James Hilton: Collected Novels

by James Hilton

  She took his arm as he unlatched the gate that led through an avenue of hollyhocks to the cottage. It was small and four-square, with windows on either side of the front door; at one side of the porch a board announced “Good Accommodation for Cyclists.” The woman who had given him the cider led them smilingly into a room that opened off the flagged lobby; it was evidently the parlor, crowded with old-fashioned furniture, pictures, and photographs. A yellow piano with a fretwork front lined with faded silk occupied most of one wall; an oval mahogany table stood in the center. The single window was tightly closed, yet the room smelt fresh and pleasant. He opened the piano and struck a few of the yellow keys; the strings twanged almost inaudibly. Inside the closed space of the room they felt embarrassed to begin a conversation, especially while the woman kept chattering in and out as she prepared the table. She told them her name was Mrs. Deventer and that her husband had been a sailor, so badly injured at Jutland, poor man, it was a mercy he died. “But there, there, that’s all over now and never no more, as the saying is. … You’ll take some nice ripe tomatoes with your beef, perhaps, sir? And how about a drop of something to drink—there’s my own cider but if you’d prefer anything else my girl can run over to the Reindeer and fetch it. … ’Tain’t far, you know—nothing’s very far in the village—that’s what I always feel when I go into Chelt’nam—that’s our nearest town, you know—I go there once a year, or maybe twice—it’s a wonderful place, but my, it does so make you tired walking through all them streets—we ain’t got only the one street here, and that’s plenty when you’re gettin’ old. …”

  She talked and talked, bringing in everything she could think of till the table was crowded with tomatoes, lettuce, cheese, a huge loaf of bread, a pot of tea in case they wanted it, and a jar of chutney, her own special make. At length there could not possibly be anything else to bring in, and she left them reluctantly, with a slow smile from the doorway.

  He said: “Well?”

  “Well, Smithy?”

  “You look thoughtful, that’s all.”

  “Darling, I was just wondering what you had against me.”

  But the door opened again—Mrs. Deventer bringing in a lighted lamp. “I thought you’d maybe want it. Longest day of the year, round about, but it still gets dark. … Maybe you’ll be stayin’ the night? You’ve missed the last train either way by now, I suppose you know that. Of course there’s rooms at the Reindeer, but mine’s as good, I always say, and cheaper too.”

  The yellow lamplight glowed between their faces after she had gone.

  “Possessive woman,” he remarked. “My cider, my girl, my chutney, my rooms.”

  “Room, she said. Didn’t you see the notice outside—‘Good Accommodation for Cyclists’? But I don’t suppose one has to be a cyclist.”

  He said, after a pause: “I don’t know why you should wonder about me like that. How could I have anything against you? Except for the same reason that I couldn’t.”

  “Too subtle, darling, unless you tell me what the reason is.”

  “I love you.”

  Her voice leapt to the reply: “Smithy, you do? You do really? I’ve loved you ever since I first set eyes on you—as soon as I saw you in that shop I thought—there’s my man. Because I’m possessive too—my man, my chutney, my room—all mine.” And suddenly she took his hand and leaned down with her cheek close to it. “I could have killed you, though, while you lay on top of that hill, fast asleep. Killed you. … Oh, God, I’m so happy. … What’s the name of this place?”

  “Beachings Over.”

  “Beachings Over. … I’ll get us from that—forever. Remember the game you used to play with names?”

  Later, in a room so consecrated to cyclism that even the pictures were of groups of pioneer freewheelers, he asked her if—when he had fully recovered—if he did fully recover, of course—and if he found a job that could support them both—if and when all those things happened—would she marry him?

  She said she would, of course, but without the delay. “I think it’s only two weeks they make you wait.”

  “But—” He seemed bewildered by her having stolen, as usual, the initiative. Then he said, slowly and with difficulty: “I’m not right yet. I’m not even as near to it as I thought I was. For half an hour last night I felt the return of everything bad again—black—terrifying. I’m better now, but less confident.”

