I
The car was the same two-seater Mercia that had carried Miss Trant so bravely out of Hitherton four days before. It was not perhaps the same Elizabeth Trant, certainly not the one Hitherton had known. She had been running about, discovering England, all by herself; marching into hotels and demanding beds and breakfasts and dinners and lunches; talking about roads and cars and cathedrals to strangers, mostly men. This was something. Indeed, after you had lived with the Colonel for twenty years at Hitherton, it was a great deal, a wild rush of independent life. But it was nothing‚ÅÝ‚Äîmere touristry‚ÅÝ‚Äîcompared with her other adventures. The little car had taken her farther than the most distant cathedral, the loneliest hotel. It had plumped her into the middle of other people‚Äôs lives, the most fantastic places in the world. She had not forsworn her allegiance to the historical romance‚ÅÝ‚Äîand had read two out of the four she carried with her‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut now she regarded its figures with a different eye, meeting its conspirators and dragoons on something like terms of equality. Indeed, she could afford to pity them, for though they had to grapple with all the urgencies of life they appeared to have been denied all but a crumb or so from its vast stores of comic relief. She was beginning to feel now that she knew both. After the first splendid hour or two of escape, Monday had not been an exciting day. Ely, she found, was just fifteen miles too far, so she stayed that night in Cambridge‚ÅÝ‚Äîa town she had visited before‚ÅÝ‚Äîat The Lion in Petty Cury. Term had not yet begun and the little grey town, which she remembered as a riot of rowing enthusiasts, salmon mayonnaise, ices, and lawns lit with Chinese lanterns, was now pleasantly empty, only engaged in decking out its windows with a new stock of caps and gowns and college ties and tobacco jars. She had a little stroll before dinner, ate heartily, then sipped her coffee in the glass-covered lounge, which pleased her because it reminded her of being on board ship. By this time, she was eager to talk to somebody, and did her best with her neighbour, a large upholstered sort of woman who stared straight in front of her, above a magnificent Roman nose.
“I find it more tiring than I thought it would be, driving by oneself, I mean,” explained Miss Trant.
“Do you?” said the other in her deep contralto voice.
“Perhaps it’s because there’s nobody to share things with,” Miss Trant continued, eagerly, “all the little difficulties and dangers and triumphs, you know.”
“Indeed!” The woman still stared straight in front of her.
“It may be because I’m inexperienced, of course,” Miss Trant faltered. It was not easy to talk to this nose.
“I dare say,” said the other, achieving her very lowest notes but not moving a muscle of her face.
Miss Trant looked at her and wondered sadly why people should be so unfriendly. The next moment, however, the woman’s face lit up and she jumped to her feet with surprising agility. A boy about eighteen had just entered the lounge, obviously her son. The woman had not been unfriendly but simply absentminded. Miss Trant felt relieved. She looked about her again, only to meet the gaze of the man opposite, a man with protruding grey eyes, admirably adapted for staring fixedly at strangers, and a heavy greying moustache that he fondled as if it were a privilege to have access to such a creation. She made the mistake of meeting his stare very frankly. It brought him over to the vacated chair at her side.
“Mind if I sit here?” he inquired, in a thick voice.
“Not at all,” said Miss Trant, looking hard at the chair he had just left.
“Thanks. Awfully quiet here, isn’t it?” he continued, his eyes bulging at her.
“Is it?”
“Well, dontcher think so? I know this place pretty well, come here three or four times a year, you know. Not much to do here in the evening, specially if the boys aren’t up. Usually drop into the pictures myself.”
She may have led a quiet life, but she was no fool. There was no mistaking his doggish inviting air. And a minute or two ago, she had been telling herself that people were too unfriendly. And now this. It was too absurd. She wanted to laugh, and some little sound must have made its way out.
“Pardon,” and the man leaned forward.
Her amusement somehow brought her into command of the situation. She fixed her eyes upon the heavy moustache, as if it were a curious museum exhibit, and remarked: “I was wondering if all the men in my family had decided to go to the pictures. I’m waiting for them now, and they’re late.”
“Oh, waiting for them, are you?” There was a change in his tone.
“Yes,” she continued hastily. “My father, my two brothers, my husband, and our two boys. Quite a crowd of them. They’re awfully late.”
He stared at her, but it was quite a different stare. “Yes, time’s getting on, isn’t it?” he mumbled. He pretended to look at his watch. “Time I was moving on.” And he moved.
He left Miss Trant wondering at herself, at her impudence, her courage, her staggering presence of mind. She felt as if she were a schoolgirl again and yet a woman of the world, though no woman of the world, she reflected, would have ever stooped to such a ridiculous fifth-form trick. Something‚ÅÝ‚Äîmoney or freedom or both‚ÅÝ‚Äîhad changed her. She wanted to unbosom herself to somebody very badly now, so she wrote a long letter to Dorothy Chillingford. Then she went to bed.
