James Hilton: Collected Novels (65 page)

He shook his head and smiled back.

“Well, if you
have
given them the slip, I wouldn’t stay here, old boy, that’s all.”

He smiled again, a little bewildered; somebody was talking to him normally, casually, yet personally too. It was a pleasant experience, he wished it could go on longer, but then he heard the old woman’s footsteps returning from some inner room behind the shop; with a final smile he summoned enough energy to walk away. A few seconds later he stood on the pavement, blinking to the light, aware of the prevalent atmosphere as something pungent, an air he could not breathe, a spice too hot for his palate. Shouts were now merging into a steady sequence of cheers, and through the pale fog he saw a tram approach, clanging continuously as it discharged a load of yelling schoolchildren. He turned away from the clamor into a side street where two rows of small houses reached upwards like flying buttresses astride a hill; presently he came to a house with a dingy brass plate outside—“H. T. Sheldrake, Teacher of Music.” He spoke the name,
Sheldrake,
to himself—he always tested names like this, hoping that some day one of them would fit snugly into an empty groove in his mind. No, not Sheldrake. There was the sound of a piano playing scales; he listened, calming himself somewhat, till the playing stopped and shrill voices began. That made him move on up the hill, but he felt tired after a short distance and held to a railing for support. Just then the same girl caught up with him.

“What’s the matter?”

He smiled.

“I followed you. Thought you looked a bit off-color.”

He shook his head valiantly, observing her now for the first time. She was dressed in a long mackintosh and a little fur hat like a fez, under which brown straight hair framed a face of such friendly eagerness that he suddenly felt it did not matter if she saw and heard his struggles for speech; rather that than have her think him worse than he was. He wanted to say: You should see some of the other fellows up there—what’s wrong with me is
nothing
—just a stammer and not being able to remember things.

While he was planning to say all this she took his arm. “Lean on me if you like. And talk or not, whichever you want. Don’t be nervous.”

After that he decided to say merely that he was not really ill, but only tired after walking further than usual; he began bracing himself to make the effort, smiling beforehand to console her for the ordeal of watching and listening. Then a curious thing happened; it was like taking a rush at a door to break through when all the time the door was neither locked nor even latched. He just opened his mouth and found that he could speak. Not perfectly, of course, but almost as easily as if he were talking to himself. It made him gasp with an astonishment so overwhelming that for the moment he expected her to share it. “Did you hear
that?
I wasn’t so bad
then,
was I?”

“Of course you weren’t. Didn’t I tell you not to be nervous?”

“But you don’t know what a job I have, as a rule.”

“Oh yes I do. I heard you in the shop. But that old woman would scare anybody. Where d’you want to go?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, this street doesn’t lead anywhere.”

“I was just—walking.”

“But weren’t you trying to get away?”

“Not—not exactly. I hadn’t any real plans. I just came out because—well, because there was nobody at the gate.”

“Do they look after you all right?”

“Oh yes.”

“I’ve heard they’re a bit rough with some.”

“Not with me.”

“All the same, you don’t really
like
the place?”

“Not—not very much.”

“Then you oughtn’t to be in it, surely?”

“There’s nowhere else, until I get all right again.”

“How can you get all right again when you’re not happy in a place?”

He had often asked himself the same question, but he answered, parrying the idea: “Perhaps I wouldn’t be very happy anywhere—just now.”

“But the war’s over—doesn’t that make any difference?” She came near to abrupt tears, then dashed a hand to her eyes and began to laugh. “Silly, that’s what I am—everybody’s gone silly today. Seems an awful morning to end the war on, doesn’t it?—I mean, you’d almost think the sun ought to shine—blue skies—like a picture. …” She almost cried again. “Shall we stroll down?”

She gripped his arm as they slowly descended the hill. His walk was pretty good, and he was suddenly proud of it—just the faintest shuffle, nobody would notice. When they reached the piano teacher’s house he hesitated. “I’d rather not get mixed up with the crowd—if you don’t mind.”

“Righto—we’ll keep well away.” She added: “So you don’t like crowds?”

“Not very much.”

“Or hospitals?”

He smiled and shook his head.

“Well, that’s fine. If I keep on trying I’ll really get to know you.”

They both laughed; then she said: “There’s a place where we could get some hot coffee, if you like
that.”

