back to her, seeing her expression, anxious but somehow inattentive, he knew he would go with her to Paddington, and on the way he would make an arrangement to see her again. He spoke to the driver, and then strode across with the brolly to bring her to the car. ‘The silly thing is,’ she said, ‘I’m not sure I’ve the fare for the cab.’
‘Ah!’ Paul said, almost sternly, ‘don’t worry,’ wondering if he could in fact afford this. ‘Anyway, I’m coming with you.’ And adopting a bland, unhearing expression he more or less pushed her into the taxi, and went round the other side to get in himself. He supposed they had fifteen minutes.
They settled, rather tensely, the cabby kept up talk through the partition about the diabolical weather, till Paul sat forward and shut the screen. He glanced at Mrs Jacobs for approval, though she seemed for a moment, in the underwater gloom of the cab, to be ignoring him. Her soft face was oddly haggard in the running shadows and gleams.
Paul said, ‘I can’t get over just bumping into you like that.’
‘I know…’ It was a struggle for her between being grateful, embarrassed and, he sensed, somewhat offended.
The cab had a food-like smell of earlier occupants, and the seat was still slippery from their wet clothes. He unbuttoned his coat, sat at an angle, with one leg drawn up, eager but casual. She had the transparent aura of old age, was notable and ignorable at the same time. She had her bag on her knee, both gloved hands on top of it. It wasn’t the same bag of twelve years earlier, but another, closely related, with the family trait of being shapelessly bulky – too bulky, really, to count as a handbag. It admitted as much in its helpless slump. He said, ‘So how have you been?’ – giving the question a solicitous, tentative note. He thought it was three years since Corinna’s death, and Leslie Keeping’s suicide.
‘Mm, very well, really. Considering, you know…!’ – a dry chuckle, quite like the old days, though her face retained its look of anxiety and preoccupation. She wiped the window beside her ineffectively and peered out, as if to check where they were going.
‘But you’re not living in London? I think the last time I saw you, you were in… Blackheath?’
‘Ah, yes. No, I’ve moved, I’ve moved back to the country.’
‘You don’t miss London?’ he said amiably. He wanted to find out where she lived, and sensed already a certain resistance to telling him. She merely sighed, peered at the blotted world outside, sat forward to push down the window a crack, though in a moment the throb of the engine shivered it shut. ‘I’ve been in London myself for three years now.’
She tucked in her chin. ‘Well you’re young, aren’t you. London’s fine when you’re young. I liked London fifty years ago.’
‘Well, I know,’ said Paul. In some absurd way her account in her book of living in Chelsea with Revel Ralph had coloured his own sense of what London life might offer: freedom, adventure, success. ‘I got out of the bank, you see. I think I always really wanted to be a writer.’
‘Ah, yes…’
‘It seems to be going quite well, I’m pleased to say.’
‘I’m so glad.’ She smiled anxiously. ‘We’re sure he is going to Paddington, aren’t we?’
Paul entered into it as a little joke, leaning forward. Through a wiped arc he saw for a moment a blurred corner pub, a hospital entrance, all unrecognizable. ‘We’re fine,’ he said. ‘No, I’ve been doing a bit of reviewing. You may have seen a piece of mine in the
‘I don’t see the
‘I know what you mean,’ Paul said, ‘but actually I think the books pages are as good as any.’ What he really wanted to know, but somehow couldn’t ask, was if she’d seen his review of
‘Not at all,’ said Paul; and when she’d found one in her bag he took the lighter from her and gently held her arm for a second as she leant to the flame. The smoke soured the fetid air almost pleasantly. And at once, with the little shake of her head as she exhaled, her face, even the uptilted gleam of her glasses, seemed restored to how they had been twelve years before. Encouraged, he said, ‘I’m very pleased to see you, because in fact I’m writing something about
‘Well, I don’t know,’ she said, but quite nicely. She blew out smoke as if at something very distant. ‘I wrote a book myself, I don’t know if you saw that. I sort of put it all in there.’
‘Well, yes, of course!’ – he laughed again. ‘I reviewed it, in fact.’
‘Were you horrid?’ she said, with another touch of the droll tone he remembered.
‘No, I loved it. It was a rave.’
‘Some of them were stinkers.’
He paused sympathetically. ‘I just felt it would be very valuable to be able to speak to you – of course I don’t want to be a nuisance. If you like, I’ll just come for an hour when it suits you.’
She frowned and thought. ‘You know, I never pretended to be a wonderful writer, but I have known some very interesting people.’ Her quiet laugh now was slightly grim.
Paul made a vague noise of indignant dismissal of all her critics. ‘Of course I saw your interview in the
‘Ah, yes.’ Again she seemed both flattered and wary.
‘I don’t know if you’d prefer the morning or the afternoon.’
‘Mm?’ She didn’t commit herself to a time, or to anything really. ‘Who was that very nice young man at the party – I expect you know him? I can’t remember anyone’s name.
‘I hope he’s not writing about him!’
‘Well, I’m not at all sure he isn’t.’
‘Oh dear…!’ – Paul felt rattled, but managed to say smoothly, ‘I’m sure since your book came out there’s been a lot more interest in him.’
She took in a deep draught of smoke and then let it out in a sleepy wave up her face. ‘It’s the War, too, of course. People can’t get enough of the War.’
‘Oh, I know,’ said Paul, as if he too thought it rather overdone. In fact he was counting on it heavily.
She peered at him, in the streaking glare and shadow, almost haughtily. ‘I think I do remember you,’ she said. ‘Don’t you play the piano?’
‘Aha!’ said Paul. ‘Yes, I know what you’re thinking of.’
‘You played duets with my daughter.’
He enjoyed this passive imposture, though it was uncomfortable too to be taken for Peter. ‘It was great fun, that evening,’ he said modestly.