I desisted. I did not want to spoil her pleasure. And, on the foggy platform, I was warmed by affection for her — affection the more glowing (it did not seem shameful as I laughed at her) because of a letter in my pocket whose words I carried before my eyes. At St Pancras we coughed in the sulphurous fog.
‘Fancy having to go back tonight,’ said Marion. ‘I shall be hours late. I pity the children tomorrow. I shall smack them and shout at them.’
‘Poor dear, you’ll be tired,’ I said.
‘I shan’t get home till four,’ she said. ‘And I don’t mind a bit. And that’s as much in the way of thanks as is good for you.’
Instead of going straight from the station to Judd Street, I found a coffee stall along the Euston Road. The fog, thickening every minute, swirled in front of the lamp, and one inhaled it together with the naphtha fumes and the steam. As I drank a cup of tea, I felt the glow of affection with me still. Then I took out Sheila’s letter and read it, though I knew it by heart and word for word, in the foggy lamplight. I felt giddy with miraculous content. The name stood out in the dim light, like no other name. I felt giddy, as though the perfection of the miracle would happen now, and I should have her by my side, and we should walk together through the swirling fog.
When I next met Sheila she was strangely excited. I saw it before she spoke to me, saw it while she made her way through the café towards our table. She was electric with excitement; yet what she had to say, though it filled me with pleasure, did not explain why. Without any preliminary she broke out: ‘You know the Edens, don’t you?’
‘I know him, of course. I’ve never been to the house.’
‘We drink punch there every Christmas Eve,’ she said, and added: ‘I love punch,’ with that narcissistic indrawn satisfaction which took her far away. Then, electric-bright again, she said: ‘I can take anyone I like. ‘Will you come with me?’
I was open in my pleasure.
‘I want you to,’ she said, and I still noticed the intensity of her excitement. ‘Make a note of it. I shan’t let you forget.’
I could not understand, in the days between, why she laid so much stress on it, but I looked forward happily to Christmas Eve. The more happily, perhaps, because it was like an anticipation in childhood; it was like waiting for a present that one knew all the time one was safely going to receive. I imagined beforehand the warmth of a party, Harry Eden’s surprise, the flattery of being taken there by the most beautiful young woman in the room — but above all the warmth of a party and the certain joy of her presence by my side among the drinks and laughter.
On the day before Christmas Eve I was having a cup of tea alone in our habitual café. A waitress came up and asked if I was Mr Eliot: a lady wanted me on the telephone.
‘Is that you?’ It was Sheila’s voice, though I had never heard it before at the other end of a wire. It sounded higher than in life, and remote, as though it came from the far side of a river.
‘I didn’t think they’d recognize you from my description. I didn’t think I should find you.’
She sounded strung up but exhilarated, laughing to herself.
‘It’s me all right,’ I said.
‘Of course it’s you.’ She laughed. ‘Who else could it be?’ I grumbled that this was like a conversation in a fairy tale. ‘Right. Business. About tomorrow night.’ Her voice was sharp. My heart dropped.
‘You’re corning, darling?’ I pleaded. I could not keep the longing back: she had to hear it. ‘You must come. I’ve been counting on it—’
‘I’ll come.’
I exclaimed with relief and delight.
‘I’ll come. But I shall be late. Go to the party by yourself. I’ll see you there.’
I was so much relieved that I would have made any concession. As a matter of form, I protested that it would have been nice to go together.
‘I can’t. I can’t manage it. You can make yourself at home. You won’t mind. You can make yourself at home anywhere.’ She laughed again.
‘But you will come?’
‘I’ll come.’
I was vaguely upset. Why was she keyed up to a pitch of excitement even higher than when she first invited me? I felt for a moment that she was a stranger. But she had never failed me. I knew that she would come. The promise of love, of romantic love, of love where one’s imagination makes the beloved fit all one’s hope, enveloped me again. Once more I longed for tomorrow night, the party, for her joining me as I sat among the rest.
The Edens lived outside the middle of the town, in the fashionable suburb. I strolled slowly across the park on Christmas Eve, up the London Road; I heard a clock strike; the party began at nine o’clock, and I was deliberately a little late. A church stood open, light streaming through the doors. Cars rushed by, away from the town, but the pavement was almost empty, apart from an occasional couple standing beneath the trees in the mild night.
I came to where the comfortable middle-class houses stood back from the main road, with their hedges, their lawns, their gravel drives. Through the curtains of the drawing-rooms the lights glowed warm, and I felt curious; as I often did, walking any street at night, about what was going on behind the blinds. That Christmas Eve, the sight of those glowing rooms made me half-envious, even then, going to a rendezvous in my limitless expectancy; here seemed comfort, here seemed repose and a safe resting place; I envied all behind the blinds, even while, in the flush of youth and drunkenness of love, I despised them also, all those who stayed in the safe places and were not going out that night; I envied them behind the glowing curtains, and I despised them for not being on their way to a beloved.
The Edens’ drawing-room was cheerful with noise when I entered. There was a great fire, and the party sitting round. On the hearth stood an enormous bowl, with bottles beside it, glinting in the firelight. All over the drawing-room there wafted a scent of rum, oranges, and lemons. Under the holly and mistletoe and tinsel drifted that rich odour.
Eden was sitting, with an air of extreme permanence, in an armchair by the fireplace. He greeted me warmly. ‘I’m very glad to see you, Eliot. This is the young man I told you about—’ He introduced me to his wife. ‘He’s a friend of Sheila Knight’s — but I’ve known him on my own account for, let me see, it must be well over a year. When you get to my age, Eliot, you’ll find time goes uncomfortably fast.’ He went on explaining me to his wife. ‘Yes, I gave him some excellent advice which he was much too enterprising to take. Still, there’s nothing like being a young man in a hurry.’
Mrs Eden was kneeling on the hearthrug, busy with hieratic earnestness at the mixing of the punch. The liquid itself was steaming in the hearth; she had come to the point of slicing oranges and throwing in the pieces. She was pale-faced, with an immensely energetic, jerky, and concentrated manner. She had bright, brown eyes, opaque as a bird’s. She fixed them on me as she went on slicing.
‘How long have you known Sheila, Mr Eliot?’ she asked, as though the period were of the most critical importance.
I told her.
‘She has such style,’ said Mrs Eden with concentration.
Mrs Eden was enthusiastic about most things, but especially so about Sheila. She was quite unembarrassed by her admiration; it was easy to think of her as a girl, concentrated and intent, unrestrained in a schwärmerei, bringing some mistress flowers and gifts. At any rate, I wondered (I might be distorting her remarks through my own emotion) whether she too was not impatient for Sheila’s arrival. With hieratic seriousness she went on cutting the oranges, dropping in the peel. It was luxuriously warm by the fire, the punch was smoking, Eden lay back with a sigh of reminiscent well-being, and began to talk to us — in those days,’ he said, meaning the days of his youth, the turn of the century. I looked at the clock. It was nine-twenty. The others were listening to Eden, watching his wife prepare the punch. They were jolly and relaxed. I could scarcely wait for the minutes to pass and my heart was pounding.