by Alec Waugh
‘What’s that?’ she asked.
‘A series of medieval plays that have been adapted for today. It tells the story of the world from the creation. To the day of judgment. I’ve been told that it’s rather good.’
‘It sounds interesting.’
‘Why don’t we go to it?’ he said.
‘How could we, we’ve got work to do?’
‘Have we? Perhaps we have, but I’ve done enough of mine. Surely you’ve done enough of yours?’
She stared at him astonished. That was one of the things about the English that surprised her. They were so punctilious, so correct: then suddenly they could behave as though there were no laws at all: like Nelson putting his telescope to his blind eye.
‘Have you any special appointments this afternoon?’ he asked.
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Then there’s no reason, is there, why you shouldn’t clear your desk and come along.’
‘I suppose there isn’t.’
‘Then I’ll sit here and wait for you.’
She got back at her office at quarter to two. Grace was not back yet. Nor was Mrs. Parfitt. She wrote on a sheet of paper. ‘Something has cropped up. Please forgive me. And make my peace with Lucy.’ This isn’t like me, she thought.
The plays were shown in an open theatre in the round. It was all very colourful, a great deal of care had been devoted to the costumes. It was dramatically presented. They saw Lazarus rising from the tomb, having his winding cloth stripped away. They saw Judas plotting the betrayal.
‘Don’t you feel guilty, at all?’ she asked.
‘Why should I?’
‘Neglecting your work.’
‘I worked this morning. It was honorary work, just like yours. I wasn’t paid to do it. Any more than you were.’
‘All the same …’ She had a sense of duty. ‘Someone might have come in this afternoon. Somebody needing help and you not there!’
‘That isn’t quite what you meant, is it?’
‘No, not exactly.’
‘In that case then …’ He looked at her quizzically. There was a mocking expression on his face. ‘What is it then?’ he said.
‘I don’t know. A sort of instinct. As though we were running a risk deliberately.’
‘I wonder if you’ve any idea how terribly nice you are,’ he said.
They sat in silence. ‘Shall I tell you how I feel?’ she said.
‘You tell me how you feel.’
‘I feel as I did in Naples, as a little girl, when I used to run down to the end of the garden and watch the bombs bursting over Naples. I was both frightened and excited. I was doing something dangerous; something that I shouldn’t be doing, but that I was glad that I was doing it. That’s how I’m feeling now.’
He laughed.
‘Watching the local auctioneer driving the money changers out of the temple, I’d hardly call that dangerous.’
‘Don’t laugh at me,’ she said.
‘I wasn’t. Making fun’s my way of not laughing. I take you very seriously.’
They reached the station at twenty minutes to six. The refreshment room was empty. ‘Three weeks ago,’ he said, ‘it was so crowded. Those school children and those tourists.’
‘Only three weeks ago: is that all it is? It seems two centuries.’
‘Three weeks ago we didn’t know each other. And here we are now, playing hookey.’
She laughed. ‘Playing hookey. You mustn’t say that. It’s very old fashioned. Children say “bunking off” nowadays.’
‘I don’t know what children say. I haven’t got any.’
‘Do you wish you had?’
‘Sometimes; as I suppose there are times when you wish you hadn’t.’
‘Do I? Yes, I suppose there must be. No, I don’t think there are. I like my life the way it is. The children are so much a part of it; so much the heart of it. I can’t imagine life without them. It’s …’ She paused.
‘You like your life the way it is,’ he said.
‘Naturally … of course … If I didn’t I wouldn’t lead it. I’d …’ She checked.
There was a pause. For the first time she felt embarrassed with him. She looked away. The pause lengthened. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
‘Nothing, nothing. Why should there be?’
‘You suddenly seemed to go a long way away.’
‘Did I? I didn’t mean to. It’s …’
The station announcer’s voice rang out: ‘The train now approaching the station is the boat train express.’
‘So soon,’ she said. ‘So soon.’
Again there was that awkward silence.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m very sorry.’
