Squeezing her arm, May thought: "Oh, if the pore child only knew what's in me mind to do!"
The rain began to pour down on them, hurrying them back to The Duke of York.
It was almost factory closing time the next day. May stood at the back door of Albert's rough-cast cottage, one arm full of small packages, a huge bundle under the other. Her breath came in short gasps, her parted lips showed rows of little white teeth like sails of errant boats anchored safely once more in their harbour.
The door yielded, creaking on its hinges. A cat appeared out of the dusk of some gooseberry bushes and, pressing past her with little coaxing noises, led the way into the kitchen. A good omen, May thought, and black, too. Black cats were lucky. "Puss, puss," she said, "'ere I am. . . . My word, wot a dismal 'ouse!"
It was all but dark. She shuffled cautiously across the floor, and laid her packages on the table. She closed the door and stood alone in Albert's house, every nerve alert; desperate resolve smouldering in her sharp eyes. She lifted the stove-lid and stirred the grey coals with a poker. A tongue of flame shot up. She opened the draughts, and, with a wisp of paper, lighted the oil lamp that sat on a bracket above the stove.
She must fly about and no mistake. There was a good deal to be done before the temple would be prepared and the feast laid for the hungry god of love. How she flew! The cat flew before her and after her, tail straight up in the air, green eyes glowing. He seemed to say: "I understand what you're about. After all, there is nothing like love."
