they’d called the railway police, what were they going to do? Take my name and the address I haven’t got? Fine me money I don’t have? Big deal!’

He shook his head at her streetwise reasoning, then remarked dryly, ‘Such gratitude, quite overwhelming.’

At this, Dee had sufficient grace to concede, ‘Yeah, okay, I suppose I should thank you.’

‘Not if it’s going to kill you.’ He dismissed the subject, and added, ‘Which way to this café?’

Dee had almost forgotten where they were meant to be going. She considered giving him the slip, but now it seemed tantamount to stealing. He’d already half-paid her, and shelled out for her penalty fare. The least she could do was sit in a café and listen for five minutes.

‘This way.’ She let him fall in beside her. ‘It’s not far.’

She led the way off the main thoroughfare to a backstreet café. On occasion she washed dishes for the owner. In return, he gave her a couple of quid and let her sit with Henry and nurse a tea for an hour or so in cold weather.

Rick, the owner, eyed her companion for a moment when they entered, then asked, ‘Everything okay, Dee?’

‘Sure.’ She returned his smile with a brief one of her own. ‘Could we have a couple of teas?’

Rick nodded. ‘I’ll bring them over.’

‘Dee?’ he repeated as they sat in the corner. ‘That’s your name?’

She nodded. Dee was the shortened version. Deborah DeCourcy was just too distinctive to go broadcasting.

She realised Dee probably sounded common to him, and muttered back, ‘Better than Morag, at any rate. What made you pick that?’