“No, George—and I don’t rely on impressions. You’ve only told me
that she lied, and that she may have been unfaithful while she was still
legally your wife—”
“Aye, it sounds bad enough. But the funny thing is, she had her good
points.”
“It would be very funny indeed if she hadn’t.”
George caught the note in the other’s voice. “I know—you probably
think I don’t blame her enough. But after all, she was MY choice—and
when she was only nineteen, don’t forget. Might have been my own fault for
not making HER happy too. Maybe she’s been really happy with this other chap.
I’ve nothing against either of ‘em. And if he’s ill or crippled, if there
were anything I could do—though I don’t suppose there is… Well, I
took the first step today and got snubbed for it, and that’s about the whole
story. So with all this off my chest, I’ll now go home and try to work.”
Wendover accompanied him to the street door. “Snubs are unimportant,
George.”
“Of course—and I’ve got a hide like an elephant for ‘em. I’d call it
my secret weapon, only it’s no secret.”
“It never was. Most of the saints had it.”
George grinned. “Oh, get along with you. Don’t you go calling me
names!”
“All right—I won’t. I can’t teach you much, but perhaps there IS one
thing—a piece of advice that Christiana need sometimes. While you’re
trying so hard to be fair to everybody, remember to include yourself. That’s
all.”
“I suppose the truth is, I get a bigger kick out of being fair to the
other fellow. So there’s no credit in it.”
“Was I offering you any?”
George’s grin turned to a laugh. “Good night, Harry. Thanks for listening
to me. That’s the help I really needed, because there’s nothing I can do if
Winslow feels the way he does. Nothing at all… Good night.”
“Good night, George.”
George walked slowly across the dark town. From St.
Patrick’s to Market
Street was about a mile; it took him past the Library and the Town Hall and
the main shopping length of Shawgate. The night was moonless and cloudy
—almost pitch-dark, therefore, in the black- out; but to George this
made for no more than a little groping, and in the groping there was a sudden
awareness of his whole life, shaped by and shaping those familiar streets and
walls. It was as if, at the moment that things half-forgotten were coming
back to trouble and confuse, the town rallied invisibly to his aid, assuring
him that what he had done so far had not been in vain, and that what he had
yet to do could be limitless within the same limits. That these were
circumscribed, even narrow by some standards, was evident; but there was gain
to match that loss—the gain of warm personal contacts, the ‘How do,
Tom?’ and ‘Good night, Mr. Mayor’ that he would not by now have exchanged for
empire. And tonight, as he received and answered the greetings that his known
footsteps drew from passers-by, he felt upon his heart the touch of
benediction. These were his people, from whom he had sprung, and whom he
would serve to the end, because he believed in them and in the destiny of
their kind to make this world, if it can ever be, a happier place.
Comforted, he reached his house, entered the study, and turned over the
papers on his desk, driving himself to concentration. He still felt disturbed
by the day’s curious incident, but somehow not as hurt as he had been or
might have been. Presently he carried papers over to his armchair and settled
himself in comfort. They were the minutes of the last Council meeting and
required his approval. The dry official phraseology merely emphasized the
part of his life that had gone on for so many years, and would continue to do
so—whether or not, whether or not. Like the rhythm of train- wheels
that go up hill and down dale, through cities and across country… WHETHER
OR NOT. But that again, the blessed rhythm and routine of work he knew so
well, led deeper into springs of comfort already found along the dark
pavements; and soon a measure of tranquillity was on him. He read every item
of the minutes carefully, corrected a few, initialed others, then soon after
midnight went to bed and slept dreamlessly till dawn, when the early-morning
buses wakened him as they started up in the garage just beyond the garden
—Livia’s garden, as he still thought of it. Then he got up, went back
to his desk, and dug deeper into the pile of work there; and at eight, when
Annie brought in the morning postal delivery and some tea, he was still
working.
