Джеймс Хилтон - Time And Time Again

‘On the contrary, he has his into me. Mine’s quite incapable of piercing such a hide. And yet, in an odd sort of way, I don’t absolutely DISlike the fellow. It’s hard to say why not. I have every reason to—personal, professional, and political. The other evening I was reading Montesquieu and I came across…’ Charles stopped; he saw that Gerald had glanced covertly beneath the rim of the table at his wristwatch. The fact that the movement had been so carefully shielded, that the boy was clearly anxious not to hurt a father’s feelings, gave Charles a needle-like twinge in the centre of his stomach. Was it possible that he was BORING Gerald? He continued hastily: ‘But don’t let me run on like this. Tell me more about your adventures in Switzerland.’

‘Yes, I’d like to, before I—I mean, while there’s still time. I mustn’t forget my train.’

‘When did you say it was?’

‘Er… ten-thirty…’

‘And from the Gare St. Lazare, I think you said. Leave here by ten and you’ll be all right… You were telling me earlier that you did some climbing.’

‘Oh yes—and golf and tennis too. At Mürren they were having tournaments at the hotel and I entered—just to get a game actually —never thought I had a chance—but I won the mixed doubles —my partner was awfully good. It’s a silver cup—I’ve got it in my bag—like me to show you?’

Even had Charles been interested in games he would not have cared to interrupt a dinner in such a way. He smiled tolerantly and answered: ‘Oh, don’t bother now—I’ll see it when we’re at home. But I’m very glad you were able to get the kind of holiday you enjoy. So many people— diplomats, for instance—have to enjoy the kind they get. When I think of all the time I’ve spent at horrible little resorts that happened to be the only places where the Legation staff could go to escape the heat, or dysentery, or some national holiday that was sure to be marked by anti-British demonstrations in the capital—’

‘You can put all THAT into your book, anyway.’

‘Oh, certainly. And I shall. There was a place near Constanza, on the Black Sea…’

At ten minutes to ten he called for the bill and excused himself ostensibly to make a telephone call. The only telephone at the Cheval Noir was in Henri’s little office at the rear; but Charles did not actually use the instrument. Presently he returned to find Gerald ready to leave and a little fidgety.

‘Dad, it’s been a wonderful dinner—I’ve had a grand time.’

‘My pleasure too, Gerald. I only wish we could have seen more of Paris together.’

‘Yes, so do I.’

‘Maybe we’ll have some other chance.’

‘You bet we will… and dad, why don’t you stay here and finish your coffee?—I hate to rush you out like this—no need for you to see me off at the train, we’ll be meeting again in London so soon.’

‘Very thoughtful of you, Gerald. In that case I’ll just put you into a cab.’

Charles noted the relief on Gerald’s face. It hurt him again, but less so because he was now making plans of his own. He took the boy to the kerb and summoned a taxi from the line of them in the middle of the street. Then he shook hands with his son and gave the driver instructions in very rapid French.

‘Bye, dad. Thanks again.’

‘Goodbye, my boy. Bon voyage.’

Charles returned to his table and asked Henri to bring him another fine. He felt chastened and also a little unworthy. For the thing he had done instead of telephoning was to look up the timetable and confirm that there was no such thing as a ten-thirty boat train from St. Lazare. And what he had told the driver in rapid French was to return to the restaurant and tell him where he had taken the young man.

Half an hour later Charles was in the same taxi, having ordered the driver rather testily: ‘Just take me there—you don’t need to describe the place.’ Feeling as he did somewhat contaminated by the thought that he was about to spy on his own son, he certainly did not want to cement the treachery by any sort of gossip in advance. Naturally after such a rebuff the driver navigated the streets with added recklessness—the route led along the Boulevard des Capucines, then the Boulevard des Italiens, towards the Place de la République… And with every mile Charles wondered what he was going to do when he got to wherever it was, or if he could even do anything at all. For there were circumstances in which Paris was a wonderful city to be fatherless in… and at such a speculation Charles had nothing to aid him but certain recollections of his own.

It would probably (he remembered) be one of those dingy buildings with a mansard roof and peeling stucco and an advertisement for Byrrh facing from across the street in huge letters… And to think of Gerald at seventeen… Why, in his own case he had been twenty-two when he… when he spent those six months with the Décharays to polish up his accent. Professor Décharay used to take him and the other students to the Louvre and the museums during the day, but sometimes in the evenings after dinner on the pretext of a lecture a few of them would go off on their own… He had often wondered if the good professor had guessed where they went, for he twirled his moustache rather waggishly when they greeted him the next morning at breakfast…

And somehow now those adventures, though Charles shrank from the translation of them into the life and times of his son, nevertheless did not give him any equal distaste when they were recalled. Rather the contrary. Too bad one mustn’t put that sort of thing into a book—not that he would dream of doing so, even if he could. He wasn’t that sort of writer, though he must confess he could sometimes enjoy himself as that sort of reader. Fashions were changing, standards were crumbling, people talked at dinner- tables more freely, one might suppose (though one could hardly be sure), than eminent Victorians in bedrooms, chats on the radio and faces in television were taking the place of spellbinding oratory and the front line of the chorus… Perhaps he might devote a chapter in his book to the changing world he had seen—or no, there could be nothing new to say, he had better stick to what was important. The big thing in his career had undoubtedly been the Macedonian Boundary Commission; he must concentrate on that. It was his only title to fame, if any; the rest was just run of the mill…

‘RUN OF THE MILL’

Charles and Brunon were among the New Year revellers welcoming 1922 at a Rhineland hotel. It was not a good time for painting, but Brunon had a short vacation from school and Charles, after Christmas at Beeching, had been glad to return to the Continent to meet his friend. During a succession of cold and sunny days they walked along the west bank of the Rhine, southward from Bonn. Brunon had visited this fabled territory before and knew of a small village called Assmannshausen, near Bingen, that would be pleasant to stay at, so they had arranged to have mail sent there poste restante. Assmannshausen was reached towards twilight after a flurry of snow from the hills, and Brunon went to the post office while Charles sat in a café reading German papers. There was not much news. More snow was forecast. Francs and marks had fallen further. The Washington Armaments Conference was still in progress. Charles felt drowsy in the warmth after the icy air outside. He also felt very fit and reasonably content. It had been a good idea, taking a walking tour in January. Eccentric but invigorating. Brunon came in with a batch of letters and sorted them out on the scrubbed table top. There was a sprinkling of fresh snow on his coat and his face was pink from the wind. None of Charles’s letters looked important and he was putting them aside to read later when one slipped to the floor. As he picked it up he did not recognize the handwriting under Cobb’s heavy crossing-out, but the postmark ‘Linstead’ caught his eye.