James Hilton: Collected Novels (72 page)

“Waiting for the train, sir?”

“Yes.”

“It’s due in now. I’ll get you a ticket. Where to, sir?”

“Er … Fellingham … single …”

He dragged himself to his feet and followed the man into the small booking hall.

“Fellingham, there you are, sir. Not traveling with the company this time?”

“What?”

“Couldn’t help recognizing you, sir—I was at the theater in Fulverton last night. Very funny indeed you was, sir—funniest bit in the whole show. Well, here’s your train, sir.”

He insisted on carrying Smith’s bag and choosing a compartment for him, though the train was practically empty. It was, indeed, one of those trains that seem to exist for no reason at all except to wander through the English countryside at hours when no one wants to travel, stopping here and there at places where no one could possibly have any business, especially on a Sunday morning, and all with an air of utter vagrancy, like that of cattle browsing or a woman polishing her nails—a halt here for several minutes, then an interval of movement, even a burst of speed, then a slow-down to hardly a stop at all, and so on. Fellingham was only forty-odd miles from Crosby Magna, but the journey, according to the time-table, would take over two hours. But it was pleasant enough to look out of the window on field and farmstead in the early morning, the lonely roads disappearing into a hazy distance, a stop for the guard to throw out a parcel to a man who stood by a crossing gate waiting for it, long maneuvers of shunting in and out of sidings to detach various empty wagons. No sound when the train stopped save that of the brakes creaking off the wheels and the breeze rippling the grasses in near-by fields. Whenever he put his head out of the window at a station, another head, red-haired and a boy’s, was leaning out three coaches in front, and this somehow began to suggest that he and the boy were alone on the train—final survivors of something or else first pioneers of something else.

Presently the horizon began to show a long, low-lying cloud, but a few further miles revealed it as a line of hills—rather high hills, they looked, but he knew they could not be, because there were no high hills in that part of England.

Of course he would not go all the way to Fellingham; that would make the trail too easy, especially after the porter at Crosby Magna had recognized him—unfortunate, that had been. He would get out at some intermediate station and make his way elsewhere across country.

The train had stopped again by the time the hills became clear—a station called Worling. He thought this would do as well as any other, and was just about to jump down to the platform when his bag flew open, spilling some of the contents on to the compartment floor; by the time he had them repacked the train was off again. But it did not really matter; one place was as good as another.

The train cantered on, like horses now more than cattle, steadily, at a good pace, as if anxious to reach some friendly stable; the track wound more closely into the uplands and soon entered a long shallow valley under a ridge that rose rather steeply at one point into two rounded summits; you could not tell which was the higher, but neither was very high—maybe seven or eight hundred feet, with a saucer-shaped hollow between. Just under the hill the roofs of a village showed amongst the trees, but the train turned capriciously away from it, choosing to stop at a station called Rolyott that was nothing but a shed in the middle of fields. He got out there, handing his ticket to the solitary porter, who stared at it for a moment and then said something about Fellingham being three stations further on; Smith smiled and said that was all right, and as the train moved off again the redheaded boy who was always looking out of the window saw him smiling and smiled back. That made him feel suddenly cheerful. And besides, the air was warm, blended with scents of hay and flowers, and the tree-hidden village looked tempting even at the end of a long road; he set out, walking briskly. A few hundred yards from the Station, withdrawn into a hedge so that no one could see it save by search or chance, a broken signpost pointed to the ground, and he had to climb through nettles to decipher its stained and weather-worn letters: “To Beachings Over,
I
Mile.”

He walked on, murmuring the name to himself, as he always did with names—Beachings Over, Beachings Over; and then Beachings Over came into view—a group of gray old cottages fronting a stream over which slabs of stone made bridges. There was a square-towered church as well, a public house called for some undiscoverable reason the “Reindeer”—a ledge in the stream where the water sparkled as it curled over green reeds. And beyond the village rose the sunlit ridge—one hill now quite clearly higher than the other, but only a little higher, and between them that gentle turfy hollow.

He crossed one of the stone bridges. A man coming out of a house stared with friendly curiosity and said “Good morning.” A fluff of wind blew a line of hollyhocks towards him. An old man was clipping a yew hedge along the vicarage wall. A sheep dog stirred in the shade and opened a cautious eye as he passed. He felt: This is home; if they will let me stay here, I shall be at peace. He turned off the road by a path towards an open field that climbed steeply. Near at hand was a cottage, with a buxom elderly woman tending the garden. “There’ll be a nice view from the top this morning,” she said knowingly as he came near. “Five counties they say you can see, on a clear day.” He smiled and then she said: “Leave your bag here if you like—it’ll be quite safe.”

