Джеймс Хилтон - So Well Remembered

Wendover accompanied him to the street door. “Snubs are unimportant, George.”

“Of course—and I’ve got a hide like an elephant for ‘em. I’d call it my secret weapon, only it’s no secret.”

“It never was. Most of the saints had it.”

George grinned. “Oh, get along with you. Don’t you go calling me names!”

“All right—I won’t. I can’t teach you much, but perhaps there IS one thing—a piece of advice that Christiana need sometimes. While you’re trying so hard to be fair to everybody, remember to include yourself. That’s all.”

“I suppose the truth is, I get a bigger kick out of being fair to the other fellow. So there’s no credit in it.”

“Was I offering you any?”

George’s grin turned to a laugh. “Good night, Harry. Thanks for listening to me. That’s the help I really needed, because there’s nothing I can do if Winslow feels the way he does. Nothing at all… Good night.”

“Good night, George.”

George walked slowly across the dark town. From St. Patrick’s to Market Street was about a mile; it took him past the Library and the Town Hall and the main shopping length of Shawgate. The night was moonless and cloudy —almost pitch-dark, therefore, in the black- out; but to George this made for no more than a little groping, and in the groping there was a sudden awareness of his whole life, shaped by and shaping those familiar streets and walls. It was as if, at the moment that things half-forgotten were coming back to trouble and confuse, the town rallied invisibly to his aid, assuring him that what he had done so far had not been in vain, and that what he had yet to do could be limitless within the same limits. That these were circumscribed, even narrow by some standards, was evident; but there was gain to match that loss—the gain of warm personal contacts, the ‘How do, Tom?’ and ‘Good night, Mr. Mayor’ that he would not by now have exchanged for empire. And tonight, as he received and answered the greetings that his known footsteps drew from passers-by, he felt upon his heart the touch of benediction. These were his people, from whom he had sprung, and whom he would serve to the end, because he believed in them and in the destiny of their kind to make this world, if it can ever be, a happier place.

Comforted, he reached his house, entered the study, and turned over the papers on his desk, driving himself to concentration. He still felt disturbed by the day’s curious incident, but somehow not as hurt as he had been or might have been. Presently he carried papers over to his armchair and settled himself in comfort. They were the minutes of the last Council meeting and required his approval. The dry official phraseology merely emphasized the part of his life that had gone on for so many years, and would continue to do so—whether or not, whether or not. Like the rhythm of train- wheels that go up hill and down dale, through cities and across country… WHETHER OR NOT. But that again, the blessed rhythm and routine of work he knew so well, led deeper into springs of comfort already found along the dark pavements; and soon a measure of tranquillity was on him. He read every item of the minutes carefully, corrected a few, initialed others, then soon after midnight went to bed and slept dreamlessly till dawn, when the early-morning buses wakened him as they started up in the garage just beyond the garden —Livia’s garden, as he still thought of it. Then he got up, went back to his desk, and dug deeper into the pile of work there; and at eight, when Annie brought in the morning postal delivery and some tea, he was still working.

Among the envelopes was one that bore the Mulcaster postmark. Like so many that reached him it was addressed merely to “The Mayor, Browdley”, but the handwriting looked like a child’s. Inside he found a note scribbled in pencil with the heading “Hospital”, and so briefly worded that he hardly grasped what it was all about till he had read it over twice. Just—“I don’t know what there is about mayors that got my goat this afternoon, but next time, if you want to see me, drop in.” And signed with the initial “W”.

The note chilled George with its contrast of childish script and adult irony. Presently he surmised that the look of childishness might have come from writing with the left hand—doubtless an effort, yet not too great for the extra words that hurt and were probably meant to.

Nevertheless, he caught the nine-five to Mulcaster.

At the hospital the nurse on duty told him he could see the patient ‘now’ if he wanted. He asked, because of her peculiar emphasis on the word: “What made him change his mind?”

“Well, I think it was because of what Dr. Briggs and I both said.” She blushed as she explained further: “We said you were awfully nice and that everybody liked you.”

George’s smile was a little ghastly, as if he had heard what might be his own epitaph. He answered: “Thanks for the testimonial… All right, I’ll see him. That’s what I’ve come for. Does he have many visitors?”

“None, so far. He’s only been here a fortnight.”

All this as they walked along the corridor. She opened the door and George followed her. The room was cheerfully bleak, and contained bed, side table, two small chairs, and a table in front of the window surmounted by a large bowl of roses. The shape of a human being was recognizable on the bed, but the face was so swathed in bandages that nothing could be seen of it, while the legs, similarly swathed, were held in an up-slanting position by an assembly of slings and frames. George was appalled, but the nurse began cheerfully: “Well… here’s Mr. Boswell AGAIN.”

George waited for her to go out, but she stayed, fussing around with the pillow and drawing a chair to the bedside, so he said the only possible thing, which was “Good morning”.

From the bed came a curious muffled voice returning the greeting.

“You’ll have to stoop a little to him, then you’ll hear better… His words get all tied up with the bandages.”

The voice grunted, and George placed his chair closer.

“There’s only one rule,” she added, finally moving to the door. “You mustn’t smoke.”

“I don’t smoke,” George answered.

When the door had closed on her George heard what might have been a sigh from the bed and then the question, abruptly: “Has she gone?”

“Aye,” said George.

“She’s a good nurse, though.”

“I can believe it.” And then after a pause: “I got your note this morning. It’s a bit quick to have taken you at your word, but I thought—”

“Oh, not at all. And don’t be impressed by all these bandages and contraptions. I’m not as much of a wreck as I look.”

“I’m glad to hear you’re getting on all right.”

“Yes, they seem to be patching me up. Would you mind giving me a tablet out of that bottle on the side table?”

George did so. He saw that the left hand was comparatively usable, though the skin was pink and shrivelled.

“Thanks… they’re only throat lozenges.”

“I hope talking doesn’t bother you. I won’t stay long. I just wanted to bring you my good wishes.”

“Thanks… I can listen, anyway.”

But George for once found himself without chatter. He said, stammering somewhat: “There isn’t much else I have to say—except that I’m sorry we meet for the first time under these somewhat awkward circumstances. I used to know your father—slightly. I met him—once—several years before his death—”

“WHAT?” The exclamation was so sharp that it discounted the enforced motionlessness of the body. And a rush of words continued: “What do you mean? His DEATH! Have you heard anything? Who told you that? Have they been trying to keep it from me?”