She did not take her eyes from the room. ‘That man over there has been doing the same perambulations as you for the past hour but in the opposite direction – you went clockwise, while he is quite widdershins.’
Widdershins immediately became Winceworth’s favourite word in the whole world.
‘And that woman—’ the young lady pointed, and Winceworth followed her finger – ‘no, not her, that one, with the prominent bump on the back of her head, like her pons is trying to escape out of her skull—’
‘Pons?’
‘Wearing the curry-coloured hat. She has been pivoting on alternate feet every seven minutes. And Glossop –’ she indicated the man by the door – ‘why, he has not moved at all.’
‘You know Glossop?’ Winceworth asked. ‘Well. Well! Glossop is famed for his –’ Winceworth took another gulp of whisky and considered his phrasing – ‘his stolid permanence.’
‘I should be making a spotters’ guide. Where would you rather be right now? I wonder?’
The question threw Winceworth off balance and he blurted the truth before he understood where it came from: ‘Sennen Cove.’
Her face registered a crease of confusion. ‘I’m not sure I know—’
‘It’s in Cornwall. Near Land’s End – never been, myself, but I once saw a picture of it in a newspaper clipping. It had the caption,’ and Winceworth affected a slightly different voice for quotation, rolling his eyes back involuntarily with the small effort of memory, ‘“Sennen Cove boasts one of the loveliest stretches of sand in the country”. Lots of tales of mermaids and smugglers. I could have a little whitewashed cottage.’
‘You could,’ the woman said.
‘Shipwrecks too, of course – a place filled with ghosts. Sorry, am I wittering? I’m wittering. Thank you for asking. I’ve looked it up since, Sennen: I confess, now I think on it, I became quite fixated for some while on a fantasy of upping sticks and living there.’
Winceworth had never disclosed these dreams or thoughts to anyone before, but he realised the words and truth of this daydream, this desire, were always on the cusp of being said. He had not known how close to the surface of every waking thought this daydream lurked, ready to spring out.
He went on: ‘There’s a rock formation nearby called “Dr Syntax” and another called “Dr Johnson’s Head” on account of its peculiar silhouette – isn’t that marvellous? Or tedious.’
‘Marvellous,’ the woman emphasised. She repeated it in case Winceworth could not hear her over the band. ‘What a pleasure to learn these things.’
Usually, Winceworth would be sure he was being mocked by such a sentence, but tonight he believed that perhaps all these thoughts were worth the sharing. ‘Marvellous. I hope I am not boring you, I’m so sorry. Since reading about the place I haven’t been able to get the idea of escaping all this—’ Winceworth took in the whole room, the whole capital, his whole life in a sweep of his arm, ‘and making my way there.’
The woman beamed at him. ‘You should do it,’ she said. ‘Escape.’
Winceworth let his shoulder sag. ‘Thank you. That would be—’ He sighed. ‘I could keep bees.’
‘You could learn chess,’ she offered.
‘Keep bees, learn chess. Peacefulness on my own little underlooked stretch of the world.’
‘But wouldn’t you miss all your lexicographicking? I assume you are here with the rest of the Swansby lot?’
The woman laughed at the expression he made. The sound thrilled him, and he found himself screwing his face even tighter for the sake of her delight. ‘I think I’d rather disappear entirely and stop pretending I know what’s best for language.’
‘I like your candour, sir.’
Winceworth blushed, coughed, but words were tumbling out faster than the rhythm of normal speech, almost a splutter, the uncorrected proofs of sentences. He was acutely aware that his words might be coming out as a mess. He saw it all, how easily it could go: his vowels tangling in the air and sibilants snagging on his lips, garbles treacling in the corners of his mouth.
The woman locked eyes with him and Winceworth trailed off: the unformed words got caught in her eyelashes or in the shadowed notches on the edge of her iris. He opened his mouth to attempt a regroup, or an apology, or anything resembling another sentence to reel out into the space between them, ready to apologise for over-speaking or speaking out of turn.
‘So what is it that stops you?’ she asked, cutting through his unravelling thoughts. ‘What keeps you from the shipwrecks and the bees?’
‘No funds for it.’ He did not say it wistfully, because already the daydream was dissipating, and the sense that he had prattled became more important than the thoughts themselves. ‘It is no matter. Just something nice to dwell upon.’
‘How much would you need?’ the woman asked. ‘How many countless riches to have the life you want?’
Winceworth played along, and made a show of calculating on his fingers. ‘For a small cottage, a beehive and a chessboard? Throw in some new clothes perhaps, and maybe a bottle of whatever best champagne is doing the rounds—’
‘It wouldn’t do to die of thirst even though you are so close to the most lovely of beaches.’
‘Call it six hundred and ninety-nine pounds exactly,’ Winceworth said, and he twirled his hand, ‘with maybe a shilling or two spare for the train.’
‘A bargain,’ she said, and they touched their glasses. They shared the smile of strangers who felt no longer strange. They looked out once more at the figures at the party.
‘You are not going to ask where my dreams would take me?’ she asked after a while, and Winceworth almost yelped his apology.
‘What where and how would you—?’
But before he could get his mouth around his question, Frasham and his bully’s bloodhound nose for awkward situations chose that moment to notice the top of Winceworth’s head peeping from the leaves of the shared potted plant. Winceworth raised his glass to his face again, but it was too late – Frasham was striding towards them.
‘Winceworth!’ he cried, ‘Stop scaring the cobwebs and speak to me properly.’
Neither Winceworth nor his companion moved.
‘Discovered, alas,’ she murmured.
‘I could always just ignore him,’ he replied, not entirely joking and not entirely undesperately.
‘Winceworth, old man!’
It was not worth reminding Frasham that greetings had already passed between them and Winceworth admitted defeat.
‘Frasham.’ Winceworth emerged. ‘A joy.’ He was enfolded into the host’s broad chest. A shirt button bruised his eyelid.
‘Taking in the local flora and fauna, I see,’ Frasham said. He seemed as if he too had been enjoying the waiters’ attentions. Frasham motioned to the young lady emerging on Winceworth’s arm from the plant. ‘Sophia, has he bored you so much you’re trying to blend in with the props?’
Sophia! Winceworth’s new favourite name.
Her gloved hand tightened on Winceworth’s sleeve in what he decided was a show of camaraderie. ‘We have travelled,’ she said, ‘from the very depths of the wildest woods together. We are now closer than siblings.’ Winceworth swallowed and tried to focus.
‘The old dog.’ Frasham eyed Winceworth appreciatively. ‘And has Peter explained how we know each other, I wonder?’
‘He has not yet had the opportunity.’
‘Winceworth’s the one I was telling you about,’ Frasham said, and his voice raised somewhat. ‘The man with the lisp working on the letter S!’
Winceworth wondered whether his blush would scorch through the fabric of his shirt.