Next morning, about eleven o’clock, she was at Ely, enraptured by the dramatic splendours of the cathedral. It was at the top of the tower that she made the acquaintance of the fierce little elderly man, apparently the only other visitor there. He had very bright eyes, pink cheeks, a bristling beard, and one of those old-fashioned turned-down collars that always suggest that their wearers are William Morris socialists or vegetarians or leaders of surprising little religious sects. She never learned which of these he was, never knew his name, business, or place of address; but nevertheless they were soon on very friendly terms. It was impossible that they should be silent when they were standing on the high tower together, looking down upon the sunlit plain of Cambridgeshire. He had a map with him and insisted upon pointing out to her every landmark on the horizon. Then they explored the rest of the cathedral together, and she found him a most learned and entertaining companion, in spite of his staccato dogmatic manner. “Do you know anything about brasses? You don’t, eh? Then I’ll explain.” And he would explain, and he hurried from one part of the building to another, explaining. Miss Trant felt sometimes as if she were back at school, but it was impossible not to like him.
Both of them, it appeared, had left their cars outside The Lamb, so they walked back there together and shared a table for lunch. It was during this meal that Miss Trant let fall a remark that was of some consequence because it led to a change in her programme.
“Isn’t it a pity, we can’t build like that now, make really beautiful things?”
‚ÄúNo pity at all,‚Äù he cried, putting down his fork. ‚ÄúWe can; we do. My dear young lady, don‚Äôt you believe that stuff. All rubbish! The world progresses. We can build when we want to. I don‚Äôt say we build anything like Ely here‚ÅÝ‚Äîwe don‚Äôt want to‚ÅÝ‚Äînot our style‚ÅÝ‚Äîall wonder that, cultivated by barbarism, no knowledge of the universe in it‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut I say we can build as well, can build better. Look at the new County Hall in London. Have you seen it? Look at the Bush Building. Have you seen that? Have you seen that enormous block of offices near London Bridge? You must get that idea out of your head at the earliest possible moment, you really must, if you‚Äôll forgive my saying so. You say you are going round looking at the cathedrals‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs the plan, isn‚Äôt it? Well, have you seen Liverpool?‚Äù
No, she had not seen Liverpool.
‚ÄúGo to Liverpool at once,‚Äù he commanded, and was so impressive that she felt she ought to hurry away at that very moment. He was as bad as Mr.¬ÝChillingford. And what a pair they would make!
‚ÄúNow you can‚Äôt say I‚Äôm not interested in these medieval creations,‚Äù he continued earnestly. ‚ÄúYou can‚Äôt say I don‚Äôt appreciate them. This morning you probably thought I was a little too interested and appreciative, the way I dragged you round and talked your head off. But at Liverpool there‚Äôs a brand-new cathedral, finished the other day‚ÅÝ‚Äîso to speak. Not a town-hall or a railway station or a block of offices, but a cathedral, the very thing you‚Äôre talking about.‚Äù
He paused to take breath, and Miss Trant, who was reminded a little of her father, regarded him with friendly amusement.
‚ÄúNow what‚Äôs it like, this cathedral? Is it a little shuffling jerry-built hotch-potch thing? It is not. It‚Äôs large, it‚Äôs solid, it‚Äôs enduring. It‚Äôs beautiful, it‚Äôs sublime. And who made it? The men of today. Don‚Äôt be misled by this medieval nonsense. We‚Äôre better men than they were, and we live in a better world. Building was their chief trick; it‚Äôs not ours; but when we want to build, we can outbuild ‚Äôem. You never give a thought to most of our building,‚Äù he lectured away, forever taking up his fork and then putting it down again. ‚ÄúTake the big liners‚ÅÝ‚Äîthere‚Äôs building for you. Look at one of ‚Äôem.‚Äù He said this as if there were several just outside the window. ‚ÄúThere‚Äôs adaptation to ends, there‚Äôs beauty of design, there‚Äôs solid craftsmanship and workmanship, everything there in a big liner. You go to Liverpool, look at the cathedral, then take a peep or two at some of the liners in dock, and you‚Äôll soon change your mind about our building. You were going there anyhow, I suppose?‚Äù
Miss Trant found herself compelled to say, untruthfully, that she was. It would have been terrible to have told him that she had never even thought about Liverpool; he would never have eaten any lunch.
“Then go there at once, my dear young lady,” he replied, eager as a boy. “See it before this nonsense takes root in your mind. I insist upon your going there next. It’s only a pleasant day’s run from here. I’ll show you on the map after lunch.” And he fell to gobbling his lunch, he was so anxious to have done with it and to show her the map.
