that, I was enthusiastic at one time, but some of those people are so cynical. Do you know what one of them said to me last week, rubbing her hands together? ‘Christmas will soon be here,’ she said, ‘they’ll all be having a drink or two too many, and then by September we shall have a good many new babies to place.’ I think it’s disgusting. I mean they’re not replacements, they’re people, small people, anyway,” she concluded awkwardly.
“That’s right,” I said, and glanced at my watch. “We’ll be in at Victoria Station in a few minutes,” I added, but it wasn’t any good.
“She was very good to me, my friend who died. I’d like to see her again. It would be nice to explain.”
“You’ll see her again,” I said dully.
People often think that explanations can change things, can soften the blow of adultery, smooth over the loss of love, pour oil on the surface of life; and the seas will abate, and all will be as it should be. It’s bunk.
“She was much older than me, I told you that. We still went on being friends after. She wasn’t bitter. I’m sure she understood.”
I nodded. There was nothing I could say which was worth saying.
“She said she’d leave me £100 in Premium Bonds. That shows she still cared, don’t you think? Do you think I ought to practise my religion again?”
“It’s something you’ve got to decide for yourself,” I replied, and knew she wanted me to go through the motion of deciding for her.
“I suppose so.” Her voice was grief stricken. “Do you know, her family didn’t even invite me to the funeral. You’d think they’d have had the decency to do that, wouldn’t you? Some people! They said it was because I was a Catholic.”
Her eyes took on an expression of stubborn indignation.
“That was just an excuse. They knew perfectly well I hadn’t been to church for years. What harm would it have done letting me go to church to pay my last respects? Still, I went, just to spite them. What is more I walked the way to the cemetery afterwards, carrying my wreath. I owed it to her. So it was all right in the end, wasn’t it?”
“You did the right thing,” I said, and my voice sounded like an echo of futility itself.
“That’s what I thought. It helps when you know you’ve done the right thing.”
“Oh, yes it does.”
The train was slowing down in Victoria Station. I could hardly wait for it to stop. She was heaving herself into her silly white mackintosh, adjusting her ludicrous head covering. I heard her murmur something about catching a No. 52 bus, and saw her open a big shabby handbag, and take out a buff-coloured envelope. Suddenly, impulsively, I blurted out:
“Don’t do anything foolish. Suicide is no solution.”
The train had almost stopped. She said:
“You may be right. But it’s hard to go on.”
“Try.”
She nodded. Then she swallowed, and sought the same old assurance.
“I shall see her again?”
“Of course, of course you will,” I said, and reached thankfully for the door handle as the train stopped.
We walked a little way along the station platform together.
“She left me a barometer, too. I do hope I get it. But the family are making a fuss.”
I indicated a side entrance, and said I’d have to take a taxi as I was late. I wasn’t. I had nothing to be late for, but I wanted to get back to normality and away from sadness. I felt I couldn’t stand it any longer. I could have given her a lift part of the way, but I couldn’t stand it, not any longer.
Yet at the last moment she detained me with a red, square, hand laid on my arm, and said:
“It’s been such a help talking to you. It’s not often you find somebody who understands. These days everyone is so hard. They don’t seem to understand the nice things in life.”
I felt ashamed by her simplicity, and appalled by the memory of my inability to offer real comfort. I shook my head and began to mutter something, but she interrupted me and
“That’s right,” I said, and glanced at my watch. “We’ll be in at Victoria Station in a few minutes,” I added, but it wasn’t any good.
“She was very good to me, my friend who died. I’d like to see her again. It would be nice to explain.”
“You’ll see her again,” I said dully.
People often think that explanations can change things, can soften the blow of adultery, smooth over the loss of love, pour oil on the surface of life; and the seas will abate, and all will be as it should be. It’s bunk.
“She was much older than me, I told you that. We still went on being friends after. She wasn’t bitter. I’m sure she understood.”
I nodded. There was nothing I could say which was worth saying.
“She said she’d leave me £100 in Premium Bonds. That shows she still cared, don’t you think? Do you think I ought to practise my religion again?”
“It’s something you’ve got to decide for yourself,” I replied, and knew she wanted me to go through the motion of deciding for her.
“I suppose so.” Her voice was grief stricken. “Do you know, her family didn’t even invite me to the funeral. You’d think they’d have had the decency to do that, wouldn’t you? Some people! They said it was because I was a Catholic.”
Her eyes took on an expression of stubborn indignation.
“That was just an excuse. They knew perfectly well I hadn’t been to church for years. What harm would it have done letting me go to church to pay my last respects? Still, I went, just to spite them. What is more I walked the way to the cemetery afterwards, carrying my wreath. I owed it to her. So it was all right in the end, wasn’t it?”
“You did the right thing,” I said, and my voice sounded like an echo of futility itself.
“That’s what I thought. It helps when you know you’ve done the right thing.”
“Oh, yes it does.”
The train was slowing down in Victoria Station. I could hardly wait for it to stop. She was heaving herself into her silly white mackintosh, adjusting her ludicrous head covering. I heard her murmur something about catching a No. 52 bus, and saw her open a big shabby handbag, and take out a buff-coloured envelope. Suddenly, impulsively, I blurted out:
“Don’t do anything foolish. Suicide is no solution.”
The train had almost stopped. She said:
“You may be right. But it’s hard to go on.”
“Try.”
She nodded. Then she swallowed, and sought the same old assurance.
“I shall see her again?”
“Of course, of course you will,” I said, and reached thankfully for the door handle as the train stopped.
We walked a little way along the station platform together.
“She left me a barometer, too. I do hope I get it. But the family are making a fuss.”
I indicated a side entrance, and said I’d have to take a taxi as I was late. I wasn’t. I had nothing to be late for, but I wanted to get back to normality and away from sadness. I felt I couldn’t stand it any longer. I could have given her a lift part of the way, but I couldn’t stand it, not any longer.
Yet at the last moment she detained me with a red, square, hand laid on my arm, and said:
“It’s been such a help talking to you. It’s not often you find somebody who understands. These days everyone is so hard. They don’t seem to understand the nice things in life.”
I felt ashamed by her simplicity, and appalled by the memory of my inability to offer real comfort. I shook my head and began to mutter something, but she interrupted me and
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