Arthur Paramount had never been to the Derby. On the Tuesday evening he had rung up a friend to ask what he should wear. “Dinner jacket and white tie,” he had been told, and the line promptly disconnected. “Silly ass,” had been his comment, but he had not felt encouraged to enquire further. When morning broke, a grey and misty morning, he stood in irresolute deliberation before the open door of his compactum wardrobe. Which was it to be? A lounge suit, plus fours, or a morning coat? Plus fours would be more comfortable. And plus fours suited him. But if every one else in the party was wearing a silk hat, Melanie might be ashamed of his homburg; a rather ancient homburg it was at that. Which would Melanie prefer? If it were a question of oneself alone it was better to be under- than overdressed. When one was with a girl, however.. . . Perhaps it had better be a morning coat.
He felt satisfied with his decision an hour later as he stood in self-contemplation before his full-length mirror. His coat was new enough to look smart, but not so new as to make it seem that he were dressed for an occasion. His double-breasted blue-grey bow tie spread creaselessly over the wide wings of his collar. He really did look rather well. His appearance gave him an encouraging feeling of self-confidence. Melanie would be less aloof, less unapproachable, perhaps, when she saw how favourably he compared with the other men in the party. Perhaps she would have dinner with him afterwards. He had not suggested anything to her, but he had kept the evening free. Perhaps she would be in a less exacting mood. Why shouldn’t she be, after all? There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her. He had a certain amount of money. He’ld have more when his father died. Why shouldn’t she take him seriously? There were plenty of other girls who’ld be quite ready to.
In a mood of happy optimism he drove southwards from Gower Street, across the park to Brompton Square.
The first sight of Melanie did not intensify that mood. Her features wore a worried look. Her greeting of him was off-hand. She, too, had spent a morning of sartorial deliberation. On the previous evening her father had laughed scornfully when she told him of the visit she had paid to Brooke Street.
“A new frock for the Derby. All you need, my dear, is a fur-lined mackintosh.”
“Daddy, dear!”
“The first of January,” he had maintained, “stands more chance of being fine than tomorrow does.”
“Darling, how absurd, there hasn’t been a cloud in the sky all day.”
“There may not have been a cloud in the sky to-day. There may not be a cloud in the sky on Thursday. But tomorrow you won’t see an inch of sky nor a second’s sun.”
She had laughed at his pessimism, but when that morning the maid had drawn back her bedroom curtains to reveal a grey sky, and spotted windows, she had looked gloomily at the lavender-coloured frock with petalled flounces that she had hung the night before over the back of an arm-chair. It really was not the kind of day for that kind of frock.
“Why don’t you wear that tweed dress, miss? the red and white check one?” the maid suggested. “It’ll be much warmer. And more suitable, really.”
It was the obvious, the sensible suggestion. The check dress would be far more suitable to the occasion and the day. It was additionally an extremely smart dress. At the same time, when you had bought a frock specially for an occasion, you did want to wear the thing. She looked resentfully at the lowering heavens. It wasn’t fair. Really, it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t even as though it were raining properly, as though there were the black clouds and driving rain that would have made the choice of the thin chiffon frock impossible. It was the kind of morning that was as likely to turn out gloriously fine as foully wet.
The weather forecast said “Overcast, some showers.” But only a fool would go by a weather forecast. And besides, what did “Overcast, some showers” mean? Impatiently she paced backwards and forwards across her bedroom floor. If only it would be one thing or the other. Wet or fine. But the minutes passed, becoming quarters, becoming hours; and the sky remained grey, and the window panes here and there were spotted. But the dark clouds and the driving rain were distant. “I shall have to make up my mind soon,” she said. “I’d better toss. Heads it’s the chiffon, tails the check.” The dark coin spun in the air, and fell on the beige pile carpet. She bent forwards. Tails! “Best of three,” she said. Again the coin spun in the air; again she leant forward. Tails! Oh, well, that settled it.
She looked enviously, though at the lavender-coloured frock as she went downstairs. How mad she’ld feel if it turned out fine. When she saw the lad in his butterfly collar, and grey-blue double-breasted waistcoat, the feeling of resentment focussed itself on him. What right had he to be optimistic and doll himself up like that? She hoped that it would rain like blazes and spoil his hat.
“Do you know the way to Ewell?” he asked, as she took her seat beside him.
“Why should I? And why Ewell?”
“Because that’s where we’re all meeting. I suppose. . . let’s see, where are we now? South Kensington. I should think via Croydon was the best way.”
She made no reply. It was his job, not hers, to know the way to Ewell.
“I think it’s this way, anyhow,” he said.
As the car meandered through the crescent-shaped backwaters of West Kensington, she watched the cloud banks thicken. The sight of rain upon the windscreen heartened her. So it was going to rain, after all. The prospect made her feel quite friendly towards the lad. He’ld feel so foolish in that silk hat. She hoped it wouldn’t be too ruined. To console him she broke into an enlivening flow of chatter. It was at random, however, that he answered her. There was a puzzled frown between his eyes. “The old centipede isn’t crawling too well,” he said.
She wasn’t. An excruciating paroxysm shot through her as he changed gears. “I wonder if I’ve enough petrol,” he said. “I’ld better see a garage.”
