Joan was searching for Morse's name on the intercom of his building.
She realized she had had a good idea in taking the bus instead of walking because the pots she was carrying weren't light as they had seemed to be at home.
The previous day, Sunday afternoon, Morse had insisted it was time for him to come back home. Sam was expected to arrive any time and he hadn't want to steel his room any longer. Joan had insisted her brother could have slept in his sleeping bag in her bedroom, but his temperature had come back to normal and he had convinced her it was time to leave. When Fred and Win had come back from their dance lesson Morse was already dressed and ready to go, and after a lot of kindly rejected invitations, even Mrs Thursday had given her consent, not without an endless list of recommendations, to which Morse had answered with polite smiles and embarrassed nods. But Fred had agreed only on one condition: he should have asked for a sick leave and not come back to work until he was fully recovered. "I need you in good shape, Morse, don't forget it!" were the last words of Fred while his bagman had got out of the car.
Joan was reading the names on the board, when an elderly woman opened the door from inside and let her in. She finally arrived in front of his door: the one and only without a name on the doorbell's label. A soft humming was coming from inside and she stayed still, came closer to the door and listened carefully: the humming was a piece of classical music. She raised her brows in surprise and rang the doorbell, but no sound came from it, another clear clue that he doesn't use to have many guests, she thought. So she knocked and a few moments after the music stopped and the door opened.
"Evening Morse!" She said cheery as always.
"Err.. Miss Thursday!", she clearly was the last person he was expecting to see and so he stood in disbelief in front of the door for what seemed to be a hundred years.
"May I come in? They're quite heavy!" Joan smiled and nodded towards the back of his shoulders.
"Of course." He finally let her enter and closed the door.
"Mum sends some leftovers: broth, stew, potatoes, ice cream, she says you need to eat properly."
"Oh, thanks.. But there was no need…" A flush rose to his cheeks and he, again, wondered if it was fever. No, this time he was sure it wasn't, but then he suddenly realized what he was wearing and flushed even more: pajamas bottom, his white singlet and the pajamas top, worn open, on it. He understood she had noticed it as well because Joan kept staring at the floor or at the pots she was carrying.
"I'm sorry… I go and change myself…" He headed to his bedroom without saying more and Joan nodded, finally raising her gaze.
"I put them in the fridge." She said laud and without waiting for his answer she opened it: a can of sardines, half a lemon, a little piece of cheese, nothing more. A wave of sadness raised inside her while she put in it the leftovers her mother had asked to bring.
She closed the door of the fridge and started to wandering curiously around the little flat. She picked some records and noticed they all were about classical and opera music. Then she read the titles of some books on a shelf: Greek myths, law manuals, a few novels, short tales by Kipling, a poetry collection by Emily Dickinson. She raised her brows in surprise again. A newspaper with a half done crossword puzzle was laying on an armchair and some police files were scattered in disorder over the little coffee table. She glanced at them and wondered if it was legal, her father never took home work, not ever wanted to talk about it. No family pictures, no portraits.
"I wasn't expecting anyone." He smiled shyly when he finally emerged fully dressed: trousers, shoes, a clean shirt and a sweater on it. Joan looked at him and thought she had never seen him wearing something different from a suit, with or without a coat on top on it. She smiled back, "Shouldn't you be on leave?", she asked, pointing at the folders on his table.
"Yes, well.." He suddenly gathered all the sheets together and put them away, "… I like to keep myself busy", and flushed again. "Some tea? Coffee?" He asked trying to change the subject.
She wondered if he really had what he was offering in his kitchen and kindly refused, not wanting him to become more embarrassed by the probable lack of it.
"So, feeling better?"
"Much better, thanks."
"Back to work soon then?"
"Tomorrow."
She raised her brows in surprise."Does dad know it?"
"Err – No." He looked down and scratched the back of his head, a bit embarrassed.
"No sick leave then?"
He smiled at her with the most innocent look he could make, "I feel fine. And I've plenty of work to do."
"What are you going to tell him?"
"That I've been told I can be back at work, I suppose."
"Won't they find out?"
"Maybe, but probably too late and they're too busy to check, anyway." He shrugged.
Joan smiled, shook her head and showed her disapproval.
"Will you keep my secret Miss Thursday?" He looked up again at her, begging her with his eyes.
She pretended to think about it for a moment, "Of course, as long as you will keep mine." She smiled gently. "At least promise you will eat what I've brought."
He nodded.
"I'd better go now." She reached for her coat and stepped towards to door.
"Er… Thanks for coming Miss Thursday."
Morse hurried behind her to open it. Their hands touched trying to turn the doorknob and nobody moved for a few seconds. They were so closed to one another, that he could smell her floral perfume from the fold of her neck.
Joan turned toward him and found herself with her back leant against the door, her face just a few inches from his. Morse didn't step back. She closed her eyes and a moment after his lips were on hers. Gently and passionate at the same time, he started to kiss her and she couldn't help but do the same.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have... I can't…" He suddenly stopped and moved away from Joan, letting her standing still for the shock and the pleasure and the same time.
She pulled aside a lock of hair from her face and place it behind her ear, embarrassed as much as he was. "Of course you can't", she whispered to herself more than to him, "It wouldn't be right, would it? And I clearly am not your kind of girl." Words came out of her mouth without filters, probably because a thought had formed in the back of her mind when she had looked at his things, noticing how different his world was from hers.
Morse turned and faced Joan again, "It's not that Miss Thursday." He felt terrible.
"You don't need to say more." Joan turned her back towards him and rotated the doorknob, "I won't tell dad, don't worry, Morse."
He shook his head. "It's not like that..."
But she kept opening the door.
"It's just… I can't because… If I start, I won't be able to stop… And you deserve more than that, Miss Thursday."
She froze and at the time she felt her temperature raised. Her cheeks flushed more than his had had in the past days. A smile arose on her lips, but she didn't turned to face him. "Goodnight Morse." And the door was shut behind her.
Morse stood still for a moment, unable to move, like hypnotized. He ran out on the landing, but she had already gone. He ran down the stairs and opened the entrance door, but she had already got on the bus and it was already moving.
"Goodnight Miss Thursday." He whispered to no one while the last rays of light were starting to fade and the first stars began to shine in the clear sky of Oxford.
He closed the door of his flat behind and poured himself some scotch.