“In London,” said Toby. “I wish I hadn’t. I wish at least I’d been away to boarding-school.”
They talked for a while about Toby’s childhood. Michael began to feel so happy he could have shouted aloud. It was a long time since he had sat in a bar; and to sit in this one, talking to this boy, drinking this cider, seemed an activity so perfect that it left while it lasted no cranny for any other desire. Vaguely, Michael reflected that this was an unusual condition; he knew that it was one which he did not especially miss or yearn for: yet, in a little while, he was, even in his enjoyment of it, conscious too of things missed, things sacrificed, in his life. At one moment, somehow connected with this, he had a vision, which had at one time haunted him but which he rarely had now, of the Long Room at Imber, carpeted, filled, furnished, its walls embellished with gilt mirrors and the glow of old pictures, the grand piano back again in its corner, the cheerful tray of drinks upon the side table. But even this did not diminish his enjoyment: to know clearly what you surrender, what you gain, and to have no regrets; to revisit without envy the scenes of a surrendered joy, and to taste it ephemerally once more, with a delight un-dimmed by the knowledge that it is momentary, that is happiness, that surely is freedom.
“What do you want to do after you leave College?”said Michael.
“I don’t know,” said Toby. “I’ll be some sort of engineer, I suppose. But I don’t know quite what I want to do. I don’t think I want to go abroad. Really, you know,” he said, “I’d like to do something like what you do.”
Michael laughed. “But I don’t do anything, dear boy,” he said. “I’m a universal amateur.”
“You do,” said Toby. “I mean you’ve made something marvellous at Imber. I’d like to be able to do that. I mean, I couldn’t ever make it like you have, but I’d like to be part of a thing like that. Something so sort of pure and out of the modern world.”
Michael laughed at him again, and they disputed for a while about being out of the world. Without showing it, Michael was immensely touched and a little rueful about the boy’s evident admiration for him. Toby saw him as a spiritual leader. While knowing how distorted this picture was, yet Michael could not help catching, from the transfigured image of himself in the boy’s imagination, an invigorating sense of possibility. He was not done for yet, not by any means. He looked sideways at Toby. Toby had put on a clean shirt and a jacket but no tie, for his trip to town. He had left the jacket in the van. The shirt, still stiff from the laundry, was unbuttoned and the collar stood up rigidly under his chin while a narrow cleft in the whiteness revealed the darkness of his chest. Michael remarked again the straightness of his short nose, the length of his eyelashes, and his shy wild expression, tentative, gentle, untouched. He had none of that look of cunning, that rather nervous smartness, that is often seen in boys of his age. As Michael looked he felt hope for him, and with it the joy that comes from feeling, without consideration of oneself, hope for another.
“I can’t finish this, I’m afraid,” said Toby. “It’s nice, but it’s too strong for me. No, nothing else, thank you. Would you like it?” He poured the remains of his pint of cider into Michael’s almost empty pint pot. Michael tossed it off and got himself another pint. He saw that there was chocolate displayed on the counter, and got some for Toby. Returning to their corner he noticed with some surprise that it was quite dark outside.
“We must be off soon,” he said, and began to swallow his drink quickly while Toby ate his chocolate. How rapidly the time had passed! In a moment or two they rose to go.
As they came out into the yard Michael felt an extreme heaviness in his limbs. It was foolish of him to have had that second pint; he was so unused to the stuff now, it had made him feel quite tipsy. But he knew he would be all right once he got into the van; the driving would sober him up. They packed in and Michael turned up the lights and set off on the homeward road, the cultivator bumping comfortably behind him, one soft rubber handle just touching his head.
The road looked different at night, the grass verges a brilliant green, the grey-golden walls of tall-windowed houses looming up quickly and vanishing, the trees bunched and mysterious above the range of the headlights. Every now and then a cat was to be seen running in front of the car or deep in the undergrowth, its eyes glowing brightly as it faced the beam of light.
“You’re a scientist,” said Michael. “Why don’t human beings’ eyes glow like that?”
“Are you sure they don’t?” said Toby.
“Well, do they?” said Michael. “I’ve never seen anyone’s eyes glow.”
“It may be that human beings always turn their eyes away,” said Toby. “I remember learning at school that Mon-mouth was caught after the rebellion, when he was hiding in a ditch near Cranborne, because his eyes were gleaming in the moonlight.”
“Yes, but surely not like that,” said Michael. An unidentified animal faced them at some distance down the road, a pair of greenish flashes, and then was gone.
“I believe there’s something about special cells behind the eyes,” said Toby. “But I’m still not completely sure that our eyes mightn’t glow too if we really faced the headlights. Let’s try it! I’ll get out and come walking towards you facing the light, and you see what my eyes look like!”
“You are a scientist!” said Michael, laughing. “Well, not now. We’ll wait till we arrive home, shall we? Then you can make your experiment.”
Toby fell silent and they drove along for a while without speaking. Michael could hear him yawning. At last he said,“That cider has made me quite sleepy.”
“Well, go to sleep then,” said Michael.
“Oh, no,” said Toby. “I’m not as sleepy as all that.” In a few minutes he was asleep. Michael could see from the corner of his eye the boy’s head hanging forward. Days of hard physical work followed by the dose of potent cider had knocked him out completely. Michael smiled to himself.
The Land-Rover proceeded more slowly than on the journey out. Michael still felt a bit drunk though perfectly capable. The exaltation and delight which he had felt in the pub had faded into a purring contentment combined with a most luxurious heaviness of the whole body. He leaned upon the steering wheel, turning it with the length of his forearm, and singing inaudibly to himself. Toby hung forward, obviously dead asleep. Then on a corner he slumped quietly sideways and Michael could feel his weight against him. The boy’s head descended gently on to his shoulder.
Michael drove on in a dream. He could feel Toby’s knee touching his thigh, the warmth of his lean body against his side, his hair brushing his cheek. The unexpected delight of the contact was so great that he closed his eyes for a moment and then realized that he was still driving. He tried to breathe more quietly so as not to disturb the boy, and found that he was taking long deep breaths. He slowed the Land-Rover down a little, and calmed his breathing. He could feel distinctly, as if his frame were suddenly magnified, the rise and fall of his ribs and the corresponding movement of Toby’s body. He was afraid his heart-beat alone might wake the sleeper.
He drove on slowly now at an even pace. If he didn’t have to stop there was no reason why Toby shouldn’t sleep all the way to Imber. He manoeuvred the Land-Rover gently round corners. Fortunately the roads were clear. That Toby should just go on sleeping seemed the most desirable thing in the world. Michael felt an ecstasy of protective joy; and for a moment he remembered an old peasant he had once seen high in the Alps sitting on a green bank and watching his cow feeding. The absurd comparison made him smile. He went on smiling.