Джеймс Хилтон - Time And Time Again

The following week term ended for the Easter vacation and Charles decided to put in another hour or so at the Museum on his way home. He planned to catch an afternoon train from Paddington to Stow Magna, which was the station for Beeching; but while he was making his notes, with one eye on the clock, it occurred to him that he needn’t hurry unless he wanted to, since there were later trains and it was of small consequence when he arrived. Relaxing, he then forgot the time till he began to feel hungry. Of course he had known all along he would revisit the Lyons teashop.

He found a table near the one he had had before, but he could not see the girl anywhere, and while he watched the entrance the whole thing seemed to become both fantastic and of increasing importance. How absurd, he reflected; but WHAT was absurd? Was it not his own folly, if it mattered to him so much, in not speaking to her when he had had the chance? The thought made him decide not to repeat the absurdity if ever he were granted a second chance. An hour passed. The appetite he had felt at the Museum had deserted him; he could hardly finish his coffee and sandwich. He told himself he would leave at a quarter past two and that would be the end of it. Quarter past two came, and he still stayed. She walked in five minutes later.

The shop was half empty by then, and of course she went to another table, but not far away. She had a book which she began to read as before. The waitress knew her and they exchanged a friendly greeting. Her smile was somehow what he had expected, except for a little gap between one upper tooth and the next one, at the left side; this was pure caprice, unimaginable beforehand in any mind’s eye. When the waitress had gone he left his table and went over to hers with a deliberation he knew would be hard to explain when she looked up, as she must; and almost in panic he realized he had no explanation at all except the truth which could not be spoken. For the truth was simply that he loved her, if ever the word had, or had had, or would have, any complete meaning for him. She looked up. He blushed, pulled a chair, and said with stammering inspiration: ‘I wondered if you were still reading Guy and Pauline… Why, yes, so you are.’

She stared for a few seconds, then glanced round as if to verify, without displeasure, all the vacant tables. ‘Are you Ethel’s friend?’ she asked.

‘Ethel?’

‘Oh, then…’ She looked apologetic, as if it were she and not he who had precipitated the encounter. ‘You see, Ethel’s friend lent it to her, and then she lent it to me—Ethel’s MY friend—and I liked it so much she told him. He said he’d like to meet me and talk about it, so she said I was always here for lunch—well, nearly always. That’s why I thought —but of course—if you’re not…’

He said: ‘No, no. I just happened to be here the other day and noticed what you were reading. You didn’t see me. I was interested because— well…’ He struck out for a reason like a swimmer for the shore. ‘Well, I’d read the book myself and was interested.’

Her eyes widened and he had been right about them too—they were large. They were also a deep violet in colour.

‘Oh yes, it’s a lovely story, isn’t it? Even my dad liked it. He said it was so good about gardens.’

Charles did not know what to say to this, but it was time to come to terms with her voice, which was not quite what he had expected. Or rather, perhaps, he had simply not used his brains about what to expect—for he had already deduced her as an office girl with not too good a job. If one didn’t know English, he reflected whimsically, one would have found her voice as delightful as her eyes—soft and warm and altogether pleasing; but since one did know the language, one had to admit that her voice was also rather Cockney, and Charles wished it wasn’t, a few seconds before he asked himself why it mattered. For he had been brought up with that crucial consciousness of accent which is so much in the air of English public schools that a boy with the wrong kind would feel outcast till, by conscious mimicry or slow absorption, he could conform to pattern. And the pattern, of course, was the clipped unregional utterance associated by name with Oxford rather than Cambridge, an utterance based on upper-class standardizations achieved over a period long enough to acquire tradition.

She went on, smiling now with complete friendliness: ‘I’ve nearly finished it. Don’t tell me how it ends.’

‘It’s a sad ending.’

‘I don’t mind sad endings if they’re real. I mean, I don’t like a happy ending to be dragged in.’

‘Mackenzie wouldn’t do that—he’s too good a writer. But I don’t think Guy and Pauline is his best book. You ought to read Carnival.’

‘Carnival? I’ll remember that… Are YOU a writer?’

‘Oh no.’ But then he recollected what he was in London for. ‘Not of novels, but at present I’m working on a thesis.’ It was clear she didn’t know what a thesis was, and he didn’t hold it against her. ‘Something I have to do at Cambridge.’

Her eyes widened again. ‘Cambridge? You’re at Cambridge College?’

The question hadn’t been put to him before in that form, and because he didn’t want to make her seem ignorant or himself pedantic, he answered: ‘I’m a student at the University, but I come to London sometimes to look up things at the British Museum… Now it’s your turn. Tell me what you do.’

There was no check on the conversation from then on. She said she was a typist at a firm of importers with offices in Kingsway. She had a boss named Mr. Graybar. She was eighteen. She lived with her parents at Linstead, and Linstead, she explained, was near Chilford. (Charles had heard of both, but could only place them vaguely as northern London suburbs.) Her father was a superintendent of local parks. (She spoke the word ‘superintendent’ with pride.) She had two sisters and a brother. Another brother had been killed in the war.

That led him to tell her, with no reticence at all, about Lindsay. ‘He was seven years older than I. He was going to have a wonderful career— everybody was sure of that—he’d already taken a brilliant degree. He was good at everything—games as well. He could ride beautifully —some of those big fellows that I was always scared of—’

‘Where do you live?’ she interrupted.

‘In the country. Cheltenham’s the nearest town.’

‘What’s your dad?’ she then asked.

The question closed and barred the door that Lindsay had opened wide, for the thought of his father made Charles suddenly cautious. To discuss his family and Beeching might set a distance between them, and he could not take such a risk at this early stage of their relationship (for he knew already there must be later stages). He said guardedly: ‘You mean his job? He doesn’t actually have one, except…’ And then he floundered because the words seemed ill-chosen—would she think he was telling her that his father was out of work? He went on, trying to correct the wrong impression, if any, without conveying the right one: ‘We have a bit of land and he looks after it most of the time.’

‘Oh, I think it’s wonderful he sent you to college. My dad let Bert stay on at the grammar school till he was sixteen.’

So she HAD misunderstood? Charles couldn’t be sure. Anyhow, it was as if she were pridefully seeking to match either her own father’s financial sacrifices or his devotion to learning with anyone else’s in the world, and this drew his hand across the table to hers in a warmth that made their first physical contact something to remember like all the other first things. He saw the colour spring to her cheeks, and she glanced at the clock while his hand was still on hers. ‘Oh dear, I must run—Mr. Graybar will make such a fuss. It’s our busy day with the Japanese mail going out.’