‘Shall we?’
‘Yes,’ she spluttered, and was heavier still, on the slight, iron, yet nervous Jones shoulder, her faithful servant.
‘Come along,’ he said, and raised her up, and took her total weight, and at a list of twenty degrees staggered with her across the room, and at the foot of the stairs came to an abrupt halt. She had an overwhelming desire to sit down, and sat down, and Jones knelt in front of her.
‘You could cross now,’ he said, ‘here, or we can go upstairs.’
She flung her arms round him. ‘Upstairs, Jones.’
‘Soon, I’ll send colour flying into your Yorkshire mug, Mrs Gahdell,’ and as he leaned heavily against her glanced up the long flight of stairs, that in this moment seemed to stare back at him with a hint of menace.
‘Soon,’ he said, ‘soon.’
‘Ah,’ she sighed, and gave him another wet kiss.
And always remembering his manners, his place, Jones said, ‘Thank you,’ and after some effort, managed to get her on her feet, and then began the slow ascent of the stairs towards that other room that could never be Miss Vaughan’s.
‘Jones,’ she said.
‘Mrs Gandell,’ he replied.
And inch by inch, and stair by stair, until they finally reached the top. She swayed, and he caught her, turned her the right way round, slowly pushed. He kissed the Gandell ear as they reached the door.
‘Soon,’ he said, ‘very soon. And then the explosion, Mrs Gandell, and much better than a mere collision. Yes, indeed.’ She promptly sat down again, and refused to budge.
Jones knelt, her face between his hands.
‘It could never be said that yours was a handsome face, Mrs Gandell, but it’s kind, I mean kind, and that’s the square root of something better, yes indeed,’ and he patted her on both cheeks, and stroked her hair, as he whispered, ‘We’re on the threshold of our moment. I’ll do my duty, and you’ll do yours. Simpler than plain fractions. Ah! But I have been obliging to you. Just think of the occasions when I’ve made you feel twenty-five, and lifted you far away from that struggling widow, and the outlandish place from which she came.’ He put his arms round her. ‘And you can really tingle when you want to, Mrs Gandell. So here we are together, so high up, and remote, and safe, and silent, and cuddly, and warm. I can see the signal in your eyes, the words, the messages, dear Mrs Gandell, light of my ordinary life.’
He got his hand to the doorknob, he turned it, and they both fell in. He pulled her to the bed, he heaved her into it, and then sat down.
‘Jones,’ she said, and Jones came, and lay across her, and said, ‘We are about to cross. D’you know, the first time I ever saw you, I wondered where your leg ended. I did indeed. Close your eyes now, my dear.’
The fierceness of her embrace quite staggered him.
‘At last,’ she said, ‘at last, Jones.’
‘Ssh,’ he said, ‘ssh!’
‘Jones,’ and it was hot in his ear.
‘What, Mrs Gandell, what?’
‘I wouldn’t care if I never went down those stairs again,’ she said.
‘Wouldn’t you really? Um! Ah.…’
‘Jones?’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Jones,’ she spluttered, ‘For once I am not Mrs Gandell,’ and she pressed closer and closer, and suddenly the fiercest whisper in his ear. ‘Sometimes, Jones, I positively hated you addressing me like that.’ Jones could not, and did not hear, lost and abandoned as he was, yet safe and warm at the harbour of her feeling.
‘Um .…’
‘Ah .…’
‘Grist mawr! This must be what they call the end,’ muttered Jones, the words as soft as water in her ears.
‘Ssh,’ she said, ‘ssh!’
And then the silence, the light beginning to go, the dusk coming down. The clock in the corner struck the hour, but they did not hear it. Beyond the window clouds were suddenly rampant as a fresh wind blew in from the sea. The silence arched. She stirred slightly, but Jones lay motionless, his moment crowned. And then the faintest whisper from her lips, the fairy breath.
‘Jones!’
Hot and abrupt in his face, against his still closed eyes, but he made no answer. Her fingers wandered in and out of his hair, ran down his back and up again, encircled his neck, but not a move nor a sound made. Jones was deeply sleeping, beyond the frontier of the world. And a warmth, a tiredness was suddenly pressing upon her own eyelids, and easily, casually, like a child, she, too, was sleeping. The clock struck four, and darkness was full and home. They seemed scarcely breathing.
They did not hear the sound of a key turning in the lock, nor the steps in the hall, nor the creak on the stairs, as Miss Vaughan climbed up to her room, opened the door, and switched on her light. She sat down on her bed, and sighed. The short winter afternoon had died behind her, in various places, and she had had lunch. When she left the hotel she had walked direct to the little railway station, and had sat for nearly an hour on one of the two iron benches that the station boasted, before she was noticed by the fussy station master, who came up and spoke to her. A winter afternoon seemed scarcely the time to sit watching the trains move in and out. It had seemed to him such an odd thing to do. Surely she could not be waiting, perhaps for the last train in the world.
‘Excuse me, madam,’ he said, and sharp enough to make the lady jump. ‘Excuse me, but are you waiting for a train?’
‘I am not.’
‘For somebody coming to the station?’
‘I am not,’ Miss Vaughan said. ‘Thank you,’ and got up and walked away leaving the bewildered station master staring after her. She walked the length of the main street, staring into window after window, and one or two chilly faces looked out curiously at this fugitive of the afternoon. She had then walked right out of the town in the direction of the beach. Perhaps Miss Vaughan was in love with winter.
3
