And before you even start to argue—no! I won't listen to all that junk about waiting for spontaneous out-of-the-blue "true love." Love is made. It is the product of many makings. A man and woman just don't fall in love at a glance, sighing and longing and whatever. They have to make love, build it up month after month, having sex and becoming loving toward each other. When they've made enough love and built it around themselves brick on brick, then they can be said to be in a state of love. Read those old religious characters. They knew all about love as a spiritual event. It didn't come to them by a casual notion as a sudden idea that sounds not too bad or from a weekly magazine. Love, that mystical magic stuff of a lifetime, came from working at the very idea of it, grieving and straining and suffering the making of it. Then, in possession of it, comes the joy and the ecstasy of knowledge in the substance of love.
Well, sorry about that.
I make it when and where I can. Any honest man will tell you that the main problem is where the next woman's coming from. Women often decry this truth. Cissie used to. For some reason women find it necessary to deny the obvious. Ever noticed how many phrases they have for that very purpose? "That's all you think about."
"Men are like children." And so on, all wrong. I can't understand why women aren't more understanding.
Sheila was coming close to it. I'd known her a year, meeting her at one of those traction-engine rallies. She was there with her chap, a dedicated man who was so busy oiling things he didn't even notice when she left with me.
That isn't to say Sheila should go down as a cheap tart. These terms are as irrelevant as differences of racial color, engine pattern, weight, any nonessential of human behavior. Women like men, and men like women. It's only natural they tend to bump into each other now and again, sometimes accidentally, sometimes not. And if both parties wish to pretend it's more socially acceptable meeting properly introduced at the vicar's tea party drinking tea with little finger poised crookedly in the air, big deal. What difference does it make as long as the chance of making love emerges from the great masquerade?
I take love seriously. It's a serious business and doesn't deserve to be left to the tender mercies of penny-paper romances and demented Russian novelists griping at one set of commissars after another.
Her family keep a shop in Islington, clothes and that. She has a younger sister at school. She opted out of typing suddenly. "I read," she explained once, "they'd done experiments on a chimpanzee. It had learned to type. I ask you." That did it. She hitched up with this traction-engine chap, helping in his garage and generally doing paperwork while he played with plugs and valves.
I collected her at the station.
"Hello, Lovejoy," she said evenly.
"Hello, Sheila." I was standing there like a spare tool, holding these flowers.
"Pig."
She stood unmoving in the station foyer. It was the scene from "When did you last see your father?" all over again. I felt like the kid on the cushion.
"You know, love," I said lamely. "I was busy."
There were few people around. This was the last train in or out. She'd have to stay the night with me. Alf the porter used to stand and grin at these scenes years ago. Now all he wants to do is clear up, lock up, and push off before the White Hart shuts. We stood under the solitary lamp.
"You're not as thick as you pretend, you know that?"
I nodded. In this sort of mood you have to go along with them. She was wearing one of those fawn swingback coats that seem slightly unfashionable even when they're in, but never seem less than elegant. I'd never noticed before. Her clothes never quite matched the latest trends. She stood in a pool of light, smooth and blond. My heart melted.
"I'm not very nice, love," I admitted before I caught myself for a fool.
"I know."
"I rang because—"
"I know why."
"It was just that…" I petered out, holding the flowers toward her instead of explanation.
She gazed at me, making no move to take them. "It's just that you were taken short again."
"Beautifully expressed." I tried my clumsy jocularity act, which sometimes worked on the low graders. She evaded my attempt to thrust the bunch into her arms. I'd never seen her in this particular mood before.
"Lovejoy." Her voice was quite dispassionate.
"Yes, darling?"
"Stop that. I want to ask you something."
"Go on." The passengers were all gone. Two cars started up outside and purred away. I could hear Alf clattering buckets, encouraging us to leave.
"If I don't stay with you tonight," she said in that calm voice, "what will you do?"
"Have two suppers, hot bath, and bed," I lied.
She gave me that new calm look she'd learned during the last two days. I didn't care for it. "Liar."
I almost staggered. "Eh?"
"I said, liar."
"That's what I thought you said." Stalemate.
The platform lights suddenly plunged out behind her. The single overhead bulb gave her an uncanny radiance I'd never seen. Maybe it was just that I was wanting her so badly.
"You'll be out picking up some middle-aged tart," she said serenely.
"What, me?" I never can sound stern, though I tried. It came out weak as a blister.
"You, Lovejoy." She reached out and took the flowers. "And you'll lay her after three pink gins."
"Look, Sheila," I said, worried sick by all this.
"You'll give her the eye and the hi-baby act. I know you."
"Nothing's further—"
"From your mind? Perhaps not, because I'm dope enough to come." She sighed and scrutinized my shabby frame. "You'll get any flabby amateur tart from the nearest taproom and make love to her wherever she says, in the car, your cottage, her place if her husband's out."
"What's it all about?" I pleaded. "What did I do?"
"You can't help it, Lovejoy, can you?" she said.
I gave in, shrugging. "Sometimes it's not easy," I said.
She smiled and took my arm. "Come on, you poor fool," she said. "I'm famished." She climbed into the car and started to push the finger pump. As I said, she'd known me for a year. The motor responded. I saw Alf the porter thankfully closing up as we left the darkened station forecourt. We clanked through the silent village, my spirits on the mend.
"Not to worry, angel," I reassured her. "I've a repast fit for the Queen. One of my specials."
"I suppose that means your sawdust pies."
"Pork," I replied, narked.
"Custard tart for afters?"
"Of course."
"Beautiful."
I turned to say something and noticed she was laughing.
"What's the joke?" I snapped.
"Nothing." She was helpless with laughter.
"Look," I said roughly, "don't you like my grub? Because if so, you can bloody well—"
"N—no, Lovejoy," she gasped, still laughing.
"I've gone to a lot of trouble," I informed her with dignity. "I always do."
"I know, love," she managed to say, and held my arm as I drove. "It was just me. Don't take offense."
"All right, then."
She gave me a peck on the cheek. "Friends again?" she asked.
"Pals," I promised fervently, relieved her odd mood was over.
We held hands all the way home.
Next morning.
I was itching to have my priest hole open to enter up a few oddments of information I'd gathered on my journey the previous day, but with Sheila there I contented myself with cataloguing my tokens. One or two were quite good. I'd advertise those, priced high. The rest I'd sell through local dealers when the big tourist rush began.