A World of Other People (4 page)

But today he is aware of someone looking at him. Out there in the park. Out there in this world of other people, someone is staring at him. He is sure of that. Without even turning. But it doesn’t matter. It does not concern him. It is just someone from that world that is not his any more.

He has no memory of starting to cry, nor any sense of how long he has been crying. He cries easily these days. And both wishes he didn’t and simply doesn’t care. He feels sure he is that spectacle that everybody would rather not notice and can’t help but notice all the same. What, in his philosophy classes at university, the university just over there on the other side of the square (and which he has come to visit), they called the elephant in the room. He is, at this moment, that elephant, the one that everyone chooses to ignore. Tears, the world will tell you, are a private thing. To be spent in private places. But when somebody takes their tears (however much they may not want to) out into a public place, they implicate everybody around them. And nobody wants to be implicated in the spectacle of somebody else’s tears.

All the same, there is a pair of feet in front of him. And legs. White summer legs, under the blue dress of a uniform of some sort. And he knows, without further thought and without doubt, that these are the feet and the white summer legs that belong to the eyes of whoever was watching him.

But he doesn’t look up. He doesn’t look up because the feet, legs and eyes of whoever this is do not concern
him. She, and he can tell from the shapely, muscular legs that this is a young woman, is part of that world that no longer concerns him. He has no choice but to acknowledge the fact of her presence. But even as he is acknowledging it he is wishing she would go away. That she had not approached him. That she, and the whole world for that matter, would leave him alone.

He has no idea how long he has been staring at those feet and those legs when she speaks.

‘Are you all right?’

Where has he heard that voice before? From the moment he hears it he knows that something has shifted. In a world gone wrong, something feels suddenly right. Impossibly right. More right than anything has for a long time. Or ever. But how? The late afternoon sun is strong and in order to speak to her he must stare into it. And at first she is a blur. Her face camouflaged, almost, in sunshine and shadow. Now here, now gone. As elusive as sunshine and shadow. He blinks, and blinks again. The picture clears and a young woman, bright eyes and a brown fringe, materialises in front of him. I come from the world out there. That world that doesn’t concern you any more. But it does. It does. And I have come to
lead you back into it. This is my promise. And it is because he knows the moment requires nothing other than honesty that he meets those inquiring eyes directly, and, to her question, answers:

‘No, I’m not.’

No, he’s not. He’s not all right. And she chooses, from the start, not to ask too much. About why he’s not all right. But she has spoken to him and, therefore, entered his world. And he has welcomed her into it with honesty. And so she decides she will be company for a while, for the short time she has left before taking up her duties looking for firecrackers. She will possibly be a distraction for him. Maybe a welcome one. But she will not pry. She decides she has no right to. And she doesn’t particularly want to, anyway. Not because of any lack of concern, but from respect. To ask would be an intrusion. But she can be a comfort. That is different. And so she will ignore, as they say, the elephant in the room.

It is while she is wondering what to say that she notices his nationality on the shoulder of his uniform.

‘You’re Australian?’

‘Yes.’

He could go on but he can think of nothing to go on with. Of course, he ought to. The fact is he is distracted. By her. The promise of her. He knows what she is doing and he appreciates it. She is, as they say, taking his mind off things. Keeping him company. Being a good sport. She is asking questions, he is answering, and together they are making conversation. Which is a miracle in itself, for he hasn’t made conversation for a long time now. And it’s not coming naturally. No, he feels a bit like a monkey on a bicycle. The monkey will do it, but it doesn’t come naturally. And he knows what is coming next. She’s going to ask
where
exactly. Where exactly he comes from. And, when she does, he names his city. But even as he says it, even as he pronounces the place-name, Melbourne, it rings in his ears like a foreign sound. He waits. There is a pause.

‘Do you know it?’ He rises from the bench as he speaks. At some point the tears have stopped and now he wipes his eyes.

‘Yes, yes. I mean, I don’t
know
it. But I know of it.’

