She went home feeling heartsick. That was ridiculous, she told herself. She had met him for less than a minute and had never said a word to him! He had seemed to symbolize everything she felt was missing from her life. But if she saw him again she would surely discover that he was boorish, insane, diseased, smelly, or all of those things.
She got off the train and walked along the street of large suburban villas where she lived. As she approached her own home, she was shocked and flustered to see him walking toward her, looking at her house with a pretense of idle curiosity.
She flushed scarlet and her heart raced. He too was startled. He stopped, but she carried on walking; then, as she passed him, she said: “Meet me in the Central Library tomorrow morning!”
She did not expect him to reply, but—she would learn later—he had a quick, humorous mind, and he immediately said: “What section?”
It was a big library, but not so big that two people could lose one another for long; but she said the first thing that came into her mind: “Biology.” And he laughed.
She entered her house with that laugh in her ears: a warm, relaxed, delighted laugh, the laugh of a man who loved life and felt good about himself.
The house was empty. Mrs. Rollins, who did the housework, had already left; and Mervyn was not home yet. Diana sat in the modem hygienic kitchen and thought old-fashioned unhygienic thoughts about her humorous American poet.
The next morning she found him sitting at a table under a notice that read SILENCE. When she said: “Hello,” he put a finger to his lips, pointed to a chair and wrote her a note.
It said I love your hat.
She had on a little hat like an upturned flowerpot with a brim, and she wore it tilted all the way over to one side so that it almost covered her left eye: it was the current fashion, although few women in Manchester had the nerve for it.
She took a little pen from her bag and wrote underneath,
She giggled, and he said: “Shhh!”
Diana thought: Is he mad, or just funny?
She wrote,
Then he wrote,
Mad, she thought; but tears came to her eyes. She wrote,
He gave her a business card. His name was Mark Alder, and he lived in Los Angeles.
California!
They went for early lunch to a V.E.M. restaurant—Vegetables, Eggs and Milk—because she could be sure she would not run into her husband there: wild horses could not have dragged him into a vegetarian restaurant. Then, as it was Tuesday, there was a midday concert at the Houldsworth Hall in Deansgate, with the city’s famous Halle Orchestra and its new conductor, Malcolm Sargent. Diana felt proud that her city could offer such a cultural treat to a visitor.
That day she learned that Mark was a writer of comedy scripts for radio shows. She had never heard of the people he wrote for, but he said they were famous: Jack Benny, Fred Allen, Amos ’n’ Andy. He also owned a radio station. He wore a cashmere blazer. He was on an extended holiday, tracing his roots: his family had come originally from Liverpool, the port city a few miles west of Manchester. He was not much taller than Diana, and about her age, with hazel eyes and a few freckles.
And he was pure delight.
He was intelligent, funny and charming. His manners were nice, his fingernails were clean and his clothes were neat. He liked Mozart, but he knew about Louis Armstrong. Most of all, he liked Diana.
It was a peculiar thing how few men actually liked women, she thought. The men she knew would fawn on her, try to paw her, suggest discreet assignations when Mervyn’s back was turned and, sometimes, when they got maudlin drunk, declare their love for her; but they didn’t really like her: their conversation was all banter, they never listened to her and they knew nothing about her. Mark was quite different, as she found out during the following days and weeks.
The day after they met in the library, he rented a car and drove her to the coast, where they ate sandwiches on a breezy beach and kissed in the shelter of the dunes.
He had a suite at the Midland, but they could not meet there because Diana was too well known: if she had been seen going upstairs after lunch the news would have been all around town by teatime. However, Mark’s inventive mind produced a solution. They drove to the seaside town of Lytham St. Anne’s, taking a suitcase, and checked into a hotel as Mr. and Mrs. Alder. They had lunch, then went to bed.
Making love with Mark was such fun.
The first time, he made a pantomime of trying to undress in complete silence, and she was laughing too much to feel shy as she took off her clothes. She did not worry about whether he would like her: he obviously adored her. She was not nervous because he was so nice.
They spent the afternoon in bed, and then checked out, saying they had changed their minds about staying. Mark paid in full for the night so that there was no bad feeling. He dropped her at a station one stop down the line from Altrincham, and she arrived home by train just as if she had spent the afternoon in Manchester.
They did this all the blissful summer.
He was supposed to go back to the States at the beginning of August to work on a new show, but he stayed, and wrote a series of sketches about an American on holiday in Britain, sending his scripts over every week by the new airmail service operated by Pan American.
Despite this reminder that time was running out for them, Diana managed not to think about the future very much. Of course, Mark would go home one day, but he would still be here tomorrow, and that was as far ahead as she cared to look. It was like the war: everyone knew it would be awful, but nobody could tell when it would start; and until it happened there was nothing to do but carry on and try to have a good time.
The day after war broke out he told her he was going home.
She was sitting up in bed with the covers pulled up just under her bust, so that her breasts showed: Mark loved her to sit like that. He thought her breasts were wonderful, although she felt they were too large.
They were having a serious conversation. Britain had declared war on Germany, and even happy lovers had to talk about it. Diana had been following the grisly conflict in China all year, and the thought of war in Europe filled her with dread. Like the Fascists in Spain, the Japanese did not scruple to drop bombs on women and children; and the carnage in Chungking and I-chang had been sickening.
She asked Mark the question that was on everyone’s lips: “What do you think will happen?”
For once he did not have a funny answer. “I think it’s going to be awful,” he said solemnly. “I believe Europe will be devastated. Maybe this country will survive, being an island. I hope so.”
“Oh,” Diana said. Suddenly she was frightened. British people were not saying things like that. The newspapers were full of fighting talk, and Mervyn was positively looking forward to war. But Mark was an outsider, and his judgment, delivered in that relaxed American voice, sounded worryingly realistic. Would bombs be dropped on Manchester?
She remembered something Mervyn had said, and repeated it. “America will have to come into the war sooner or later.”
Mark shocked her by saying: “Christ, I hope not. This is a European squabble, nothing to do with us. I can just about see why Britain declared war, but I’m damned if I want to see Americans die defending fucking Poland.”
She had never heard him swear like this. Sometimes he whispered obscenities in her ear while they were making love, but that was different. Now he seemed angry. She thought perhaps he was a little frightened. She knew Mervyn was frightened: in him it came out as reckless optimism. Mark’s fear showed as isolationism and cursing.
She was dismayed by his attitude, but she could see his point of view: why should Americans go to war for Poland, or even for Europe? “But what about me?” she asked. She tried for a note of levity. “You wouldn’t like me to
