I was wondering.
‘Still, it’s better for you that it’s over. I’m glad.’
We had turned towards home. The green of the sky was darkening to purple.
‘So you sent her away?’ she said.
‘Yes, I sent her away.’
‘I don’t expect she liked that. But I believe it was right for you.’
In the half-dark I put my arm round her waist. She leaned back, warm and solid, against me. Then, with a recoil of energy, she sprang away.
‘No, my lad. Not yet. Not yet.’ She was laughing.
I protested.
‘Oh no,’ said Marion. ‘I’ve got something to say first. Are you free of Sheila?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ve told you. I’ve parted from her.’
‘That’s not the same,’ said Marion. ‘My dear, I’m serious. You ought to know I’m not a capricious girl. And’, she said, firmly, confidently, reproachfully, ‘you must think of me for once. I’ve given you no reason to treat me badly.’
‘Less than anyone,’ I said.
‘So I want you to be honest. Answer my question again. Are you free of Sheila?’
The first stars were coming out. I saw Marion’s eyes, bright, not sad but vigilant.
I wanted to know her love. But she forced me not to lie. I thought of how I had gone, as though hypnotized, to Tom Devitt, because his life was linked to Sheila’s; I thought of my memories, and of waking at nights from dreams that taunted me. I said ‘Perhaps not quite. But I shall be soon.’
‘That’s honest, anyway,’ Marion said, with anger in her voice. Then she laughed again. ‘Don’t be too long. Then take me out. I’m not risking you on the rebound.’
Decorously, she slipped an arm through mine.
‘We’re going to be late for supper, my lad. Let’s move. We’ll talk of something sensible — like your exam.’
In the late spring, in April and early May, even the harsh red brick of the town seemed softened, The chestnuts flowered along the road to Eden’s house, the lilacs in the gardens outside Martineau’s. I was near the end of my reading, George’s calculations had not been fallible, and I had only two more authorities to master. In the mild spring days I used to take my books to the park, and work there.
But there were times when, sitting on a bench with my notebook, I was distracted. On the breeze, the odour of the blossoms reached me; I ached with longing; I was full of restlessness, of an unnamed hope. Those were the days when I went into the town in the afternoon; I looked into shop windows, stood in bookshops, went up and down the streets, searched among the faces in the crowd; I never visited our usual café, for she did not go there alone, but I had tea in turn in all those where I had known her meet her mother. I did not see her, neither there, nor at the station (I remembered her trains as I did my last page of notes). Was it just chance? Was she deliberately staying at home? Was she helping me to see her no more? I told myself that it was better. In the spring sunshine, I told myself that it was better.
On the day before I left for London and the examination, George, to whom formal occasions were sacred, had insisted that there must be a drinking party to wish me success. I had to go, it would have wounded George not to; but I, more superstitious and less formal, did not like celebrations before an event. So I was grateful when Marion gave me an excuse to cut the party short.
‘I’ll cook you a meal first,’ she said. ‘I’d like to be certain that you have one square meal before your first paper.’
I ate supper in her lodgings before I joined George at our public house. Marion was an excellent cook in the hearty English country style, the style of the small farmers and poor-to-middling yeomen stock from which she came. She gave me roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, an apple pie with cheese, a great Welsh rarebit. Eating as I did in snacks and pieces, being at my landlady’s mercy for breakfast, and having to count the pennies even for my snacks, I had not tasted such a meal for long enough.
‘Lewis,’ said Marion, ‘you’re hungry.’ She added: ‘I’m glad I thought of it. Cooking’s a bore, whatever anyone tells you, so I nearly didn’t. Shall I tell you why I decided to feed you?’
Comfortably, I nodded my head.
‘It’s just laying a bait for large returns to come. When you’re getting rich and successful, I shall come to London and expect the best dinners that money can buy.’
‘You shall have them.’ I was touched: this meal had been her method of encouraging me, practical, energetic, half-humorous.
‘You see, Lewis, I think you’re a pretty good bet.’ Soon after, she said: ‘You’ve not told me. Have you seen Sheila again?’
‘No.’
‘How much have you thought about her?’
I wished that she would not disturb the well-being in the room. Again I had to force myself to answer truly.
I said: ‘Now and then — I see ghosts.’
She frowned and laughed.
‘You are tiresome, aren’t you? No, I mustn’t be cross with you. I asked for it.’ Her eyes were flashing. ‘Go and polish off this exam. Then you must have a holiday. And then — ghosts don’t live for ever.’
She smiled luxuriously, as though the smile spread over her whole skin.
‘I’m afraid’, she said, ‘that I was meant to be moist and jealous and adoring.’
I smiled back. It was not an invitation at that moment. We sat and smoked in silence, in a thunderous comfort, until it was time for my parting drink with George.
Just as George, on the subject of how to prepare for an examination, advised me as though he were one of nature’s burgesses, so I behaved like one. I went to London two days before the first paper; I obeyed the maxims that were impressed upon all students, and I slammed the last notebook shut with a night and a day to spare. Slammed it so that I could hear the noise in the poky, varnish-smelling bedroom at Mrs Reed’s. Now I was ready. One way or the other, I thought, challenging the luck, I should not have to stay in that house again.
I spent a whole day at the Oval, with all my worries shut away but one. I did not think about the papers, but I was anxious lest, at the last moment, I might be knocked out by another turn of sickness. I had been feeling better in the past weeks, and I was well enough as I lolled on the benches for a day, and as I meandered back to Judd Street in the evening. I walked part of the way, over Vauxhall Bridge and along the river, slowly and with an illusion of calm. I stopped to gaze at a mirage-like sight of St Paul’s and the city roofs mounted above the evening mist. Confidence seeped through me in the calm — except that, even now, I might be ill.
I slept that night, but I slept lightly. I had half woken many times, and it was early when I knew that it was impossible to sleep longer. I looked at the watch I had borrowed for the examination: it was not yet half past six. This was the day. I lay in bed, having wakened with the fear of the night before. Should I get up and test it? If I were going to be wrecked by giddiness that day, I might as well know now. Carefully I rose, trying not to move my head. I took three steps to the window, and threw up the blind, In streamed the morning sunlight. I was steady enough. Recklessly, I exclaimed aloud. I was steady enough.
I did not return to bed, but read until breakfast time, a novel I had borrowed from Marion; and at breakfast I was not put off either by Mrs Reed’s abominable food or the threat of her abominable postcards. ‘I’ve got one ready for you to take away,’ she told me, with her ferocious bonhomie. ‘I’ll send you a bouquet,’ I said jauntily, for the only way to cope with her was not to give an inch. I sometimes wondered if she had a nerve in her body; if she knew young men were nervous at examinations; if she had ever been nervous herself, and how she had borne it.