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?’
‘I’ve found that if you have to tell lies, it’s best to keep them to the minimum,’ he returned. ‘I do have a niece. She is called Morag. And her mother would be horrified if she took to fare dodging… But presumably it’s your main means of transport,’ he concluded with dry disapproval.
‘Actually, no, I normally walk,’ she claimed, quite truthfully. ‘As you might appreciate, it’s hard to keep a low profile, leaping barriers with a large dog in tandem.’
Baxter raised a brow. Not at the sarcasm, but at her use of English. Mostly she talked with an East End accent, but once in a while it slipped. Then she sounded pure Home Counties, and educated at that.
‘You said you were homeless,’ he recalled, ‘so where do you and Henry sleep? A hostel?’
She shook her head. ‘They don’t allow dogs and, even if they did, there’s no privacy.’
Baxter mentally raised another eyebrow. ‘You’ve obviously not heard the expression, “beggars can’t be choosers”.’
He didn’t expect her reaction; she rounded on him furiously. ‘I am not a beggar! I’m a busker. There is a difference!’
‘Okay! Okay!’ he pacified in quick order. ‘I didn’t mean anything by it.’
Her eyes still flashed with anger. Expressive eyes, blue and wide, and revealing a passionate nature behind the cool exterior. He studied her face properly for the first time and was surprised to discover it was more than passingly pretty.
Dee didn’t like the way he was looking at her. In fact, she was contemplating telling him to stuff his money when Rick turned up with the teas.
‘You want work Saturday afternoon?’ he asked as he laid them down.
‘Yeah, okay,’ Dee shrugged, and Rick departed with a satisfied nod.
‘You work here?’
‘Sometimes, when Rick needs someone to wash dishes.’
‘So we’re on your home territory?’ he pursued.
‘Sort of…I live in a squat nearby.’ She didn’t go into specifics.
Baxter added, ‘On your own?’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Is it relevant?’
They had returned to the suspicious phase of their relationship.
Baxter sighed. ‘To me personally, no, but for this…job I have in mind, it’s best that you’re unattached.’
‘Then I’m unattached,’ she revealed, then added on impulse, ‘What about you? Have you a significant other?’
The question took Baxter by surprise. He half smiled at the cheek of her, before saying, ‘I don’t think that’s any of your business.’
‘I’ll take that as a yes.’ She helped herself to four sugars before she noticed his appalled stare. ‘Got to get your calories any way you can.’
‘With most women it’s the other way round,’ he commented dryly.
She pulled a face, then quipped, ‘Maybe I should write a book, passing on tips. The no home, no hips diet. Live rough and watch the pounds fall off.’
Baxter laughed, although it wasn’t really funny. Perhaps he had compassion fatigue. He’d spent much of the last decade in the Third World, where hunger meant death.
Pity stirred in him as he watched her drink down her tea with great thirst. ‘What’s the food