Read Online Wild Geese Overhead by Neil M. Gunn - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Neil M. Gunn
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head up.
What more to be done?
What a plague of interference with the hidden lives of others! Winning smile?⦠No wonder Mac got the grue!
The poached egg was like her waxen cheek. What in the name of providence had made him ask for an egg? Reflex of the pre-farm era! Its smoothness tickled the roof of his mouth. It smelt faintly. The misbegotten thing was sick. Its pale yellow oozed over the wet toast. The taste was death on a bed of rotting straw. He stretched out knife and fork beside it, quietly shoved the plate aside, and, looking up, encountered the face of Jenny as she entered.
Jennyâs face passed over him in search of a vacant table. There was one immediately on his left. But she found another three tables away and went there. She had seen him all right, but had not allowed the smallest flicker of recognition or subsequent self-consciousness to show. Not even a flick of hauteur. Just nothing.
That definitely was something to her credit! He listened for her voice. âMixed fruit.â He couldnât have guessed better!
She would probably be going somewhere this evening with Philip. But why, then, had she not gone home to change? Home? Digs?â¦
What was Philip doing with her anyway? A startling thought came into his mind. Was he the partner in the firm of exporters and she the âprivate secretaryâ? Was Philip, to put it normally, running his typist?
Philip would enjoy that quite all right. He always had had some one or other. But he never got embroiled. He was never silly about a thing like that. He always, in course of time, contrived to make it clear with his candid eyes that of course it is up to each individual to look after his or her destiny without encroaching upon the destiny of her or him respectively. That understood, wellââ!
Jenny had better mind her step! It wouldnât do her any good falling head over heels in love with Philip Manson, however much she thought of herself. For Philip was a man apart and dedicated to the high calling and social suavities of money as power.
However, she could always have her fling!
And she wouldnât have to callâlike himâfor the bill!
He put something beside his plate for the waitress, got up and into his overcoat, and, about to move out, moved instead to Jennyâs table.
âPardon me,â he said quietly. âMrs. Armstrong asked me to inform you that two special daffodils are out this morning in the garden.â He bowed very slightly to this stranger and immediately turned away.
On the street his eyes brightened in still laughter. Thatâs another one whoâll think me daft!
But his own girl wasnât on the bus. There were many buses and she would work in a shift anyway.
He checked his laugh, for this daft aspect of life would have to be watched. All it meant was that the ego was enjoying itself to the exclusion of all else and every one else. And every one else didnât like it.
Astonishing how it hurt a fellow like Mac. To be gay and cheerfulânot superficially, not in the usual cackling social way, but inwardly and deeplyâit was an affront, an insult.
Was life, our modern life, getting like that? Full of such torturing realities and fears that it was disloyal to move outside them, outside their groups and philosophies and strenuous aspirations? Would it yet become a crime to be secretly happy?
Hellâs bells and itâs beginning to look like it! he thought.
The shades of evening were falling fast. Over the crest, he paused. A blue dimness was far away upon the land, and in the woods, and purple-dark on the remote mountains. Here and there a bird sang its last song. He was prepared to bet they had had a great day.
Oh God, I donât care what you say, he muttered aloud suddenly, head up, as he strode on. I donât care! I donât care! Life is a lovely thing! Not my life, or your life, but all life interpenetrating on this lovely earth!
A small cold
What more to be done?
What a plague of interference with the hidden lives of others! Winning smile?⦠No wonder Mac got the grue!
The poached egg was like her waxen cheek. What in the name of providence had made him ask for an egg? Reflex of the pre-farm era! Its smoothness tickled the roof of his mouth. It smelt faintly. The misbegotten thing was sick. Its pale yellow oozed over the wet toast. The taste was death on a bed of rotting straw. He stretched out knife and fork beside it, quietly shoved the plate aside, and, looking up, encountered the face of Jenny as she entered.
Jennyâs face passed over him in search of a vacant table. There was one immediately on his left. But she found another three tables away and went there. She had seen him all right, but had not allowed the smallest flicker of recognition or subsequent self-consciousness to show. Not even a flick of hauteur. Just nothing.
That definitely was something to her credit! He listened for her voice. âMixed fruit.â He couldnât have guessed better!
She would probably be going somewhere this evening with Philip. But why, then, had she not gone home to change? Home? Digs?â¦
What was Philip doing with her anyway? A startling thought came into his mind. Was he the partner in the firm of exporters and she the âprivate secretaryâ? Was Philip, to put it normally, running his typist?
Philip would enjoy that quite all right. He always had had some one or other. But he never got embroiled. He was never silly about a thing like that. He always, in course of time, contrived to make it clear with his candid eyes that of course it is up to each individual to look after his or her destiny without encroaching upon the destiny of her or him respectively. That understood, wellââ!
Jenny had better mind her step! It wouldnât do her any good falling head over heels in love with Philip Manson, however much she thought of herself. For Philip was a man apart and dedicated to the high calling and social suavities of money as power.
However, she could always have her fling!
And she wouldnât have to callâlike himâfor the bill!
He put something beside his plate for the waitress, got up and into his overcoat, and, about to move out, moved instead to Jennyâs table.
âPardon me,â he said quietly. âMrs. Armstrong asked me to inform you that two special daffodils are out this morning in the garden.â He bowed very slightly to this stranger and immediately turned away.
On the street his eyes brightened in still laughter. Thatâs another one whoâll think me daft!
But his own girl wasnât on the bus. There were many buses and she would work in a shift anyway.
He checked his laugh, for this daft aspect of life would have to be watched. All it meant was that the ego was enjoying itself to the exclusion of all else and every one else. And every one else didnât like it.
Astonishing how it hurt a fellow like Mac. To be gay and cheerfulânot superficially, not in the usual cackling social way, but inwardly and deeplyâit was an affront, an insult.
Was life, our modern life, getting like that? Full of such torturing realities and fears that it was disloyal to move outside them, outside their groups and philosophies and strenuous aspirations? Would it yet become a crime to be secretly happy?
Hellâs bells and itâs beginning to look like it! he thought.
The shades of evening were falling fast. Over the crest, he paused. A blue dimness was far away upon the land, and in the woods, and purple-dark on the remote mountains. Here and there a bird sang its last song. He was prepared to bet they had had a great day.
Oh God, I donât care what you say, he muttered aloud suddenly, head up, as he strode on. I donât care! I donât care! Life is a lovely thing! Not my life, or your life, but all life interpenetrating on this lovely earth!
A small cold
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