Time of Hope (22 page)

Instead of going straight from the station to Judd Street, I found a coffee stall along the Euston Road. The fog, thickening every minute, swirled in front of the lamp, and one inhaled it together with the naphtha fumes and the steam. As I drank a cup of tea, I felt the glow of affection with me still. Then I took out Sheila’s letter and read it, though I knew it by heart and word for word, in the foggy lamplight. I felt giddy with miraculous content. The name stood out in the dim light, like no other name. I felt giddy, as though the perfection of the miracle would happen now, and I should have her by my side, and we should walk together through the swirling fog.

When I next met Sheila she was strangely excited. I saw it before she spoke to me, saw it while she made her way through the café towards our table. She was electric with excitement; yet what she had to say, though it filled me with pleasure, did not explain why. Without any preliminary she broke out: ‘You know the Edens, don’t you?’

‘I know him, of course. I’ve never been to the house.’

‘We drink punch there every Christmas Eve,’ she said, and added: ‘I love punch,’ with that narcissistic indrawn satisfaction which took her far away. Then, electric-bright again, she said: ‘I can take anyone I like. ‘Will you come with me?’

I was open in my pleasure.

‘I want you to,’ she said, and I still noticed the intensity of her excitement. ‘Make a note of it. I shan’t let you forget.’

I could not understand, in the days between, why she laid so much stress on it, but I looked forward happily to Christmas Eve. The more happily, perhaps, because it was like an anticipation in childhood; it was like waiting for a present that one knew all the time one was safely going to receive. I imagined beforehand the warmth of a party, Harry Eden’s surprise, the flattery of being taken there by the most beautiful young woman in the room – but above all the warmth of a party and the certain joy of her presence by my side among the drinks and laughter.

On the day before Christmas Eve I was having a cup of tea alone in our habitual café. A waitress came up and asked if I was Mr Eliot: a lady wanted me on the telephone.

‘Is that you?’ It was Sheila’s voice, though I had never heard it before at the other end of a wire. It sounded higher than in life, and remote, as though it came from the far side of a river.

‘I didn’t think they’d recognize you from my description. I didn’t think I should find you.’

She sounded strung up but exhilarated, laughing to herself.

‘It’s me all right,’ I said.

‘Of course it’s you.’ She laughed. ‘Who else could it be?’ I grumbled that this was like a conversation in a fairy tale. ‘Right. Business. About tomorrow night.’ Her voice was sharp. My heart dropped.

‘You’re corning, darling?’ I pleaded. I could not keep the longing back: she had to hear it. ‘You must come. I’ve been counting on it–’

‘I’ll come.’

I exclaimed with relief and delight.

‘I’ll come. But I shall be late. Go to the party by yourself. I’ll see you there.’

I was so much relieved that I would have made any concession. As a matter of form, I protested that it would have been nice to go together.

‘I can’t. I can’t manage it. You can make yourself at home. You won’t mind. You can make yourself at home anywhere.’ She laughed again.

‘But you will come?’

‘I’ll come.’

I was vaguely upset. Why was she keyed up to a pitch of excitement even higher than when she first invited me? I felt for a moment that she was a stranger. But she had never failed me. I knew that she would come. The promise of love, of romantic love, of love where one’s imagination makes the beloved fit all one’s hope, enveloped me again. Once more I longed for tomorrow night, the party, for her joining me as I sat among the rest.

The Edens lived outside the middle of the town, in the fashionable suburb. I strolled slowly across the park on Christmas Eve, up the London Road; I heard a clock strike; the party began at nine o’clock, and I was deliberately a little late. A church stood open, light streaming through the doors. Cars rushed by, away from the town, but the pavement was almost empty, apart from an occasional couple standing beneath the trees in the mild night.

I came to where the comfortable middle-class houses stood back from the main road, with their hedges, their lawns, their gravel drives. Through the curtains of the drawing-rooms the lights glowed warm, and I felt curious; as I often did, walking any street at night, about what was going on behind the blinds. That Christmas Eve, the sight of those glowing rooms made me half-envious, even then, going to a rendezvous in my limitless expectancy; here seemed comfort, here seemed repose and a safe resting place; I envied all behind the blinds, even while, in the flush of youth and drunkenness of love, I despised them also, all those who stayed in the safe places and were not going out that night; I envied them behind the glowing curtains, and I despised them for not being on their way to a beloved.

