Джеймс Хилтон - So Well Remembered

“Does it prove we shouldn’t have cheered?”

“Maybe not. Perhaps it proves that though it’s hard to get the victory you want, it’s even harder to want the victory you got ten years back.”

“Which is the devil of a way to look at things in the middle of a war.”

“Aye, I can see it might be.”

Charles walked on for a little way, then said thoughtfully: “You know, George, you have a rather Machiavellian mind.”

George laughed. “Twisty, you mean, eh? That’s what my opponents say. But I’ll give you one good tip in politics—Keep straight from year to year, and you can twist as much as you find convenient from day to day. And as for the really big fellows—the great men of the world—if THEY keep straight from century to century, they can do THEIR twisting on a yearly basis. Does that make any sense?”

Charles laughed. “What DOESN’T make sense to me is that you didn’t try for Parliament. Or did you—ever?”

“Aye, a few times.”

“And no luck? How was that?”

George answered after a pause: “Hard to say. Perhaps just what you said —no luck.”

But the recollection was now without a pang, or at any rate the pang was smothered in much greater pleasure; for George had made a discovery— that he could talk to Charles as he had never been able to talk to anyone —even Wendover, with whom there had always been the prickly territory of dogma. But the boy, less schooled in dialectic than the priest, nevertheless had a clear, intricate mind—almost too intricate, almost ice-clear; and George argued with him joyfully every foot of the way from St. Jude’s to Queens’ and then back again, on that lovely May afternoon. All the time a curious happiness was growing in him—something he did not diagnose at first, but when he did, it came in the guise of a guess— that this must be what it felt like to have a grown-up son. During the last half-mile they increased pace, because Charles was in a hurry to get to his rooms.

“That’s what your arguments do, George—make me forget the time… And I don’t want to keep Julie waiting.”

“Julie?”

“The… er… the nurse you met. Miss Petersham.”

George didn’t think it could matter much if she did wait for a few minutes, but he said merely: “And a very nice girl, too.”

“You thought so?”

“Aye.” George smiled and added: “We had quite a conversation on the way to her bus. She told me one thing you didn’t let out.”

To George’s immense astonishment Charles flushed deeply and began to stammer: “You mean—about—our—engagement?”

George swallowed hard. “Well, no—as a matter of fact, it was your Distinguished Flying Cross.”

“Oh, THAT…”

George could see that Charles regretted having given himself away. He held the youth’s arm as they began to climb the staircase. He said: “I’m sorry if they were both things you didn’t want me to know, but now I DO know I’d like to offer my congratulations… and double ones.”

“Thanks… Of course there’s no secret about a D.F.C… The other thing IS more or less—has to be—because—well, it depends on what sort of a recovery I make. I wouldn’t have her tie herself to an old crock. Or even a young one.”

He had left his room unlocked, and the girl was already there when they entered it. She greeted them both and immediately set about preparing the equipment for massage treatment.

Charles said abruptly: “He knows all about us, Julie.”

She looked up, startled—to Charles, then to George, then to Charles again. “Did you tell him?”

“No… it sort of slipped out. But I don’t really mind.”

Then Charles laughed and George shook hands with the girl and said how pleased he was. “I was praising you to him even before I knew,” he said. It was a happy moment. “And now I’d better leave if I’m going to catch my train… I’ll see you both again before long, I’m sure.”

He shook hands again, but the girl followed him to the door. “My turn to see you to the bus this time.”

“All right.”

Crossing the court towards the College entrance she said: “I’m glad you know. Charles thinks such a lot of you.”

“He DOES?”

Something in his voice made her laugh and ask: “Why, are you surprised?”

And George, who was so used to being liked yet could never somehow get over the surprise of having it happen to him again, replied truthfully: “In a way, I am, because it’s hard for a lad of his age to get along with an old chap like me. Yet we do get along.”

“I know. And you’re not old.”

“Older, then.”

“You can be a great help to him anyhow.”

“You too, lass. And far more than I can.”

“Well… he needs all the help we can both give him.”

“He’s getting better, though?”

“Oh yes—physically. It’s in other ways we can help him most.”

“I understand. There’s something he hasn’t got—yet. It’s a sort of reason to be alive. He doesn’t know why he wasn’t killed like so many others —he’s said that to me more than once. Does he talk like that to you?”

“Sometimes,” she answered.

They walked a little way in silence; then, as they reached the kerb, she said: “Mr Boswell, I’m going to be very frank and ask you something— as a friend of his…”

“Yes?”

“Will you… would you help him… EVEN AGAINST HIS MOTHER?”

A bus to the station came along. “The next one will do,” George muttered. And then, as they stepped back from the commotion of passengers getting on and off, he went on muttering: “Help him—against his mother— eh? Why, what’s wrong about his mother?”

She answered: “I only saw her once, when she came to visit him, and of course to her I was only a nurse. And I WAS only a nurse—THEN. But I could see that she wasn’t good for Charles. She got on his nerves. She wants to POSSESS him—her whole attitude was like that—and I don’t think she’s the right person, and even if she were, I don’t think he’s the sort of person who OUGHT to be possessed—by anyone. He should be free.” She continued after a pause: “Maybe you’re wondering about my motives in all this. Well, so far as I’m concerned he IS free. I love him, that’s true, but I only agreed to the engagement because I thought it would help him —which it did, and still does. But when he’s better he may feel differently. I shan’t try to hold him. He’s too young, anyhow, to decide about a wife… I want him to be FREE. I don’t want him to be possessed.”

“And you think… his mother…?”

“That’s what SHE wants. I know it. I think he knows it too, but he can’t easily resist, for the time being—that is, till he’s recovered. She’s so strong.”

“Strong?”

“Yes, but there are two kinds of strong people. There’s the kind that make you feel strong yourself, and there’s the other kind that make you feel weak… She’s that kind. And he’s so sorry for her—naturally, on account of what’s happened. Everybody is—she’s a tragic figure… Which makes another reason. He’s had enough tragedy.”

George could sense the girl’s emotion from the way she suddenly stopped at the word ‘tragedy’ and laughed, as if that were the only thing left to do. She said, after the laugh: “Well, I’ve told you now. I don’t know what you can do, but you’re a friend of Charles’s and I took advantage of it. Don’t do anything at all if you’d rather not. I really haven’t any right to ask.”

Another bus was approaching along King’s Parade. George answered: “Nay, Julie, we’ve all a right to ask anything when it’s a matter of helping somebody.”

She smiled. “That’s a nice way to look at it… You’d better catch this bus or you’ll be late.”