I
It was early morning, the time of the mind’s release from imprisonment. Ralph woke with a sense of lightness, a joy, in existence undisturbed by memory. The sensation was pleasant, and when he became aware of the faint tick of the clock on the bedside table he did not turn his head to look at the illuminated dial. He wanted to prolong this moment when all bonds were loosed, and—although he would not consciously have admitted the wish— when he was free of involvement with the rest of the human race.
It was so very still. He could not remember when it had last been so still in this clamorous neighbourhood. It was as though something strange and wonderful had happened out there beyond the drawn curtains. His heart rose to the old lure of a magical expectancy. But emotion, as usual, broke the spell and he became aware that there was a harshness in his throat. He realized that fog was responsible for this paralysed stillness. What a miserable drab reality is! he thought wryly. Beside him, Myra, his wife, moved her head uneasily in the hollow of the pillow.
Now he did look at the clock. Just after six. But there was something the clock did not tell him. This was Saturday: the Saturday. The morning sweetness had not been entirely illusory, after all. In the breathless calm of the house he could prepare himself, undisturbed by other claims and demands, for the day’s burden. It scarcely seemed a burden, this enterprise so far removed from the narrow routine of his life; it was more like a promise of fulfilment. He still believed in fulfilment in spite of all the small frustrations.
He lay looking upwards; it was too dark to see the ceiling but he suddenly remembered that there was a bad crack near the chimney and that Myra had said he must ring Randles about it. He closed his eyes, hoping to seal off his mind from all the little problems that splintered his determination, drained his energy. He found the lost tranquillity again, his mind focused exclusively on the one thing which overrode all other considerations. For a few blessed moments he achieved harmony and wholeness within himself.
Then, further down the landing, a door opened; there were soft footsteps in the corridor. His mind framed the question: ‘Now why is anyone up at this hour?’ The answer came almost immediately; the first gritty dust of the day rubbing across the surface of his mind. Another problem with which to cope. As he listened to the footsteps descending the stairs, he tried to contain the wanderings of his mind. This was not the time to be concerned with individual problems, however poignant; today must be devoted to the great challenge and all lesser issues must be put aside. But, the breach having been made, it was difficult to stem the flow of trivialities; he found himself wondering whether that wretched crack in the ceiling had got any worse. Perhaps he needed to be more ruthless. Surely in all dedicated single-mindedness there is a necessary element of ruthlessness? Beside him, his wife moved restlessly. He hoped she would not suggest that he should ring Randles this morning, because there just would not be the time.
II
Something stirred in the house. Immediately the child awoke, just as, in answer to some mysterious signal within her own being, she had woken suddenly on dark Christmas mornings. But this day’s advent was not an occasion for joy, and the child was uneasy as she listened for a repetition of the sound that had alerted her brain. The house was silent again. The child sat up in bed. Beyond the window fog had formed and some of it had seeped into the room, rasping in her throat. She thought about the fog. Perhaps they had not allowed for it when they made their plans the night before? Somewhere along the passage a door opened softly, footsteps went past the door of her room and then the stairs creaked. This would be her cousin, Jill, tousled and scowling in the cold, grasping the banister rail with the determination with which, not long ago, she had grasped her hockey stick. Jill would not be defeated by fog.
When the kitchen door shut behind Jill, the child pushed back the bedclothes and sat for a moment shivering on the edge of her bed. No light came from the slit where the curtains just failed to meet across the window. She went to the window and peered out. Her room was at the side of the house facing the graveyard and the church. Aunt Myra thought that the view was pleasant because it evoked memories of the village that was now lost in the sprawl of London. But the child, who was frightened of the church, was grateful to the smudgy darkness which had obliterated everything but the outline of the garage roof immediately below.
While she stood there looking down at the roof of the garage, the door of the room next to hers opened. A woman spoke, her voice light and amused:
‘It’s foggy, Ralph.’ There was a hint of malice in the voice as it went on: ‘Will it affect your plans, I wonder?’
The reply was resolutely cheerful:
‘I shouldn’t think so. It won’t last; not at this time of the year.’ There was a pause while the man and the woman moved around in their room, and then the woman went out on to the landing.
‘Not a very good day for Jill’s young man.’
She spoke half to herself, her tone—a complex mixture of bitterness and compassion—puzzled and disturbed the child. She had overheard her aunt speaking in just that same tone to Jill the other day.
‘We shall have to be careful what we say to Sarah about this young man. That child’s reactions are so incalculable.’
The child, Sarah, listened as her aunt went down the stairs. Soon she heard her uncle follow. Then there was silence again until at last Sarah, half-dozing by the window, heard the scrape of a door drawn back across gravel. She looked down and saw the faint beam of a torch moving in front of the garage door. Jill was on her way. Sarah stepped back from the window, her heart thumping, and sat on the edge of the bed.
