cried.
This upset Charley, because he thought someone might be getting at him by tormenting her. Anyway he felt the whole thing was a shame. So he got to his feet right off and clumsily kissed one of her temples through a drift of yellow hair. But he did not put his hands up. She warmed a bit, blamed herself aloud for being silly, and said no more.
Yet he found that anything so simple as placing his head against a woman’s, was not so ordinary in practice. For he stood gawping there, like an Irish navvy. He had forgotten what it was like. The last time had been such a long while back.
He got much more that he had not remembered.
He was, for the moment, saved from greater torture by the telephone ringing once again. But when the office closed that night he thought he would walk home, rather than take a bus, so as to see girls, the day’s work done, as they made their way back through streets.
So it was that he found himself, by chance, within a few yards of the address Mr Grant had given.
The door was open.
He went in. He climbed stairs. He began to regret it.
Then he was outside an inner door, on which was written her name. Her name was there on a card.
He read her name, Miss Nancy Whitmore, in Gothic lettering as cut on tombstones. He noticed the brass knocker, a dolphin hanging by the tail. He ran his eye over this door which was painted pink. The wall paper he stared at round the door, was of wreathed roses on a white ground. He looked again. Someone had wiped the paint down so often, it was so clean that the top coat was wearing thin. In the moulding round the panels a yellow first coat grinned through at callers. And her card was held in place by two fresh bits of sticking plaster, pink.
With a melting of his spine, he felt she must be a tart.
The moment he realized this, his first idea was to go, to come back another day perhaps, but to get out of it for now.
Yet he knocked.
She opened, almost at once. He looked. He sagged. Then something went inside. It was as though the frightful starts his heart was giving had burst a vein. He pitched forward, in a dead faint, because there she stood alive, so close that he could touch, and breathing, the dead spit, the living image, herself, Rose in person.
When he came round, he was flat along the floor with his head rested on an object. Curled up above, on a chair, there was a tortoiseshell cat that watched him, through great yellow eyes with terrible black slits. He knew no cat. It meant nothing. He could not make out where he was until he tilted himself, to find Rose kneeling at his head, which was in her lap. Then he remembered.
“Darling you’ve dyed your hair,” he brought out, proud to be so quick, for the room was dark. Apart from this one detail he knew it was all right at last, was as it had been six years back.
“That’s better,” she said.
He rested. He lay on. He was content. He felt his blood flow all over the inside of him. There was just one point; her voice sounded rather changed.
Her moon cool hands were laid about his temples. The cat shut its eyes and dozed. And he shut his.
“Take it easy,” she said. Again the voice which had changed.
“Darling,” he murmured.
“That’s enough of that,” she said, but although she spoke sharp it barely came through to him, in his condition. Because this, he felt, as he now was, must be what he had been waiting for these years, the sad soldier back from the wars.
“Why?” he asked, absolutely trusting her, and still shuteyed, and in a humble voice.
“You’re telling me,” she said.
He began not to understand. He looked. He saw the cat wasthere no longer. A kettle was boiling. He tilted again. Her dear face did not even seem to belong, he thought. But he knew it must be all right.
“Here,” she said, reaching for a cushion. “Put this under you.”
He shut his eyes again. He sighed in deep content.
“Have a quick rest now, then get to hell out of here,” she said, rising to
This upset Charley, because he thought someone might be getting at him by tormenting her. Anyway he felt the whole thing was a shame. So he got to his feet right off and clumsily kissed one of her temples through a drift of yellow hair. But he did not put his hands up. She warmed a bit, blamed herself aloud for being silly, and said no more.
Yet he found that anything so simple as placing his head against a woman’s, was not so ordinary in practice. For he stood gawping there, like an Irish navvy. He had forgotten what it was like. The last time had been such a long while back.
He got much more that he had not remembered.
He was, for the moment, saved from greater torture by the telephone ringing once again. But when the office closed that night he thought he would walk home, rather than take a bus, so as to see girls, the day’s work done, as they made their way back through streets.
So it was that he found himself, by chance, within a few yards of the address Mr Grant had given.
The door was open.
He went in. He climbed stairs. He began to regret it.
Then he was outside an inner door, on which was written her name. Her name was there on a card.
He read her name, Miss Nancy Whitmore, in Gothic lettering as cut on tombstones. He noticed the brass knocker, a dolphin hanging by the tail. He ran his eye over this door which was painted pink. The wall paper he stared at round the door, was of wreathed roses on a white ground. He looked again. Someone had wiped the paint down so often, it was so clean that the top coat was wearing thin. In the moulding round the panels a yellow first coat grinned through at callers. And her card was held in place by two fresh bits of sticking plaster, pink.
With a melting of his spine, he felt she must be a tart.
The moment he realized this, his first idea was to go, to come back another day perhaps, but to get out of it for now.
Yet he knocked.
She opened, almost at once. He looked. He sagged. Then something went inside. It was as though the frightful starts his heart was giving had burst a vein. He pitched forward, in a dead faint, because there she stood alive, so close that he could touch, and breathing, the dead spit, the living image, herself, Rose in person.
When he came round, he was flat along the floor with his head rested on an object. Curled up above, on a chair, there was a tortoiseshell cat that watched him, through great yellow eyes with terrible black slits. He knew no cat. It meant nothing. He could not make out where he was until he tilted himself, to find Rose kneeling at his head, which was in her lap. Then he remembered.
“Darling you’ve dyed your hair,” he brought out, proud to be so quick, for the room was dark. Apart from this one detail he knew it was all right at last, was as it had been six years back.
“That’s better,” she said.
He rested. He lay on. He was content. He felt his blood flow all over the inside of him. There was just one point; her voice sounded rather changed.
Her moon cool hands were laid about his temples. The cat shut its eyes and dozed. And he shut his.
“Take it easy,” she said. Again the voice which had changed.
“Darling,” he murmured.
“That’s enough of that,” she said, but although she spoke sharp it barely came through to him, in his condition. Because this, he felt, as he now was, must be what he had been waiting for these years, the sad soldier back from the wars.
“Why?” he asked, absolutely trusting her, and still shuteyed, and in a humble voice.
“You’re telling me,” she said.
He began not to understand. He looked. He saw the cat wasthere no longer. A kettle was boiling. He tilted again. Her dear face did not even seem to belong, he thought. But he knew it must be all right.
“Here,” she said, reaching for a cushion. “Put this under you.”
He shut his eyes again. He sighed in deep content.
“Have a quick rest now, then get to hell out of here,” she said, rising to
Similar Books