Miss Trant sat there, eating daintily, and envying his complete absorption in the matter in hand. It might be babyish, but it must be great fun, she thought, to be swallowed up by things like that. She could as well go to Liverpool as to Lincoln or York, and she decided she would go there, if only to please him. It would, too, be a friendly gesture towards the eagerly-forgetting-all-about-yourself, which only needed what she determined now to call “a swallower.” Buildings and anti-medievalism and progress were apparently all swallowers for this old gentleman, now galloping rather noisily through his blackberry tart. Perhaps she had served other people’s swallowers too long; it was time she had one of her own. But then there might be one waiting for her at Liverpool.
“Here you are then,” cried the old gentleman enthusiastically, pointing to the map. “Huntingdon, Kettering, Leicester, Derby, Macclesfield, Warrington, Liverpool. Almost a straight run across country.”
She examined the route carefully. It seemed to take her through a number of industrial towns, places with trams and lorries and narrow main streets. “Will there be a lot of traffic?” she inquired dubiously.
‚ÄúTraffic! What‚Äôs wrong with traffic? Why, I can give you thirty years, but I like traffic. The more traffic the better. I like to see a place bustling alive. It does me good to drive through a town that‚Äôs got some trade. It‚Äôs‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs inspiring. You‚Äôre not going to tell me that you‚Äôre frightened of traffic.‚Äù
“Yes, I am,” she said firmly. “I don’t like it at all. If I’d more experience, I might not mind it so much, but, as it is, I’m terrified. I never know which side I ought to pass a tram on, and when the great lumbering things look as if they’re going to pin me between them I can’t possibly console myself by thinking the town is very busy.”
‚ÄúPass them on any side. I do.‚Äù He waved an arm carelessly. ‚ÄúI like these little problems of driving. They keep me young. In and out, in and out, stop, go on, in and out again‚ÅÝ‚Äînothing pleases me better. It will you soon, too, you mark my words. But you‚Äôve nothing to be afraid of on this route.‚Äù And he went over the route again, and made such a fuss about it and was so friendly and absurd that she felt herself compelled to fall in with his plan.
“But I can’t go all that way today, of course,” she told him.
“Perhaps not, perhaps not,” he cried, rather testily. Then he ran his finger over the map. “You could get as far as Macclesfield,” he finally announced.
She looked for herself. “Leicester would be quite far enough for me.”
“Leicester! A stone’s-throw, a mere stone’s-throw! You could have tea there, then run on to Macclesfield. That’s the place, obviously.”
Miss Trant shook her head. She did not see why she should be dictated to in this fashion. “I shall have done quite enough by the time I reach Leicester.”
“My dear young lady, I don’t believe you can read a map, I really don’t believe you can. You’re talking nonsense, you know.” He seemed quite irritated. “You couldn’t have an easier run than to Macclesfield.”
She smiled at him. “Yes, I could, and I’m going to. Just as far as Leicester.”
“It’s ridiculous,” he exploded. He slapped the map angrily with his open hand. “Really, you know, you’re not trying. It’s most annoying the way you’re not trying.”
Her only reply to this absurd protest was a little peal of laughter. The whole idiocy of the situation burst upon her. “I’m sorry,” she faltered at last.
“So am I,” he ejaculated. “Very.” And he marched out of the dining-room and banged the door behind him. The door at the other end of the room then opened to admit the head of the waiter. “Did the gentleman call?” he inquired.
“No, I don’t think he did,” she replied. “He went out.”
The waiter withdrew and had no sooner closed his door than the other opened and the old gentleman marched in again. He walked straight up to her, looking pinker and more bristling than ever. “I beg your pardon, my dear young lady, I really beg your pardon,” he said earnestly. “Most stupid of me. You must go as far as you like and stay where you like, of course. It’s no business of mine at all, is it?” Then he smiled and turned himself into a very charming old gentleman indeed. “But you will go to Liverpool sometime, won’t you, and remember what I said?”
“This very day,” said Miss Trant, and they became more friendly than ever.
She never learned his name, and after a time remembered nothing of him but a voice and vague patch of pink cheek and bristling beard; but she always believed afterwards that it was he who really began it all by hurling her across country towards Liverpool. If he had not insisted upon her going there, she would say, nothing would ever have happened, thereby forgetting that she had been busy turning herself into one of those persons round whom things always happen, and also forgetting, as we all do, that the one road we have chosen out of a hundred is not the only road lined with adventure. Perhaps she was right, however, in saying that the particular adventures she did have were really set in motion by the nameless old gentleman who shot across the map. But she never arrived at Liverpool, and to this day has never even caught a glimpse of the town of Macclesfield.