Jill was going to fetch the strange young man. He was to live in the attic room which Aunt Myra and Jill had spent several days cleaning out. They had told Sarah of his coming with a nonchalance which in no way deceived her. She had known from their careful choice of words and their sudden silences, from the way that conversation petered out sometimes and their eyes met above her head, that there was something wrong. For one thing, although he had been referred to as ‘Jill’s young man’, Sarah had overheard her cousin saying: ‘I hope I recognize him.’ This lack of identity was particularly frightening to the child. She wished, as she sat on her bed listening to the car’s engine revving up, that the young man would die. She pictured him somewhere waiting, faceless, shapeless, muffled in fog: was there any reason why he should step out of the fog? Surely God, who had so capriciously taken her parents, could also arrange to take this unwanted stranger?
She was so cold that she could not sit still. She went back to the window. Jill had the car out in the drive now. Perhaps there would be a crash? Sarah hoped that Jill might be saved, but she was prepared, if the worst came to the worst, to sacrifice Jill who only came to stay occasionally and would not, therefore, be greatly missed.
Jill hesitated and looked towards the house as though she were regretting leaving its solid comfort. Then she turned and stamped down the drive, banged the gates back and kicked at the bolts. It was all rather a waste, this show of determination, because there was only Sarah watching and Sarah was not in the least deceived. Jill was frightened, too.
Was it possible that Jill might turn back? The thought did not bring the relief that might have been expected. Although the child’s fear was real, that part of her that had once liked the weird, frightening bits in the fairy stories now looked forward with terrified fascination to the young man’s coming. There was a dark enchantment in the thought of him; some magic would be worked when he came which would mean that nothing would ever be quite the same again.
Below, the front door opened and Sarah heard her uncle call out to Jill that he would shut the gates. Jill shouted and laughed and words tumbled out in gusts of excitement.
‘What a dreadful day for you! You won’t be able to tell friend from foe. The poor old bobbies will be picking one another up by mistake!’
Sarah could still hear her voice when the car had nosed out into Sloe Lane. ‘Oh, I’ll be all right,’ she was saying vehemently. ‘I’m just a bit bothered for him. It would be so ghastly if I kept him waiting. Such a day, too!’ And then, reluctantly it seemed, the car started up and she was gone. Soon afterwards, the church clock chimed seven. It was too late to go back to bed now so Sarah began to dress. It took her a long time because she always thought of all sorts of other things that she wanted to do, like acting out a scene between herself and the hated P.T. mistress at school in which Sarah would emerge triumphant. By the time that she had pulled on the thick woollen stockings that she disliked because they scratched her legs, the darkness was giving way and the gap between the curtains was the colour of dingy cotton wool.
Sarah went softly down the stairs, avoiding the treads that creaked, and opened the front door. The fog was lifting here and there; she could see the apple tree, rather spectral in the middle of the lawn, and odd branches and brambles emerging from the tangled wilderness at the bottom of the garden. Beyond the wilderness the brick wall represented the end of all things; the laundries and coal depots in Sloe Lane had been blotted out and only an orange haze in the distance indicated the existence of the High Street.
To the right, it was clearer. The child could see the dark bulk of the church; she could also see that there was a light burning at the far end, small and weak like a very distant star. Her uncle must have walked over to the church after Jill had gone. The child frowned at the light. At the moment she wanted very much to be with her uncle. For one thing, if she went into the kitchen she would have to help Aunt Myra prepare the breakfast and it would be more fun to help her uncle who never checked on what she did. This, she told herself, was the reason why, frightened as she was of the graveyard, she now clambered over the low brick wall and threaded her way between the tombstones towards the church. The grass in the graveyard was high and dank with fog. The church had still something of its night face, dark, mysterious and cold. So very cold. And yet the child seemed to be driven towards it.
She wanted her Uncle Ralph. But she did not really want to help him, neither did she want to talk to him or confide in him; she merely wanted to satisfy herself that he was there. The mysterious undercurrents of the last few days had disturbed her and she feared that what little remained of her world was in danger of swirling away. The one person with sufficient authority to prevent this calamity was her Uncle Ralph. It was unlikely, surely, that God would take Uncle Ralph away since he was doing God’s work. This immunity from disaster was of tremendous importance. But there were other reasons why Sarah felt secure with her uncle. He was very calm and unhurried, it was impossible to be panic-stricken or flustered in his presence; also, unlike her Aunt Myra, he made few demands and never took her by surprise with sudden outbursts of affection. Now, as she reached the porch, she told herself that if she found him as calm and untroubled as ever she would have no need to fear the strange young man. But suppose . . . Her heart began to thump painfully and her hands were clammy as she edged her way into the porch and slowly eased the door open a fraction.
