She unravelled thin fingers from the coffee mug to brush a ringlet off her cheek. ‘I’m Cecilia Colston. But how did you get that scar?’ — as if it was something to pity him for. ‘I’m dying to know.’
‘Cyprus, in the army.’
‘Were you wounded?’
‘A piece of shrapnel got me from a bomb. I looked up too soon.’
She said what a pity, and asked in the same breath where he worked. He told her. ‘In the offices?’
‘If you like.’ Let her sort it out. She was puzzled, for he could have sworn she caught a whiff of disinfectant suds. You were never free of it, even after a bath. ‘And where do you work?’
‘At Clapton’s, the solicitors.’
‘In the office?’ Giving no time for an answer he said: ‘I’ve done some writing of my own. Just bits of things. Stories, a few of them, or near enough.’
‘So that’s why you came tonight?’
He nodded.
‘You want to be a writer?’
‘I don’t know. I just scribble a bit. A sort of hobby, you might say.’
‘You’re too modest.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ not caring what the penpusher thought. The tightrope of his deception swayed, till he resumed full control. ‘Descriptions of people,’ he said when she asked what about. ‘What they do with their lives.’
‘Can I read some?’
‘More coffee? Sometime, maybe.’
She indicated no, brown eyes looking as if to find out more about him than even he could possibly tell. He met her gaze unblinking, knowing that since it wasn’t done, not in her terms, to get her under the table and fuck her there and then, as Bert might try, or at least Archie would, he’d have to stare her haughtily down as Herbert, and take the risk of her getting up to walk out. It was evidently the right way to behave, and when she looked down he knew he would have her sooner or later if — as Bert would say — he played his cards right. ‘I’ll find some pages to show you.’ He remembered Hawksworth’s advice. ‘They’re not typed yet. I don’t have a typewriter.’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘you’ll have to buy one, won’t you?’ — as if they grew on trees, all waiting to be plucked as she was plucking down Herbert’s heart, nuances he detected with no bother. He’d never thought of becoming a real writer but if by pretending to be one he could get more quickly into her New Look knickers he would take on such a role any day.
Twelve
The train puffed and banged its way along the track out of Norwich. He seemed to have been travelling all day, but it was only a few minutes after noon. Mrs Denman had packed him off with enough food to get him to the South Pole and back. ‘All that way? You’ll be hungry. I would be. As soon as the train’s over Trent Bridge I have to eat a sandwich.’
Why his parents had cut themselves off in this remote corner of Norfolk he couldn’t think. Nottingham was a metropolis, and he felt vulnerable as the line descended the valley of the Yare. More like the yawn. He closed the map.
Still, he felt something pleasing in the landscape, as if he’d been here before. Perhaps in another life he had. His mother’s lot came from this way, likewise old Uncle Richard at Malvern who gave him the pound notes that paid for his escape from school.
As the train turned northerly he felt human again, more relaxed than in Nottingham. Being on the move was what did it, but he didn’t trust such a feeling of wellbeing. He liked it, but something was wrong. The man opposite looked at him too closely. Herbert thought that if he had a knife he would aim the point at his throat. Such a lunatic picture forced his gaze out of the window.
Woods and fields were soothing, though why should he struggle to stay calm? Small motor boats lined the river, and he imagined living on one. Any small cabin would do, equipped with books, some food, and lots of fags. In the evening he would find a snug pub and drink himself into a haze before weaving back to the boat for what sleep he could get.
He didn’t know why he was on the train, felt unstable, free-floating in a way he didn’t like. The man opposite — stout, rubicund, tie bowing out of a Fair Isle sweater, wearing a hacking jacket, gleaming brown brogues, and with half a whistle on his stupid lips, which might any minute turn menacing — seemed too interested in Herbert’s state of mind, which Bert thought was none of his fucking business. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
The man smiled, for want of anything else appropriate in such a situation. ‘Looking at you?’
‘Yes, me.’
He had what Herbert supposed was an East Anglican accent. ‘I wasn’t.’
‘You were.’
‘I was looking out of the window, since you want to know.’ He was being friendly, which made his former attitude insulting. ‘Not much to see, though, is there? It gets even less picturesque soon, depending on your point of view.’
Herbert heard himself, saw his own face from the opposite seat (though not as accurately as in a mirror, and even that couldn’t be an exact image) was unable to hold back: ‘You were staring at me.’ He was afraid, couldn’t stop his useless twaddle, felt sweat on his forehead. The words cartwheeled out, words nevertheless precious because he had to stand by them, back them up loyally though he couldn’t think what with.
‘I really wasn’t.’ It was the man’s turn to be afraid, locked in a compartment with no way out except on to the line and break a leg. ‘I never stare at people.’
‘You were staring at me.’ Stop it, stop this, he told himself. What’s happening to you? He heard the voice from a distance, looked at the man, but couldn’t stop the voice even when trying to nail his mind into place with thoughts of Cecilia. He’d see her again soon: easy to get Colston’s number from the book.
‘I know you were looking at me.’ That’s enough, then. But it wasn’t. Cecilia faded. He couldn’t get her coat off nor her blouse. ‘I’m a stranger in the land.’ Why did he say that? But it prevented him saying any more for the moment.
The man hoped to head off another barmy accusation: ‘That church over there is Westwick.’
‘I dare say it is.’
‘Are you going to Cromer?’
Perhaps there was a lunatic asylum there, and he was coming back from leave. His mother had died and they’d let him go to the funeral. ‘What’s that to you?’
‘None at all, I know.’
Herbert was calm, the storm gone. What was that all about? Why had he terrorized the poor bloke? He was afraid, wouldn’t let it happen again. ‘I’m going to Worstead.’
‘Next stop, then.’ The man smiled, his best news of the day. ‘You’ll be there in a few minutes.’
A series of white humpbacked clouds formed an escort to the road. Herbert hurried towards the village, needing a drink to drown the Devil within. Something had got into him today, and he prayed the pub would be open. The lane followed the railway line a few hundred yards before turning east. At not quite two o’clock he saw the pub near the church.
He carried his beer to a table by the window, away from the clutter of people at the bar. They were expecting him for lunch, but he couldn’t care less. Didn’t they realize how many changes of train he’d made to get there? He was more tired than if he had been at work, the scar sore, and thought that everyone stared at his Cain’s mark. In Nottingham he would have punched them in the face, but then, they didn’t stare at you in Nottingham. Or they did it when you couldn’t possibly notice. They knew the consequences. He went to the bar, and asked the way to the Old Hall.