smile on his face out of my mind. It secreted an omission; something he’d saved up, a mysterious last word. Waiting-room, waiting-room, waiting-room; it went round in my head all that evening.
6
I picked up Alison and we went to the garage that was going to sell the car for me. I’d offered it to her some time before, but she had refused.
‘If I had it I’d always think of you.’
‘Then have it.’
‘I don’t want to think of you. And I couldn’t stand anyone else sitting where you are.’
‘Will you take whatever I get for it? It won’t be much.’
‘My wages?’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘I don’t want anything.’
But I knew she wanted a scooter. I could leave a cheque with ‘Towards a scooter’ on a card, and I thought she would take that, when I had gone.
It was curious how quiet that last evening was; as if I had already left, and we were two ghosts talking to each other. We arranged what we should do in the morning. She didn’t want to come and see me off– I was going by train – at Victoria; we would have breakfast as usual, she would go, it was cleanest and simplest that way. We arranged our future. As soon as she could she would try to get herself to Athens. If that was impossible, I might fly back to England at Christmas. We might meet halfway somewhere – Rome, Switzerland.
‘Alice Springs,’ she said.
In the night we lay awake, knowing each other awake, yet afraid to talk. I felt her hand feel out for mine. We lay for a while without talking. Then she spoke.
‘If I said I’d wait?’ I was silent. ‘I think I could wait. That’s what I mean.’
‘I know.’
‘You’re always saying “I know”. But it doesn’t answer anything.’
‘I know.’ She pinched my hand. ‘Suppose I say, yes, wait, in a year’s time I shall know. All the time you’ll be waiting, waiting.’
‘I wouldn’t mind.’
‘But it’s mad. It’s like putting a girl in a convent till you’re ready to marry her. And then deciding you don’t want to marry her. We have to be free. We haven’t got a choice.’
‘Don’t get upset. Please don’t get upset.’
‘We’ve got to see how things go.’
There was a silence.
‘I was thinking of coming back here tomorrow night. That’s all.’
‘I’ll write. Every day.’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s a sort of test, really. We’ll see how much we miss each other.’
‘I know what it’s like when people go away. It’s agony for a week, then painful for a week, then you begin to forget, and then it seems as if it never happened, it happened to someone else, and you start shrugging. You say, dingo, it’s life, that’s the way things are. Stupid things like that. As if you haven’t really lost something for ever.’
‘I shan’t forget. I shan’t ever forget.’
‘You will. And I will.’
‘We’ve got to go on living. However sad it is.’
After a long time she said, ‘I don’t think you know what sadness is.’
We overslept in the morning. I had deliberately set the alarm late, to make a rush, not to leave time for tears. Alison ate her breakfast standing up. We talked about absurd things; cutting the milk order, where a library ticket I had lost might be. And then she put down her coffee-cup and we were standing at the door. I saw her face, as if it was still not too late, all a bad dream, her grey eyes searching mine, her small puffy cheeks. There were tears forming in her eyes, and she opened her mouth to say something. But then she leant forward, desperately, clumsily, kissed me so swiftly that I hardly felt her mouth; and was gone. Her camel-hair coat disappeared down the stairs. She didn’t look back. I went to the window, and saw her walking fast across the street, the pale coat, the straw-coloured hair almost the same colour as the coat, a movement of her hand to her handbag, her blowing her nose; not once did she look back. She broke into a run. I opened the window and leant out and watched until she disappeared
6
I picked up Alison and we went to the garage that was going to sell the car for me. I’d offered it to her some time before, but she had refused.
‘If I had it I’d always think of you.’
‘Then have it.’
‘I don’t want to think of you. And I couldn’t stand anyone else sitting where you are.’
‘Will you take whatever I get for it? It won’t be much.’
‘My wages?’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘I don’t want anything.’
But I knew she wanted a scooter. I could leave a cheque with ‘Towards a scooter’ on a card, and I thought she would take that, when I had gone.
It was curious how quiet that last evening was; as if I had already left, and we were two ghosts talking to each other. We arranged what we should do in the morning. She didn’t want to come and see me off– I was going by train – at Victoria; we would have breakfast as usual, she would go, it was cleanest and simplest that way. We arranged our future. As soon as she could she would try to get herself to Athens. If that was impossible, I might fly back to England at Christmas. We might meet halfway somewhere – Rome, Switzerland.
‘Alice Springs,’ she said.
In the night we lay awake, knowing each other awake, yet afraid to talk. I felt her hand feel out for mine. We lay for a while without talking. Then she spoke.
‘If I said I’d wait?’ I was silent. ‘I think I could wait. That’s what I mean.’
‘I know.’
‘You’re always saying “I know”. But it doesn’t answer anything.’
‘I know.’ She pinched my hand. ‘Suppose I say, yes, wait, in a year’s time I shall know. All the time you’ll be waiting, waiting.’
‘I wouldn’t mind.’
‘But it’s mad. It’s like putting a girl in a convent till you’re ready to marry her. And then deciding you don’t want to marry her. We have to be free. We haven’t got a choice.’
‘Don’t get upset. Please don’t get upset.’
‘We’ve got to see how things go.’
There was a silence.
‘I was thinking of coming back here tomorrow night. That’s all.’
‘I’ll write. Every day.’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s a sort of test, really. We’ll see how much we miss each other.’
‘I know what it’s like when people go away. It’s agony for a week, then painful for a week, then you begin to forget, and then it seems as if it never happened, it happened to someone else, and you start shrugging. You say, dingo, it’s life, that’s the way things are. Stupid things like that. As if you haven’t really lost something for ever.’
‘I shan’t forget. I shan’t ever forget.’
‘You will. And I will.’
‘We’ve got to go on living. However sad it is.’
After a long time she said, ‘I don’t think you know what sadness is.’
We overslept in the morning. I had deliberately set the alarm late, to make a rush, not to leave time for tears. Alison ate her breakfast standing up. We talked about absurd things; cutting the milk order, where a library ticket I had lost might be. And then she put down her coffee-cup and we were standing at the door. I saw her face, as if it was still not too late, all a bad dream, her grey eyes searching mine, her small puffy cheeks. There were tears forming in her eyes, and she opened her mouth to say something. But then she leant forward, desperately, clumsily, kissed me so swiftly that I hardly felt her mouth; and was gone. Her camel-hair coat disappeared down the stairs. She didn’t look back. I went to the window, and saw her walking fast across the street, the pale coat, the straw-coloured hair almost the same colour as the coat, a movement of her hand to her handbag, her blowing her nose; not once did she look back. She broke into a run. I opened the window and leant out and watched until she disappeared
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