Read Online Time and Time Again by James Hilton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: James Hilton
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almost in panic he realized he had no explanation at all except the truth which could not be spoken. For the truth was simply that he loved her, if ever the word had, or had had, or would have, any complete meaning for him. She looked up. He blushed, pulled a chair, and said with stammering inspiration: 'I wondered if you were still reading Guy and Pauline. . . . Why, yes, so you are.'
She stared for a few seconds, then glanced round as if to verify, without displeasure, all the vacant tables. 'Are you Ethel's friend?' she asked.
'Ethel?'
'Oh, then . . .' She looked apologetic, as if it were she and not he who had precipitated the encounter. 'You see, Ethel's friend lent it to her, and then she lent it to me--Ethel's MY friend--and I liked it so much she told him. He said he'd like to meet me and talk about it, so she said I was always here for lunch--well, nearly always. That's why I thought--but of course--if you're not . . .'
He said: 'No, no. I just happened to be here the other day and noticed what you were reading. You didn't see me. I was interested because--well . . .' He struck out for a reason like a swimmer for the shore. 'Well, I'd read the book myself and was interested.'
Her eyes widened and he had been right about them too--they were large. They were also a deep violet in colour.
'Oh yes, it's a lovely story, isn't it? Even my dad liked it. He said it was so good about gardens.'
Charles did not know what to say to this, but it was time to come to terms with her voice, which was not quite what he had expected. Or rather, perhaps, he had simply not used his brains about what to expect--for he had already deduced her as an office girl with not too good a job. If one didn't know English, he reflected whimsically, one would have found her voice as delightful as her eyes--soft and warm and altogether pleasing; but since one did know the language, one had to admit that her voice was also rather Cockney, and Charles wished it wasn't, a few seconds before he asked himself why it mattered. For he had been brought up with that crucial consciousness of accent which is so much in the air of English public schools that a boy with the wrong kind would feel outcast till, by conscious mimicry or slow absorption, he could conform to pattern. And the pattern, of course, was the clipped unregional utterance associated by name with Oxford rather than Cambridge, an utterance based on upper-class standardizations achieved over a period long enough to acquire tradition.
She went on, smiling now with complete friendliness: 'I've nearly finished it. Don't tell me how it ends.'
'It's a sad ending.'
'I don't mind sad endings if they're real. I mean, I don't like a happy ending to be dragged in.'
'Mackenzie wouldn't do that--he's too good a writer. But I don't think Guy and Pauline is his best book. You ought to read Carnival.'
'Carnival? I'll remember that. . . . Are YOU a writer?'
'Oh no.' But then he recollected what he was in London for. 'Not of novels, but at present I'm working on a thesis.' It was clear she didn't know what a thesis was, and he didn't hold it against her. 'Something I have to do at Cambridge.'
Her eyes widened again. 'Cambridge? You're at Cambridge College?'
The question hadn't been put to him before in that form, and because he didn't want to make her seem ignorant or himself pedantic, he answered: 'I'm a student at the University, but I come to London sometimes to look up things at the British Museum. . . . Now it's your turn. Tell me what you do.'
There was no check on the conversation from then on. She said she was a typist at a firm of importers with offices in Kingsway. She had a boss named Mr. Graybar. She was eighteen. She lived with her parents at Linstead, and Linstead, she explained, was near Chilford. (Charles had heard of both, but could only place them vaguely as northern London suburbs.) Her father was a superintendent of local parks. (She spoke the word 'superintendent' with pride.)
She stared for a few seconds, then glanced round as if to verify, without displeasure, all the vacant tables. 'Are you Ethel's friend?' she asked.
'Ethel?'
'Oh, then . . .' She looked apologetic, as if it were she and not he who had precipitated the encounter. 'You see, Ethel's friend lent it to her, and then she lent it to me--Ethel's MY friend--and I liked it so much she told him. He said he'd like to meet me and talk about it, so she said I was always here for lunch--well, nearly always. That's why I thought--but of course--if you're not . . .'
He said: 'No, no. I just happened to be here the other day and noticed what you were reading. You didn't see me. I was interested because--well . . .' He struck out for a reason like a swimmer for the shore. 'Well, I'd read the book myself and was interested.'
Her eyes widened and he had been right about them too--they were large. They were also a deep violet in colour.
'Oh yes, it's a lovely story, isn't it? Even my dad liked it. He said it was so good about gardens.'
Charles did not know what to say to this, but it was time to come to terms with her voice, which was not quite what he had expected. Or rather, perhaps, he had simply not used his brains about what to expect--for he had already deduced her as an office girl with not too good a job. If one didn't know English, he reflected whimsically, one would have found her voice as delightful as her eyes--soft and warm and altogether pleasing; but since one did know the language, one had to admit that her voice was also rather Cockney, and Charles wished it wasn't, a few seconds before he asked himself why it mattered. For he had been brought up with that crucial consciousness of accent which is so much in the air of English public schools that a boy with the wrong kind would feel outcast till, by conscious mimicry or slow absorption, he could conform to pattern. And the pattern, of course, was the clipped unregional utterance associated by name with Oxford rather than Cambridge, an utterance based on upper-class standardizations achieved over a period long enough to acquire tradition.
She went on, smiling now with complete friendliness: 'I've nearly finished it. Don't tell me how it ends.'
'It's a sad ending.'
'I don't mind sad endings if they're real. I mean, I don't like a happy ending to be dragged in.'
'Mackenzie wouldn't do that--he's too good a writer. But I don't think Guy and Pauline is his best book. You ought to read Carnival.'
'Carnival? I'll remember that. . . . Are YOU a writer?'
'Oh no.' But then he recollected what he was in London for. 'Not of novels, but at present I'm working on a thesis.' It was clear she didn't know what a thesis was, and he didn't hold it against her. 'Something I have to do at Cambridge.'
Her eyes widened again. 'Cambridge? You're at Cambridge College?'
The question hadn't been put to him before in that form, and because he didn't want to make her seem ignorant or himself pedantic, he answered: 'I'm a student at the University, but I come to London sometimes to look up things at the British Museum. . . . Now it's your turn. Tell me what you do.'
There was no check on the conversation from then on. She said she was a typist at a firm of importers with offices in Kingsway. She had a boss named Mr. Graybar. She was eighteen. She lived with her parents at Linstead, and Linstead, she explained, was near Chilford. (Charles had heard of both, but could only place them vaguely as northern London suburbs.) Her father was a superintendent of local parks. (She spoke the word 'superintendent' with pride.)
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