The Edens’ drawing-room was cheerful with noise when I entered. There was a great fire, and the party sitting round. On the hearth stood an enormous bowl, with bottles beside it, glinting in the firelight. All over the drawing-room there wafted a scent of rum, oranges, and lemons. Under the holly and mistletoe and tinsel drifted that rich odour.

Eden was sitting, with an air of extreme permanence, in an armchair by the fireplace. He greeted me warmly. ‘I’m very glad to see you, Eliot. This is the young man I told you about–’ He introduced me to his wife. ‘He’s a friend of Sheila Knight’s – but I’ve known him on my own account for, let me see, it must be well over a year. When you get to my age, Eliot, you’ll find time goes uncomfortably fast.’ He went on explaining me to his wife. ‘Yes, I gave him some excellent advice which he was much too enterprising to take. Still, there’s nothing like being a young man in a hurry.’

Mrs Eden was kneeling on the hearthrug, busy with hieratic earnestness at the mixing of the punch. The liquid itself was steaming in the hearth; she had come to the point of slicing oranges and throwing in the pieces. She was pale-faced, with an immensely energetic, jerky, and concentrated manner. She had bright, brown eyes, opaque as a bird’s. She fixed them on me as she went on slicing.

‘How long have you known Sheila, Mr Eliot?’ she asked, as though the period were of the most critical importance.

I told her.

‘She has such style,’ said Mrs Eden with concentration.

Mrs Eden was enthusiastic about most things, but especially so about Sheila. She was quite unembarrassed by her admiration; it was easy to think of her as a girl, concentrated and intent, unrestrained in a
schwärmerei
, bringing some mistress flowers and gifts. At any rate, I wondered (I might be distorting her remarks through my own emotion) whether she too was not impatient for Sheila’s arrival. With hieratic seriousness she went on cutting the oranges, dropping in the peel. It was luxuriously warm by the fire, the punch was smoking, Eden lay back with a sigh of reminiscent well-being, and began to talk to us – in those days,’ he said, meaning the days of his youth, the turn of the century. I looked at the clock. It was nine-twenty. The others were listening to Eden, watching his wife prepare the punch. They were jolly and relaxed. I could scarcely wait for the minutes to pass and my heart was pounding.

To all of them except to Eden I was someone who Sheila Knight had picked up, how they did not know. They were a different circle from ours, more prosperous and more comfortably middle class. The Edens liked entertaining, and they had a weakness for youth, so nearly all the people round the fire were young, the sons and daughters of some of Eden’s clients. The young men were beginning in their professions and in the local firms. Eden had once, with his fair-minded sense of etiquette, invited George to join one of the parties, but George, horrified at the prospect, had made a stiff excuse and kept away. So there were no links between us – they had never heard my name. Sheila, however, had visited the house quite often, possibly owing to the enthusiasm of Mrs Eden, and everyone there had either met her or knew her family – for Mrs Knight was prepared to include the prosperous town families in her ambit, as well as her county friends.

One or two of them inspected me inquisitively. I was quiet, apart from keeping Eden’s reminiscences going. I was watching the clock. I did not take much part in the circle; the voices round were loud and careless, but as the minutes passed I was not listening to them, only for a ring at the bell outside.

‘Punch is ready,’ said Mrs Eden, suddenly and with energy.

‘Ah well,’ said Eden, ‘I like the sound of that.’

‘Shall we wait for Sheila?’ Mrs Eden’s eyes darted round the circle.

Cheerily, the circle voted against.

‘I really don’t see why we should,’ said Eden. ‘Last come, last served. What do you think, Eliot? I fancy your friend Sheila won’t mind if we proceed to the business of the meeting. You can explain to her afterwards that it’s what happens to young women when they’re late.’

The seconds were pounding on, but under Eden’s affable badinage I felt proprietorial. I answered that I was sure she would not mind. The circle cheered. Mrs Eden dipped a ladle in the bowl and intently filled each glass but one.