‘There’s nothing to be sorry for.’
‘Oh, but there is, there is … I didn’t mean to be disagreeable …’
‘You weren’t disagreeable. You couldn’t be.’
‘But I was. It’s one thing to close a window, quite another to slam it down upon your fingers.’
‘You’ve no idea how terribly nice you are.’
‘You said something like that before.’
‘I wasn’t sure that you had heard it.’
This is ridiculous, she thought. The most ridiculous conversation. But no, it isn’t. We know what we are really saying, behind our words. What is ridiculous is that we should be meeting for these stolen minutes; with that station announcer’s voice interrupting us every second. Ah, there it goes. His train now; another two minutes and it’ll be gone; and we shall be steaming out in different directions. We are so close together now, then those two trains will be drawing us apart.
‘You’ve got to go,’ she said. ‘You’ll miss your train.’
‘But we’ll meet again.’
‘Of course, of course … you and your wife must come to dinner … I was speaking to Graham about it. I’ll bring my diary next week.’
‘Please, please …’
‘And you must bring your diary too. Now, hurry, hurry.’
She stood up. She crossed on to the platform. ‘It’s coming. I can see your train coming. Don’t wait, it’ll be all right. Next week, of course, it will.’
She walked towards the subway. He caught her up. ‘Go,’ she said, ‘go.’
She lifted her hand. She pushed him. ‘Go,’ she said, ‘go’
He took her hand. He raised it to his mouth. His lips were very soft. She opened her mouth. But she could not speak. ‘It’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘It’ll be all right.’
He turned towards the subway. He began to run. He did not turn to wave. His feet, his knees, his shoulders, one by one they went. His head. He was out of sight. ‘The train now approaching Station 1 is the 18.21 for Shenley, Eastleigh and Southampton.’
Into which carriage was he mounting? Did he travel first class. She had forgotten to notice the first time. She had just seen him in his corner seat and he had waved at her. She began to run down the platform. It was too late. Here was her train coming in, interposing itself between his and hers. As she got into her compartment, his train drew out. Carriage after carriage went by; the last coach but one; the last. And she was staring at an empty platform.
A small group of passengers was moving to the subway. A porter was piling some luggage on a trolley. A whistle blew. Her train started to move. She had forgotten to buy an evening paper. There were only two other passengers. One of them had a portable radio. ‘Do you mind if I turn it on?’ he asked.
‘Of course not, of course not.’
‘It’s the last minutes of the Kent and Surrey match. The championship may depend on it. Ten minutes for play. That should be three more overs. If these two can play out time tonight, Surrey should be able to get the runs tomorrow. This is one of the most exciting matches of the summer at the Oval.’
It was strange to realize how much else had been happening that afternoon, in other places.
Anna returned to find the boys and their father playing the
stock exchange game on the floor. It was unusual for a new game to hold their interest for so long.
‘I’m a bull this time, Alistair’s a bear,’ Dominic informed her.
‘Hi, there you are,’ said Graham. ‘Dolly Messitor’s just rung up. She said she saw you at some mystery play this afternoon.’
‘Did she ring up to tell you that?’
‘No, no, there’s a problem about a right of way. She wanted a bit of free legal advice and tried to disguise it as a social call.’ He turned back to the game. ‘I’d buy sugar if I were you,’ he said to Dominic. ‘I shall bid for copper.’
Alistair objected. ‘Don’t help him. You’re not to help him.’
Anna watched the game. Graham had his back to her.
Damn Dolly Messitor, she thought. The worst person in the world to have been there this afternoon. How much had she seen. Where had she been sitting. Had she noticed ‘her doctor’. Her neighbour with a stranger. Would Dolly have realized that she was with the doctor? They might have gone in separately. Why shouldn’t they? One usually talked to the person one sat next to, or didn’t one at that kind of show. How much in point of fact had they talked together?
‘Well, that’s the end of that session,’ Alistair said. ‘Let’s work out the score. Bet you I’m ahead.’
