Sara surrendered her outer clothing to a clucking and concerned Parsons. "Horrid weather," he said. "Horrid. Able to catch a cab, were you?... Lucky, I must say.... Never mind, can't last forever, you know...." He hung her raincoat carefully on the old-fashioned umbrella-hat-stand in the small outer entrance hall, and took her rain hat away from her with gentle reproof when she started to cram it into the coat pocket. As though they were both platinum mink, no less, she thought. He preceded her to the door of the sitting room, and Sara noted with a grin that he was carrying her rubbers at arm's length, their final destination without doubt a spot near the kitchen stove to dry out their innards where water had intruded.
She sighed, beginning to relax, and moved gratefully to the sitting-room grate and its glowing coal fire. Her legs were damp and chilled, and she backed up to the blaze, hiking her skirts so the warmth could reach her thighs. She was able to smile almost gaily at Mrs. Parsons when she entered with r tray of tea things.
"Good afternoon, Miss Sara. Nice to see you.... You'd best take off those shoes, and I'll see you have some slippers... Now, now, there'll be no one but you and Mrs. Travis... We'll just sit them on the fender and they'll be warm it no time.... Nasty day, it's been; very nasty...."
Sara submitted as she had once before when she had showed up for tea, flu-ridden, flushed with fever, and croaking dangerously. Mrs. Parsons had all but put her to bed bodily and for a week she had been babied and bullied, fed gruels and broths and custards and chops, until one afternoon, weakly recovering, she had lain back on her pillows after tea and wept silently, large tears of self-pity rolling down her cheeks at the realization of the vast desert of loneliness in which she had been living and to which she would return, and in which she would live out her life.
Mrs. Parsons stalked out, and she heard Marcia's steps on the stairway, then the ringing of a telephone. The footsteps came faster, and Marcia called, "I'll answer it, Dell—" and then she heard Marcia enter the study just behind the sitting room. The door was open slightly, and Marcia's words, clear and incisive, were audible. Sara squirmed uncomfortably; she hoped the call was not a personal one, perhaps her husband calling from the United States, something she knew he did frequently. She dropped her skirt over now warm thighs and put one stockinged foot forward to tiptoe over and close the study door, then stood, motionless, listening shamelessly.
"... Who? Oh, Hunter! Dear, I can't hear you.... You're where?... I still didn't get it, but wherever you are you shouldn't be there in this weather.... Who? David Champlin? Of course. I'll be here, dear.... I'll tell him whatever you say.... Here, your flat, or a hotel? Whatever he decides? Right... Five-fifteen from Oxford, Padding-ton? I'll be waiting for the call.... Tell me again where you are.... Chillingsworth? But, darling, that's only four
miles from the Burleighs.... Of course I don't mean for you to walk in this weather! I'll just get through to them, shall I, and see about rescue? A car or raft or something..."
By the time Marcia had said "Chillingsworth," Sara, fully shod, was in the hall, Marcia's words still audible. She narrowly avoided a collision with Mrs. Parsons, who was bearing down from the rear with a laden tray and a pair of soft slippers tucked into the pocket of her apron.
Sara dodged adroitly and gasped: "I have to go, Mrs. Parsons. I have to—I've forgotten something. Something dreadfully important. Please tell Mrs. Travis I'll call her right— right away—" She was in the small vestibule now, slipping into a cold damp raincoat, ramming the plastic rain hat down over her head.
"Miss Sara! You can't—"
"I have to—" The outer door was open now, the knob in her hand. If Mrs. Parsons had not been carrying a laden tray, Sara would not have put it beyond her to restrain her physically. As the door closed behind her and she entered a world of water and streaming pavements again, she heard an anguished, distant cry from Mrs. Parsons, "Your rubbers!—"
Mrs. Parsons and her mistress met in the middle of the sitting room, the housekeeper's hands shaking visibly as she put plates of sandwiches and cakes on the table in front of the fire. Marcia Travis, frowning in bewilderment, looked around the room and said, "Miss Sara? What happened? I know I heard her come in—"
"She ran off, madam. Like she was possessed. Said she'd forgotten something important—"
Marcia looked out the window at a wet and fast-darkening world. "In that?"
"Yes, madam. And without her rubbers. Something dreadfully important she said it was—"
"It's not like—" Marcia stopped, turned slowly, and looked at the door to the study, closed now. "Delia, that door was open." She began to laugh softly. "Miss Sara didn't forget anything. Take back all but four of those cakes. I don't trust myself with them. And that other teacup. I'm quite sure I'll be toasting my toes and drinking tea alone today."
