Helen Forrester - Thursday’s Child

I resisted a temptation to slap his face. Then over his shoulder I saw Dr Wu enter with a brown-skinned man – presumably the friend he had mentioned earlier. Dr Wu would do very nicely – but by the time we had danced round to the door where he had been standing, he had gone and there was only his friend, leaning against the doorpost and puffing at a pipe. I did not know this man and so continued to dance. The Egyptian had taken my silence for acquiescence and was breathing sweet nothings down my neck. Once more we came near to the door. I looked up and straight into the eyes of the brown-faced stranger. They were the most honest eyes imaginable, and when I looked they had such an unexpectedly gentle expression that I felt I had inadvertently peeped into his private life, and I dropped my own eyes. The music stopped and I guided the Egyptian firmly towards his friends. He was saying: ‘Please say where I shall meet you tomorrow.’

‘I am sorry I cannot come,’ I said, and turned round and fled.

Just at the door I looked back. The Egyptian was fighting his way through the swarm of dancers. Whatever should I do? ‘Come with me,’ said a voice.

I looked up. The stranger was laughing down at me. A thousand times better than twenty Egyptians, I thought. He opened the door opposite the ballroom door. The library, of course. So simple a means of escape – across the floor and down the tiny back staircase to the canteen on the floor below.

‘Thank you very much,’ I said, as we descended the staircase. ‘How did you guess?’

The stranger looked embarrassed and said shyly: ‘I was looking at your face.’ He stood uncertainly before me, pipe in one hand, the other making nervous gestures. I smiled, and he gained enough courage to say: ‘I come here every Saturday and Sunday to see you.’

I was surprised. ‘But I have never seen you before,’ I exclaimed.

‘You have to take care of all the ladies. How is it that you will see me?’

‘But – but …’ Words would not come. The evening was getting to the stage of fantasy, and I was so tired.

‘Is your work ended?’ asked the stranger, seeing my embarrassment and trying to change the subject. He drew out of his pocket an old-fashioned gold watch. ‘The time is ten o’clock.’

‘Oh, yes, Mrs Forbes asked me to stay only until 9.30.’

‘May I obtain for you a cup of tea before you go? We could – we could sit and drink tea safely in this corner, where you cannot be seen from the door by the Muslim.’

My legs were feeling unaccountably wobbly, my head ached and the canteen was quiet, except for two German girls talking with their English escorts. I sat down where he had indicated.

Mrs Barnes, the Canteen Manageress, evidently knew the stranger who liked to look at me every Saturday and Sunday, because she drew from under the counter and gave to him some cheese straws and some chocolate biscuits, which were in short supply at the time. Armed with these and some tea he came and sat down by me. My head was clearing and when I thanked him I took a good look at him. He was dressed in an old tweed jacket and baggy, grey trousers; his white shirt made his skin look very dark but his features were clear cut and delicate; both in expression and outline his face reminded me of a Saint in an old Italian painting; his hands also, as they invited me to eat and drink, used the gestures portrayed in the same paintings.

‘From which country do you come?’ I asked, ‘and may I ask your name?’

‘I am from India and I am called Ajit Singh. You are Miss Margaret Delaney and you live in this city, yes?’

‘Yes,’ I said, and inquired if he was at the University.

‘I am writing my thesis – I spend much time, however, at the Berkeley Street power station – for experience.’

‘Oh,’ I said blankly, wondering what kind of experience a power station offered.

‘Instruments,’ said Ajit, as if divining my thoughts.

The tea was reviving me. My eyes twinkled with the mischief I felt, as I asked suddenly: ‘Why do you come to see me on Saturdays and Sundays?’

‘I have to work very much from Monday to Friday,’ was the calm rejoinder.

I laughed outright: ‘But I have never met you.’

‘There was no one to introduce us.’

‘That does not seem to deter the others.’

‘My father has said that in England an introduction is necessary before a gentleman speaks to a lady. Tonight I see the Egyptian frighten you – and I know Father is right.’

‘The Egyptian was introduced to me – he was not, however, acquainted with our customs. It must have been difficult for him to understand the subtle relationship between men and women in the West.’

‘It was difficult for me – but I have not frightened you, have I?’

‘No,’ I smiled.

He looked as if he was about to say something that was important to him, but changed his mind and said merely: ‘This evening my friend, Dr Wu, had promised to introduce us, but we have managed very well by ourselves, have we not?’ He flashed a little grin at me, as he took out his tobacco pouch and filled his pipe: ‘May I smoke?’ he asked.

This then was Dr Wu’s friend. Presumably they had met at the University.

‘Please do smoke,’ I said. ‘I must go – otherwise I shall miss the last bus home.’

He rose as I did, and opened the door for me.

‘Thank you again for rescuing me,’ I said, pausing by the door.

‘It is nothing,’ he said, his face inexplicably sad.

‘I hope to see you next Saturday,’ I said, desiring to clear the melancholy shadow away.

The sun shone immediately. ‘I wish that I will see you,’ he said, and I went to fetch my coat and hat.

As I hurried through the swing doors on my way out, I met Dr Wu looking harassed.

‘Are you looking for Mr Singh?’ I asked.

‘Yes, Miss Delaney, I am.’

‘You will find him in the canteen,’ I said, and ran down the stairs. As I went through the glass outer door, I turned. Wu was standing at the top of the stairs grinning down at me, as if I were the subject of some private joke.

My term of duty on the following day did not start until two o’clock, so I missed the fun when Bessie received a telephone call. As a result of the Egyptian invasion, poor Bessie had worked until late on Sunday evening but had returned to work at her usual hour on the Monday morning, in order to act as Chairman at a meeting of an Anglo-Polish organisation. She was at the meeting when the club telephonist called her out of the room and said that someone who would not give his name wished to speak to her urgently.

She lifted the receiver and a reproachful voice immediately upbraided her. Could she not recognise love when she saw it – his heart was broken – one day was all he asked.

‘Who are you and what do you think you are talking about?’ asked an outraged Bessie.

When he gave his name she became more polite – the stony politeness reserved for Muslims.

‘I think a mistake has been made,’ she said guardedly.

‘You are the Mrs Forbes, the beautiful Mrs Forbes with whom I danced last night?’

‘Well, I am Mrs Forbes, but I did not dance with anyone last night – I was too busy.’

‘Yes, I remember – I remember – there were two Mrs Forbes – you are the lady of the blue dress?’

‘No,’ said Bessie. ‘I’m the lady of the pink dress.’ Then she thought of my blue dress. All Bessie’s latent motherly instincts came to the fore. Deliver me to this lunatic? No. She dealt summarily with the Egyptian and returned, full of apologies, to her Committee.

‘Bessie, dear, what did you say to him?’ I asked, after I explained the confusion over the initial introductions the previous evening.