Justin Go - The Steady Running of the Hour

The next week he receives a brief letter from Eleanor suggesting they meet at the Lyon’s Corner House on Coventry Street. Ashley goes to the barber beforehand for a fresh shave. He expects the meeting to be some kind of warning, but when he enters the vast dining room and sees Eleanor stand and wave from the table in the far corner, he knows at once that he was wrong. Eleanor forces a smile as he approaches. She looks on the point of tears. They sit down.

— I’ve ordered tea, Eleanor says distractedly. I don’t suppose you’re hungry, Mr. Walsingham? If you wish something to eat, they’ve quite a menu—

— Tea will be lovely.

— I’ve never been in this Lyon’s before. It’s not so bad, really.

— Not at all.

They fall silent. Ashley watches her across the table and thinks how beautiful she is. She has the same eyes as her sister. The pot of tea arrives and Ashley pours out two cups. He does not drink from his.

— I’m so glad you’re well, Eleanor says. I’ve thought of you often. Of course, Imogen hardly spoke of anything else—

— She’s alive, isn’t she?

— Yes.

— But not in England.

— No.

— Where is she?

Eleanor folds her hands in her lap and looks away.

— I can’t say.

— Then why meet me at all?

— I was at the house when you called. I heard Papa talking to you at the door and it made me sick. I thought you deserved more. I know you do.

— Won’t you tell me where she is?

— That’s not my choice. It’s hers. She’d have told you herself if she wished you to know.

— Then it was her decision to go away. Not your father’s?

— I don’t know, Eleanor sighs. It was Imogen’s decision to stay away.

— But why all the secrecy? Why not simply go abroad like anyone else?

Eleanor takes a sip of tea.

— I suppose she wanted to start over. Perhaps she didn’t want you looking for her. But it wasn’t only you. You know Imogen can’t bear to do things normally. Papa’s tried to get her to come back many times. But she wanted a new life, and we hadn’t any choice but to go along. I can’t tell you everything—

— But you’ve already spoiled the ruse.

Eleanor shakes her head. She looks into her teacup.

— It’s gone on long enough. I don’t think it matters if I tell you she lives. You knew that already. And she’s never returning to England, that’s for certain. She’s so headstrong, and you’re the same, and it breaks my heart to hear you calling at the door. I thought if I didn’t see you, you might go on like this for years—

— I’ll go on until I see her.

— You mustn’t, Eleanor pleads, looking up at Ashley. Probably you could find her, if you looked hard enough. But what then? You’d have forced yourself upon her. She’s gone so far to be herself alone. I know it’s terribly cruel, but you must let her go.

She smiles a little. — It’s peculiar. Imogen said you were always jesting. But sitting before me now, you seem the gravest person I’ve ever met.

They both drink from their cups and Eleanor pours more tea. She hesitates, straightening her napkin on her lap.

— Perhaps I oughtn’t to have come, when I hadn’t anything good to tell you. All week I’ve thought how extraordinary it is that you should go on caring for Imogen for so long, having known each other such a short time. But it struck me this morning that those two facts may explain each other. For in a way, it’s been the same in our family. When I was younger I was convinced our parents loved Imogen more because she was so hard to love, because they could never quite have her for their own, not fully—

Eleanor sighs. — I’m sorry. Perhaps it’s better if I go now. I wish I had something kinder to tell you, but it’s simply not the case. You’ll understand this, Mr. Walsingham, and you’ll understand I can’t see you again.

She stands up and Ashley rises too. He comes close to her, speaking in a low whisper.

— What about the child?

— I’m sorry?

He leans into her ear, his words clear above the clatter of the tearoom.

— She was expecting, but she lost the child. She wrote me as much.

Eleanor shakes her head, her face coloring.

— I don’t know anything—

— What happened? Were you there?

— No. She never told me she was expecting. Perhaps she was mistaken—

— Rubbish. She came all way to the France to tell me.

Eleanor’s eyes flit across the dining room.

— I don’t know anything. She went mad when she heard you were killed. It was madness that took her to France. After that I didn’t see her. I’m sorry, I really must go—

— Please stay.

Ashley opens his palm toward the table, beckoning her to sit back down. Eleanor shakes her head. She looks at Ashley sympathetically.

— You don’t need me to tell you this. But I’ll say it anyway, if no one else will. You were both children, the two of you. Can’t you see that? Imogen was only a child then, and she isn’t any longer. You wouldn’t even know each other now. Naturally she cared for you and always will, in some way, and you for her. Only it’s in your past now, and her past too, and you can’t find that anywhere, however hard you look.

— I shan’t give up—

— You are giving something up, Eleanor says. You just don’t realize it.

It takes me three rides to get from Akureyri to the Eastfjords. I ride in unfamiliar cars along the shores of volcanic lakes, pillars of lava rising from their dark waters; I wait for an hour in a misty desert of black sand, the gravel road punctuated only by yellow mileposts.

My last ride is with a long-haired young man who tells me he waits tables for a living. There is a little girl in a child’s seat in the back. The highway winds through hills of green moss and brown turf. Twice we have to stop when the girl gets carsick from the twisting road. Finally the highway descends to a valley where the ring road meets a smaller road going east.

— I’m going south, the driver says, but you want to go on toward the sea. A little down the highway there’s a small hotel. I could put you there—

— Over here’s fine. It’ll be easier to get a ride by the intersection.

The driver looks at me with concern.

— Remember, he says, the hotel’s just around that bend.

I wait on the shoulder of the eastbound road, kicking stones to pass the time. The rains starts again and soon it’s blowing sideways into my hood. I pace the shoulder to stay warm, walking in circles on a twenty-yard strip of asphalt. I’m already wearing every garment I have, all layered in a carefully practiced system. Three T-shirts, two collared shirts and a jacket; two pairs of light pants; two ordinary pairs of socks and one thick wool pair; my parka, a scarf and a knit hat.

The raindrops turn into hail. I turn my back to the wind and the hailstones beat rhymically against my coat, like countless volleys of buckshot. I check my watch. Eighty minutes and still no cars. The hail’s rhythm quickens. There’s no sign of civilization except the thin band of asphalt.

I’ll lose the fortune tomorrow. I’ve been trying not to think about it, but it’s hard to ignore. I kick a black rock off the road, wondering if I’d already lost everything before I left California, if it was always understood that I’d end up shivering on this highway for no reason. Maybe Ashley never had a chance either, not with Imogen and not with the mountain. Maybe no matter what he did the ending was always the same, alone in a whiteout on the tallest mountain in the world. A man has a certain store of luck and when that runs out he’s finished. They knew that back then, and we haven’t gotten further in all the centuries since.