***
Whatever I do I mustn't get lost.... You could live in London twenty years and get lost in five minutes.... Thank God it's Paddington and not Euston... There's an underground near.... No, there isn't, and I don't dare take it if there is.... Or a bus. I can walk faster than a bus car go in this rain and traffic.... Cut through behind Wigmore Street, that's the way to do it.... Then Edgware Road.... More cabs on Edgware... then there's a Gardens.... What Gardens? Oh, God, what Gardens..."
A freshet of rain cascaded from her hat and down her neck, and she realized she had instinctively grabbed her umbrella—you're a real Londoner now, Sara—and hadn't even opened it. With the umbrella open she was even blinder than she had been before, and not much dryer. She stepped from a curb and felt water up to her ankle and as she crossed the street felt one low walking shoe full of water; the other matched it when she stepped up on the opposite sidewalk. There were taxis, hurrying, scurrying hordes of taxis, all occupied and most of them probably headed for Paddington too. She waved at them futilely.... Please, God, please let some compassionate soul take pity and offer me a lift.... No one did, and she knew she was wasting precious minutes. She tried to look at her wristwatch, but the tiny crystal was too wet and the light too poor to see it by.... It must be, had to be, later than four thirty.
You're a fool, Sara.... You're a damned fool... to go through all this just to see him.... Just to see David? No!... But you can't make it.... You'll be too late.... It's only Edgware now.... You'll be standing in the middle of that great cold station all alone like a drowning cat, looking, looking... and you've insulted Marcia.... She'll understand. I don't mind telling Marcia.... David, David, wait for me.... All I want, all I want is just to see you....
"Sorry. I'm so sorry. Let me pick it up for you. There. I was looking where I was going only I couldn't see where I was going. I'm sorry."
A delay. A precious two minutes lost.... Damn the rain... damn, damn everything, including me.... Taxi! Oh, God, there's an empty one.... No, there's a stupid man in the back seat, and I hope his stupid moustache catches fire when he lights that stupid cigarette.... Edgware Road, miles of it, all of them wet and slippery.... God, I must be in Maida Vale by now.... The signs... I ought to look at the signs... Gardens... Sussex Gardens... I'm getting closer.... If I stopped and poured the water out of my shoes, I could run....
"Yes! Here! Here, taxi!" This was a miracle, pure and simple....
She tumbled into the cab, saw pools of water form on the floor, and felt a gust of wet air blow through the window behind the driver as he opened it. "Paddington, Miss?"
"Yes! Yes! Paddington Station."
"Naow, naow, miss. There's nothing to worry about. We'll myke it."
David, David, just at first you'll be lost in that station.... You'll have to stop and look around... look for Hunter, who won't be there.... That will make up for the time I lost when I bumped into that woman.... David, David...
***
His first British train was all that David had hoped for; only the lack of a seat that would recline as American train seats did bothered him. He gave the compartment he was riding in a figurative pat of approval, forgave its shortcoming
s, and lighted a cigarette. He tried to peer through the sheets of rain that blotted out everything but a narrow trackside strip of country, gave up, and after a quick, furtive look at his two fellow passengers—a woman knitting and a man reading a newspaper—he flipped open his copy of the overseas edition of Time and found that not a paragraph made sense. He closed it and fastened his gaze on the gray, rain-drenched world through which they were traveling. Hunter had told him about ewes with twin lambs in the fields, but there were no ewes and no lambs, twin or otherwise, visible under the pouring skies. Sara was getting closer to his thoughts; he could feel her wriggling into his mind, and once entrenched, a field full of twin lambs, each with two heads, would not be able to banish her.
Another confrontation with Sara I can't take, he thought. It seemed as though all the years of his life after leaving Pengard had been one heart-wrenching break from Sara after another, followed inevitably by a shattering, resolve-destroying confrontation. Yet he had survived those periods of being apart from her; more, he had survived and carried forward whatever he was doing. Let it be that way now; whatever his original motives in coming here, let it be that way now. For Sara's sake as well as his own, let it be that way now.
He would stay with Hunter, or at the Travis home instead of a hotel. He firmly put aside his previous decision to stay at a hotel where he would have more freedom of movement. He had been kidding himself about that "freedom of movement." A chance to go out, without anyone else's knowledge, find Russell Square and perhaps catch sight of Sara: that had been the "freedom of movement" he had wanted. Maybe he still wanted it, but he wasn't going to take it. Not now, after a quiet hour to think it over in and realize that he was no longer a damned kid, that he was, had to be, mature enough to fear another confrontation, more—to avoid one instead of taking a step that could only be defined as seeking one out. He'd taken Sara's absence now for a year and a half; in another year the feeling of loss would be lessened; a few more and it would become the vague background against which he would live out his life, free from the flood and ebb tides of happiness and pain. And that, he told himself, was a damned good analogy. Another flood could drown him; another ebb would be more than he could take. Let it be, he thought; let it be the way it is.
