'It doesn't have to be terribly prolific! Just so that it isn't childish and silly.' She reflected. 'I prefer stories about squalor.'
'About what?' I said, leaning forward. 'Squalor. I'm extremely interested in squalor.'
I was about to press her for more details, but I felt Charles pinching me, hard, on my arm. I turned to him, wincing slightly. He was standing right next to me. 'What did one wall say to the other wall?' he asked, not unfamiliarly.
'You asked him that,' Esme said. 'Now, stop it.'
Ignoring his sister, and stepping up on one of my feet, Charles repeated the key question. I noticed that his necktie knot wasn't adjusted properly. I slid it up into place, then, looking him straight in the eye, suggested, 'Meetcha at the corner?'
The instant I'd said it, I wished I hadn't. Charles' mouth fell open.
I felt as if I'd struck it open. He stepped down off my foot and, with white-hot dignity, walked over to his own table, without looking back.
'He's furious,' Esme said. 'He has a violent temper. My mother had a propensity to spoil him. My father was the only one who didn't spoil him.'
I kept looking over at Charles, who had sat down and started to drink his tea, using both hands on the cup. I hoped he'd turn around, but he didn't.
Esme stood up. Il faut que je parte aussi,' she said, with a sigh.
'Do you know French?'
I got up from my own chair, with mixed feelings of regret and confusion. Esme and I shook hands; her hand, as I'd suspected, was a nervous hand, damp at the palm. I told her, in English, how very much I'd enjoyed her company.
She nodded. 'I thought you might,' she said. 'I'm quite communicative for my age.' She gave her hair another experimental touch. 'I'm dreadfully sorry about my hair,' she said. 'I've probably been hideous to look at.'
'Not at all! As a matter of fact, I think a lot of the wave is coming back already.'
She quickly touched her hair again. 'Do you think you'll be coming here again in the immediate future?' she asked. 'We come here every Saturday, after choir practice.'
I answered that I'd like nothing better but that, unfortunately, I was pretty sure I wouldn't be able to make it again.
'In other words, you can't discuss troop movements,' said Esme. She made no move to leave the vicinity of the table. In fact, she crossed one foot over the other and, looking down, aligned the toes of her shoes. It was a pretty little execution, for she was wearing white socks and her ankles and feet were lovely. She looked up at me abruptly.
'Would you like me to write to you?' she asked, with a certain amount of color in her face. 'I write extremely articulate letters for a person my--'
'I'd love it.' I took out pencil and paper and wrote down my name, rank, serial number, and A.P.O. number.
'I shall write to you first,' she said, accepting it, 'so that you don't feel compromised in any way.' She put the address into a pocket of her dress. 'Goodbye,' she said, and walked back to her table.
I ordered another pot of tea and sat watching the two of them till they, and the harassed Miss Megley, got up to leave. Charles led the way out, limping tragically, like a man with one leg several, inches shorter than the other. He didn't look over at me. Miss Megley went next, then Esme, who waved to me. I waved back, half getting up from my chair. It was a strangely emotional moment for me.
Less than a minute later, Esme came back into the tearoom, dragging Charles behind her by the sleeve of his reefer. 'Charles would like to kiss you goodbye,' she said.
I immediately put down my cup, and said that was very nice, but was she sure?
'Yes,' she said, a trifle grimly. She let go Charles' sleeve and gave him a rather vigorous push in my direction. He came forward, his face livid, and gave me a loud, wet smacker just below the right ear.
Following this ordeal, he started to make a beeline for the door and a less sentimental way of life, but 1 caught the half belt at the back of his reefer, held on to it, and asked him, 'What did one wall say to the other wall?'
His face lit up. 'Meet you at the corner!' he shrieked, and raced out of the room, possibly in hysterics.
Esme was standing with crossed ankles again. 'You're quite sure you won't forget to write that story for me?' she asked. 'It doesn't have to be exclusively for me. It can--'
I said there was absolutely no chance that I'd forget. I told her that I'd never written a story for anybody, but that it seemed like exactly the right time to get down to it.
She nodded. 'Make it extremely squalid and moving,' she suggested.
'Are you at all acquainted with squalor?'
I said not exactly but that I was getting better acquainted with it, in one form or another, all the time, and that I'd do my best to come up to her specifications. We shook hands.
'Isn't it a pity that we didn't meet under less extenuating circumstances?'
I said it was, I said it certainly was.
'Goodbye,' Esme said. 'I hope you return from the war with all your faculties intact.'
I thanked her, and said a few other words, and then watched her leave the tearoom. She left it slowly, reflectively, testing the ends of her hair for dryness.