He notices when she speaks that her voice has something plummy about it. Not upper-class, more of a university plumminess. Not strong, not faint, but
there. A way of speaking with which he is familiar enough: the universal voice of the educated.

‘There’s an Australian girl in the office where I work. She came here in ’39 and sort of got stuck. She wants desperately to go home but she’s afraid of submarines and won’t leave. Shall we walk?’

‘Yes, I’d like that.’

‘This way?’ and she points to a flower bed in a far corner of the square, a miniature rose garden she’s marvelled at before.

‘Yes, wherever. Something like that happened to me.’

As they take off she notices his limp.

‘Got stuck here?’

‘Not exactly stuck. Got involved.’

‘That’ll teach you. Never get involved.’

And with that, a shot at some sort of playfulness, she ventures an inquisitive glance. As much as to say have I judged this right? Something tells me you and I are of a kind. Have I judged it right? And she is relieved when he responds, as much to the sky as her.

‘Nothing teaches me.’

Then he turns to her, catching the glint in her eyes, the life in them. The hint of play. This is how
it was once. This is how
I
was. You see. I can still do this. And perhaps one day it might come naturally again. As naturally as it did in those above-it-all years before the war when we made pronouncements about the weather, and how under no circumstances was it to be spoken of.

But all the time he wants to tell her that something has happened. Five minutes ago he was sitting on the bench, watching — as he has on so many park benches, in so many waiting rooms and crowded streets over the last year — yes, watching the world, but not in it. Five minutes ago that was him. Five minutes ago nothing had changed. Then
everything
changed. In an instant, and he felt it then as he feels it now. Someone has come along. He knows it. The right face at the right time. And the right voice. Something has happened. She must know this too. How can she not? But perhaps she doesn’t. And never will. Unless he tells her. Somehow, he must. But they are making conversation, at least. They are making conversation for now, and when he turns, his eyes upon her, they say look, I can do this … this conversation thing. And I will, for now. But there’s something else I have to say.

Oh, she thinks, looking back into those eyes that are as intense as she knew they would be, you can do it, all right. Just like anybody else. But you’re not, are you? And with that thought she lingers on the intensity of his eyes longer than she ought to. For those eyes, direct and completely without artifice, could draw you in, if you weren’t careful. Eyes as intense as the times. And she knows she could be drawn in by them, as she is by Roman churches, if she’s not careful.

But even as she imagines being drawn in by the eyes of this curious stranger, and as much as she knows these things happen — people, total strangers, suddenly colliding and staying stuck — she dismisses the thought as an idle one. One of those daydream thoughts that the mind throws up then tosses away. For, above all, she is aware of having started something she doesn’t know how to finish. She must leave soon to start her shift. But she did, after all, approach this young man. And now the matter must be seen through. Awkward, though. It will be difficult to take her leave casually, as it were. Already she’s beginning to curse her wretched pity.

She could talk of flying, for he is wearing an RAF uniform and she can tell from his wings that
he’s a pilot, but something tells her not to. For with that limp, she doubts he’s flying any more. So she talks of Australia, or what little she knows of it, and suddenly she wishes she knew more. She finds herself saying silly things about space and how there must be lots of it, and she knows they’re silly even as she speaks. And he says, yes, there is, lots of it. But his heart doesn’t seem to be in it. Nor his mind really on it. And so it goes. On and on. Until they reach a flower bed with climbing roses, and she’s suddenly got nothing left to say. They fall into silence. At first it is merely an awkward silence. Then it becomes unbearable because he is staring at her. And he’s going to say something. Without looking at those eyes she knows he is staring at her, and she has no wish to meet them. To break the silence, to stop him from saying whatever he is about to say because she knows whatever it is she doesn’t want to hear it, and, as much as anything else, as a parting gesture, she defiantly plucks a rose. And so, with her hands occupied and doing something at least, she meets his eyes and, clearly in the manner of a parting gesture, makes an offering of it.

