Читать книгу This Above All - Eric Knight - Страница 8

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Joe came in as Clive straightened his necktie.

“Sure you won’t change your mind, Briggs?”

Clive bent his head under the gabled ceiling. The late evening sunlight came in a shaft through the tiny window. He bent nearer the looking glass to inspect his chin. The sunlight made it hard to see.

“Can’t do it, Joe.”

“All spit, shave, and shine, eh? Appointment?”

“That’s it.”

“The one last night?”

“None other.”

“Ah—women! Once in a while’s enough.”

“Sour grapes, mate. You weren’t a success.”

“I was that. I am when I want to be.”

“But you weren’t last night.”

“Ah, she give me a bellyache, that Violet. I haven’t time to waste.”

Joe sat on the bed and hugged a knee.

“You know, chum. There was a time when I’d go for it. You know—I didn’t mind how long I had to work for it. Patient—that was me. But now I’m getting to a point where—well, hell, if it comes, all right; if it don’t, to hell with it.”

“You’re losing your manhood, Joe.”

“Me? Like bloody hell!”

“You are. Either losing your manhood or approaching mental maturity.”

“I’m getting more sense.”

“That’s what I mean.”

“Then whyn’t you get sense, too? Come on—just drop in with me for a couple.”

Clive picked up his hat and grinned. Joe had such a serio-comic pleading look on his face.

“All right. Just one quick one—then I’m away.”

Joe grinned and jumped up.

“That’s more like it,” he said.

They went from the cottage to the warmth of the evening. The early August air was clear and soft.

They went along unspeaking to the pub. They ducked under the low lintel and their feet moved noisily on the sanded floor. The publican saw them and came over, wiping his hands on his apron. He drew up his bulk and sniffed.

“Now, you two. I don’t want no trouble tonight, so ...”

“Oh, go fry a fish,” Joe said. “Bring us two mild and bitters.”

“No, let’s get out of here,” Clive said. “I don’t want to stay ...”

“To hell with him. You’ll have a drink first to warm you up. This is a public house. Come on, Chubby.”

“No. Let’s get a pint of whisky and get out.”

“Not me. You hear, Carlishaw? Two mild and bitters and a pint of White Horse—and hop to it.”

Joe laughed as he leaned back in the leathered wall seat.

“Fair gives him the gripes—the swine.”

Joe looked around happily.

“You know, that’s the right idea you’ve got.”

“What is?”

“The pint. Always take a little along, I say. Give ’em a couple of healthy swigs. Then if that don’t warm ’em up to you—save your time and energy. Cut your losses and run. It’s no use wasting your time on a girl if she won’t warm up after two drinks.”

“You’re cold-blooded about your women, Joe.”

“No, I’m not. Just common sense, that’s all. It’s no use wasting your time in sitting there and talking this and talking that, when both of you bloody well knows what you’re working up to.”

“Good bluff fellow, Joe.”

“No. I mean, what the hell is there to talk about, anyhow? You sit and say the weather’s nice, and then you sit and say nothing, and then first thing you know you’re fighting the bloody war with your mouth.”

“It limits conversation.”

“Well, what’s there to talk about any time—barring women, when you’re young and single? I’ll talk women and be open about it.”

“Even if it’s only talk, eh?”

“That’s all right, chum,” Joe said. He wrinkled his forehead. “If you talk women, that’s only talk. And if you talk war—that’s only talk, too. So you might as well keep your bloody mouth shut.”

“About the war, anyhow. Let’s not get going on that.”

“Right! It was an effing mess, chum. I didn’t like seeing the bloody British army standing up to its belly in the sea. It made you mad and—and it made you ashamed.”

“Ashamed? About what?”

“I don’t know. About something—against somebody. It made you ashamed. Well—here we go saying we won’t talk about it, and you get me started on it.”

“I’m sorry. Here we are.”

“Seven-and-nine,” the publican said.

“Too bloody much,” Joe cut in.

“New taxes went in two weeks ago. There’s a war on, me lad—in case you haven’t heard.”

“Here it is again,” Joe said to Clive. He looked up. “Then why don’t you go fight it?”

“You want to start another argument?”

“Oh, go fry a fish. You’re getting yours all right.”

Joe grinned as Clive put down a ten-shilling note. The publican counted the change on the table and stalked away. They drank, and then Clive rose.

“Sure you won’t stay, Briggs? Beer’s better nor women.”

“You can get a hangover from drink. I get too many headaches these days.”

“That’s nothing to what you can get from women. You can catch wrong honey. And that don’t get cured in one day.”

