Charles Snow - Time of Hope

I smiled to myself; on our only other meeting, he had been concerned whether I got enough sleep. He gave me a couple of prescriptions, and then, before I went, a lecture.

He told me, in an uncomfortable, grumbling fashion, that I was taking risks with my health; I was probably not unhealthy, but I was liable to over-respond; I was sympathetotonic; I might live to be eighty if I took care of myself. ‘It’s no use telling you to take care of yourself,’ said Tom Devitt. ‘I know that. You’ll be lucky if you have a comfortable life physically, old chap.’

I thanked him. I was feeling both grateful and relieved, and I wanted him to have a drink with me. He hesitated. ‘No. Not now,’ he said. Then he clapped me on the shoulder. ‘I’m very glad you came. I hope you pull it off. It would be nice to have been some good to you.’

I rejoiced that thought, and, though I had another bout of giddiness next day, I felt much better. Perhaps because of Devitt’s reassurance, the bouts themselves seemed to become less frequent. I read and wrote with the most complete attention that I could screw out of myself. I was confident now that I should last the course.

On the Saturday I travelled out to the farm later than the rest, because I could not spare the afternoon. I had not said much to George about my health. To the little I told him, he was formally sympathetic; but in his heart he thought it all inexplicable and somewhat effeminate.

I was so much heartened that I needed to tell someone the truth, and as soon as I saw Marion among the group I took her aside and asked her to come for a walk. We struck across the fields — in defiance. I headed in the direction of the vicarage — and I remarked that I had kept my promise and gone to a doctor. Then I confessed about my symptoms, and what Devitt had said.

‘I’m very much relieved, I really am,’ cried Marion, ‘Now you must show some sense.’

‘I shall arrive at this examination,’ I said. ‘That’s the main thing.’

‘That’s one thing. But you mustn’t think you can get away with it for ever.’ She nagged me as no one else would have done: I was too wilful, I tried to ride over my illnesses, I was incorrigibly careless of myself.

‘Anyone else would have gone to a doctor months ago,’ she said. ‘That would have spared you a lot of worry — and some of your friends too, I may say. I’m very glad I made you go?’

I could hear those I’s, a little stressed, assertive in the middle of her yearning to heal and soothe and cherish. In all tenderness such as hers, there was the grasp of an ego beneath the balm. I had never romanticised Marion. People said she was good, full of loving-kindness, so free from sentimentality in her unselfish actions that one took from her what one could not from another. Much of that was true. Some of us had generous impulses, but she carried hers out. She never paraded her virtues, nor sacrificed herself unduly. If she enjoyed acting, then she spent her time at it, took and revelled in the applause. She was no hypocrite, and of all of us she did most practical good. And so Jack Cotery and the rest admired her more than any of our friends.

I was very fond of her, and flattered because she was fond of me. Yet I knew that in a sense she was vainer than Sheila, more grasping than myself. I think I liked her more because she needed applause for her tender actions. In my eyes, she was warm, tenacious, tough in her appetite for life, and deep down surprisingly self-centred. It was her lively, self-centred strength that I drew most refreshment from; that and her feeling for me. There was no war inside her, her body and soul were fused and would in the end find fulfilment and happiness. As a result, her company often brought me peace.

She brought me peace that evening (in the lanes I had once walked wet through) in a cool twilight when, behind the lacework of the trees, the sky shone a translucent apple-green. There I confided to her, far more than I had to anyone, of what had happened between me and Sheila. I was too secretive to reveal the depth of my ecstasy, torments, and hope; some of it I wrapped up in mockery and sarcasm; but I gave her a history which, so far as it went, was true. She received it with an interest that was affectionate, greedy, and matter-of-fact. Perversely, so it seemed to me, she did not regard Sheila’s behaviour as particularly out of the ordinary. She domesticated it with a curious, quasi-physical freemasonry, as though she or any other woman might have done the same. She did not consider Sheila either excessively beautiful or strange, just a young woman who was ‘not quite certain what she wanted’. Marion’s concern was directly for me, ‘Yes, it was a pity you ran across her,’ she said. ‘Mind you, I expect you puzzled her as much as she did you — that is, if I know anything about you.’

I was wondering.

‘Still, it’s better for you that it’s over. I’m glad.’

We had turned towards home. The green of the sky was darkening to purple.

‘So you sent her away?’ she said.

‘Yes, I sent her away.’

‘I don’t expect she liked that. But I believe it was right for you.’

In the half-dark I put my arm round her waist. She leaned back, warm and solid, against me. Then, with a recoil of energy, she sprang away.

‘No, my lad. Not yet. Not yet.’ She was laughing.

I protested.

‘Oh no,’ said Marion. ‘I’ve got something to say first. Are you free of Sheila?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ve told you. I’ve parted from her.’

‘That’s not the same,’ said Marion. ‘My dear, I’m serious. You ought to know I’m not a capricious girl. And’, she said, firmly, confidently, reproachfully, ‘you must think of me for once. I’ve given you no reason to treat me badly.’

‘Less than anyone,’ I said.

‘So I want you to be honest. Answer my question again. Are you free of Sheila?’

The first stars were coming out. I saw Marion’s eyes, bright, not sad but vigilant.

I wanted to know her love. But she forced me not to lie. I thought of how I had gone, as though hypnotized, to Tom Devitt, because his life was linked to Sheila’s; I thought of my memories, and of waking at nights from dreams that taunted me. I said ‘Perhaps not quite. But I shall be soon.’

‘That’s honest, anyway,’ Marion said, with anger in her voice. Then she laughed again. ‘Don’t be too long. Then take me out. I’m not risking you on the rebound.’

Decorously, she slipped an arm through mine.

‘We’re going to be late for supper, my lad. Let’s move. We’ll talk of something sensible — like your exam.’

In the late spring, in April and early May, even the harsh red brick of the town seemed softened, The chestnuts flowered along the road to Eden’s house, the lilacs in the gardens outside Martineau’s. I was near the end of my reading, George’s calculations had not been fallible, and I had only two more authorities to master. In the mild spring days I used to take my books to the park, and work there.

But there were times when, sitting on a bench with my notebook, I was distracted. On the breeze, the odour of the blossoms reached me; I ached with longing; I was full of restlessness, of an unnamed hope. Those were the days when I went into the town in the afternoon; I looked into shop windows, stood in bookshops, went up and down the streets, searched among the faces in the crowd; I never visited our usual café, for she did not go there alone, but I had tea in turn in all those where I had known her meet her mother. I did not see her, neither there, nor at the station (I remembered her trains as I did my last page of notes). Was it just chance? Was she deliberately staying at home? Was she helping me to see her no more? I told myself that it was better. In the spring sunshine, I told myself that it was better.