Christopher Priest: The Space Machine

I heard the wardrobe door close, and then felt the touch of a hand on my arm. I looked: Miss Fitzgibbon was standing beside me, a long striped flannel dressing-gown covering her. She had taken the pins from her hair so that it fell loosely about her face.

“Take these,” she whispered, thrusting the two brandy-glasses into my hands. “Wait inside the bath-room.”

“Miss Fitzgibbon, I really must insist!” said Mrs Anson.

I stumbled towards the bath-room door. As I did so I glanced back and saw Miss Fitzgibbon throwing back the covers of the bed and crumpling the linen and bolster. She took my samples-case, and thrust it under the chase longue. I went inside the bath-room and closed the door. In the dark I leaned back against the door frame, and felt my hands trembling.

The outer door was opened.

“Mrs Anson, what is it you want?”

I heard Mrs Anson march into the room… I could imagine her glaring suspiciously about, and I waited for the moment of her irruption into the bath-room.

“Miss Fitzgibbon, it is very late. Why are you not yet asleep?”

“I am doing some reading. Had you not knocked when you did, I dare say I should be asleep at this moment.”

“I distinctly heard a male voice.”

“But you can see… I am alone. Could it not have been from the next room?”

“It came from in here.”

“Were you listening at the door?”

“Of course not! I was passing down the lower corridor on the way to my own room.”

“Then you could easily have been mistaken. I too have heard voices.”

The tone of Mrs Anson’s words changed suddenly. “My dear Amelia, I am concerned only for your well-being. You do not know these commercial men as well as I. You are young and innocent, and I am responsible for your safety.”

“I’m twenty-two years of age, Mrs Anson and I am responsible for my safety. Now please leave me, as I wish to go to sleep.”

Again, Mrs Anson’s tone changed. “How do I know you’re not deceiving me?”

“Look around, Mrs Anson!” Miss Fitzgibbon came to the bath-room door, and threw it open. It banged against my shoulder, but served to conceal me behind it. “Look everywhere! Would you care to inspect my wardrobe? Or would you prefer to peer under my bed?”

“There is no need for unpleasantness, Miss Fitzgibbon. I am quite prepared to take your word.”

“Then kindly leave me in peace, as I have had a long day at work, and I wish to go to sleep.”

There was a short silence. Then Mrs Anson said: “Very well, Amelia. Good night to you.”

“Good night, Mrs Anson.”

I heard the woman walk from the room, and down the stairs outside. There was a much longer silence, and then I heard the outer door close.

Miss Fitzgibbon came to the bath-room, and leaned weakly against the door-post.

“She’s gone,” she said.

Miss Fitzgibbon took one of the glasses from me, and swallowed the brandy.

“Would you like some more?” she said softly.

“Yes, please.”

The flask was now nearly empty, but we shared what remained.

I looked at Miss Fitzgibbon’s face, pale in the gaslight, and wondered if I looked as ashen.

“I must leave at once, of course,” I said.

She shook her head. “You would be seen. Mrs Anson wouldn’t dare come to the room again, but she will not go straight to bed.”

“Then what can I do?”

“We’ll have to wait. I should think if you leave in about an hour’s time she will no longer be around.”

“We are behaving as if we are guilty,” I said. “Why can I not go now, and tell Mrs Anson the truth of the matter?”

“Because we have already resorted to deception, and she has seen me in my nightwear.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I shall have to turn off the gaslights, as if I have gone to bed. There is a small oil-lamp, and we can sit by that.” She indicated, a folding dressing-screen. “If you would move that in front of the door, Mr Turnbull, it will mask the light and help subdue our voices.”

“I’ll move it at once,” I said.

Miss Fitzgibbon put another lump of coal on the fire, lit the oil-lamp, and turned off the gas-mantles.

I helped her move the two easy chairs towards the fireplace, then placed the lamp on the mantelpiece.

“Do you mind waiting a while?” she asked me.

“I should prefer to leave,” I said uncomfortably, “but I think you are right. I should not care to face Mrs Anson at this moment.”

“Then please try to be less agitated.”

I said: “Miss Fitzgibbon, I should feel much more relaxed if you would put on your clothes again.”

“But beneath this gown I am wearing my underclothing.” “Even so.”

I went into the bath-room for a few minutes, and when I returned she had replaced her dress. Her hair was still loose, though, which I found pleasing, for I felt her face was better suited when framed in this way.

As I sat down, she said tome: “Can I ask one more favour of you, without further shocking you?”

“What is that?”

“I will be more at ease during the next hour if you would stop addressing me by my surname. My name is Amelia.”

“I know,” I said. “I heard Mrs Anson. I am Edward.” “You are so formal, Edward.”

“I can’t help it,” I said. “It is what I am used to.”

The tension had left me, and I felt very tired. Judging by the way Miss Fitzgibbon—or Amelia—was sitting, she felt the same. The abandonment of formal address was a similar relaxation, as if Mrs Anson’s abrupt intrusion had swept aside the normal courtesies. We had suffered, and survived, a potential catastrophe and it had drawn us together.

“Do you think that Mrs Anson suspected I was here, Amelia?” I said.

She glanced shrewdly at me. “No, she knew you were here.”

“Then I have compromised you!”

“It is I who have compromised you. The deception was of my own invention.”

I said: “You’re very candid. I don’t think I have ever met anyone like you.”

“Well, in spite of your stuffiness, Edward, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite like you before.”

Now that the worst was over, and the rest could be dealt with in good time, I found that I was able to enjoy the intimacy of the situation. Our two chairs were close together in warmth and semi-darkness, the brandy was glowing within, and the light from the oil-lamp laid subtle and pleasing highlights on Amelia’s features. All this made me reflective in a way that had nothing whatsoever. to do with the circumstances that had brought us together. She seemed to me to be a person of wonderful beauty and presence of mind, and the thought of leaving her when my hour’s wait was over was too unwelcome to contemplate.

At first it was I who led the conversation, talking a little of myself. I explained how my parents had emigrated to America soon after I had left school, and that since then I had lived alone while working for Mr Westerman.

“You never felt any desire to go with your parents to America?” Amelia said.

“I was very tempted. They write to me frequently, and America seems to be an exciting country. But I felt that I scarcely knew England, and that I should like to live my own life here for a while, before joining them.”

“And do you know England any better now?”

“Hardly,” I said. “Although I spend my weeks outside London, I spend most of my time in hotels like this.”

With this, I enquired politely of her own background.

She told me that her parents were dead—there had been a sinking at sea while she was still a child—and that since then she had been under the legal guardianship of Sir William. He and her father had been friends since their own schooldays, and in her father’s will this wish had been expressed.