Westwood (13 page)

Twenty minutes later Hilda was standing in a tightly packed Underground carriage on her way home. There was no question of any gentleman getting up to offer his seat to a lady; the gentlemen were too tightly wedged to move, and the ladies could not have accepted the offer if it had been made because they were wedged too. Everyone looked good-tempered, though tired, and when the train stopped at a station and people struggled off but more people struggled on, everyone laughed. Was it because the air was stiflingly warm and the lights brilliant that people bore the discomfort cheerfully? Overhead in the raw foggy December night the people on the buses were abusing each other and occasionally even scuffling.

Hilda stood squeezed between an American soldier and an old man who smelled of beer. Fortunately both for Hilda and the soldier, they were standing face to face, and every time the train lurched, up swept Hilda’s eyelashes and her blue eyes met the soldier’s, and they both smiled. All the old man saw was the back view of slim shoulders in a grey coat, and an orderly arrangement of fair curls which smelled of shampoo, but the old man smelled so strongly of beer himself that this delicate scent was wasted upon him, and he was not interested in fair curls, anyway, only desiring to get home and take his boots off.

All this smelling and squeezing was peculiarly distasteful to one member of the homeward-bound crowd. An unusually tall man wearing a black diplomatic hat was standing just behind Hilda’s soldier, with a resigned expression of suffering upon his handsome pale face. This gentleman disliked the human race, and was only travelling home by Underground from Whitehall because his Daimler was temporarily out of order, and he had been unable to persuade a taxi-driver to drive him out to Highgate in the increasing fog.

But suddenly he saw a face at which he could bear to look; nay, could even look at with pleasure. It was a face of delicate aquiline beauty, with brilliant eyes of sea-blue. The pale curls and grey coat made a sober setting for its liveliness, and there was also – for the gentleman was fastidious in these matters – a neatness in the well-fitting gloves and the large handbag which attracted him.

He had long been hoping against hope to have an affair with someone which did not become irritating and hot and untidy as soon as the poor human affections unfolded and had their way. He was always hoping to find a woman (or a girl; he was not particular) who would conduct an affair with him gracefully, as if they were dancing a minuet or playing in a string quartette together; a
girl who should appreciate
diminuendo
and
largo
, so to speak, as well as
presto
and
appassionata
. So far his search had been in vain, and of course only a boy of twenty would romance about a girl seen in the Underground. But what nymph-like eyes! What joy to wake their coolness to warmth (but not too much warmth or else everything would get complicated and annoying).

Here the old man who smelled of beer tramped heavily upon the gentleman’s toes in the act of forcing his way through the packed passengers to the door, and the gentleman made a pained face. Opening his eyes, which he had closed in the access of agony, he met the eyes of Hilda, who was laughing, and he smiled back.

It was a well-bred smile, simple, human and friendly (he saw to that), and there was no eagerness in it. He found it delightful to smile at this nymph, hatless as nearly all of them were nowadays, and radiantly young, and he wondered if the next station were hers as well as his, and hoped very much that it was. He almost decided to speak to her.

Up the moving staircase they went together; the gentleman overcoming his inclination to stand still and be borne restfully along because Hilda was walking briskly ahead of him. They passed the ticket-collector almost together and hurried up the slope which led to the exit. When they reached it, Hilda paused, and searched in her handbag. Outside the dimly lit entrance there was impenetrable darkness, and the air was full of fog, floating in visible wreaths in front of the subdued lights. The gentleman paused also, and produced from his brief-case a large and handsome torch which he tested and found in order. People were crowding about the entrance exclaiming in dismay at the thickness of the fog, which had come down over London in all the muffling, deadening density of ‘a regular old-fashioned pea-souper’ during the time they had spent in the train coming from the City.

He heard Hilda give an exclamation of annoyance. Her torch refused to work. He waited, lurking in the background and congratulating himself upon his luck. He was excited and full of hope. The truly romantic heart is ever young, and goes on being a nuisance to all its friends long after its owner has reached what in most people are years of discretion.