The Coronation Café was a cheap little place along the Bockley Road, patronized mostly by tramway men on duty who stopped their vehicles outside and dashed in with empty jugs, leaving them to be filled in readiness for the return trip. All day long these swift visitations continued, with barely time for an exchange of words across the counter. But today, the eleventh of November, 1918, drivers and conductors chatted boisterously as if they were in no hurry at all, and passed cheery remarks to the couple who sat at the marble-topped table in the window alcove. They could see the man was a soldier by his greatcoat, and it was a good day for saying cheery things to soldiers. “Wonder ’ow long it’ll take to git the rest of you boys ’ome, mate?” … “Maybe they’ll march ’em to Berlin now and shoot the old Kaiser.” … “Seems queer to ’ave the war end up like this—right on the dot, as you might say.” … “Wouldn’t surprise me if it’s just a rumor, like them Russians comin’ through.” … “But it’s all in the papers, see—it sez the Germans ’ave signed a what’s-a-name—means
peace,
don’t it?” All this and much else in snatches of news and comment. The proprietor always answered: “You’re right there, mister”—“That’s just what I always said meself,” or, if the remark had been especially emphatic: “You ’it the nail straight on the ’ead that time, mister.” Towards noon the fog grew very thick indeed and drivers reported crowds still increasing at the busy centers; workpeople had been sent home from offices and factories, as well as children from all the schools. Then the trams stopped running, impeded by fog and crowds equally, and as there were no more customers at the Coronation Café the proprietor set to work behind his counter, polishing a large tea urn till it glowed in the gloom like a copper sun. Presently he came over to the table. He was a little man, pale-faced, bald, with watery eyes and a drooping mustache.

“Wouldn’t you two like a bite o’ somethin’?”

The girl looked to her companion, saw him frame a word and then begin to struggle with it; she intervened quickly: “Sounds a good idea. What have you got?”

“Eggs, tha’s about all. ’Ow d’yer like ’em—soft or ’ard?”

Again she looked across the table before answering. “Oh, middling’ll do.”

“That’s the ticket. That’s ’ow I like ’em meself. And two more coffees?”

“Righto.”

“Keep yer warmed-up a day like this. War’s over, they say, but anybody can the of pewmonia.”

“That’s a fact, so bring those coffees quick.”

He went away chuckling; then the girl leaned across the table and said: “Don’t look so scared. He won’t bite.”

“I know. But I’m always like that with strangers—at first. And besides—I don’t think I’ve enough money.”

“Well, who cares about that? I have.”

“But—”

“Now don’t start being the gentleman. You were telling me about yourself when that fellow came up. Go on with the story.” He stared at her rather blankly till she added: “Unless you’d rather not. Your mind’s on something else, I can see.”

“I’d just noticed that sign outside.” He pointed through the window to a board overhanging the pavement above the café doorway—the words “Good Pull-Up for Carmen” were dimly readable through the fog.
“Carmen,”
he muttered. “That gives me something—why, yes …
Melba.”

“Melba?
Oh, you mean the opera?” She began to laugh. “And Melba gives me peaches. What
is
this—a game?”

“Sort of. I have to keep on doing it, one of the doctors say—part of his treatment. You see, I’ve lost my memory about certain things. It’s like being blind and having to feel around for shapes and sizes.”

“I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t realize, or I wouldn’t have laughed.”

“Oh, that’s all right—I’d rather you laugh. I wish everybody would laugh. … Now what was it you were asking me before?”

“Well, I was wondering why you had to be in a hospital at all, but now of course I understand.”

“Yes—till I get thoroughly better. I daresay I will—eventually.”

“And then your memory’ll come back?”

“That’s what they think.”

“But in the meantime what are you going to do?”

“Just wait around till it happens, I suppose.”

“Isn’t there some way of tracing any of your relatives and friends? Advertising for them, or something like that?”

“They’ve tried. Some people did come to see me at the hospital once, but—I wasn’t their son.”

“I’ll bet they were disappointed. You’d make a nice son for somebody.”

“Well, I was disappointed too. I’d like to have belonged to them—to have had a home somewhere.”