‘Here, give this to someone. Now, I really must—’

Now I really must go, she was about to say. As well as adding that if there is no one to give it to, then keep it for yourself. It’s such a lovely rose, this one. Such a pretty shape. And such a deep red. But she never says any of this. She never gets the chance because, with no warning (although she will later note that she should have seen it coming), she stops in mid-sentence just as she is about to turn and leave. She stops because — and it happens in an instant — he has her hand. All speech and movement have been arrested. He is holding her. His hand is around hers. She can feel the warmth of that hand. And although it is a firm grip, although there is a brief shock in that sudden physical contact (and she catches her breath as she feels his hand clasp hers), it is not so firm a grip that she couldn’t shake herself free if she chose. Not so firm a grip that she calls it a nerve or the sort of unwanted pass that immediately consigns those who make them to the ranks of the seedy and the predatory. No, he’s not the type, she is certain of that already. It is simply a spontaneous act of, well … reaching out. This is how she chooses to take it. Although the grip is firm, there is neither threat nor presumption in the act. But he has no sooner reached out and held her hand than he
releases it, buries his nose in the rich, deep red petals of the rose, then looks up to the sky.

She is staring down at the grass, not sure what to say.

‘I don’t know what came over me,’ he murmurs.

Her hand is hanging loose by her side, or so it seems, and she raises it, brushing her fringe from her eyes.

‘It’s the war,’ she says, and curses herself straight away. For as much as she vowed that the war would never again reduce her to cliché, it just has.

‘No. It’s not the war. You
know
it’s not the war. It’s this, this …’ And he stops; still he can’t tell her. Tell her that
something
has happened. He knows it has. And that he doesn’t go around clasping the hands of strangers every day. That he has never done such a thing before. Yet he has now. And it was just his way of telling her. But, dear God, how must he look? Tears one minute, taking her hand the next. Or did he grasp it? Surely not. And it occurs to him that it’s the first time in ages that he’s actually cared what the world thinks of him. At least, he suddenly cares what this part of the world thinks, and it’s at this moment he realises that he doesn’t know her name, but he’s not sure he can ask
now. After taking her hand and all. There is a line, he tells himself. A line that separates what is and what isn’t done. And he has crossed it. How
must
he look?

He turns the rose stalk in his fingers and is tempted to throw it away. But she has given it to him. To throw it away would be an insult. And though he might feel silly, or a bit of a case, he’s also registering that it’s a long time since he felt anything at all.

‘Thank you,’ he says.

She is staring at him, puzzled, head slightly to one side. Were you always like this? Or is it really the war? This world of no tomorrows. Is this what it does to us?

‘I have to go.’

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Do you have to go?’

‘Because,’ she says.

And it’s the ‘because’ that shuts down conversation. One word, spoken firmly. And once more they fall into silence. Straight away she regrets saying it. At least, saying it the way she did. As a peace offering she adds, ‘I’ve enjoyed our chat. But it has to stop here because I really have to go.’

‘Can’t we meet again?’

There’s something almost pleading in his tone, and she’s not sure she likes that.

‘I don’t think that’s a good—’

‘You’ve taken my mind off things. You … you part the clouds.’

Were you always like this? Even as she ponders the question, and even while cursing her wretched pity, she’s suddenly aware of having done something … well, good. He’s brightened up. And she looks out over the square wondering what on earth to do now, when he adds, ‘Here. We could meet here. Whenever you choose.’

And in spite of a voice telling her to get away, just to go, you’ve done your good deed, now go; in spite of all this she reminds herself that she was the one who approached him and there is an odd sense of obligation … And it is this latter voice to which she responds.

‘Next week,’ she is saying. ‘Next week.’

She can tell he’s disappointed, but so be it.

‘I’m not back here till next week,’ she adds, in a tone that says now, why don’t you pull yourself together a bit?

Next week, she thinks. Why not? He might easily forget. She might find herself otherwise occupied. Inconveniently so … and with that she breathes a sigh of relief. Besides, it is as good a way as any of getting away.