“Good idea. … Thanks very much. And could I—perhaps—trouble you for a glass of water?”

“Water if you like, sir, but cider if you prefer.”

“Well, yes indeed, if it’s no trouble.”

“No trouble at all, sir—I’ll just have to go round to the stillage.”

“Stillage?”

“That’s where we keep it, sir, being that cool off the stone, you’ll be surprised.”

She came back with a pint-sized mug, which he drained gratefully.

“Glad you’re enjoying it, sir—it’s good cider, that I do say, though I brewed it myself.”

He wondered if he should offer to pay her, but she saw his look of hesitation and added with swift tact: “Don’t you worry, sir—you’re very welcome. Maybe when you’ve climbed up and down again you’ll feel like some cold beef and pickles and a nice raspberry tart—we serve meals, you know, all day on Sundays.”

“You get many visitors?”

“Hardly a one, but we’re ready for ’em if they come. Gentleman once told me this was the prettiest village in all England.”

“Certainly it might be. … Well, thank you again—perhaps I will want that meal.”

He resumed the climb, feeling glowingly free after the drink and without his bag. The sky was dappled with clouds like sails, the smell of earth and grass rose in a hot sweetness. He walked steadily, stopping only to look back when a chime floated upwards from the church tower; Beachings Over, its gardens and roofs, lay in the fold of the valley as if planted there. He climbed on till the ridge was close at hand, beyond the next field and the next stone wall, the two hills curving against the sky. After a little time he reached the saddle between, and there, hidden till the last moment, lay a pool of blue water, blown into ripples under passing cloud shadows. It looked so cool he took his clothes off and bathed—there in sight of all the five counties, so it amused him to think. Then he lay in the sun till he was dry, feeling the warmth of sun and cider soaking into every nerve. Presently he dressed, found a shady spot under a tree, and closed his eyes.

The sun on his face woke him; it had moved round the sky but was near the horizon and no longer hot. His glance followed the curve of the hill and came to rest on the already graying pool; he was surprised to see a girl there, perched on a jutting rock and paddling her feet. He watched her for a moment, quietly fitting the picture into his mind before recognition came, and with it a curious mounting anger because he suddenly knew why it was he had grown so desperately in love with her; it was because she had made him so, because she followed him about everywhere, because, from the moment of their first meeting, she had never let him go—despite all acting and casual behavior and false appearances. And she had followed him even to Beachings Over.

Aware that he was watching her, she turned and then came towards him, high-stepping barefoot over the grass.

“Smithy—you’re really awake? Why did you run off like that? Were you ill? What’s been the matter? … The woman at the cottage said you were here—said you’d left your bag, so you’d have to come down, but I didn’t want to wait, and yet I have waited—hours—while you’ve been asleep. …”

“I’m—I’m—sorry.”

“For keeping me waiting? It’s
my
fault—I could have wakened you any time, but you looked so tired and you hadn’t shaved—I guessed you’d been out all night somewhere.”

“But I’m so terribly sorry—no, not for that—for what happened before then—at the theater—”

“Oh,
that?
Darling, you shouldn’t ever have taken it on, but it didn’t matter—got the biggest laugh in the whole show—Margie even said he’d change the part if Ponderby could do it that way, but he was afraid he couldn’t. Anyhow, he’s going to keep in the bit where the doorknob comes off—that’s good for a laugh any time.”

“But do they think I did it
deliberately?”

“I told them you did—I swore you fixed the whole thing with Ponderby just for a gag; Ponderby said you had too, I made him—they all thought it was marvelous, but then they think you
are
marvelous, anyhow.”

“Marvelous?”

“Well, you know—unpredictable. One of those shy ones who suddenly blaze out and startle everybody and then go shy again. What’ll you do next? Maybe fly the Atlantic like those two fellows. Maybe murder somebody or elope with a duchess. It’s all part of being a gentleman. You’re privileged—like the boys on Boat Race Night.”

“Paula—why do you talk like that?”

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?” She bent over him. “There’s such an indefinable
je ne sais quoi
about you, darling.”

“What did you follow me here for?”

“To bring you back, of course.”

“But I’m not coming back.”

“Oh, it’s only Sunday evening—there’s no show till six tomorrow night in Polesby—you don’t have to make up your mind till tomorrow afternoon.”