The punch was hot, spiced, and strong. After the first round the circle became noisier, Eden’s reminiscences had to give way, someone suggested a game. All the time I was listening. It was past ten o’clock. At last I heard, I heard unmistakably after the false hopes, the sound of a car in the drive. On the instant, I felt superlative content.

‘Sheila,’ said Mrs Eden with bright eyes.

For minutes I basked in well-being. I could sit back now she would soon be here, and not stare each moment at the door. I did not even need to listen too hard to the sounds outside.

The door opened. Sheila came in, radiant. Behind her followed a man.

Sheila came up to Mrs Eden, her voice sharp with excitement. ‘I’m being extremely rude,’ she said. ‘Will you let me stay if I bring someone else? We’ve been having dinner, and I thought you wouldn’t mind giving him some punch too. This is Doctor Devitt. He works at the infirmary.’

I heard Mrs Eden saying ‘We need another glass. That’s all. Sit down, Dr Devitt. I’ll get a glass for you.’

Her first response was always action. Perhaps she had not given a thought to what was happening. In any case, she could not resist Sheila, who only had to ask.

Through the haze I watched Eden smile politely, not his full, bland, melon-lipped smile, at Sheila and the other man. Eden looked at me. Was he puzzled? Did he understand? Was he looking at me with pity?

I had known, from the instant I saw her enter. It was not chance. It was deliberate. It was planned.

The room swam, faces came larger than life out of the mist, receded, voices were far away, then crashingly near. Somehow I managed to speak to Eden, to ask him some meaningless question.

The circle was being expanded, to bring in two more chairs. Sheila and Devitt sat down, Sheila between him and me. As Mrs Eden filled two glasses, Sheila said: ‘Can Lewis have another one? Let me pass it.’ She took my tumbler without a word between us. Intently, Mrs Eden filled it and gave it back to Sheila, who turned and put it into my hand. ‘There,’ she said.

Her face was smoother than I had ever seen it. It was open before me, and there seemed no trace or warning of her lines. Until her eyes swept up from the glass, which she watched into my fingers as though anxious not to spill a drop, until her eyes swept up and I could see nothing else, I watched (as if it had nothing to do with the mounting tides of pain, the sickness of misery, the rage of desire) her face – open, grave, pure and illuminated.

The circle went on with a game. It was a game in which one had to guess words. The minutes went by, they might have been hours, while I heard Sheila shouting her guesses from my side. Sometimes I shouted myself. And afterwards I remembered Eden, sitting quietly in his armchair, a little put out because the party chose to play this game instead of listening to him; Eden sitting quietly because he was not quick at guessing and so withdrew.

Midnight struck.

‘Christmas Day,’ said Mrs Eden; and, with her usual promptness, went on: ‘Merry Christmas to you all.’

I heard Sheila, at my side, return the greeting.

Soon after, people began to stand up, for the party was ending. At once Sheila went to the other side of the hearth, and started to talk to Mrs Eden. Tom Devitt and I were standing close together – and, through the curious intimacy of rivals, we were drawn to speak.

He was much older than I was, and to me looked middle-aged. He was, I later found, in the middle thirties. His face was heavy, furrowed, kind, and intelligent. We were both tall, and our eyes met at the same level, but already he was getting fat, and his hair was going.

Awkwardly, with kindness, he asked about my studies. He said that Sheila had told him how I was working. He said, with professional concern, that I looked as though I might be overdoing it. Was I short of sleep? Had I anything to help me through a bad night?

I replied that it did not matter, and retaliated by telling him there was a crack in one of his spectacles: oughtn’t he to have it mended?

‘It’s too near the eye to affect vision,’ said Tom Devitt. ‘But I do need another pair.’

In the, clairvoyance of misery, I knew some vital things about him. I knew that he was in love with Sheila. I knew that he was triumphant to be taking her out that night. He was concerned for me because of his own triumph at being the preferred one. But I knew too that he was a kind, decent man, not at all unperceptive; he realized the purpose for which she had used him, and was angry; he had had no warning until he arrived in that room, and saw that I had already been invited as her partner.

We stood there, talking awkwardly – and we felt sorry for each other. We felt that, with different luck, we should have been friends.

Sheila beckoned to him. I followed them out of the room: at all costs I must speak to her. Any quarrel, any bitterness, was better than this silence.