Rick rubbed his stubble with a thumb and then shrugged nonchalantly.
“You called out in Italian again,” she added.
“Just a dream,” he said, picking up his shirt.
“It seems odd, that you always speak in Italian,” she persisted.
“I learnt it in Switzerland, French too. Lots of sitting around in cars waiting, time on my hands to learn. Must have sunk in more than I thought.”
“Plus the six months in Italy. You must have spoken it then?”
“Naturally.” He began to button up his shirt. “I don’t remember my dreams. It’s nothing. Forget it.”
He turned his back on her, a dismissal, the same as last time, when she brought up the nightmares. Leah knew he was keeping things from her. Something had happened in Italy, something significant that had brought him back to England unexpectedly. Occasionally he asked to use the telephone to make an international call. She heard him muttering in Italian to some mysterious person. His voice would raise slightly, exasperated, even perhaps fearful. She couldn’t tell and it bothered her that he refused to discuss it with her. It made her realise they weren’t perhaps the couple she believed they were.
In the car, things always seemed different. He adopted his work persona and the formality crept back in to their conversations. She increasingly thought it unnecessary and annoying. Those were the little niggling things about Rick. However, in general, their relationship had moved forward at a pace.
Sex was a regular feature, not just in the bedroom. He had taken her on couch in front of the colour television—a true luxury to have in the house. Other times, he couldn’t resist approaching her in the kitchen, sliding his hands up and down, tweaking her nipples and squeezing her bum until she couldn’t repel him any longer. The kitchen table had been shaken forcefully several times.
Out on the driveway, Rick went to open the rear passenger door and Leah put her hand on his arm. “Don’t you think I should sit up front now? I think I’m more than a passenger. I want to be next to you.”
Rick paused, weighing up her comment and he finally gave a small nod. “Don’t distract me when I’m driving,” he added, leading her to the front seat.
Sitting in the front, Leah had a proper opportunity to admire the dashboard, the leather finish, wooden panelling with knobs and buttons. All flash and modern. She reached for the glove box—a woman’s curiosity for compartments had to be answered.
“Don’t,” snapped Rick suddenly. “Don’t go in there.”
“Why ever not?” she asked, shooting back her hand as if it had been bitten.
“Just… I keep, personal things in there,” he stumbled over his words.
Leah didn’t say anything. He was hiding something, she was sure of it, just like his excuses for leaving Italy.
They drove to Littlewoods in silence. The traffic was surprisingly quiet and they made good time. Rick parked the car towards the back of the vast car park. Most workers arrived by public transport and they entered by the front of the building, on the other side. Many worked on the production lines, making clothes, others dealing with the mail orders.
Leah rested her trembling hand on his thigh. “Thank you.”
“A pleasure to drive you, Miss Leah, as always,” he said with his usual stiff upper lip.
“We’re early,” she noted. “Rather unbelievable.”
“You’ve shown you’re capable of becoming a morning person.”
“The day looks glum though, weather-wise. I often wonder how you keep yourself occupied. Another language to learn or perhaps a long walk?”
“I don’t stray too far,” he said with a shrug. “I’m paid by the day, not the hour. It gives me… opportunities,” said Rick mysteriously.
“Oh?” asked Leah.
His eyes remained rigidly forward looking, as if still driving the car and observing the traffic ahead.
“Do tell. I want to know more about you, Rick.”
He pursed his lips, rubbed his chin—a habit he used when unsure how to respond—and then finally he looked at her.
“I help out at a seafarers’ home.”
“I don’t understand,” said Leah.