  She said she didn’t mind, she would look after him, because she had just as much confidence as ever.

  “And there’s another thing—”

  “Another, Smithy?” She was trying to mock him out of his mood.

  “Wouldn’t they ask me a lot of questions at the registry office?”

  “You mean questions about yourself that you couldn’t answer?”

  “Yes.”

  “They might ask you one question never have—and that is if you’ve been married before.”

  “Of course I haven’t.”

  “How can you be certain, old boy, with that awful memory of yours?”

  He pondered to himself—yes, how could he be certain? He hadn’t any logical answer, and yet he felt fairly certain. When people had visited him in those hospitals, relatives of missing men who hoped he might turn out to be someone belonging to them, he had similar hopes, but only of finding a home, parents—never a wife. Did that prove anything? She watched the look on his face, then added with a laugh: “Don’t worry—I’ll take a chance on it if you will.”

  Eventually it was agreed that they should go to Polesby the next day, announce their plans to the company, and ask for a few weeks’ holiday. She was sure Margesson would agree, if they approached him fairly and squarely; he liked both of them, and the slack season was on. They rose early and took a walk to the end of the village, discussing a future of which Beachings Over seemed already to have become a part. “Oh, Smithy, isn’t it beautiful? I didn’t see it like this yesterday—I was so worried about finding you—but it’s just the sort of place I’ve always dreamed of. I know that’s sentimental—but stage people are—they love the sweet little cottage idea, though most of them would be bored to death if they ever got one—mercifully they don’t, as a rule—they either die in the poorhouse or save enough to buy a pub on the Brighton Road. …”

  She chattered on, and soon it was time to walk back to the cottage for Mrs. Deventer’s excellent breakfast, pay their bill, and assure her they would return soon for a longer stay. The old lady was delighted, keeping up the farewell greetings all the way down the avenue of hollyhocks to the front gate. By the time they passed the post office the morning papers were just being unloaded; Smith bought one and scanned the front page during the mile-long tramp to the railway station. Mostly about Brown and Alcock, he told her, summarizing the newly announced details of the first Atlantic flight in history. Not till they were settled in the train did she glance at the paper herself. Then, after a few moments’ desultory reading, she looked up with a suddenly changed expression. “Smithy!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t want it to come as a shock to you, but there’s something here that looks as if—” she hesitated and then gave a short laugh—“as if they can’t come up to you … for being crazy.”

  “Who can’t?”

  “Brown and Alcock.”

  “But I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Better read this—and don’t let it upset you—probably it’s not anything serious.”

  She handed him the paper, pointing to a small paragraph on an inside page. It was headed “Assault under Viaduct—Fulverton Man Injured,” and ran:—

  That he was assaulted by an unknown man was the story told to the Fulverton police last night by Thomas Atwill, railway policeman, who was found unconscious under the Marshall Street viaduct at a late hour. Taken to the Cottage Hospital, Atwill stated that he had been on plain-clothes duty to prevent pedestrians from using the footpath under the viaduct, it being necessary to do this for one day each y
ear in order to preserve the company’s legal title to the right of way. Shortly after nine o’clock a man endeavored to break through the temporary barrier erected for this purpose, and when Atwill sought to remonstrate with him, he received a severe blow on the head. Describing his assailant as young, rather tall, and clean-shaven, Atwill said he was a gentleman, not a “rough.” The police are investigating the unexplained disappearance of a member of a local theatrical touring company.

  He put aside the paper, stared at her for a moment, then let his head fall slowly into his hands. When he looked up he was very pale. The train was stopping at Worling, where a crowd of farm workers waited on the platform. She had only time to say: “Darling, if anyone gets in, don’t look like that.”

  Nobody got in, and his controlled features relaxed.

  “Oh, Smithy … you don’t remember?”

