Two days ago I had such a sense of peace and quiet and love. Life was going to be happy again, but last night I dreamed I was walking up a long staircase to meet Maurice at the top. I was still happy because when I reached the top of the staircase we were going to make love. I called to him that I was coming, but it wasn’t Maurice’s voice that answered; it was a stranger’s that boomed like a foghorn warning lost ships, and scared me. I thought, he’s let his flat and gone away and I don’t know where he is, and going down the stairs again the water rose beyond my waist and the hall was thick with mist.
Then I woke up. I’m not at peace any more. I just want him like I used to in the old days. I want to be eating sandwiches with him. I want to be drinking with him in a bar. I’m tired and I don’t want any more pain. I want Maurice. I want ordinary corrupt human love. Dear God, you know I want to want Your pain, but I don’t want it now. Take it away for a while and give it me another time.
1
I couldn’t read any more. Over and over again I had skipped when a passage hurt me too much. I had wanted to discover about Dunstan, though I hadn’t wanted to discover that much, but now I had read on, it slipped far back in time, like a dull date in history. It wasn’t of present importance. The entry I was left with was an entry only one week old. ‘I want Maurice. I want ordinary corrupt human love.’
It’s all I can give you, I thought. I don’t know about any other kind of love, but if you think I’ve squandered all of that you’re wrong. There’s enough left for our two lives, and I thought of that day when she had packed her suitcase and I sat working here, not knowing that happiness was so close. I was glad that I hadn’t known and I was glad that I knew. I could act now. Dunstan didn’t matter. The air-raid warden didn’t matter. I went to the telephone and dialled her number.
The maid answered. I said, ‘This is Mr Bendrix. I want to speak to Mrs Miles.’ She told me to hold on. I felt breathless as though I were at the end of a long race as I waited for Sarah’s voice, but the voice that came was the maid’s telling me that Mrs Miles was out. I don’t know why I didn’t believe her. I waited five minutes and then with my handkerchief stretched tight over the mouthpiece I rang again.
‘Is Mr Miles in?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Could I speak to Mrs Miles then? This is Sir William Mallock.’
There was only a very short pause before Sarah replied, ‘Good evening. This is Mrs Miles.’
‘I know,’ I said, ‘I know your voice, Sarah.’
‘You… I thought…’
‘Sarah,’ I said, ‘I’m coming to see you.’
‘No, please no. Listen, Maurice. I’m in bed. I’m speaking from there now.’
‘All the better.’
‘Don’t be a fool, Maurice. I mean I’m ill.’
‘Then you’ll have to see me. What’s the matter, Sarah?’
‘Oh, nothing. A bad cold. Listen, Maurice.’ She spaced her words slowly like a governess and it angered me. ‘Please don’t come I can’t see you.’
‘I love you, Sarah, and I’m coming.’
‘I won’t be here. I’ll get up.’ I thought, If I run, it will only take me four minutes across the Common; she can’t dress in that time.’ I’ll tell the maid not to let anybody in.’
‘She’s not got the build of a chucker-out. And I’d have to be chucked out, Sarah.’
‘Please, Maurice… I’m asking you. I haven’t asked anything of you for a long time.’
‘Except one lunch.’
‘Maurice, I’m not awfully fit. I just can’t see you today. Next week… ‘
‘There’ve been a terrible lot of weeks. I want to see you now. This evening.’
‘Why, Maurice?’
‘You love me.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Never mind. I want to ask you to come away with me.’
‘But, Maurice, I can answer you on the phone just as well. The answer’s no.’
‘I can’t touch you by telephone, Sarah.’
‘Maurice, my dear, please. Promise you won’t come’
‘I’m coming.’
‘Listen, Maurice. I’m feeling awfully sick. And the pain’s bad tonight. I don’t want to get up.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘I swear I’ll get up and dress and leave the house, unless you promise… ‘
‘This is more important to both of us, Sarah, than a cold.’
‘Please, Maurice, please. Henry will be home soon’
‘Let him be.’ I rang off.
It was a worse night than the one when I met Henry a month before. This time it was sleet instead of rain: it was half-way to snow and the edged drops seemed to slash their way in through the buttonholes of one’s raincoat: they obscured the lamps on the Common, so that it was impossible to run, and I can’t run fast anyway because of my leg. I wished I had brought my war-time torch with me, for it must have taken eight minutes for me to reach the house on north side. I was just stepping off the pavement to cross when the door opened and Sarah came out. I thought with happiness, I have her now. I knew with absolute certainty that before the night was out we should have slept together again. And once that had been renewed, anything might happen. I had never known her before and I had never loved her so much. The more we know the more we love, I thought. I was back in the territory of trust.
She was in too much of a hurry to see me across the wide roadway through the sleet. She turned to the left and walked rapidly away. I thought, she will need somewhere to sit down and then I have her trapped. I followed twenty yards behind, but she never looked back. She skirted the Common, past the pond and the bombed bookshop, as though she were making for the tube. Well, if it were necessary, I was prepared to talk to her even in a crowded train. She went down the tube-stairs and up to the booking-office, but she had no bag with her and when she felt in her pockets no loose money either - not even the three halfpence that would have enabled her to travel up and down till midnight. Up the stairs again, and across the road where the trams run. One earth had been stopped, but another had obviously come to mind. I was triumphant. She was afraid, but she wasn’t afraid of me, she was afraid of herself and what was going to happen when we met. I felt I had won the game already, and I could afford to feel a certain pity for my victim. I wanted to say to her, Don’t worry, there’s nothing to fear, we’ll both be happy soon, the nightmare’s nearly over.
And then I lost her. I had been too confident and I had allowed her too big a start. She had crossed the road twenty yards ahead of me (I was delayed again by my bad leg coming up the stairs), a tram ran between, and she was gone. She might have turned left down the High Street or gone straight ahead down Park Road, but I couldn’t see her. I wasn’t very worried - if I didn’t find her today, I would the next. Now I knew the whole absurd story of the vow, now I was certain of her love, I was assured of her. If two people loved, they slept together; it was a mathematical formula, tested and proved by human experience.
There was an A. B. C. in the High Street and I tried that. She wasn’t there. Then I remembered the church at the corner of Park Road, and I knew at once that she had gone there. I followed, and sure enough there she was sitting in one of the side aisles close to a pillar and a hideous statue of the virgin. She wasn’t praying. She was just sitting there with her eyes closed. I only saw her by the light of the candles before the statue, for the whole place was very dark. I sat down behind her like Mr Parkis and waited. I could have waited years now that I knew the end of the story. I was cold and wet and very happy. I could even look with charity towards the altar and the figure dangling there. She loves us both, I thought, but if there is to be a conflict between an image and a man, I know who will win. I could put my hand on her thigh or my mouth on her breast: he was imprisoned behind the altar and couldn’t move to plead his cause.