Джеймс Хилтон - Morning Journey

“How do you know anything more important WOULD be? I’m not really an important actress, Norris. I just happen to have something that pleases an audience if it’s properly exploited—that is, in a certain kind of play. It doesn’t have to be a great part.”

“I still think you’d be good in films.”

“So does Hollywood, apparently. I’ve had one or two interesting offers lately.”

“But you’re still not tempted?”

She shook her head. “I have a feeling I wouldn’t like it there… Let’s have something to eat. I’m starving.”

She took him across the street to a restaurant much favoured by theatre people where the food was good and she knew she could get a table. “Now tell me about yourself,” she said, over their first drink. “You haven’t said much in your letters.”

“There’s not been much to say that’s sayable.”

She sensed a cloud of meaning and felt aching sympathy. “Have you… have you had a bad time?” she asked.

“Not particularly. Did you think I would?”

“Well… I worried about it, and so did your father. Not the dangers only, but… the whole army set-up. It didn’t seem the sort of thing you’d easily come to terms with.”

“It wasn’t. That’s why I avoided rank. Stay as low as you can when you know you’re on the wrong ladder. Be anonymous. I’ve found I can get along pretty well with most people—fellows in the same tent and Italian prisoners and Arab kids and girls we sometimes met in Cairo, and so on.”

“Girls?”

“Sure. Anonymous girls for anonymous men.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“You don’t believe what?”

“That even you could be anonymous so—so personally. That is, if it meant anything to you.”

“Who said it did?”

“Then it will, one of these days… Coming back to your opinion of the play, didn’t you think—?”

“No, let’s explore the other subject, it’s the most cheerful we’ve struck so far. Since you raised the point, I’d like you to know that all women are anonymous to me—with one exception.”

He looked excited, as if the first taste of liquor had released stored-up emotions that the entire evening had generated.

She answered: “I didn’t raise any point, Norris—”

“Then I will, because it’s about time. I fell in love with YOU when I was a boy. Didn’t you ever guess that?”

Of course she laughed, then felt herself blushing deeply. “Norris, that’s absurd…”

“True, though. All that vacation we had together—Glengarriff, Killarney, Dublin—everything we did and said—I haven’t forgotten a thing. Erste Freundschaft… Couldn’t have been more appropriate, though at the time I missed the meaning of it.”

“I remember a lot, too—we certainly had a grand time. So if you did fancy yourself in love with me then, it must be rather delightful— as well as amusing—to look back to… Shall we catch the waiter’s eye and order some food?”

“After another drink.”

“For you, Norris, not for me.”

“Oh, now, don’t get angry.”

“ANGRY? My goodness, how could I possibly—?”

“You’re just refusing to take me seriously, is that it?”

“I’m not in a very serious mood, I will admit.”

“That’s too bad.”

“But I earn my living by not being, remember. Oh, darling, don’t YOU be serious either. This is such fun—I always dreamed about it— you seeing me on the stage and then meeting me in my dressing-room and taking me out to supper… How long are you home for? A good long leave, I hope.”

“Furlough, not leave. That’s for officers. I’ve got to be back in New Orleans by Wednesday, which means I have to start on Monday.”

“Oh dear, is that all you have—and after all this time?”

“They’re in a hurry to put me in a real uniform, I suppose. They probably have a feeling that the A.F.S. was a bit amateurish. And it was, in the beginning.”

“So tomorrow’s your one whole day—” She was just realizing it and thinking of nothing else.

“I’m afraid it is, so if you can spare any more of your time—”

“Of course I can. Lucky it’s Sunday.”

“And you aren’t by any chance giving a lunch party for the Jugo-Slav War Relief or Bundles for Timbuctoo or something?”

“If I were I’d have you along to help out. But I always try to keep Sunday as lazy as possible.”

“I’ll bet you need it, and from now on I promise to conform to all the proper habits—I’ll not be serious—I’ll be just as lazy as you want—get up late—breakfast in bed—”

“Oh, not TOO late—say ten. Then we can take a walk in the Park—”

“Fine—once round the reservoir and home for lunch—”

“No, lunch out somewhere. While your father’s away the servants go, on Sundays, after breakfast—”

“The Plaza, then. And home after that with the Sunday papers and the radio. A noble routine… Are you sure you won’t have one more drink before we order?”

“Yes, I’ll change my mind—and the drink. Let’s have a bottle of champagne.”

She did not know why she had given such a late signal for celebration, or why the two of them so easily slipped into an air of having something special and personal to celebrate. They stayed at the restaurant till almost two, his dark mood lifting till they were chatting and laughing as if the world were indeed unserious all around them; then they took a taxi to the house. The watchman, who sat up all night, let them in, greeting Norris and telling them that Austen had arrived after a long air journey and had gone to bed.

“You told him Norris was home on leave?” Carey asked.

“Yes, ma’am, and he said he was too sleepy to wait up, so he’d get a good night’s rest and see him in the morning for breakfast about nine.”

Carey and Norris stood close together in the small slow-moving self- service elevator that took them up to their separate floors. Norris muttered: “Ten, WE said. But HE says nine. Matter of fact, I still say ten.” He yawned and swayed. “And by the way, Carey—it’s furlough, not leave. Remember that, even if you forget everything else I’ve said.”

“I’ll remember.” She pulled the sliding-door for him as the elevator stopped. “Sleep well. Ring for Collins if you want anything… Good night, darling.”

In the morning Austen was still suffering from the strain of travel. He had been down at nine, and had waited in the breakfast-room, drinking coffee and reading the papers. He greeted Norris warmly when the latter appeared about eleven. By coincidence Austen also had just come from Africa, having flown back by way of Bathurst and Brazil; he did not mean to be either pompous or mysterious about it, but Norris made him seem both, and as had so often happened, father and son soon touched the frayed edges of each other’s nerves. To Norris his own humble uniform conferred unlimited freedom to deride; to Austen it was a symbol of the boy’s obstinate folly. Neither knew of recent physical discomforts that were fairly even between them— that Norris had stood up in a packed chair car across half a continent, that Austen had been bumped about hour after hour over unmapped desert and jungle. But the latter, as a civilian, had travelled with importance, and Norris could not help matching it against his own self-chosen lack. He seemed at once proud and scornful of the difference. But bigger differences occurred to Carey as she looked at the two of them—that Austen was old and Norris young, yet that Austen, however exhausted, had got up early to meet his son, whereas Norris, fresh and eager after a late night and too much to drink, was in a mood to bait his father. She was unhappy about it and relieved when the day was over. The next afternoon Norris left, and, as she had a matinée, it was Austen who saw him off at the station. Later Austen did not say much, except that the train had been crowded and an M.P. had checked Norris’s pass and found something wrong with it, though afterwards it had turned out to be the man’s own mistake. “But no apologies. Just a surly admission. That’s the sort of thing he’s up against—the way he had to take insolence without protest, whereas an officer would have—”