A single light burnt above the choir stalls and the great crucifix cast a dark shadow across the chancel. God, at least, was here, Sarah thought; she felt the chill of His presence. But then she saw with a surge of relief that her uncle was also present. He was standing at the pulpit with a sheaf of notes in his hands. After a moment he put the notes down and bowed his head slightly. His lips moved and for a moment Sarah thought he was going to speak to her, but he said:
‘Prepare me for this day.’
The remark, Sarah supposed, must be addressed to God; she hoped He was listening, but the church seemed suddenly very hollow and empty as if He had turned away. Her uncle tried again:
‘Let me hear Thy call.’
But again there was only emptiness. Sarah stepped into the church. Her uncle heard the grating of the door and raised his head, staring down into the darkness.
‘It’s me, Sarah,’ she called.
He smiled, unsurprised, because he had no idea that the child was frightened of the church and that her visit was therefore something of an ordeal. He beckoned to her to join him and then came down from the pulpit and waited between the choir stalls. The light shone full on him now. He was a square, well-built man with a thick thatch of dark hair unstreaked by grey. His expression retained a youthful quality of eager enthusiasm, suggesting either that the years had treated him kindly or that he had in some way evaded their consequence. The face was strong, tapering from a broad forehead to a pointed, but resolute chin; the mouth was firm, but lifting a little at the corners; the eyes were light blue and possessed a kind of concentrated gentleness which some people found rather disconcerting. He came slowly down the steps as the child moved towards him.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, his voice deep and kind.
‘I came to help you,’ she answered.
He had to prepare for a special service tomorrow because there would be no time later in the day. Later, Sarah knew, he had to go and sit somewhere in Uxbridge. That was why he could not be here when the young man came, and Aunt Myra was angry about it. His warden was angry, too. Sarah had heard him say to Aunt Myra that he wished the vicar spent more time on his knees and less on his behind. Probably they would both have been annoyed if they had heard him at this moment, lightly dismissing his duties:
‘It’s all finished. There wasn’t much to do.’ He held out his hand. ‘Come and sit beside me.’
They sat in the front pew.
‘What a cold little paw,’ he said, rubbing her fingers between his hands.
Years ago, when Jill was young he had sat her on his knee and fondled her, wishing that she was his own child. This, he knew, he must not do with Sarah and it had not occurred to him that there might be other ways of awakening this lonely child. Now, as so often lately, he became absorbed by his own thoughts as he stared up at the crucifix. Sarah, who preferred people to remain remote from her, sat quietly beside him, happy enough until he said suddenly:
‘You know, Sarah, great things are being done today, although few people realize it.’
He spoke in the light, confiding tone in which he began his addresses at children’s service; but there was an undercurrent of stronger feeling from which the child withdrew instinctively. She was filled with a sudden dread that he was about to suggest that they should pray for the young man. In order to fend off this embarrassing moment, she said:
‘Tell me his name again.’
A puzzled frown drew the fine brows together. He looked down at her as though bringing himself back with difficulty from a great distance.
‘His name,’ she repeated. ‘The young man who is coming here. Tell me his name.’
But even as she spoke she realized, in surprise and joy, that her uncle had forgotten all about the young man.
‘Wilson . . . Wilson . . .’ he muttered. ‘Ah, yes! Keith Wilson.’
‘Will I have to call him Uncle Keith?’
After a moment’s hesitation, he answered:
‘You won’t have to. But I expect he would like it if you did.’ They talked for a little while about the young man, but they did not pray for him and Sarah could tell that her uncle’s thoughts were elsewhere. Slowly, the darkness in the church was lifting, a cold grey light robbed it of some of its dark majesty and the fantasies of the night released their grip on Sarah. Some of the magic slipped away, too. The young man, it seemed, was not so very important since he was so soon forgotten.
III
Sarah was not the only person who had heard Jill set out on her journey.
The verger’s cottage was on the opposite side of the road to the church, which was inconvenient from the point of view of supervising the church premises, but useful if one happened to be interested in the comings and goings at the vicarage. Spencer, the verger, was convinced that his fate was inextricably at the mercy of the whims and fancies of the vicar and his wife. Consequently he was overwhelmingly interested in the affairs of the vicarage. On his bad days, he imagined that the vicar and his wife must devote their entire conversation when they met at breakfast, dinner, tea and supper to the subject of Spencer and his failings. Admittedly, they seldom criticized him openly. But Spencer early in his life had developed an exquisite sensitivity to snubs and slights which had matured over the years until now he frequently found himself reacting to an anticipated rather than an actual insult. When he first became verger he had sensed immediately that his lack of suitable clothes offended the vicar and his wife. No sooner had this been remedied than he had realized that they objected to his slight lameness which detracted from the dignity of the ceremonial occasion. And so it had continued. When he was a young man Spencer had not put up with this kind of thing but had packed his bags and moved on. But he was old now and in need of a settled refuge. In the two years that he had endured this torment— and this was the longest period that Spencer had ever endured the torment of work—he had lived in daily fear of dismissal. The slightest deviation in the normal routine of life at the vicarage had the most sinister implications for him: if the vicar’s warden called twice in one week. Spencer was in despair.