“I’m not coming back. I
can’t
go back. Don’t you realize how I felt—”

“I know—don’t try to tell me—I saw you on the stage and I was the only person who knew for certain you weren’t acting—because I’d seen you like that before, in the shop at Melbury. Remember?”

He said grimly: “It wouldn’t be very easy to forget—any more than last night.”

“Except that you’re not
bound
to go on the stage, ever again, so what does it matter? Whereas at Melbury you were like that all the time—except with me.”

“Yes, except with you.”

“Maybe there’s something about me too—so far as you’re concerned.”

He moved restlessly. “There was something then, but there’s a barrier between us now, compared with how we were in those days.”

“There’s only this between us, Smithy—I remember when you needed me, and I’m sure I’m not going to hang around when you don’t need me any more. But I thought you might need me today—that’s why I’m here.”

“I feel just the opposite—you were so generous when I
did
need you I’ve hated to feel you could still do things out of pity as you’re doing now.”

“That’s not just the opposite—it’s the same.”

“It’s why I’ve kept away from you, anyhow, because I
can
do without you, I know I can, I
must.”

“Oh God, don’t boast. I can do without you too, for that matter. Let’s be independent as hell. Let’s each fly in different directions and wonder why for the rest of our lives.” She began to pull on her stockings. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Now you mention it.”

“Let’s go down. The woman at the cottage said she could give us—”

He interrupted, laughing: “I know. Cold beef and pickles and raspberry tart.”

“I said we’d have it.”

“You’re right about that.”

He helped her to her feet and they stared about them for a moment.

“Smithy, how
did
you manage to find such a heavenly place?”

“As so many things happen—pure chance. My bag flew open as I was going to get out of the train somewhere else. How did you find I was here?”

“Darling, it was so
easy.
I asked at Fulverton Station, and they said you hadn’t been there, so of course I thought of Crosby Magna—”

“Of course?
Why of course?”

“Well, it was pretty obvious you’d think it
wasn’t
so obvious—and then the porter there remembered you, and the guard remembered you’d walked towards the village, and the woman at the cottage said you were up here staring at the five counties,—it
is
five, isn’t it?—everybody remembered you, old boy. You aren’t terribly good at making people forget you.”

“They certainly won’t forget my performance last night.”

“Back again on the same old subject? I told you they all thought it was marvelous.”

“Then why did they think I didn’t stay for the second show?”

“I told them it was because you suddenly got scared of how Margie would take it—I said it was just like you, to put on a gag like that and then get scared about it.”

“Seems to me you thought of
everything.”

They began the descent amidst the gathering twilight, striding down upon Beachings Over as from the sky. A curl of blue smoke rose from the huddle of roofs, the church bell was ringing for evening service. Something in the calm of that darkening panorama kept them silent till they were within sight of the cottage; then she said: “Oh, by the way—I told the woman you were my husband.”

“Why?”

“Because she’d have thought it queer for me to be chasing up a hill after any man who wasn’t.”

“Is there anything
else
you’ve told anybody about me?”

“There isn’t yet, Smithy, but there might have to be. I’m always ready.”

She took his arm as he unlatched the gate that led through an avenue of hollyhocks to the cottage. It was small and four-square, with windows on either side of the front door; at one side of the porch a board announced “Good Accommodation for Cyclists.” The woman who had given him the cider led them smilingly into a room that opened off the flagged lobby; it was evidently the parlor, crowded with old-fashioned furniture, pictures, and photographs. A yellow piano with a fretwork front lined with faded silk occupied most of one wall; an oval mahogany table stood in the center. The single window was tightly closed, yet the room smelt fresh and pleasant. He opened the piano and struck a few of the yellow keys; the strings twanged almost inaudibly. Inside the closed space of the room they felt embarrassed to begin a conversation, especially while the woman kept chattering in and out as she prepared the table. She told them her name was Mrs. Deventer and that her husband had been a sailor, so badly injured at Jutland, poor man, it was a mercy he died. “But there, there, that’s all over now and never no more, as the saying is. … You’ll take some nice ripe tomatoes with your beef, perhaps, sir? And how about a drop of something to drink—there’s my own cider but if you’d prefer anything else my girl can run over to the Reindeer and fetch it. … ’Tain’t far, you know—nothing’s very far in the village—that’s what I always feel when I go into Chelt’nam—that’s our nearest town, you know—I go there once a year, or maybe twice—it’s a wonderful place, but my, it does so make you tired walking through all them streets—we ain’t got only the one street here, and that’s plenty when you’re gettin’ old. …”