Leslie Hartley - The Complete Short Stories of L.P. Hartley

‘How topping, Hilda! What fun we shall have.’

‘Yes, it must be boiling. I shall hurry on in front of you, and you mustn’t look to see which way I go.’

‘Oh, no, Hilda.’

‘Here’s my pole. You can jump with it if you’re careful. I shan’t be long.’

‘But, Hilda——’

There was no answer. She was gone, and he dared not turn round to call her.

A pole trailing from either hand, Eustace fixed his eyes on the waves and conscientiously walked backwards, so that he should not see her. Presently he stumbled against a stone and nearly fell. Righting himself he resumed his crab-like progress, but more slowly than before. Why had Hilda gone off like that? He could not guess, and it was a secret into which he must not pry. His sense of the inviolability of Hilda’s feelings was a sine qua non of their relationship.

The tracks traced by the two poles, his and Hilda’s, made a pattern that began to fascinate him. Parallel straight lines, he knew, were such that even if they were produced to infinity they could not meet. The idea of infinity pleased Eustace, and he dwelt on it for some time. But these lines were not straight; they followed a serpentine course, bulging at times and then narrowing, like a boa-constrictor that has swallowed a donkey. Perhaps with a little manipulation they could be made to meet.

He drew the lines closer. Yes, it looked as though they might converge. But would it be safe to try to make them when a law of Euclid said they couldn’t?

A backward glance satisfied Hilda that Eustace was following her instructions. Her heart warmed to him. How obedient he was, in spite of everything. The tumult in her feelings came back, disappointment, relief, and dread struggling with each other. Disappointment that her plan had miscarried; relief that it had miscarried; dread that she would be too late to spare herself an unbearable humiliation.

She ran, taking a short cut across the sands, going by the promenade where the cliffs were lower. She flashed past the Bank with its polished granite pillars, so much admired by Eustace. Soon she was in the heart of the town.

The big hand of the post office clock was leaning on the quarter. Breathless, she went in. Behind the counter stood a girl she did not know.

‘Please can you give me back the letter I posted this afternoon?’

‘I’m afraid not, Miss. We’re not allowed to.’

‘Please do it this once. It’s very important that the letter shouldn’t go.’

The girl—she was not more than twenty herself—stared at the beautiful, agitated face, imperious, unused to pleading, the tall figure, the bosom that rose and fell, and it scarcely seemed to her that Hilda was a child.

‘I could ask the postmaster.’

‘No, please don’t do that, I’d rather you didn’t. It’s a letter that I. . . regret having written.’ A wild look came into Hilda’s eye; she fumbled in her pocket.

‘If I pay a fine may I have it back?’

How pretty she is, the girl thought. She seems thoroughly upset. Something stirred in her, and she moved towards the door of the letter box.

‘I oughtn’t to, you know. Who would the letter be to?’

‘It’s a gentleman.’ Hilda spoke with an effort.

I thought so, the girl said to herself; and she unlocked the door of the letter box.

‘What would the name be?’

The name was on Hilda’s lips, but she checked it and stood speechless.

‘Couldn’t you let me look myself?’ she said.

‘Oh, I’m afraid that would be against regulations. They might give me the sack.’

‘Oh, please, just this once. I. . . I shall never write to him again.’

The assistant’s heart was touched. ‘You made a mistake, then,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ breathed Hilda. ‘I don’t know . . .’ she left the sentence unfinished.

‘You said something you didn’t mean?’

‘Yes,’ said Hilda.

‘And you think he might take it wrong?’

‘Yes.’

The assistant dived into the box and brought out about twenty letters. She laid them on the counter in front of Hilda.

‘Quick! quick!’ she said. ‘I’m not looking.’

Hilda knew the shape of the envelope. In a moment the letter was in her pocket. Looking at the assistant she panted; and the assistant panted slightly too. They didn’t speak for a moment; then the assistant said:

‘You’re very young, dear, aren’t you?’

Hilda drew herself up. ‘Oh, no, I’ve turned fourteen.’

‘You’re sure you’re doing the right thing? You’re not acting impulsive-like? If you’re really fond of him . . .’

‘Oh, no,’ said Hilda. ‘I’m not. . . I’m not.’ A tremor ran through her. ‘I must go now.’

The assistant bundled the letters back into the box. There was a sound behind them: the postman had come in.

‘Good evening, Miss,’ he said.

‘Good evening,’ said the assistant languidly. ‘I’ve been waiting about for you. You don’t half keep people waiting, do you?’

‘There’s them that works, and them that waits,’ said the postman.

The assistant tossed her head.

‘There’s some do neither,’ she said tartly, and then, turning in a business-like way to Hilda:

‘Is there anything else, Miss?’

‘Nothing further to-day,’ said Hilda, rather haughtily. ‘Thank you very much,’ she added.

Outside the post office, in the twilight, her dignity deserted her. She broke into a run, but her mind outstripped her, surging, exultant.

‘I shall never see him now,’ she thought, ‘I shall never see him now,’ and the ecstasy, the relief, the load off her mind, were such as she might have felt had she loved Dick Staveley and been going to meet him.

Softly she let herself into the house. The dining-room was no use: it had a gas fire. She listened at the drawing-room door. No sound. She tiptoed into the fire-stained darkness, crossed the hearthrug and dropped the letter into the reddest cleft among the coals. It did not catch at once so she took the poker to it, driving it into the heart of the heat. A flame sprang up, and at the same moment she heard a movement, and turning, saw the fire reflected in her father’s eyes.

‘Hullo, Hilda—you startled me. I was having a nap. Burning something?’

‘Yes,’ said Hilda, poised for flight.

‘A love letter, I expect.’

‘Oh, no, Daddy; people don’t write love letters at my age.’

‘At your age——’ began Mr. Charrington. But he couldn’t remember, and anyhow it wouldn’t do to tell his daughter that at her age he had already written a love letter.

‘Must be time for tea,’ he said, yawning. ‘Where’s Eustace?’

As though in answer they heard a thud on the floor above, and the sound of water pouring into the bath.

‘That’s him,’ cried Hilda. ‘I promised him I would put his feet into mustard and water. He won’t forgive me if I don’t.’

She ran upstairs into the steam and blurred visibility, the warmth, the exciting sounds and comforting smells of the little bathroom. At first she couldn’t see Eustace; the swirls of luminous vapour hid him; then they parted and disclosed him, sitting on the white curved edge of the bath with his back to the water and his legs bare to the knee, above which his combinations and his knickerbockers had been neatly folded back, no doubt by Minney’s practised hand.

‘Oh, there you are, Hilda!’ he exclaimed. ‘Isn’t it absolutely spiffing! The water’s quite boiling. I only turned it on when you came in. I wish it was as hot as boiling oil—boiling water isn’t, you know.’

‘How much mustard did you put in?’ asked Hilda.

‘Half a tin. Minney said she couldn’t spare any more.’

‘Well, turn round and put your feet in,’ Hilda said.