At present, the conviction that doom was about to befall him was particularly strong and he brooded over it as he set the pot of tea down beside the plate of toast on the table by the window. It did not occur to him that his depression might be due to the fact that Christmas—a period of extreme ill-will where Spencer was concerned—was not long past. Spencer was not content with a seasonable explanation of his woes; he preferred to identify them with a particular person. In his long life the burden of blame had rested on many shoulders. His mother, his unknown father, the warden at the hostel where he had grown up, the sergeant-major who had bullied him, the padre who had duped him with such high promises on behalf of God, his schoolmates, his workmates and subsequently his cellmates, had all helped to make Spencer what he was. It was true that over the last two years life had been deceptively kind to him; but he was not deceived by this bland benevolence. His tormentors were still there, unappeased, and now it seemed that he had made the mistake for which they had been waiting.
This morning, as he gazed from the window at the vicar’s car edging down Sloe Lane, he was more convinced than ever that plans to get rid of him were being formulated in the tall, red-brick house. He had been in the vicarage once or twice during the week and he had been aware of a new hostility towards himself. Mrs. Kimberley had even gone so far as to refuse to see him on one occasion, making some trivial excuse that she was preparing a room in the attic for a visitor.
This talk of a visitor was, of course, a blind to disguise their real preoccupation. What was really in all their minds was the trouble over the church boiler. Spencer dipped a piece of toast in his tea and chewed it thoughtfully; his teeth were giving him trouble, as though things were not bad enough anyway. The boiler just would not do another winter and might not even last this one. He had broken this news to the vicar last Saturday evening during the sacred hour that the vicar set aside to prepare his sermon. The vicar had been uncharacteristically short-tempered and Spencer had emerged quite convinced that the shortcomings of the boiler were to be blamed on him. He supposed that now they would send for the engineer who had come last year and had had the impudence to suggest that it would last for many years ‘if it was stoked properly’.
Spencer swallowed the last piece of toast and began to collect the breakfast things together. ‘The bloody thing won’t last out and that’s all there is to it,’ he protested mournfully as he carried the tray of crockery into the kitchen at the back of the cottage. The sink was already full of the accumulated crockery from yesterday’s lunch, tea, and supper. As he made room for the breakfast things, the thought crossed Spencer’s mind that he had better have a general tidy-up. It would never do if the vicar or one of the wardens, or the interfering Mrs. Thomas who ran the women’s work group, were to see the kitchen in this unsavoury condition. He was rather shocked himself. He had created a legend in which he at least firmly believed that he was meticulously careful about cleanliness and order. ‘It’s the army, you see,’ he would tell people. ‘Everything must be clean and tidy and in its proper place or I just can’t rest.’ The thought braced him and he rescued one dinner plate from the greasy water, rinsed it under the cold tap and wiped it on a sodden cloth. He was muttering aloud: ‘Discipline! There isn’t anything better for a man than discipline.’
The trouble was that whenever he had a particularly outstanding worry, such as the boiler, discipline broke down and disorder spread around him. Now, he turned away from the sink, put the plate down on the dresser and went back to the front room, his resolution deserting him. He sat down at the table.
The table stood near the window and Spencer spent a lot of his free time sitting at it observing the vicarage. He collected scraps of information and stored them away in his mind for such time as they might prove useful to him: a form of defence against a world for ever poised to attack him. So far, nothing much had happened this morning, but he had noted that the girl, Jill, had driven away in her uncle’s car just before seven. He had had to open the window to make sure about this because the fog was so bad that he had not been able to see who was driving. From the scraps of conversation he had overheard it had been apparent that the vicar was going out later to indulge in his nuclear disarmament tomfoolery. Spencer waited.
The vicar went out soon after eight. That would mean that there would be just the child and Mrs. Kimberley in the house. And Spencer knew that the child usually went to play with a friend up the road on a Saturday morning. It was unlikely that there would be many callers at the vicarage on a morning like this, so with any luck Spencer would have the undivided attention of Mrs. Kimberley. He had been waiting for this opportunity all the week. He would exert all his charm to persuade her to intercede on his behalf. Once he had had considerable charm for women; but now, as he rose from the table and caught sight of himself in the mirror over the sideboard, his eyes swerved away from the leathery face the creases of which were ingrained with dirt. Perhaps cunning, rather than charm, was needed in dealing with a woman like Mrs. Kimberley who, for all her small, sprightly grace, was sharp as a tack. It was no use playing on her sympathy, he decided as he went up the stairs to make himself more presentable; she was not the pitying kind. But like all women she prided herself on being more practical than her husband. Spencer had noticed once or twice recently that she was not slow to give her opinion when it differed from the vicar’s. As he shaved, he rehearsed how he would infer that he had come to her because she was more capable of understanding things at a material level than the vicar who might know all about men’s souls but was a bit of a fool when it came to things like boilers.
