Джеймс Хилтон - Morning Journey

“Personally I think he’s a cold fish.”

“He isn’t.”

“Well, YOU should know.”

She could ignore the innuendo all the more easily because his description of Austen as a cold fish hadn’t reminded her of her own relationship at all, but of the two weeks that had followed Dunne’s last operation, when Austen had visited the old butler daily in the hospital, and of Austen’s tight-lipped grief when all was over. The remembrance of this armoured her against the resentment she might have felt had Paul said anything less unfair. She even began to feel a sudden ease in being with someone whose outrageousness, whatever he said or did, could neither surprise her nor change her opinion of him. Let him say what he liked about Austen, Norris, herself, anyone he chose. She didn’t care, and it was good not to care. Even the room began to look less depressing. It was warm at least, the ceiling was high, and the derelict house that obstructed the view had a Gothic picturesqueness. Doubtless there were many far worse places where people had to live and find happiness.

She did not stay long after that, for she would already be later home than usual. Before leaving she wrote Paul a further cheque and said she would return the manuscript as soon as she had had time to read it. “Of course I may be too busy during the holidays…” What was in her mind was that she would rather not be seen reading it in front of Austen, so that her chances to do so would require contrivance.

“I don’t mind how long you take, Carey, but bring it back yourself.”

“I won’t promise, Paul—it depends how busy I am.”

“But I’ll want to discuss it with you.”

“I will if I can. How shall I know when you’re in? Give me your number.”

“I have no telephone, but I’m always in after three. When I see a picture I go when the theatre opens for the cheap prices.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” she said tolerantly, as of a play she did not think very good, but could learn without difficulty. With the money she had given him she knew he could not be really hard up at all. She wished him a happy Christmas with a comfortable feeling that, even alone, he might actually have a happier one than hers. He had such reserves of self-comfort, far more than she had herself.

When she got to the house Austen was already home, scanning the evening papers by the fire. Norris was not with him. “He’s resting,” he said. “He said he’d stay in his room till dinner.” She was fairly certain that Austen had not been wondering where she was, and that part of his indifference was due to anxiety about Norris.

Norris came down to dinner, looking no longer tired, but rather excited; the evening passed without special incident and they all went to bed earlier than usual. She did not see him alone till the next morning, when he sought her out in her room while she was writing gift labels. He said hello, and took one of her cigarettes, then he apologized for having behaved oddly the previous evening.

“Oddly? There was nothing odd, Norris… you just looked a bit tense, that’s all.”

“I was, too. It’s stupid, but I’d been waiting for you all day.”

“Waiting for ME?”

“You weren’t back for lunch and you didn’t telephone Richards or anyone.”

“Norris, darling, I don’t always telephone. They know if I don’t turn up that’s all there is to it.”

“Of course, and that’s why it was stupid of me—I had all day to wonder where you were—and to worry—I thought perhaps you’d had a car accident—I have car accidents on my mind, I suppose… So I just waited and waited… couldn’t write anything—couldn’t even read by the time you came home.”

“Oh, Norris, I’m SORRY.” She gripped his uninjured arm and faced him; he was smiling now, so she smiled back. “And you know where I went? I changed my mind about the shopping, it was such a lovely day. I drove to the country. Just like one of your own expeditions, only with a car. I wished you were with me, only I knew you wouldn’t enjoy being driven. I had my lunch at a place called Mack’s Streamliner, just this side of Newburgh. Made up with stainless steel to look like a streamliner. On the left as you go north.”

“Did you have a good time?”

“Wonderful. But I’m terribly sorry—”

“Oh no, it was my own fault. One thing, though… nearly to Newburgh and back would be—oh, I suppose seventy or eighty miles. Did you buy gas on the road?”

“No… Why?”

“Maybe Foster won’t notice it.”

“Foster? I don’t know what you mean…”

He said uncomfortably: “Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned it, but… well, I mention everything to you sooner or later… there’s quite a lot of checking up goes on here. Richards with the telephones, and Foster, I think, when you take the car out. I don’t KNOW, mind you—maybe I’m too suspicious of people who act suspiciously.”

“But, Norris, even if he did measure the gas, why shouldn’t I drive seventy or eighty miles if I feel like it?”

“Sure, sure. Of course.”

She heard the elevator whine as it reached her floor and then the slide of the opening door.

“These labels, Norris. Will you help me? Please read them over against this list of names.”

They were so occupied when Richards brought in the morning mail.

On Christmas Day they had a small party of friends, a dozen or so, and it was a pleasant time. Norris could not dance, because of his arm, but he talked with the guests and seemed at ease; she herself danced often, while Austen played bridge. Soon after midnight all the guests left except three players who were as keen on the game as Austen and about as good; it was an almost pathological keenness that Austen had, and since he had been losing up to then, there was an edge to his appetite for more.

They were playing in what was called the billiard-room, where there was a billiard table which Carey could not remember anyone ever using—a large basement room, afflicted with supposedly masculine trappings— moose-heads, ‘Spy’ cartoons, and a fireplace far too large for a modern fire. There was an alcove modelled on what some architect had imagined to be a typical corner in an old English pub; it had no virtue except seclusion. Carey and Norris sat there while the bridge went on forty feet away, beyond the billiard table. They talked in whispers, not that they had anything to say that was specially private, but because the subdued ferocity of the game induced an atmosphere of tension.

“Go to bed if you like, Norris.”

“No, I’d rather sit with you.”

“I can’t very well leave just yet… though if they go on much longer… “

“I rather hope they do. I like talking to you like this.”

“But you still need plenty of sleep. I’m so glad you’re getting better so fast.”

“You really think I am? Don’t you wish we could take a vacation somewhere —Colorado or New Mexico—with no one to check the gas against the mileage?”

“Oh yes, Norris—I’d love it… but we can’t.”

“Then what are we going to do?” He flushed and added quickly: “I mean separately… what are YOU going to do and what am _I_ going to do? Will you be in a play again some time?”

“I might. I haven’t plans, but I wouldn’t like to rule it out of my life. On the other hand, I’m not consumed with ambition.”

“Were you ever?”

“Oh yes. My first was to be a nun—but the nuns at the convent knew me better and laughed me out of it. Then I wanted to be an actress and play Juliet, but Paul laughed me out of that. He said I wasn’t the type.”

“To me you would have been.”

“What a sweet thing to say… but now tell me your plans, if you’ve made any.”