Among the envelopes was one that bore the Mulcaster postmark. Like so many
that reached him it was addressed merely to “The Mayor, Browdley”, but the
handwriting looked like a child’s. Inside he found a note scribbled in pencil
with the heading “Hospital”, and so briefly worded that he hardly grasped
what it was all about till he had read it over twice. Just—“I don’t
know what there is about mayors that got my goat this afternoon, but next
time, if you want to see me, drop in.” And signed with the initial “W”.
The note chilled George with its contrast of childish script and adult
irony. Presently he surmised that the look of childishness might have come
from writing with the left hand—doubtless an effort, yet not too great
for the extra words that hurt and were probably meant to.
Nevertheless, he caught the nine-five to Mulcaster.
At the hospital the nurse on duty told him he could see the
patient ‘now’
if he wanted. He asked, because of her peculiar emphasis on the word: “What
made him change his mind?”
“Well, I think it was because of what Dr. Briggs and I both said.” She
blushed as she explained further: “We said you were awfully nice and that
everybody liked you.”
George’s smile was a little ghastly, as if he had heard what might be his
own epitaph. He answered: “Thanks for the testimonial… All right, I’ll see
him. That’s what I’ve come for. Does he have many visitors?”
“None, so far. He’s only been here a fortnight.”
All this as they walked along the corridor. She opened the door and George
followed her. The room was cheerfully bleak, and contained bed, side table,
two small chairs, and a table in front of the window surmounted by a large
bowl of roses. The shape of a human being was recognizable on the bed, but
the face was so swathed in bandages that nothing could be seen of it, while
the legs, similarly swathed, were held in an up-slanting position by an
assembly of slings and frames. George was appalled, but the nurse began
cheerfully: “Well… here’s Mr. Boswell AGAIN.”
George waited for her to go out, but she stayed, fussing around with the
pillow and drawing a chair to the bedside, so he said the only possible
thing, which was “Good morning”.
From the bed came a curious muffled voice returning the greeting.
“You’ll have to stoop a little to him, then you’ll hear better… His
words get all tied up with the bandages.”
The voice grunted, and George placed his chair closer.
“There’s only one rule,” she added, finally moving to the door. “You
mustn’t smoke.”
“I don’t smoke,” George answered.
When the door had closed on her George heard what might have been a sigh
from the bed and then the question, abruptly: “Has she gone?”
“Aye,” said George.
“She’s a good nurse, though.”
“I can believe it.” And then after a pause: “I got your note this morning.
It’s a bit quick to have taken you at your word, but I thought—”
“Oh, not at all. And don’t be impressed by all these bandages and
contraptions. I’m not as much of a wreck as I look.”
“I’m glad to hear you’re getting on all right.”
“Yes, they seem to be patching me up. Would you mind giving me a tablet
out of that bottle on the side table?”
George did so. He saw that the left hand was comparatively usable, though
the skin was pink and shrivelled.
“Thanks… they’re only throat lozenges.”
“I hope talking doesn’t bother you. I won’t stay long. I just wanted to
bring you my good wishes.”
“Thanks… I can listen, anyway.”
But George for once found himself without chatter. He said, stammering
somewhat: “There isn’t much else I have to say—except that I’m sorry we
meet for the first time under these somewhat awkward circumstances. I used to
know your father—slightly. I met him—once—several years
before his death—”
“WHAT?” The exclamation was so sharp that it discounted the enforced
motionlessness of the body. And a rush of words continued: “What do you mean?
His DEATH! Have you heard anything? Who told you that? Have they been trying
to keep it from me?”
George realized there was a misunderstanding somewhere, though he could
not yet tell what. For a moment the wild thought seized him that this Winslow
might not be of the same Winslow family at all. He said: “I’m sorry if I’m
making a mistake. I was referring to LORD Winslow—the one who used to
be Secretary of Housing—”
A strange muffled sound came from the bed, uninterpretable except as one
of relief, though the words that followed were still tense with excitement:
“You certainly have got it all balled up, Mr. Mayor… That was my
GRANDfather.”
George described the rest of the interview to Wendover the
same evening.
“Aye, it was my mistake all right, but even when I realized it I didn’t
realize everything else immediately, because he kept on asking me about his
father—did I KNOW anything, had there been any news, and so on
—and of course I could only repeat what I’d heard from the man in
London—that they’d both got out of Singapore in time. But then he told
me they hadn’t been in Singapore at all, but in Hong Kong, where his father
had a job.