IV
‘If you just sit down here, I’ll fetch some coffee,’ Jill Hunter said to the young man. She glanced over her shoulder towards the counter. ‘There’s poached egg. And baked beans on toast. Which would you like?’
The young man mumbled ‘poached egg’. The cleaner who was slapping a damp cloth over the next table thought that he didn’t look as though he really wanted to eat anything. One of the dark, brooding types. Mean, too, with that buttoned-up mouth and letting his girl pay for him. When the girl had gone over to the counter, the cleaner came and slapped the cloth around on his table. His face was a bit peaked and the cold must have got right into him because he was all of a tremble. She softened a little towards him.
‘Feeling poorly, love?’
‘No.’
He did not even look at her. She reverted to her original opinion of him and moved away, pushing a trolley of dirty crockery in front of her. The young man sat hunched in his corner, nervous fingers pulling at his lower lip; he looked as though he wanted to bite his nails but was remembering not to. From time to time he glanced at the girl as she moved along the self-service counter; he regarded her warily, not with actual distrust, but as though he doubted whether she were real.
She looked substantial enough; a sturdy young person with a square face whose features had been chiselled firmly, if a trifle bluntly. Once, she turned and smiled at the young man who seemed not to know what was expected of him in return.
‘Proper misery, isn’t he?’ the woman behind the counter said sympathetically, pushing forward a poached egg on toast. ‘Don’t know what’s the matter with young fellows these days. Mind the plate, dear, it’s hot.’
The young man was looking out of the window now. A bus edged along close to the kerb and a few shadowy figures emerged from the shelter of a doorway and boarded it. The bus moved off and there was nothing but the fog.
Jill Hunter moved up to the coffee section of the counter, her face momentarily crumpled in dismay. She had had no idea it would be so difficult. ‘He’ll talk and talk and talk,’ Ralph had warned her. ‘It’s a subject of absorbing interest to them and it’s best just to listen at first.’ Of course, Ralph had added, there were exceptions.
‘Two large coffees, please.’
It was just her luck to have got hold of one of the exceptions; he had hardly spoken more than a dozen words since she picked him up in the car. It was a pity that Ralph had not told her a little more about this particular young man. But then Ralph was so busy with his work for the nuclear disarmers, and anyway, bless him, he was rather vague about people. It was really her own fault. She had been so exuberantly determined to spread light and joy that she had overwhelmed the poor lad and sent him scurrying back into himself, ‘0 out of 10 for this, Hunter,’ she said to herself as she paid the cashier.
She walked towards him, frowning with the effort of balancing the things on the tray and the even greater effort of imposing discipline on her rebellious tongue. He stood up. The courtesy surprised her; he noted the surprise and colour flooded his face. At once, her wide mouth opened treacherously and words spilt out.
‘Goodness knows how long these things have been standing there—all night, I expect; it’s open all night, you know. The eggs look positively congealed, don’t they?’ She clattered the tray down, thrust two knives at him, snatched one back, pushed a fork across, and gabbled: ‘At least the coffee should be good. I always think their coffee is good, don’t you? Salt? Pepper?’
He fielded the salt with a hand that was not quite steady. He, too, had started the morning full of good intentions. And now . . . He felt sweat cold on his forehead. ‘I’m not going to be able to cope,’ he thought in panic. He bowed his head over his plate, but not before the girl had seen the misery in his face. For the first time since she became twenty it occurred to her that she was still rather young. She had been looking forward to this as a new experience and she had half-expected that he, too, would enjoy it. Which was unimaginative and even a little immature. The silence was becoming oppressive. There was nothing for it, she would just have to go on talking.
‘Ralph—that’s the Reverend Kimberley who came to see you. You remember him, of course?’
‘Yes. I remember him.’
‘He was terribly sorry he couldn’t meet you this morning. But he had to get to the Air Force base at Uxbridge. There’s to be a sit-down there today. You know all about that, I expect?’
‘Yes. We had some of them.’
‘You had some . . .? Oh, I see What you mean. Well, you’ll be able to talk to Ralph about it. He’s an absolutely wonderful person; you’ll find knowing him a tremendous experience.’
Her square, candid face glowed as she talked about Ralph Kimberley, and as he watched her something of the glow was reflected in the young man’s face. She told him of the plans for the day, avoiding the bit about possible imprisonment as that might not be very tactful all things considered.
The street door opened and two men came in; they wore dark suits and one of them carried a brief-case. They bought coffee and sat at a table near by.