There was, however, plenty of petrol. The garage man wondered if the carburetter might not be clogged. “That’s what causes more trouble than anything,” he said, as he proceeded to dive into the machine’s anatomy. For ten minutes he displayed a grubby vigour, then, on receipt of a half-crown, expressed a belief that there would be no further difficulty.
“We haven’t too much time,” said the lad. “I’ld better spur her.”
He did. At fifty miles an hour the cumbersome mausoleum shook its way over Clapham Common towards the Croydon by-pass. “We’ll be there in half an hour,” he said.
He had counted, however, without the Epsom traffic. Swinging out of the by-pass into the main road he found himself enrolled in a twelve-mile long procession that crawled wheel to wheel down the revolving country lane. For a mile, at twelve miles an hour, the centipede pressed upon the heels of a charabanc. Then the lad stepped on the accelerator. “Got to get out of this,” he said, and swinging outwards to the right, he rushed down the unoccupied section of the road, passing with proud disdain Morrises, Rolls-Royces and Austin Sevens. “Not so bad,” he murmured, “not so bad.” At that moment a large horse van appeared from the opposite direction. “Better cut back in,” he said.
You cannot, however, cut back into what amounts to a solid tube of metal. He sought desperately for a gap. But there was nowhere a two-yard gap between the tail lights of one car and the buffers of the next. The horse van drew closer every moment. Twenty yards, ten yards, five yards. On a crescendo of cacophony, Paramount applied the brakes.
“Now, what the hell. . .” began the driver of the van, continuing on a flood of unstemmed oratory while the procession of charabancs and buses and Morris-Cowleys flowed slowly towards the downs.
“The best thing you can do,” the driver concluded, “is to back that thing of yours till you find a side road that you can turn up, and let me pass.” He spoke with the authority of one who has the law upon his side.
Ignominiously, yard by yard, the lad retreated towards Clapham. The centipede was not easy to handle in reverse. The progress was slow and hazardous. The lad’s face was flushed and worried. A trickle of sweat ran down his face, soiling the wings of his collar. His tie had swivelled to a thirty-degree angle. His coat sleeve had rucked about his cuff. For the first time that day a shaft of sunlight filtered through a sky of cloud. Its warmth struck exasperatingly across Melanie’s left cheek. “It’s going to be fine, after all,” she thought, and her eyes rested morosely upon the lad’s unhappy splendour.
“I don’t think we’ll try that again,” he said, as some ten minutes later he contrived to enfilade the stream of traffic out of the side road into which he had backed. “Still, we ought to be able to make it in twenty minutes even so,” he said.
He had counted without Derby Day police arrangements.
“I want,” he said, as he drove into the Ewell main street, “to find Andervale Road.”
The policeman who was separating light from heavy traffic shook his head. “Sorry, sir, I don’t know this part of the world. I’m only down here for the day.”
“But it’s only a couple of miles to Ewell.”
“Daresay, sir, but I’ve never been within a couple of miles of Ewell in my life before. I’m here to direct the Epsom traffic.”
“Then what am I to do?”
There was a blank look on the lad’s face. From behind him the driver of a charabanc and his five and twenty charges were exhorting him to get a move on.
“Now come along, sir,” said the policeman, ‘you’re holding the entire road up.”
“But I don’t know where to go.”
The policeman had one concern only. That was to get his own particular piece of roadway cleared.
“There’s another fellow at the next corner,” he said. “He’ll probably be able to help you. He’s been about a lot.”
The policeman at the next corner was impressive with experience. “Andervale Road, sir? Yes, sir, second on the right, and over the railway bridge.”
The lad sighed with relief, took the second on the right, drove three miles down it and passed no bridge.
“I wonder if this is right,” he said. There was she said. “I haven’t thought. I haven’t looked ahead.”
Which one didn’t, Julia thought. One couldn’t. There was a timeless, an eternal quality to love. You could not think of love in terms of time; in terms of the things that belonged to time: prudence, careers, a well-planned future. You ran blindfolded into love, and it was worth it probably. You had those moments. And afterwards. . . well, you had had those moments. You could settle the price you had to pay for them. People talked about the world being lost for love. But there was no need to be so dramatic nowadays. You didn’t lose the world, you just put it in a cloakroom and if you left it there too long you had to pay extra on the ticket when you went to claim it. But it stayed there safely enough. One didn’t take inevitable steps: the most you did was to mislay your ticket.
“It’s curious,” Jean said, “what a difference there is between the way one plans one’s life, and the way one lives it. I never meant anything like this to happen. And now that it is happening this way, I just don’t care. I don’t feel it matters. Do you think it does?”
Julia shook her head; realising as she did how differently she would have felt, how differently she would have spoken had it been Melanie and not Jean who had put that question to her. If Melanie had talked to her like that she would have pictured to herself all that might have arisen from such a friendship, from such a line of action. One was always a coward where one’s family, where the people one the centipede, correctly directed at last, swung out of Ewell.
The lad had the sagacity to answer indirectly.
“People are always late for this kind of thing. Mander may have asked us for half-past ten. But I don’t suppose that he expected us before eleven.”