“I didn’t stay long after that. I could see I’d put him in a nervous mood,
and I felt it was my fault, in a way, for not verifying things beforehand.
And I was a bit excited myself, because it was hard to realize that he must
be Livia’s boy—and not more than twenty-two, if that… Charles, he
told me his name was… I could have talked better to his father, if it had
been him, but with the boy I felt tongue-tied… because as he went on
talking it became clear to me that he hadn’t the faintest idea who I was
—or rather who I had been in his mother’s life.”
“You didn’t tell him?”
“No, Harry, I didn’t.”
“He must have thought it odd that you should take all that trouble to
visit him.”
“Aye, and he said so, before I left. He got quite cordial—in a
nervous sort of way. He tried to apologize for having refused to see me the
day before—he blamed what he called the superstition that provincial
mayors are pompous old bores—‘I wonder why people think so,’ he said,
and although it was a back-handed compliment, I knew he was meaning it all
right. So I answered: ‘Probably because many of ‘em are’—and we had a
good laugh. Or rather, he couldn’t laugh, but I knew it was the same as if he
was laughing… I promised to visit him again. He made a point of asking me
to, if ever I was in that part of the world.”
“Don’t you intend to tell him?”
“Not just yet. I don’t see that it can matter much—to HIM. Or if it
did, it wouldn’t help. You see, he NEEDS help. His nerves are all to pieces
and he’s pretty low-spirited about things in general—I gathered that.
Maybe I can cheer him up… and if I can’t—if he finds me a
nuisance—then it’ll be easier for him to tell me so if he thinks I’m
only the Mayor of Browdley.”
Wendover smiled. “You’d make a good Jesuit, George. You can find more
reasons for doing what you want to do…”
George visited the Mulcaster hospital every week or so from
then on. Not
all the visits were on account of Winslow; some would have had to be made on
official business in any case. But he found himself looking forward to them
all, and not grudging the length of the journey, which meant less sleep, for
it was in the nature of his own work that hardly any of it could be
postponed, shortened, or abandoned. And gradually, as the youth continued to
improve, there came to George the intense pleasure of noting definite
improvements each time—the slow removal of bandages; the first time the
cradles and slings were discarded; the first step from the bed to a
wheel-chair; and most of all, the lifting of the mind from despondency. All
this took months, and the visits, though regular, could not last long. The
Mayor of Browdley was curiously shy during the early ones—almost
desperately afraid of intruding where he might not be really as welcome as it
appeared—reluctant, it would seem, to believe that the invitations to
come again were genuine. It was unlike George, who was so used to being
liked, to have such diffidence; and yet there was in him all the uncertainty
of a man in whom the touch of bravado masks only a deep humility and an
awareness of personal inadequacy.
They talked of many things, from hospital gossip to world affairs, with no
plan or aim in the talking; and this, perhaps, was as good a way to get to
know each other as if either had deliberately tried. George was often tempted
to lead the subject to Livia, but always forbore; he had an odd feeling of
conscience about it—that his own concealment of identity could only be
justified so long as he did not take such advantages. Sometimes, however,
information slipped out without any probing. Charles liked to talk about the
family home in Berkshire, the big centuries-old house that belonged now to
his uncle, the inheritor of the title—“and thank Heaven it does
—my father never wanted it, and neither do I, though it’s a lovely old
place to visit.” He spoke affectionately of both parents, but seemed to have
spent comparatively little time with them since he was very young. “But
that’s the way it is when your people are overseas. They pack you off to
school in England and you hardly see them for years at a stretch, and then
when you do they’re almost strangers. It was better for a while after 1934,
when dad gave up his job and they went to live in Ireland, near Galway. It
was a sort of farm, and I used to stay there during the school holidays.
Mother made a good farmer—she had a knack for anything to do with crops
or animals. She could squeeze warbles on a cow, and that’s a thing you can’t
do without being sick unless you really love farming.”