The Eloquence of Desire

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

George picked up the paper chain from where it had fallen to the floor and draped it back round the mirror over the fireplace. A quick check at all the other decorations reassured him that everything was in order. To prevent any irritation on Dorothy’s behalf, every little action helped, exasperated though he was with the compliance she sought to aid her with her plans. Of her need to obtain approval he understood, but it was the deluge of story lines that he found irk-some. And he really had no choice but to agree, to keep up the layers of tales, though they were becoming troublesome, impossible to recall with the exactitude needed to maintain the façade. It was not so much that he blamed her; he could understand how she felt, her anger, her disappointment. But he would have preferred the true reason for their exodus to Malaya to be out; he had prepared himself for the rebuffs, the disbelief and horror at his actions. And now there was no going back. The Christmas visitors had arrived two days early with their congratulations and good cheer. On that day of all days when he had to get away, could not, would not change his appointment, the only chance he would have before leaving for Malaya.

Tom was rocking on his heels, warming his bottom in front of the fire.

“I couldn’t be more surprised,” he said. “Never thought you were the type to want to go abroad.” A smile of understanding passed across his face. “Was it for Dorothy? Is she behind the promotion? Looking for a better life? The grass is always greener?” He chuckled. “They’re very alike, aren’t they, in some ways, Dorothy and her sister. Though Grace of course is always seeking to better herself through Him up above.” And he raised his eyes to the ceiling. “But we are delighted to be Susan’s guardians while you are away. A gap in our lives it has been. Not to have been blessed as you have.” Putting his hand to his mouth, he coughed and George saw two red circles forming a deep flush on his cheeks.

But the reference to the desertion of Susan made his stomach rage in turmoil of terrible guilt. If there is a God, he thought, it is His duty to watch over Susan, and not to allow her to pay for her father’s indiscretion. But he knew no God existed, had seen the burning cities of Germany from three thousand feet above, his finger on the button to annihilate it all. Every Christmas he thought of this, as though the date was set as a reminder. Turning towards him, he noticed Tom looking at him curiously, as if he was trying to read his mind.

“We are very grateful to you,” George said as he glanced at the wall clock. He would have to leave soon, he wanted to be early for his appointment; a suitable excuse for Dorothy had not yet formed in his mind. Then there was Susan with her quiet fury, he would have to make amends for the absence he would soon generate. Tom was going on about Susan, telling Dorothy that there was no need to worry, that she would soon get used to being apart from them. And George was concerned too, but for now he had more pressing demands on his mind. Would he have time to change into more suitable attire? Calculating fast, he dispelled this idea, he would have to leave as he was.

Grace was singing Noel, the descant part, as she carried a tray of steaming mince pies into the sitting room. Strange that she and Dorothy were sisters, so unlike, despite Tom’s belief that they shared the same ethos, had so much in common. He watched Grace as she dished out the mince pies into the best china, her pale blue twin set buttoned to the neck, a pearl necklace laid over the wool, her hair grey at such an early age. But her complexion was as fresh as Dorothy’s, the same bloom on her cheeks. On hearing Dorothy call up the stairs to Susan, he began to fidget with his tie, sliding his fingers under his collar; he still could not think what to say to explain his departure from the family gathering.

Then Dorothy entered the room, her Blue Grass perfume following close behind. She had made a special effort, had swept her hair back to show off her neck, was wearing a blue dress with a matching stole, not an outfit he had seen before. Her smile was demure, another reminder of how easily she had fallen into the role of a willing partner to their removal. She nodded in the direction of the sherry. There was no alternative but to tell her now. Easier to tackle with his back to her, he made his way to the decanter, held it up to the light, then poured some into a glass, hesitated before turning to hand it to Grace.

“I’m afraid I have to go out in a bit. Well now, actually. I’m terribly sorry. Bad timing. Business, of course. Nothing I can do. Very sorry as I say. But I won’t be long.” Handing Dorothy her glass of sherry, he caught the hurt in her eyes. She knew he was lying, but what could she say if she was to keep up the front?

“What a shame,” said Tom. “But I expect you have a lot to sort out. We understand, don’t we dear?” Briefly, he touched his wife’s arm.

“Can’t you wait until Susan comes down?” asked Dorothy, her voice high, strained.

“Sorry, no. I had better be off. The sooner I go…” He kissed Dorothy on her cheek. Innocent, pretending not to know about the remonstrations, the questioning and tears he would suffer tonight while the rest of the household slumbered.

It was sunny at first when he left the house, this day of his last meeting with Emma; a low winter sun dazzled unexpectedly. The ground remained sodden, soaked from the melted snow, and the torrential rain of the night before. Later, as the tube crawled along, he stared up at the silhouettes of chimneys and roof tops against the clear sky, and noticed a cloud, black enough to hold a downpour, spreading slowly across, until eventually the sun was obliterated.

Then the rain came. Puddles formed on the straggly grass which passed as lawns in the back gardens, water flowed from leaking gutters, and spread from drains blocked with leaves. The tube shuddered to a stop; a sodden solitary sheet hung, forgotten on a line in a yard directly in his vision. Until it was replaced by the blur of a tube train travelling at top speed going in the opposite direction, before his tube picked up momentum and shot underground.

At Euston, he got out and pushed his way through the crowds. He queued at the bottom of the escalator, his nose nearly touching the gabardine mackintosh of the man in front of him. Outside, people were bad-tempered in the rain; they hurried without looking where they were going, holding umbrellas as if they were weapons with which they might strike. He decided to walk the mile to the Café Royal, he was in fact half an hour early, he had left extra time in case of an emergency: the tube breaking down, a body on the line, as happened sometimes, on grey days similar to this.

