by Nina Bawden
She listened to his kind, emphatic voice. There was good sense in it, and a corroding gentleness. She was lulled, almost persuaded and then she suddenly saw what he was doing—saw the whole marvellous machinery of that kind of life, geared to take Martin in on the production line, smooth him, polish him, finish him, coax him along with prizes and silver cups and awards for gallantry, only to present him at the end with nothing but an unattainable dream. The kind of dream that had flowered for Johnny just once, perhaps, high in the sky above the Mohne dam; a dream of courage and high endeavour that withered, in the end, in the presence of a world that neither understood nor wanted it; a dream that had whispered once more, she hoped—hoped with all her heart—in those seconds before he crashed into the quarry, face to face, at the last, with a situation that could use his capacity for sacrifice.
‘No,’ she said. ‘No, Lester. You’re very kind. I…’
But there was nothing she could say. She left it there.
He thought her pig-headed, a fool. She could see the consciousness dawning, during the rest of the train journey, of how she had always irritated him. They parted at the station, shaking hands, expressing good will. Lester went off to his club to dine alone, drink a good brandy with a friend after dinner, smoke a cigar. It was unlikely that they would ever be alone together again and his relief was apparent in his quick, aggressive stride as he walked away from her into a tobacconist’s shop to buy a box of Havanas, a pipe—perhaps only a re-fill for his lighter.
She watched him until he disappeared into the shop and then walked slowly towards the tube station. She felt lonely, insecure, and that she had behaved foolishly for no reason except a wishy-washy kind of principle that had its foundation only in an emotional desire to drive out her own terrible sense of failure. Then, gradually, as she walked, she became conscious of her body, of its straight, sturdy strength planted firmly on the balls of her feet. She breathed deeply, holding herself very upright, and began to walk more quickly. By the time she came to the tube station, she was almost running. She did run down the stairs.
Copyright
First published in 1961 by Longmans
This edition published 2012 by Bello an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR Basingstoke and Oxford Associated companies throughout the world
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ISBN 978-1-4472-3610-8 EPUB
ISBN 978-1-4472-3609-2 POD
Copyright © Nina Bawden, 1961
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