“I’ll chance it. Don’t get drunk.”

“Not on this beer.”

“And don’t start an argument.”

“It’s never me that starts ’em. It’s always the other chap.”

“That sounds logical. So long.”

“So long, chum. And remember. If she don’t go good after two drinks—don’t waste any more.”

Clive waved his hand and left the pub. It was dusk now, and he went slowly along the narrow flagged pavement, his eyes still used to the lighted pub. The voices around him seemed eerily disembodied.

Time had crawled like a beetle, and the night noises of insects had become pandemonium. But they faded into forgetfulness as he heard her coming into the darker-than-darkness under the tree.

He slipped from the wall.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello.”

They stood quietly, not knowing what to say.

“I’m glad you came,” he said, finally.

“I’m not,” she said.

“Why not?”

“I still feel a little like a kitchen maid on her night out.”

“You make it sound very attractive,” he said, harshly. “If you feel like that—what did you come for?”

“Because,” she said. “Because I kept thinking you’d look like such a fool, sitting on this wall—if I didn’t.”

His senses assayed the modulation of her voice—tense beneath its poised tone. In the darkness there was no distance between them. He moved nearer, until he thought he could feel the warmth of her face affecting the skin of his cheek. But they did not touch. He rocked backward slightly.

“Nice of you to think of me,” he said. “And now—since you look at it that way—we might as well go back.”

“Perhaps it would be better,” she said, coolly.

They walked down the road in the blackness, going slowly and without speaking. Then, in a curious manner, their common malaise gave them kinship.

“You don’t mind my walking with you, at least?” he said.

“No. It’s good of you to see me back,” she said. “This way.”

She was moving through the grass at the edge of the road.

“It’s a stile,” she said. “Can you see?”

“Not a thing.”

“Here, take my hand. I know it well enough.”

He felt the warmth of her palm as he climbed the wooden steps.

“It’s much shorter over the meadow,” she said.

He followed her in the narrow path. At first he marveled at her sureness in following it. Then he found it easy to follow, too. In the years of coming and going the path had been tamped into a smooth runnel and one’s feet bumped the turfed edge when they went astray. The blackout was giving new dimensions to some of the senses.

“Man used to live without lights—once,” he said.

“Yes.”

He realized that he had assumed in a curious way that her mind had followed his. Yet she was distant. He looked at the starlit sky and stumbled, bumping into her.

“Sorry.”

“Not at all.”

Her voice sounded small, feminine. He was sorry for her.

“How are things up in the purely feminine world?”

“Fine. They’re a fine bunch of girls.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“Yes. You told me. Remember?”

“Oh, that.”

He felt his attempt to comfort her was missing fire.

“Oh, now,” he said. “I’m really sorry—about tonight. You understand that, don’t you.”

Her voice came back in the darkness.

“I’m sorry, too. You’ll pardon me, won’t you?”

“It’s all right. You can do as you like. It’s a free country—they say.”

“It’s just—I suppose I’m not going to be any good at this sort of thing. And if I say anything—I suppose it sounds like all the coy things a girl’s supposed to say and doesn’t mean.”

“No, it’s nice of you to try to explain. Don’t be upset.”

She laughed.

“The silly thing is, I’m rather upset about you. You are really—well, you’re decent about it.”

“I’m a Galahad. My word—what’s that there?”

“It’s only the haystack.”

“Heavens, I thought it was a diplodocus. Looming up like that.”

She halted.

“Is this far enough?” he said.

“Yes, thank you.”

They stood in silence.

“Shall we sit down?” he said, finally. “We’ve signed the armistice.”

“Step number one,” she said, in a small voice.

He heard her sitting in the hay. He sat beside her and the rustle ended. Not seeing her, he was even more aware of her presence. They were silent long enough to hear their own breathing. He felt that she was waiting. He felt her shiver.

“Are you cold?”

“Just a little—I think.”

He fumbled in his pocket.

“Will you have a drink?”

He heard her breath come and go twice.

“Step number two, isn’t it?” she said.

But her hand followed along his arm until it reached his hand.

“The cork’s out,” he said. “That’s proper upbringing. My mother told me always to take the cork from the bottle before you offered it to a lady.”

He heard her laugh.

“Especially if it’s a lady in a haystack,” she said.

He sat with his elbows on his knees, not wishing to answer. He heard the soft gurgle. Then she said:

“Here.”

He took the bottle and drank. The whisky crept hotly to the edges of his brain. The earth seemed to tilt slightly, and stayed atilt. He put the cork back, carefully.