He then gave her some of the facts he had written out for the doctors—that he had been blown up by a shell during 1917, and that when he recovered consciousness he was in a German hospital somewhere, unidentified and unidentifiable. Later there had been an exchange of wounded and shell-shocked prisoners through Switzerland, and by this means the problem had been passed on to the English—but with no more success. He had been a pretty bad case at first, with loss of speech and muscular co-ordination, but those things had gradually returned—perhaps the memory would follow later. Altogether he had spent over a year in various hospitals, of which he liked the one at Melbury least of all. “Mind you,” he added, seizing the chance to say what he thought of saying before, “I’m miles better than some of the others. You’d think so too if you saw them.”

“And that’s why
you
shouldn’t see them at all. Doesn’t exactly help you, does it?”

“No, but I suppose all the hospitals are so crowded—there’s no chance to separate us properly.”

The proprietor, coming up with the coffee and eggs, saw them break off their conversation suddenly. “Gettin’ a bit dark in ’ere—I’ll give yer a light,” he murmured, to satisfy a dawning curiosity. Standing on a bench he pulled the chain under a single incandescent burner in the middle of the ceiling; it sent a pale greenish glow over their faces. He stared at them both. “You don’t look so chirpy, mite. Feelin’ bad?”

“He’s just tired, that’s all.” And then, to get the fellow out: “Bring a packet of cigarettes, will you?”

When he had gone she leaned across. “That’s what you were trying to ask for in the shop, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, but I didn’t really need them.”

“Oh, come, I know what you need more than you do yourself. Don’t be scared of that little chap—he means all right.”

The proprietor returned to their table with the cigarettes. “Looks to me as if ’e might ’ave the flu, miss. Lots o’ flu abart ’ere. Dyin’ like flies, they was, up at the ‘orspital a few weeks ago.”

When he had gone again she comforted: “There now, don’t worry. If you don’t like it here, let’s eat and then we’ll be off.”

“It isn’t that I don’t like it, only—only I’d rather them not come after me, that’s all.”

“Why should they?”

“He mentioned the hospital. He knows I’m from there, just as you did when you first saw me. It’s in my face—the way I look at people. I haven’t a chance—even if I knew where to go. They come round the wards every night at six. If I get back by then there’ll be no trouble.”

“You really mean to go back?”

“There’s nothing else to do.” He smiled wanly. “You’ve been very kind to bring me here.”

“Oh, don’t talk like that.”

“But you have. I’m grateful. Maybe I’ll be more satisfied now, because I shall know I’m not really well enough to be on my own—
yet.”

They ate in silence for a few moments after that; then she went up to the counter and paid the bill. “One and tenpence, miss. Can’t make it any more or I would. An’ if I were you, I’d get your pal ’ome pretty quick. ’E don’t look as if ’e ought to be aht, an’ that’s a fact.”

A moment later the fog was curling round them in swathes, fanning the sound of cheers over distant invisible roofs. She took his arm again as they walked to the next corner, then turned through quiet residential roads away from the center of the town. But at one place jubilant householders were dancing round a bonfire, and to avoid passing through the blaze of light they made a second detour, along alleys that twisted more and more confusingly till, with a sudden rush of sound, they were back in the main street, caught in a madder, wilder throng. Already the war had been over for several hours, and the first shock of exultation was yielding to a hysteria that disguised an anticlimax. The war was over … but now what? The dead were still dead; no miracle of human signature could restore limbs and sight and sanity; the grinding hardships of those four years could not be wiped out by a headline. Emotions were numb, were to remain half-numbed for a decade, and relief that might have eased them could come no nearer than a fret to the nerves. A few things were done, symbolically; men climbed street lamps to tear away the shades that had darkened them since the first air raids in human history; shop windows suddenly blazed out with new globes in long-empty sockets. The traffic center at Melbury was like a hundred others in and around London that day; the crowds, the noise, the light, the fog. Beyond a certain limit of expression there was nothing to say, nothing much even to do; yet the urge to say and to do was self-torturing. So, as the day and the night wore on, throngs were swayed by sharp caprices—hoisting shoulder-high some chance-passing soldier on leave, smashing the windows of tradesmen rumored to have profiteered, making a fire of hoardings that proclaimed slogans for winning the now-extinct war, booing the harassed police who tried to keep such fires in check. From cheers to jeers, from applause to anger, were but a finger touch of difference in the play of events on taut nerves.