‘Mind you add it up right.’
‘I will. I will.’
Graham turned round looking up at her. His face wore a puzzled expression. Here it comes, thought Anna. How big a lie shall I have to tell.
‘Were you at that play this afternoon?’ he asked.
‘I was.’
‘When Dolly told me that you were, I said you couldn’t have: that you were working in the afternoon. She said she wasn’t sure that it was you.’
‘It was. I hadn’t too much on this afternoon. I happened to look in.’
‘I see.’
‘I’m seven points up,’ Alistair was asserting.
‘Let’s have a revenge,’ said Dominic.
‘O.K. but only one,’ said Graham.
He turned back his attention to the game.
‘I’ve got away with it,’ Anna thought. ‘Luck was on my side. I might not another time. I must be on my guard. I must take this as a warning.’
She had read in a novel that there was a point in a love affair where you could draw back. That point once passed, you couldn’t. Was this that point? ‘I’ll be right back,’ she said.
She telephoned from her bedroom. ‘Lucy,’ she said, ‘this is Anna. I’m sorry about this afternoon. Something cropped up and I couldn’t let you know. I hope nothing happened; well, that’s a relief. But I do feel guilty. And there’s another thing. I’m desperately sorry but I’m afraid I shan’t be able to come into the Bureau next week, well anyhow not on Wednesday. I might be able to manage some other day … Yes, I know it’s very inconvenient, for you. But next Wednesday I have to be here at home. I’ll make it up later. I promise you that I will. Oh, Lucy, you’re an angel. Thank you so much, thank you so very much.’ And that is that, she told herself, as she hung up.
VIII
It started to rain on the Friday soon after tea. By the time Graham got back from his office, it was a steady downpour.
‘Not much chance of cricket tomorrow,’ Anna said.
‘You can never tell. It may clear up.’
The match was against Dunston, a village a couple of miles west of Beaulieu. It was one of the more popular fixtures mainly because the ground was overlooked by a pub with a shaded garden, from which the last hour of the game could be watched. No one minded losing the toss at Dunston. It was very pleasant when the bar was opened, and your own innings finished to sit there against the wall with a tankard beside you, to cheer your side home to victory. It was an unwritten rule that no one went to the garden until he was out. Till then he stayed in the pavilion. But no one was in a hurry to get out. Everyone wanted to earn his pint. ‘And I’m going to earn mine tomorrow,’ Graham said.
Anna awoke, however, to a grey sky with the curtains drawn and Graham standing in the window.
‘The omens are bad,’ he said. ‘Still, you know what the farmers say, “Rain before seven. Clear before eleven.”’
Anna got up, and stood beside him. ‘From the look of those puddles in the drive, I should say that it had been raining all the night.’
‘I’d say that too.’
‘What a climate.’
‘We don’t have a climate. We have weather.’
I wonder what my doctor’s saying to himself, thought Anna. The thought sent a twinge along her nerves, a twinge of guilt. Was he saying to himself: ‘Well, never mind about today. I’ll be seeing her on Wednesday. If it rains on Wednesday, I’ll be relieved. I’ll borrow one of the clinic cars and drive her to the George and Dragon.’ Would it be a very great disappointment to him to drive round to the Bureau and not find her there. Would he feel very cheated. How much had these meetings meant to him? You could never tell with men—or at least you could never tell with Englishmen. They had so many reserves, so many masculine alibis. They knew how to shrug things off, particularly where women were concerned. That’s how women are, they’d say.
Is that how it would be? Or would he be hurt, rather deeply hurt. How much was he looking forward to that lunch together? There was all the difference in the world between sharing a packet of sandwiches in an office and facing one another in a restaurant, with a neatly set up table and a trim waitress presenting you with a menu: with all those dishes to choose from; and if you ordered a white wine knowing that it would be properly chilled. There was a special intimacy about meals in restaurants. At least that is what she had been always told. What did she know about it? She had never had a meal alone in a restaurant with anyone but Graham. It was ridiculous but there it was. The scugnizzi had hunted in packs. She had flirted with boys, of course, in the backs of cars, and in the grass on picnics, but she had never had a meal alone with a young man.