“Did you ever get stinko?” he said. “Blind, unconscious stinko?”

“No. Have you?”

“Yes. Two nights ago. Blind! Blotto! Out!”

“Sounds restful. What does it feel like?”

“Fine. You wake up the next morning feeling like hell, but rather magnificent in a way. Empty, tired, chastened. In a way, rather purified and shriven—as if all your psychic sins had been bleached away—or washed down the sink, or something.”

“It sounds as if it’s exactly the thing I need. I might try it.”

“I’ll be honest, my lass. There’s something I didn’t mention. The headache the next morning.”

“I’ll risk it. May I have the bottle?”

He passed it to her, and then held it as their hands touched.

“There’s remorse, perhaps, too,” he said.

“You sound like my own conscience. I don’t believe in remorse. Let go.”

He let go of the bottle.

“And a feeling in your stomach,” he said. “As if bile-green boats were pitching on a warm, greasy, dishwater sea.”

“Now you sound like Mephisto, having successfully tempted someone, gloating as he provides himself with an alibi to prove that he warned them.”

“Yes, I’m a stinker, aren’t I? But be warned ...”

“It’s too late now,” she said. “Will you tell me when I’m getting stinko—blind stinko?”

“You’ll know.”

“I don’t feel anything.”

“A delayed action effect. Wait a few minutes.”

“No. I don’t get drunk. I’ve drunk ever so much. Last Christmas at home I tried—I drank and drank. It didn’t do any good.”

“Don’t get discouraged.”

“I’ll try again.”

“No. Wait a while. You’ll be sick.”

“It’s my sick if I want to be.”

“If you say.”

He gave her the bottle, and waited until he heard her breath expelled. He reached out and took it away.

“Should I see you back to camp?”

“No. You asked me to meet you, and now you want to hurry me back to camp. Is that being a Galahad?”

“I think perhaps it is—just that.”

“No it isn’t. It’s more I-told-you-so to your own conscience. So that no matter what happens, you can say to yourself: ‘Well, I offered to take her back.’ You don’t really want to go back.”

“Nonsense.”

“It’s true.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“All right. Then we’ll sit here and talk. We’ll talk about you,” she said.

“What about me?”

“What did you want to see me again for?”

“Oh, nothing much.”

He wished she would stop talking. Her voice sounded strained.

“It’s just that I’m woman.”

“Nonsense.”

“It is. You don’t know me. We’ve never even seen each other in the light. You don’t know what I look like. I’m just woman—something in skirts.”

“Well, I’m something in pants. Pants and Skirts, that’s all,” he said, harshly.

“Yes. It does sound revolting,” she said.

Her voice sounded thin and far away.

“Pants meets Skirts,” she went on. “Object, seduction. Shortest distance between two points.”

“You’re gabbling.”

“I have a right to if I want.”

“You’re getting tipsy.”

“My head is perfectly clear. That was the idea, wasn’t it—casual seduction of one of the Waffs. Walk arm in arm. Then clinch. Then—that’s the part where it always fades out in the cinema. I wonder why?”

“Because the cinema has more sense than to try to talk about it.”

“But it was your idea, wasn’t it? Tell me the truth?”

She was clutching his arm. He took his hand and lifted hers away. He spoke coldly.

“Well, I can’t say I wanted to see you because you’re beautiful—I haven’t seen you enough to know whether or not you are.”

“I’m not—not very.”

“And I can’t say I asked you out for conversational exercise or a little chitchat. Or perhaps you can sing—or do parlor tricks.”

“And that leaves—only the other thing.”

She sat quietly. In a childish rebelliousness he determined not to speak before she did.

“It’s no good,” she said. Her voice had changed. It was soft and small. “I wouldn’t be any good at it.”

“At what?”

“You know. I think I’d be very disappointing. You’d better go after someone else. It would ...”

Her voice trailed away. Then she spoke brightly.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Well, we’ve talked about me. Now let’s talk about you.”

“Yes,” he said. “What do I think about you, eh?”

She laughed quickly, and for a second his ear was held by a sort of round beauty in the tone.

“Give me another drink,” she said.

“Are you getting drunk?”

“Not in my head. But it’s certainly helping me to talk.”

“Ah, a garrulous drunk.”

She took no notice of what he said. After a pause she spoke.

“Now. What do you do?”

“I’m on a holiday.”

“A holiday! This is a fine time.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“What’s wrong? Well, there is a little thing like a war on. There’s need for everyone to work. And—well——”

“Well, what?”

“Oh, you’ll be angry.”

“How do you know?”