‘Two of the kids from our office are off on this lark,’ one of them said, shoving forward a newspaper. ‘If you want them to stay five minutes late to finish a job of work there’s an awful shindy because they want to get off to the local jazz group; but they’ll give up a whole weekend to make ruddy nuisances of themselves and then the papers refer to them as “these dedicated people”!’
The young man looked across at the girl who grinned and said good-humouredly:
‘That’s very true.’ She pushed her plate to one side. ‘But it takes all sorts . . .’ She looked at her watch. ‘Keith . . .’
He flinched; it was difficult to tell whether he resented the familiarity.
‘I may call you Keith, mayn’t I?’
‘If you want to.’
‘And you must call me Jill.’
No reply.
‘What I was going to say, Keith, was that I shall have to put you on the bus and leave you to get there yourself. I’m terribly sorry, but I have to go to work this morning and I’m late as it is.’
‘It’s very good of you to have done this much,’ he said stiflly.
‘It’s quite a simple journey.’ She resolutely ignored the yellow chaos beyond the door. ‘And if by any chance you do get lost you can always . . . Well, perhaps it would be best if I drew you a little plan.’
He watched her sketching on a scrap of paper.
‘You get off at Shepherd’s Bush Green, you see, and then . . .’
‘And then, I can ask a policeman.’
She looked up and they both laughed rather awkwardly. They went out into the fog.
‘You must explain to Myra that it took absolutely hours to crawl as far as Westminster. Tell her I’ll get the car back somehow this afternoon.’ She put out a hand to guide him and felt him shrink at her touch. ‘This is Parliament Street, believe it or not. You catch the bus the other side. I’ll wait until one comes.’ She thrust money into his hand. ‘I’d better give you the fare since I’ve been such an inefficient chauffeur.’
After that they did not speak until the bus came.
He clambered on the top because the fog, pressing inwards, had given him an attack of claustrophobia. The bus was half-empty. He sat in front as he had loved to do when he was a child. He was very lonely without the girl prattling away at his side. Now that she was gone he felt an almost hysterical surge of gratitude towards her, he told himself that he would never forget finding her there waiting, so frank and friendly, as though she were meeting a brother from boarding school. There were steps on the stairs; the conductor was coming. Exhilaration gave way to panic. He did not know the fare. It seemed shameful, although he would not, in fact, have known it in the normal way. When the conductor came and stood over him, he could hardly form the words.
‘I don’t know the fare.’
The man looked down at him. ‘Well, suppose you tell me where you want to go and I’ll tell you the fare?’
‘Shepherd’s Bush Green.’
‘Shepherd’s Bush Green? That will cost you all of one shilling and two pence.’
The conductor handed over the ticket and counted out change ponderously; then he plopped down on the opposite seat, gazing in disgust into the street.
‘This is almost as bad as Christmas Eve. Was you caught out in that?’
‘No.’
‘You was lucky then, mate. You was lucky.’
It was absurd. The man was friendly, and, in any case, he would never see him again. What did it matter if he asked how he had spent Christmas Eve? And yet his heart was beginning to pound again and the sweat was forming on his forehead. He was so tired; his brain seemed to work very slowly so that his reactions were delayed. The scene with the girl had been incredibly difficult and now he felt he could not bear any more human intercourse.
The bus had crawled into Trafalgar Square and was filling up. The conductor moved away and was replaced by a fat man who immediately opened his paper and turned purposefully to the crossword. Freed from the demands of companionship, Wilson looked out of the window again. This was one of the delights he had been promising himself over the last six months: a ride on the top of a bus.
The fog was lifting now. The tall buildings on either side took shape, below the traffic moved as though on a great conveyor belt, but without the smooth efficiency—a machine that had got snarled up. There were people moving chaotically outside Swan and Edgar’s, fighting their way into, and out of, the entrances to the tube station, splaying into the road, shoving between the scarcely moving cars. He stared in horror at this chaos into which he would soon be hurled, feeling as though he must be torn to pieces in that tangled mesh. A craven longing to go back seized him.
He hunched down in his seat and tried to sleep; if he went past the stop he would not worry. There was, however, no danger of passing the stop; all down Holland Park Avenue his stomach gave uneasy signals of the approach of Shepherd’s Bush Green.
Once he had left the shelter of the bus, he found, on looking at the sketch, that he had to get to the far side of the triangular green. The two road crossings were among the most perilous enterprises of his life. He was glad to see, on consulting the sketch again, that he would soon turn away from the confusion and clamour of the main road. Sloe Lane was a turning off the Uxbridge Road. It didn’t look much like a lane now. He still made mental notes of his surroundings although he no longer thought of himself as a potential journalist. There was a supermarket on the corner, then came a laundry, a row of dingy, blackened cottages sandwiched between two coal depots, and another laundry. But after that the character of the area began to change. Solid, mid-Victorian houses looked across at a row of terraced houses the ground floors of which had been converted into small shops which still retained something of the individual appearance of a family concern. Beyond the shops there was a long brick wall which ended with a gate. The words ‘St. Gabriel’s Vicarage’ were painted unevenly on the gate.