  “I remember jumping over—it wasn’t a barrier—just a rope. And if I hit the fellow, it was accidental—a push that made him fall, maybe with his head on the pavement—I didn’t look back, I was running.” He added, leaning forward with both hands on her knees: “I do want you to know that I’m not a homicidal maniac rushing about committing crimes and then forgetting about them. When I said that last night for half an hour I felt the return of all the bad things, I meant things in my own mind—fears that I had to fight down … but they were in my own mind, and I did fight them down, I never lost control. I want you to believe that—no matter who else disbelieves it.”

  “I believe it, Smithy. But there are—as you say—people who wouldn’t.”

  “I know that.”

  “We mustn’t go to Polesby.”

  “I mustn’t. You can. You’re in no danger—on your own.” He cried out, with sharp bitterness: “Perhaps you’ll stay clear of me after this.”

  Ignoring that, she said: “Probably the man isn’t seriously injured if he recovered consciousness so soon—”

  “You don’t need to comfort me.”

  “But it’s true—the whole thing’ll blow over if he’s not badly hurt—and also if we don’t go to Polesby. London’s a better idea. If we change at Saxham we can get a London train from there. We’ll find somewhere to stay—where no one will know who we are. London’s the best place for that. We both have enough money to last for a time.”

  “But what about you—your job? They’ll expect you at Polesby tonight. They’ll know we’re together.”

  “They’d be fools not to know that, anyway. I swore I’d never come back unless I brought you with me. … Darling, don’t look so anxious. I believe you. This is just bad luck—it somehow doesn’t count. …” She took his troubled head in her arms and rocked it gently against her. “I can’t help laughing, though, at one thing.” She picked up the paper and reread, crooningly, as to a child: “ ‘Atwill said he was a gentleman, not a rough.’ That’s you all over, Smithy—I always said so.”

  They left the train at Saxham, but had just missed the best London train of the day; four hours to wait for the next. The interval was pleasantly spent in strolling about the ancient town. The second London train came in late, and they were told to change again at Santley Junction—“but it all helps,” she said, “if anyone were trying to follow us.” They reached Santley towards dusk and had to cross a platform crowded with waiting passengers. When the next train came in, also late, it was already so full that only tussling and scrimmaging could make further room; but eventually this was accomplished and they found themselves in a compartment occupied by an uncountable number of shouting children, all in nominal charge of an elderly, shabby, but bright-eyed clergyman who gestured apologies for his own inability to subdue the din. “It’s been their great day,” he explained, forcing a way for the newcomers. Then he helped them, quite unnecessarily, to put up their bags and parcels on the rack, adding with a smile: “Not hostile—only heedless.” As soon as the train restarted the children shouted with renewed abandon, leaning out of the windows, jumping on the seats, breaking into song choruses that were taken up by other children in adjacent compartments until the whole train, nearing London, became one long pandemonium streaking through suburb after suburb, over bridges across blazing highways, through smoke-filled tunnels, past rows of back gardens from which shirt-sleeved householders watering their flowers looked up to wave good-humoredly, alongside commons where lovers did not stir as the sudden crescendo engulfed them. At short range, however, it was harder to ignore, a sheer wall of sound behind which three adults, lips to ear and then ear to lips, could only contrive an intermittent mouthing of words.

  “It’s their annual outing,” said the parson, still feeling some need to apologize. “We aim at discipline but—” He gave a little wrinkled smile.

  Smith nodded, and Paula, from the other side, whispered loudly in his ear: “If this bothers you, let’s get out at the next station and find another compartment.”

  “No, no, it’s all right.”

  And later, from the parson: “I hope you don’t find their high spirits too exhausting.”

  “They don’t, evidently,” she answered.

  “I know—amazing, isn’t it? Don’t believe I ever shouted like that when I was a boy. Terrific!”

  “Good thing you keep a sense of humor about it.”

  “Oh yes. I don’t mind the row so much, but I’m scared when they lean out like that—I’ve warned them over and over again but I can’t make them listen.”

