more than anything! And I should like to dance—and sing, of course—and travel—I should like to do everything!”
I grinned at the idea of Evie doing everything; then stopped grinning as I remembered the trousers, and the one thing I wanted her to do—or let me do.
“Let’s get back down.”
Evie shook her head.
“I’m going home.”
She began again the sliding walk, back towards the arc of street lights. I followed, cursing the R.A.F. to myself, and its latest recruit in particular. As we passed each light in turn, I felt the spheres of influence thickening round me and slowed. Evie slowed too.
“Well—so long, Evie. Until tomorrow.”
Evie went on with a glint of smile over her shoulder. Looking back, she lifted her left hand by her shoulder and wiggled the fingers at me. With great care I examined the poster of Douglas Fairbanks that stood outside the cinema. When she had disappeared into the Square, I went home too, keeping to the other side of the Town Hall and not leaving its shadow until I was sure the Square was safe.
My mother was darning a pair of my pants when I got in. She flashed her spectacles at me as I sat down, then bent her greying head to the work again.
“I see young Bobby’s back.”
“Bobby Ewan?”
“Weekend.”
“Good God—He didn’t fly down, did he?”
My mother laughed and adjusted her spectacles with a glittering thimble.
“Of course not. Mrs. Ewan took the car into Barchester and met his train.”
My father knocked out his pipe in the grate.
“He’ll have travelled First Class. Have to. Officers do.”
“He’s not an officer yet, Father! A sort of cadet.”
“Oh. Well. I don’t know.”
I got up, seeing my mother glance at me then away again. I went straight off to the bathroom and examined my mouth, but there was no lipstick on it. I stood before the mirror, confirmed in my previous estimate of my face. It was not only unfragile. It was melancholy and bad-tempered. I wondered what a naked girl looked like exactly—what Evie looked like. I had no precise idea but thought it would look pretty good. I found myself wondering the same about Imogen Grantley; and caught myself up, appalled at having even inadvertently equated the two of them. I knew I had no business thinking these thoughts or wanting these things. I was only eighteen; cricket, football, music, walking, chemistry, were what I was for. Imogen would win the subtle, indescribable competition. I leant my forehead against the little mirror, shut my eyes and stayed like that for a long, long time. Not thinking. Feeling.
With the morning however, I plotted fiercely. I played with extravagant bravura, determining that somehow I would get Evie to a place where I might wreak my wicked will. I understood it to be wicked. Well, I was wicked. I swore a great oath of implacability and felt better. After tea I walked up to the woods and searched the nearer fringes for a place of dalliance and concealment. There were enough of them; and each raised my temperature a little higher until I was sweating and panting. I went back towards the road, to go down the hill and wait for her on the bridge; and heard a rocket coming up from it. The Duke of Wellington’s profile flashed by me. I had a glimpse of Evie sitting astride behind him, white embroidery shivering in the wind, eyeflash and the open mouth of delight. Then they were gone and the woods settled behind them.
After a while I walked down the hill, over the Old Bridge and up the High Street. I went indoors. My mother looked up from darning my father’s combinations.
“Back early then, Oliver?”
I nodded and sat down to the piano. After a while my mother went out very quietly, shutting the door behind her. I played to the empty room, the empty reception room, the empty Square and town. I bruised my finger again.
*
The next morning when I went into the bathroom I peered round the edge of the window to see Robert, for I intended to cut him as
I grinned at the idea of Evie doing everything; then stopped grinning as I remembered the trousers, and the one thing I wanted her to do—or let me do.
“Let’s get back down.”
Evie shook her head.
“I’m going home.”
She began again the sliding walk, back towards the arc of street lights. I followed, cursing the R.A.F. to myself, and its latest recruit in particular. As we passed each light in turn, I felt the spheres of influence thickening round me and slowed. Evie slowed too.
“Well—so long, Evie. Until tomorrow.”
Evie went on with a glint of smile over her shoulder. Looking back, she lifted her left hand by her shoulder and wiggled the fingers at me. With great care I examined the poster of Douglas Fairbanks that stood outside the cinema. When she had disappeared into the Square, I went home too, keeping to the other side of the Town Hall and not leaving its shadow until I was sure the Square was safe.
My mother was darning a pair of my pants when I got in. She flashed her spectacles at me as I sat down, then bent her greying head to the work again.
“I see young Bobby’s back.”
“Bobby Ewan?”
“Weekend.”
“Good God—He didn’t fly down, did he?”
My mother laughed and adjusted her spectacles with a glittering thimble.
“Of course not. Mrs. Ewan took the car into Barchester and met his train.”
My father knocked out his pipe in the grate.
“He’ll have travelled First Class. Have to. Officers do.”
“He’s not an officer yet, Father! A sort of cadet.”
“Oh. Well. I don’t know.”
I got up, seeing my mother glance at me then away again. I went straight off to the bathroom and examined my mouth, but there was no lipstick on it. I stood before the mirror, confirmed in my previous estimate of my face. It was not only unfragile. It was melancholy and bad-tempered. I wondered what a naked girl looked like exactly—what Evie looked like. I had no precise idea but thought it would look pretty good. I found myself wondering the same about Imogen Grantley; and caught myself up, appalled at having even inadvertently equated the two of them. I knew I had no business thinking these thoughts or wanting these things. I was only eighteen; cricket, football, music, walking, chemistry, were what I was for. Imogen would win the subtle, indescribable competition. I leant my forehead against the little mirror, shut my eyes and stayed like that for a long, long time. Not thinking. Feeling.
With the morning however, I plotted fiercely. I played with extravagant bravura, determining that somehow I would get Evie to a place where I might wreak my wicked will. I understood it to be wicked. Well, I was wicked. I swore a great oath of implacability and felt better. After tea I walked up to the woods and searched the nearer fringes for a place of dalliance and concealment. There were enough of them; and each raised my temperature a little higher until I was sweating and panting. I went back towards the road, to go down the hill and wait for her on the bridge; and heard a rocket coming up from it. The Duke of Wellington’s profile flashed by me. I had a glimpse of Evie sitting astride behind him, white embroidery shivering in the wind, eyeflash and the open mouth of delight. Then they were gone and the woods settled behind them.
After a while I walked down the hill, over the Old Bridge and up the High Street. I went indoors. My mother looked up from darning my father’s combinations.
“Back early then, Oliver?”
I nodded and sat down to the piano. After a while my mother went out very quietly, shutting the door behind her. I played to the empty room, the empty reception room, the empty Square and town. I bruised my finger again.
*
The next morning when I went into the bathroom I peered round the edge of the window to see Robert, for I intended to cut him as
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