Wilson stopped, no longer the disinterested observer. The church stood to the right, well back from the road; just beyond it there was a small green. Wilson looked towards the green. One might have imagined that he was regretting the lost village of which this was the fragmentary remains. In fact, he was looking at the road which narrowed beyond the green and twisted out of sight. He would have liked to follow the road, because by doing so he would put off the moment of readjustment.
The moment was not made any easier by his memory of the vicar. He had met the Reverend Kimberley twice. Once when he gave a poetry reading for the prisoners and once at a private interview in the governor’s office. The poetry had been well above the heads of most of the vicar’s listeners and it had not been well- received. The vicar, however, had been unaware of any failure of communication and had finished with a rendering of ‘The Second Coming’ which had chilled even the warders. Wilson had admired the man’s ability to detach himself from his audience. Unfortunately, at their private interview the vicar had been equally detached. Wilson could not visualize what it would be like to live in the same house as the man.
He inspected the vicarage warily, his mouth twisted in the sarcastic sneer which had become his standard defence. The house was tall and compact, it must have had considerable dignity at one time; but now the redbrick was dulled and the woodwork badly needed a coat of paint. There was a gravel path, not quite free of weeds. The house stood sideways to the road. He could see french windows leading to a terrace and rather worn stone steps leading from the terrace into the shaggy garden. There was a swing beneath the twisted apple tree in the centre of the lawn. Between the lawn and the brick wall there was an area which seemed to have resisted cultivation, full of brambles, thistles, and the despairing remnants of an attempt to create a rock garden. Wilson, who at one time would have enjoyed making something out of this image of clerical decay, felt depressed.
He looked back at the house and realized that he, too, was being inspected; a curtain had been pulled aside and a child’s face peered from a ground-floor window. The child at least was real and her presence demanded action on his part. He opened the gate and went up the drive. As he stood at the front door, he heard voices. A man and a woman were speaking just inside the door, he could hear their conversation quite clearly. The man’s voice was rather unpleasant, thick, ingratiating.
‘It’s just that I wouldn’t want the vicar to think that I haven’t done everything I could to keep that old boiler going . . .’
‘I’m quite sure he appreciates . . .’ The response was mechanical, and the ingratiating voice flowed on:
‘I wouldn’t like you to know how long I’ve worked at that old boiler, Mrs. Kimberley. I really wouldn’t like you to know. Sometimes I’ve been up as early as . . .’
The child had reappeared at a side window, her nose flattened against the glass. Wilson knocked with defiant heaviness and the door flew open so quickly that it startled him.
‘Oh, it’s Mr. Wilson!’
The woman spoke with exaggerated delight, as though she were greeting a dear friend. She was so near that Wilson could not focus on her properly; but he was aware of the old man standing behind her, tall, stooping, his deeply furrowed face wearing an outraged expression as though he had just sustained some terrible injury.
‘Spencer, I’m so sorry! But I must look after Mr. Wilson now.’
The old man gave ground unwillingly; as he passed Wilson he directed at him a look that was surprisingly venomous.
The woman shut the door and sighed with relief.
‘You couldn’t have come at a better time! He was just building up to some grievance or other about the boiler.’ She gave her visitor a quick glance, neither hostile nor friendly. ‘You must be hungry. I’ve got some coffee on and I expect you would like egg and bacon.’
It was more of a statement than a question and he did not dare to tell her that he was not in the least hungry. She led him into a big, rather chilly room. The furniture was large and old-fashioned and the rugs were frayed at the edges. There was a child of about ten curled up with a book in an armchair by the fire. The woman said that she could smell bacon burning and hurried out of the room. The child closed the book and regarded the young man thoughtfully. She had a thin face and large brown eyes set rather close together; lank brown hair dangled over her forehead. Wilson thought that she was not an appealing child, but he felt that he should make an effort, so he said:
‘What’s your name?’
‘Sarah-with-an-h.’
She studied him critically as he sat down on one of the stiff- backed chairs.
‘Are you my Uncle Keith?’
He nodded.
‘I thought you were going to be quite different.’
He did not pursue the matter and she looked disappointed. The radio was on. At first he did not notice, but after a time he found himself listening. The commentator sounded excited, in a controlled way, as though he were relating a superior kind of adventure story.
