counting sounded ever more loudly. Not to be daunted, the Southstone lady slowly reread the bill. “I pay at the desk?”
“No, me, now, madam. The desk has closed.”
“Oh? How peculiar.—What is the matter, Clare?”
“Dropped a glove,” grunted Mumbo, dropping the other.
Four
Ten days after Frank had become a grandfather, Dinah pulled up her car at a lonely crossroads. She lit a cigarette, then unfurled a map. This should be the place she had said, but was it? Places on maps are unlike what they are in reality. Space causes the same anxiety as time, when one is at sea with regard to it. Here, though, all but on top of her, was an excellent signpost—and better still, what she learned from it was encouraging. It appeared that the roads intersecting here were the roads she’d hoped. If this was not the place, it ought to be. She could do no more.
She and the car were up on a hill, in miraculous early-October air, which shone, making dazzling the emptiness of the country. It was noon. Few were trees, far or near; of those that there were each stood out in tinted and lonely beauty, a smoky flame; while in distances a watery shimmer was given off by roads whose surfaces caught the sun— roads whose wide verges were bounded only by low stone walls. Morning filled the Hillman, its windows open—she, who thought she hated to wait, sat tranced, becalmed in stillness as one only otherwise is in the midst of speed. She had with her her transistor, a flash, In Memoriam bound in once-violet suede, and The Midwich Cuckoos , but had resort to none of them: while this lasted, everything was enough… . But now traffic, having for some time been sealed away out of sight and hearing behind the skylines, began to come by in gushes—vans, lorries, a bubble car, two or three great snooty ones, a tractor, motor bikes. She began to wonder. Soon she was watching, searching the road coming up on her left. Along that the taxi must come. Why did it not?
Sitting turned left, arm hanging over the seat-back, Dinah had in mind no other direction. It was, however, from straight ahead that a Mini-Minor came bounding towards the Hillman. Checking its eagerness as it neared the crossroads, it, once across them, slowed down to a crawl. In passing, sidling close to the Hillman, the driver took stock of Dinah’s turned-away head. The Mini-Minor then came to a stop, correctly, on its side of the road, the requisite number of yards further along. Clare, encased in dogtooth tweed and wearing a claret variant of the turban, got out and walked back briskly towards the Hillman.
Distracted, at last, from her vigil by these manoeuvres and the plaguey sense of now having a neighbour, Dinah looked behind her to see what was going on. Seeing at once who it was, she flew into a rage. “What on earth—?” she stormed, leaning out of a window. “I told you to take a taxi! ”
“I know, I know!” Buoyant, Clare came alongside.
“I told you the train!”
“Never take trains—what’s the matter with this? I am on the dot.”
“You have ruined everything.”
“Boohoo!” said Clare, with veteran unconcern. Here they were back where they had left off—how long ago? Not a day might have passed! “Are you,” she asked, putting a hogskin-gloved hand on the frame of the window, “getting out, or do I get in?”
“What are we to do with that car of yours?”
‘Tail you home in it, I suppose, don’t I?”
“But we shan’t, like that,” Dinah mourned, “be able to talk. Don’t you see, that was the entire point—the whole point of this entire plan?”
“What I don’t see is, why gallivant out here? Why not you simply have met the train?”
“Fat lot of good that would have been, when you weren’t on it! But anyway, meet in a station ?—No, really, Mumbo!”
“For your feelings, I was supposed to take an expensive taxi?”
“You old meanie, with that enormous shop of yours!”
Dinah’s tone changed to one of dovelike
“No, me, now, madam. The desk has closed.”
“Oh? How peculiar.—What is the matter, Clare?”
“Dropped a glove,” grunted Mumbo, dropping the other.
Four
Ten days after Frank had become a grandfather, Dinah pulled up her car at a lonely crossroads. She lit a cigarette, then unfurled a map. This should be the place she had said, but was it? Places on maps are unlike what they are in reality. Space causes the same anxiety as time, when one is at sea with regard to it. Here, though, all but on top of her, was an excellent signpost—and better still, what she learned from it was encouraging. It appeared that the roads intersecting here were the roads she’d hoped. If this was not the place, it ought to be. She could do no more.
She and the car were up on a hill, in miraculous early-October air, which shone, making dazzling the emptiness of the country. It was noon. Few were trees, far or near; of those that there were each stood out in tinted and lonely beauty, a smoky flame; while in distances a watery shimmer was given off by roads whose surfaces caught the sun— roads whose wide verges were bounded only by low stone walls. Morning filled the Hillman, its windows open—she, who thought she hated to wait, sat tranced, becalmed in stillness as one only otherwise is in the midst of speed. She had with her her transistor, a flash, In Memoriam bound in once-violet suede, and The Midwich Cuckoos , but had resort to none of them: while this lasted, everything was enough… . But now traffic, having for some time been sealed away out of sight and hearing behind the skylines, began to come by in gushes—vans, lorries, a bubble car, two or three great snooty ones, a tractor, motor bikes. She began to wonder. Soon she was watching, searching the road coming up on her left. Along that the taxi must come. Why did it not?
Sitting turned left, arm hanging over the seat-back, Dinah had in mind no other direction. It was, however, from straight ahead that a Mini-Minor came bounding towards the Hillman. Checking its eagerness as it neared the crossroads, it, once across them, slowed down to a crawl. In passing, sidling close to the Hillman, the driver took stock of Dinah’s turned-away head. The Mini-Minor then came to a stop, correctly, on its side of the road, the requisite number of yards further along. Clare, encased in dogtooth tweed and wearing a claret variant of the turban, got out and walked back briskly towards the Hillman.
Distracted, at last, from her vigil by these manoeuvres and the plaguey sense of now having a neighbour, Dinah looked behind her to see what was going on. Seeing at once who it was, she flew into a rage. “What on earth—?” she stormed, leaning out of a window. “I told you to take a taxi! ”
“I know, I know!” Buoyant, Clare came alongside.
“I told you the train!”
“Never take trains—what’s the matter with this? I am on the dot.”
“You have ruined everything.”
“Boohoo!” said Clare, with veteran unconcern. Here they were back where they had left off—how long ago? Not a day might have passed! “Are you,” she asked, putting a hogskin-gloved hand on the frame of the window, “getting out, or do I get in?”
“What are we to do with that car of yours?”
‘Tail you home in it, I suppose, don’t I?”
“But we shan’t, like that,” Dinah mourned, “be able to talk. Don’t you see, that was the entire point—the whole point of this entire plan?”
“What I don’t see is, why gallivant out here? Why not you simply have met the train?”
“Fat lot of good that would have been, when you weren’t on it! But anyway, meet in a station ?—No, really, Mumbo!”
“For your feelings, I was supposed to take an expensive taxi?”
“You old meanie, with that enormous shop of yours!”
Dinah’s tone changed to one of dovelike
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