At last Hilda shrugged her shoulders crossly and stepped out from the entrance into the blackout. The gentleman followed. People were flashing their torches in the blackness on all sides, but they only shone on the greasy pavement, for the fog was so thick that no light could penetrate it further than a foot or so. Hilda moved confidently forward, trying to make her way by the light from other people’s torches, but suddenly she gave a cry and stumbled as she missed the edge of the curb.

The gentleman was at her side in an instant.

‘Are you all right?’ he exclaimed in a frank hearty tone, grasping her arm and switching on his torch.

‘Yes, thanks, I didn’t see the curb,’ she answered, rubbing her ankle. ‘My torch has given out. It would.’

‘I have been sent by Providence especially to escort you,’ he answered, relapsing into the whimsical, mocking tone which he always used with common little girls. ‘
My
torch, as you see, is in excellent order,’ and he flashed it over her feet, observing with satisfaction that they were pretty.

‘Yes. It’s a young searchlight,’ retorted Hilda, still rubbing. He thought it best to relax his hold upon her arm. ‘Aren’t you lucky!’

‘Very,’ he answered gravely, but putting a smile into his voice. ‘You see, this hasn’t happened by chance. We were fated to meet.’

‘You sound like Lyndoe,’ sighed Hilda, standing upright. ‘Well, since you
have
got a torch and
you want to escort me – do you live near here? I don’t want to take you out of your way.’

He laughed. ‘I don’t live anywhere. When I have seen you home I shall vanish into the fog, and you will never see me again.’

‘I can’t see you now, so it’s all the same to me, but as you’ve got a torch and I haven’t, and I’ve got to get home somehow, I shall just have to take a chance.’

‘I assure you I am respectable,’ he said playfully.

‘Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you? Here, do you know where we’re going? I want to get to Alderney Gardens; it’s at the bottom of Simpson’s Lane.’

‘I haven’t the pleasure of knowing Alderney Gardens, but I know Simpson’s Lane well, and I will take you there and doubtless we can find our way after that.’

‘I hope so,’ said Hilda doubtfully. ‘I say, isn’t this awful. My mother will be having fits.’

‘Oh, you have a mother?’

‘Of course I’ve got a mother! Well, I had when I left home this morning and I s’pose they’d have let me know. What on earth do you mean?’

‘I mean your eyes. They look as if your mother might have been Thetis.’

‘Who’s she when she’s at home. Oh, gosh, there I go again!’ and she stumbled once more and clutched at him.

‘Would you care to take my arm?’

‘I wouldn’t
care
to, but I suppose I shall
have
to,’ and she put her own firm young one through his. His heart beat faster. There was silence for a little while. Now and then he flashed his torch upon a house to make sure that they were on the right road. Occasionally they passed a street-lamp, but its tiny glimmer was hidden in the fog that floated high above their heads. At last he coughed and said, ‘Don’t you want to know who Thetis was?’

‘I can’t wait.’

‘She was a sea-goddess,’ he said, frowning slightly.

‘Aren’t we nearly there?’ said Hilda, coughing.

‘We are about half-way down Simpson’s Lane,’ and he flashed the torch upon some wrought-iron gates set in an ancient brick wall which they were at that moment passing. The light shone on the name of the house, Westwood.

‘Thank heaven for that,’ sighed Hilda. ‘We shan’t be long now. I say, I do hope I haven’t taken you much out of your way?’

‘I don’t know yet.’

‘Isn’t it a bit early in the evening to be feeling like that?’

‘I don’t know how far you may have taken me out of my way. You may have set my feet upon a strange and enchanted path.’

Hilda was beginning to feel annoyed. She was not used to this sort of talk, and for Thetis and enchanted paths she could not have cared less. She said suddenly:

‘Are you on the B.B.C?’

‘Good heavens, no!’ he replied, shuddering. ‘You odd child, why do you ask?’

‘You talk like one of the announcers; Robert Robinson, I think his name is. And you sound like one, too,’ she added darkly.