‘There were just a few of them at first, huddled together in the fog. As the hours passed, others came in twos and threes, dropping down silently. There was no gaiety, no singing. This, one thought, is defeat. Even those among the observers who were not friendly refrained from laughter: the English are sentimental about lost causes. The fog was thick where I was standing and the grey line soon faded into nothing. “This shows their real strength,” a policeman remarked. Then, about ten o’clock, the fog lifted suddenly. There was a patch of blue sky, a rather watery sun. And in front of us a great, silent crowd stretching away as far as the eye could see. “Blessed if I expected that!” the policeman said mildly. One or two of the leaders were standing up, looking at the crowd: I think they were surprised, too.
‘And so it has been . . .’
Wilson had a vision of the people sitting there, quiet, orderly, and very virtuous. He was glad when Mrs. Kimberley came in, turning the switch off as she went by.
‘I get that all day long without having it on the radio.’ She put a tray down on the table and set food out before him. Then she said quite kindly: ‘I don’t suppose you want light conversation just now, so if you don’t mind I’ll get on with my chores.’
While he ate, she dusted the room. She moved lightly and quickly; but there was a nervous impatience about her actions which communicated itself to him. If she had sat opposite him tapping her fingers on the table he could not have been more uneasy. He toyed with the bacon and pushed the fat to one side of the plate, watched disapprovingly by the child. When Mrs. Kimberley went out to put the kettle on for washing-up, the child said:
‘I’m not allowed to leave food.’
‘Bad luck.’ To distract her from further comment, he said: ‘What are you reading?’
‘I’m only pretending to read. It’s a dull old book that Aunt Myra gave me because she wanted me to be quiet this morning.’
He did not want to know why she had to be quiet, but she was not to be cheated, and after a moment’s silence, she said sadly:
‘I was supposed to play with my friend, but I can’t because her sister is worse this morning.’
He made the sorry sound she probably expected, but she was not prepared to let him escape so easily.
‘Her sister’s called Joanna and she’s going to die soon. She doesn’t know, of course; but it won’t be long now.’
There was a hint of pleasure in her voice, as though death had some kind of fascination for her. Wilson was both repelled and moved.
‘That’s sad for her mother and father,’ he said.
But he was careful not to sound sad himself and he took another piece of toast.
‘It’s tragic,’ the child said severely.
He began to butter the toast.
‘You ought to be upset,’ she insisted.
He shook his head.
‘Why aren’t you upset?’
‘I don’t know her. So it would be silly for me to pretend to be any more upset than you are.’
While the child was digesting this remark, Mrs. Kimberley returned.
‘Now then, Sarah. Are you going to help me to show Mr. Wilson to his room?’
The child responded by giving Wilson a long, level look.
‘I think I’d rather read my book, thank you,’ she answered coldly.
‘I’m sorry about Sarah,’ Mrs. Kimberley apologized as she took him up the stairs. ‘She’s not very fond of people. Her mother and father were killed in a car crash. We look after her and she bears with us, but that’s about all. I suppose one can’t expect more.’
But the dry bitterness in her voice suggested that she, at least, had expected more. She pushed back the door of one of the rooms on the top floor.
‘But then you probably have something in common with her. You must feel bitter and empty, too.’
‘I haven’t any reason to be bitter.’
‘Does one need a reason? Unhappiness usually makes us bitter, whether we deserve it or not.’
She went across to the window and drew back the blinds. He could see the top branches of the apple tree; the fog was clearing and there were patches of blue sky. In the light from the window he saw her clearly for the first time. She had a sharp-featured, heart-shaped face framed in a mass of dark hair that she wore at an unfashionable length, neither long nor short. She must have been pretty once and the face still belonged to a young person although time had drawn cruel lines on it, dragging the mouth down at the corners, underscoring the deep blue eyes. She had not accepted the years gracefully and they had had to impose forcibly upon her, wrecking her sprightly prettiness and giving nothing in return. He supposed she must be about forty.
She moved away from the light.
‘Did I apologize for my husband? He would have met you himself, but he has a . . . very important engagement and Jill was eager to come. So . . .’
‘She asked me to explain about the car.’
‘It doesn’t matter. She rang up as soon as she got to the office.’
He hesitated and then said: ‘Does she live here, too?’ The enquiry did not sound as casual as he had intended.
‘No. I’m afraid not. She has a flat in the unfashionable part of Chelsea. But she comes to see us quite often.’ She was watching him with a faint amusement that was not without malice. ‘She’s such a nice girl.’
He looked away.
‘It’s very kind of you and your husband . . .’
She shrugged her shoulders impatiently and moved towards the door.
‘Thank the others, if you must, but not me. I’m the useless one around here. I’m not really very kind, either.’
Then, as she saw him standing irresolute, she seemed to be moved by an unwilling compassion. Her voice softened.
‘Why don’t you lie down? It must have been an ordeal. Sleep through the rest of the day if you want to. We can talk tomorrow when my husband is here.’
As she went out of the room, she laughed and added with a return of the malice he had noticed earlier in her voice:
‘That’s if he’s not in jail by then.’