“I do know—but I don’t give a damn. Why aren’t you in khaki?”

“You sound like a damned recruiting poster. Why should I be?”

“Decency. That’s why. To be decent to yourself.”

“You sound like Colonel Blimp.”

“Why not? We women can get in it. And there’s young men like you—well, if I were a man I’d ...”

“Fight the war with your mouth probably. I punched a fat chap in the nose the other night for just that line.”

“Listen,” she said. “There’s work to do. If I were a man, I wouldn’t hold back because my age hadn’t been called, or because I could claim exemption on grounds of essentials of employment. I’d enlist. I’d stand in line to enlist! I’d ...”

“Oh, be quiet.”

“Are you a conscientious objector?”

“Be quiet. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then why aren’t you in the army?”

“Wa-wa-wa-wa-wa-wa!” he mocked.

“I said, why aren’t you in the army?”

“Talk sex again, you make more sense.”

“Why aren’t you in the army?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, be quiet,” he said. “I am in the army.”

“In the army—then what are you doing in civilian clothes?”

“A man can wear civilian clothes if he wants, can’t he? I’m on leave. I put on civilian clothes.”

“I wouldn’t be ashamed to wear my uniform.”

“It isn’t being ashamed. I want to forget it for a while.”

“I know,” she said, slowly. “Just as I want to forget the Waffs sometimes.”

“Now, we’ve talked about me,” he said. “Shall we go?”

“Not yet. Can’t we have another drink?”

“There’s just about one apiece left.”

“All right. A last toast then—to the two services. The uniform forever!”

“Nuts,” he said.

“Please!”

“Sorry. All right, then. To the Buffs, my lass, and a couple of egads! The 1890 port, Clinkers! And damme no heeltaps!”

She passed him the bottle.

“Now I do feel dizzy,” she said.

“It would be an awful waste of whisky if you didn’t by this time.”

“I feel fine.”

“You won’t in the morning. Now, shall we go?”

“No,” she said. “It’s very nice here.”

She lay back in the hay, and he bent and found her mouth and kissed her. She did not move.

“You make the first advances very nicely,” she said.

He sat up.

“Oh, damn it, let’s go back,” he said. “What are you trying to find out? What are you torturing yourself about?”

She did not answer. She put her hand out to his knee and let it rest there.

“Wait a moment, please,” she said. “Just be still a while.”

For a long time she lay, quietly. Then she moved.

“Come here,” she said.

She pulled his head slowly toward her. Then she kissed him. He cradled her head with one arm. The other hand found her breast.

“Be gentle,” she said, very softly. “Be gentle, and I won’t be frightened.”

He kissed her again. She put a halting hand on his chest. Her voice was a whisper.

“A uniform isn’t a very handy thing to make love in,” she said. “Wait a second. I’ve got to take something off.”

He did not answer. A few seconds later he felt her arms reaching for him, warmly.

But afterwards she said:

“So it was under a haystack. It is rather common, isn’t it?”

“Under a hedge is commoner,” he said, coldly.

She lay back quietly.

“I suppose now,” she said, “you’ll be able to go back to camp and talk about it: the girl from the Waffs you met and—what would your word be for it?”

“A much honester one than you’re thinking of,” he said. “And you’ll have the consolation of knowing you’ve done so much for one of the boys in khaki. It’s all in the name of patriotism. Think how virtuous and self-righteous you’ll feel.”

He turned his head away. Then he heard a movement and her hand was touching his head.

“Don’t,” she said. “It isn’t right of us to talk like this, is it?”

“It was you ...”

“There, there,” she said. “Now ...”

Her hand stroked his forehead slowly, and he could feel that she was staring out into the blackness. The hand went on and on, moving in a comforting way as if she were suddenly the older and wiser of the two. He began to know only the stillness of night and the oversweet smell of hay. Then, like the turning off of a water tap, time stopped. When it began again, he was sitting up, holding her arm. He heard the tail end of his own words:

“Who? Who is it?”

“Don’t,” she said. “You hurt. It’s me?”

“Of course it is,” he said, fully awake.

He leaned forward and rubbed the palms of his hands over his temples.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’ve got an awful headache. Was I dreaming?”

“You must have been. You were asleep a long time, and you began grinding your teeth horribly. When I wakened you, you almost broke my arm.”

“Sorry.”

“I’ve got to get back.”

He got up and held out his hand. He did not think it curious that she should be expecting it, nor that she should find it unerringly in the dark. He pulled her to her feet. Unspeaking, in a dreamy sort of sleepy peace, they went along the path toward the camp.