When he reached the place where he knew the Café Royal stood, he at first thought he had come to the wrong building. He had not expected the scaffolding. In his mind’s eye, he had pictured the grand pillared steps up to the double door, painted red with the ushers waiting to take his coat, show him to his table. But, of course, his memory of the coffee house belonged to two years earlier, his first secret meeting with Emma. He had not considered it might have changed, had forgotten about the headlines in September of the fire which nearly gutted the building and destroyed the art deco facades. Would Emma pass the building by as he had nearly done? He toyed with the idea of waiting outside in the rain for her. But then she would see him bedraggled, desperate, his face tinged with blue from the cold.

He was shown to a table in the bow window. The cafe was nearly empty, as he had expected at this time in the morning. The coffee machines hissed and spluttered like a consumptive, but the smell was glorious, thick and heady.

“Would you like to order?” A waitress offered him a menu. “We’ve got a large assortment of cakes too,” she said and indicated to a trolley where cakes sat, uncut, untouched. He could see walnuts, cherries on sponges and crystallized oranges on white icing. Or mince pies piled on a red and gold plate.

“I’ll wait thanks, I’m expecting a friend,” he said. Maybe she could not get away. Had this been a foolish idea of his? He stared out of the window for a minute, to avoid the waitress’ gaze. It was still raining, a thick fog had descended, headlights swirled in the gloom.

At that moment Emma came through the door. She saw him immediately, smiled at him as the waitress took her coat and led the way to his table. She was breathing hard, and her face was flushed. She quickly looked over her shoulder before she sat down next to George.

“I can’t stay long,” she said and leant over towards him, her scent fragrant, light.

He saw she was wearing an ivory blouse. It emphasised the green of her eyes, her pale skin. The fineness of the fabric made him want to undo the top two buttons, to feel the warmth of her breast.

Reaching for her hand across the table, he thought how supple it was. “We’ll make the most of it, what little time we have.” Disappointment made him swallow hard. Somehow he had imagined them spending most of the day together.

The waitress arrived, trolley in tow with her chat about Christmas festivities, her questions about their plans, what parties they would be attending. Eventually, after too long, she backed away, perhaps, at last, conscious of their desire to be left alone.

“I can’t believe you’re leaving so soon. It’s all happened so quickly.” She shook her head slowly, closed her eyes for a second.

He caressed her hand, lifted it to his lips. “I’ll come back,” he said. “I’ll come back.”

“Sometimes I hate my father.”

“No, no don’t hate him.”

She turned and looked out of the window, and he noticed her brooch catching the light. “I never dreamt he’d do such a thing.”

“But will you wait for me? Or will you marry your Lieutenant, the man your father approves of? You might forget me. That’s what your father would like.”

“No, no. Don’t speak like this. How could I forget you?”

“I’ll write. Every day if I can…” George said.

“The letters will take such a long time from Malaya. But when I get them, I’ll read them over and over, then I’ll tie them all in a silk ribbon. I’ll write long passionate letters by return of post.” Her voice was a near whisper.

“If only you were coming with me.” He sighed; a deep sigh. “Ludicrous, even to think of such an event. Sometimes, though, it does no harm to dream.”

She removed her hand from under his and took a sip of her coffee. “He couldn’t have sent you much further away. To such a dangerous place too.”

“I hear the Emergency is just about all over now. No need to worry about me on that account. I’ll be fine. Though it will be intolerable without you. Without our meetings to look forward to. Sometimes I wonder how this can happen. How can we part now? I never believed in fate before. Didn’t believe in anything. But it is as though…” He did not know how to put his feelings into words and it was clear that she was close to tears. Leaning forward he touched her cheek, and she held his hand there until she was able to maintain a posture of calmness, her hair smoothed back into place. They resumed talking, tears always a possibility, kept at bay in a public place.

“I have to go now,” she finally said. “I’m already late.”

They were the words he had been dreading. Reaching for his hand she returned it to her face and closed her eyes.

***

George’s return journey, the damp clothes smelling of city smog, the mounting of stairs, the clamour of the underground passed over him, as if he were a spectator, a visitor to a strange world. Soon he was at his front door, his key in his hand, the strains of Come all Ye Faithful sifting through the cold night air...

“That’s over with,” he said as he entered the room. Straight for the sherry, he downed a glass in a single gulp.

Looking round he saw Grace and Dorothy squashed together on the couch, a conspiratorial look on their faces. And he wondered whether Dorothy had decided to reveal all, that the calmness with which Tom was playing Scrabble with Susan was a silent front for the row which would follow. If that were the case, he really did not care at the moment. Anything would be sufferable, bearable compared to that final goodbye to Emma.

Susan turned her body towards him, knocking over her Scrabble set. Her eyes looked rounder than usual as she stared at him. “Where’ve you been Daddy?”

Dorothy stood, adjusted a bauble on the tree.

“Business. Boring business. At work. What have you been doing?”

The record scratched to a stop, but the needle spun on. Susan sucked her cheeks in. “Nothing,” she said.

“Another carol I think, don’t you?” Grace’s voice.

“You’ve never been to work at Christmas time before.”

“Susan,” Dorothy said. “You shouldn’t talk to your father like that.”

“Sorry.” She got up and stood by the door. She stared at the Christmas tree for a minute then returned to Tom and the game of Scrabble.