That was what had made her first dates with Graham so romantic. To be sitting beside a good-looking young man at a banquette table: to be sipping at a glass of wine, to feel its warmth mounting along her veins, to note the growing eagerness in his manner. How happy and proud she had been that it was being the first time for her. Something he would never suspect. He had no doubt thought her very sophisticated and experienced. An Italian, a Southern Italian at that.
And then the first time that he had put his hand over hers. It was ridiculous that it should have been the first time for her. But how much more it had meant to her because it had been the first time, and that first time had been with the man who was to become her husband; was the first man who had touched both her heart and senses. What luck for her, that that was how things turned out. It had been a greater romance, a more complete romance, than she had dared to hope for herself, when she and her scugnizzi comrades had exchanged confidences and dreams.
What would she have thought had she been told that in seventeen years she would not have had another meal alone with a man who was attracted by her. Presumably she would have been delighted. Why should she want to be alone with any man but Graham. She wanted her entire life to be built round him, devoted to him, as his would be to her. When you are falling in love, when you were getting engaged to be married, you did not have side thoughts about other men.
Was it surprising that in the course of seventeen years of marriage she had never had thoughts about, any impulses towards, other men? She did not think it was. She had a full and happy life, with her home and Graham and her children. She liked being married. Love: was she in love with Graham still? There was so much talk about love, about falling into it and out of it and of how certain sides of it died out in marriage. But the things she read about love in novels bore little relation to her own experience. She had never felt as nine-tenths of the heroines in novels seemed to feel. All this talk of the world being well lost for love. There never had been any question in her case of the world being well lost for it
. It had been natural for her at the age of twenty to find herself attracted by a handsome young man who was attracted to her. She had been relieved, if not unsurprised, to realize that his intentions were ‘honourable’. There was no particular reason why they should have been. The young men of the day did not think primarily in terms of marriage. They believed in trial marriages: so did young women for the most part. If such had been Graham’s idea, she did not suppose that she would have put up too strenuous a resistance; but she was glad that that particular problem was not hers. She was grateful, and she was touched. She must mean more to him than she had suspected. It gave her a new pride in herself. I’ll prove to him that he wasn’t wrong. He thinks I’m special. I’ll show him that I am special; better than any of the others whom he had not talked to about marriage. For there must have been others, several others. He was 26. There would be something peculiar about the man who hadn’t had ‘affairs’ by that time, and there wasn’t anything peculiar about him. He was a straightforward healthy Englishman who no one would ever think of sending to a psychiatrist. A straightforward natural young man just as she was, in her own opinion, a straightforward natural girl.
She had expected to enjoy her honeymoon, and she did. She liked making love with him and it was very clear that he liked making love with her. You’re the tops, he told her. I’m glad that there were one or two others first, just so that I can appreciate how utterly you are the tops.
She never asked him about those others. She was not inquisitive about them. He had wanted to marry her; he had not wanted to marry them. That was enough for her. She was not because of those others, jealous of him now. If he was happy making love to her, why should he want to make love to anybody else? He had experimented in the past and she apparently was what he wanted. Why should she be jealous on account of that past of his? If he didn’t want to experiment now why should she.
She had read in novels about that side of life dying out in marriage, propinquity and use and want; all that kind of thing. But that had not been her experience. Marriage was not like a honeymoon. You had so many chores. You were often tired at the end of the day. There were children about the place. The opportunities of making love in the afternoon were not all that frequent. But there were the holidays together; there were the weekends away. If you were ready to take—or even deliberately to make opportunities, they were there all right. No, it didn’t seem surprising to her that in seventeen years of marriage, she should never once have had a meal alone with a man whom she found attractive. And now that such an opportunity had come to her, she was avoiding it. She was playing for safety.