‘No,’ he said, after a pause, ‘no, I have nothing to do with that institution for perverting the taste and moulding the opinion of the masses. If I told you my name I doubt if you would know it.’

‘No, I don’t expect I should. Be funny if I did, wouldn’t it? Shall I have three guesses?’

She knew that they were nearly at the end of Simpson’s Lane and that in a few moments she would be home, and this made her feel better-tempered.

‘As you please, Primavera.’

I’m getting some names to-night, thought Hilda. Aloud she said, ‘Archibald Screwy?’

He was not sufficiently acquainted with contemporary slang to realize how pert this was, but he shook his head. ‘Nowhere near it.’

‘Freddie Grisewood?’

‘
No
.’

‘Dr Goebbels? – No, you don’t limp. I give up.’

There was a pause while they made their way across the road. He flashed the light upon a wall and saw the words, ‘Alderney Gardens.’

‘I suppose you wouldn’t be Frank Phillips?’ said Hilda. ‘I live at number fourteen.’

He said suddenly, ‘I would like you to think of me as Marcus.’

‘Anything you say. I say, I
am
sorry, I’m sure I’ve brought you simply miles out of your way. It’s very kind of you. Marcus what?’

‘It has been the purest of pleasures.’

‘Marcus what?’ repeated Hilda.

‘Just Marcus. Or Marcus Antonius, if you prefer it.’

Hilda shook her head. ‘Life’s too short. Well, Marcus, here we are, and thanks for the buggy-ride. If it hadn’t been for you I should still be at Highgate Station.’

He stood looking down at her, hat in hand.

‘May I see you again one day?’ he asked simply. ‘Say “yes” … please.’

Hilda paused with one hand on the gate and spoke impressively:

‘Marcus, if I saw every boy again who asked me to, I should never go to business or have time for a perm, or get any meals, and if you’re looking for a girl friend it’s just too bad you should have picked on me, because I’ve got so many boys now I don’t know which way to turn. But it was nice of you to suggest it. Aren’t you married?’ she ended suddenly.

He shook his head.

‘Oh. I thought you might be. You look as if you were.’

He winced.

‘Well, at least may I know your name?’ he asked.

‘With pleasure. It’s Hilda Wilson.’

He shook his head. ‘I would sooner think of you as Daphne.’

‘Yes, so would I, but I was called Hilda after Mother’s only sister. It’s an awful name, I quite agree with you, but I manage somehow. Now you run along home, Marcus. Good night, and thanks again,’ and she waved gaily and went in at the gate. He raised his hat and turned away. Suddenly the front door was flung open, regardless of the blackout, and a woman stood peering out anxiously into the fog.

‘Hilda? Is that you? My goodness, we have been worried about you. Dad’s just changing his shoes to come out after you with a torch. We thought yours might have given out. Isn’t it awful?’

‘I’m all right, Mother. Who do you think saw me home?’ Then, raising her voice so that the gentleman, who was not yet out of earshot, might hear, she carolled joyously, ‘Freddie Grisewood!’ and ran in and shut the door.

‘Hilda, don’t be so absurd!’ said Mrs Wilson delightedly, beginning to help her off with her coat. ‘It’s all right, Dad, here she is,’ she called. ‘Are you very cold, dear? There’s a lovely fire in the dining-room, and I’ve got an extra-nice supper waiting.’

Hilda hugged her. ‘I’m all right, ducky. No, I don’t suppose it was Freddie Grisewood, really; it was an old guy I clicked with in the Tube; quite bats, but rather sweet; he came all the way home with me.’

‘That was unselfish of him,’ said Mr Wilson dryly, coming into the hall and surveying his daughter’s glowing face and brilliant eyes. ‘A real sacrifice that must have been, poor chap.’ He put out his cheek and Hilda dropped a kiss on it. ‘Ted Russell just rang you up, Hildie. He’s got forty-eight hours’ leave and he’ll be round after supper.’

‘Oh, goody! No,’ said Hilda, following her father into the dining-room and laughing, ‘I don’t think he was trying to get fresh. I think he was just lonely, poor old thing.’