  Smith suddenly intervened: “Do you think I could? Perhaps coming from someone else—a stranger? … Now boys, supposing you stand away from those windows!”

  The different voice, pitched over the wall of sound, somehow reached its goal; the swarming clusters turned, sharply disconcerted, nonplused, ready for rebellion but sensing control; then the different voice continued, releasing them a little: “That’s right, sit down—plenty of room for all of us. What about another song?”

  From further along the train came the chorus of “Keep the Home Fires Burning”; they joined in it, one by one, a gradual deafening surrender, while the stations flashed by more frequently and the suburbs merged into the slums. She whispered in his ear exultantly: “Smithy, how marvelous! And to think I was afraid they were bothering you!”

  The parson was also pleased. “I really am extremely obliged to you, sir.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Astonishing!”

  “Just as much to me, I assure you. I didn’t know I could deal with ’em,”

  “You must have a knack. … I haven’t any—with children. You’re going to London?”

  “Yes.”

  “In a great hurry when you arrive?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “I wonder whether you could spare, then—say five minutes? I always have trouble with them at railway stations, and the Mission’s only across the street. If you would …”

  “Certainly—if I can. The magic may not work the second rime.”

  “Let’s have faith that it will.”

  At the terminus it was as if the whole train burst open, a human explosion on to the platform, yells and hangings of doors while the parson watched Smith bring gradual order out of the chaos. Then began the slow marshaling of two hundred youngsters into line, their realization that a new personality was in command, and their acceptance of the inevitable—truculent at first, then indifferent, finally quite cheerful. But the operation took considerably more than five minutes; it was over a quarter of an hour before the children had all been escorted through the busy station precincts to a side street whence they could be safely dismissed to their homes.

  The parson stood beaming on the pavement. “I really cannot express my gratitude. I hope you haven’t been too much delayed.”

  “Oh no.”

  “You mean you had no plans for—the evening?”

  “Well—er—nothing special.”

  “Then I wonder—if you really have nothing else to do—it would give me great pleasure if you’d both dine with me—”
<
br />   It was Paula who answered, in the instant way in which she decided everything: “Why, yes, we’d be glad.”

  The parson wrinkled another smile and began fumbling his way through a passage running by the side of the Mission building into an unkempt garden; beyond it stood a large ugly soot-black three-story house. He unlocked the front door, admitting them into a lofty hallway totally unfurnished down to the bare boards of the floor. “I don’t think names are at all important,” he said, ushering them further into a room, “but mine is Blampied.”

  “Smith,” said Paula.

  He offered them chairs, following their glances round the room with a perverse pride. “Isn’t this a terrible house? It was built in 1846, when parsons were supposed to live in style. Twenty rooms—I only use five. Kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, this, and my housekeeper’s. This is the best. We live in squalor punctuated by small simple meals of excellent quality—onion soup tonight, if you happen to like it.”

  Meanwhile an elderly gaunt-faced woman was preparing the table, showing neither surprise nor any other emotion at the presence of guests, and needing no instructions from the parson. Presently the three were sitting down before big bowls of the soup; there was nothing else but cheese, he warned them, but they could have more soup if they wanted. It was so good that they did, and asked for it with enthusiasm. Meanwhile the parson chattered on, a cordial increasingly inquisitive host.

  “You two people have much further to go?”

  Smith said: “No, not very far.”

  “You live here in London?”

  “Er … yes.”

  “Don’t let me keep you, but don’t go till you want to.”

  She said: “Oh, there’s plenty of time.” It was as if she were reluctant to leave.

  “Yes, the buses and trams run late. I expect you can get to your home that way.”

  “I—I think so.”

  “You only think so?”

  “Matter of fact, we haven’t got a home—yet. We’ve got to look for one.”

  Smith flashed her a warning glance, but she went on: “I don’t suppose it’ll be very hard.”