When he emerged into the dark, noisy cavern of London's western terminus his concern was mainly whether Hunter would be there. He had a confused feeling that everyone around him was speaking a foreign language, that only the signs were in English. Where in hell was Hunter? Nonchalant about a lot of things Hunter might be, but his old man had trained him to punctuality. In this rain, though, anything could happen, and traffic jams were a dead certainty; he'd give him ten minutes, then call the Travis home and hope to get Marcia.
He moved toward a newsstand, carrying his small bag, trying to get out of the way of hurrying, train-bound crowds, feeling in his pocket for his address book with the Travis address and phone number. It might be better to take a cab and go directly to the house without phoning if Hunter didn't show; there would be someone there, and Hunter would catch up with him eventually.
He was halfway to the newsstand, glancing back to the train gate he had just left, still looking for Hunter, when someone bumped—a rather solid bump—into his midsection. He moved aside quickly, said, "Beg your pardon—" looked down and said, "God! Good God—" while Paddington Station and London roared around the shores of the island on which he and Sara Kent stood alone.
"No. Not God. Sara. It's Sara, David—"
"I—I know—" His words came thickly, as though he were drunk; he had a baffled, lost feeling. Not now, he thought, not now—if it had to happen I needed time for defenses—"I —I know—" he said again, stupidly. "Sara." And saying her name, directly into her eyes, brought the world back around them, took them from an island and set them down in Paddington Station.
"Is that all you can say, David? Just 'I know—'?"
"I'm—well, I'm shook—" He was smiling now, but the words still came thickly, stupidly. "Where—where you headed for?" People came to stations to take trains. Hunter wouldn't have told her; this was nothing but an agonizing coincidence that couldn't happen in the largest city in the world and yet had happened.
"Paddington Station. That's where I was headed for. Where the trains from Oxford come in. Where students coming in from Oxford get off trains."
People also came to stations to meet people. He hadn't been the only Oxonian on that train. "You—you meeting the five-fifteen? It's—it's already in—"
Sara was laughing now, and as she laughed she reached up and pulled off her rain hat, shaking it so that little rivulets of water fell from its creases. "David! All that studying—it's made you teched in the haid—"
Suddenly he couldn't look at her any longer, not until he could quiet what was going on inside himself that would not let him talk sanely. He stooped to pick up his bag, saw tiny feet in what had once been smart walking shoes, shoes now so dark with water and a blackish slime they might be any color. From shoes to knees soaked stockings clung to slender legs, and at the knees the skirt of a wet, defeated raincoat hung soggily.
He straightened, said: "Your feet, Sara. My God, they're soaked! You're—well, you're soaked all over—" and his voice belonged to him again, and the words came clearly without stumbling through uncertain lips.
"I—I suppose I am—" She was moving back from him, and he had to restrain himself from reaching out to her. Then he realized she was moving away only to get a wider view of the station, and her hand was on his arm.
"Over there," she said. "Near the newspaper stand. Hot tea for my wet feet, David?"
"I—no—I—sure, Sara. Sure. Good gosh, you'll catch your damned death of cold—"
She walked beside him, footsteps half running, voice lilting, words tumbling: "No, I won't—not now, David. I won't catch anything bad or nasty or sick-making now—I couldn't, David; I couldn't—"
They found a table whose enamel top bore light tan puddies from previous tea drinkers. David scrubbed it carefully with a paper napkin while Sara giggled like a child, and he glared at her defensively. "Well, for gosh sake, it was dirty, wasn't it?"
They brought their tea to the table, and David said, frowning, "Sara, your feet. You're squishing when you walk—"
"David, will you stop talking about my feet! Damn my feet! My feet will be all right! Can't you think of anything else except my blasted feet! I run and run and run and panic and get soaked and finally get a cab and then run like hell through the station looking for you and then I find you and all you can talk about is my damned wet feet!"
He was quiet for a moment, looking at her, not wanting to speak, just wanting now to look at her, really see her, the glowing eyes, every line of face and throat and body. Then he smiled slowly.
"Little Sara. Smallest—"
"Go on, darling. David, my darling, go on—'little love—'"
"Little love—"
CHAPTER 53
For Sara there was the joy of feeling whole again, and she tried to describe it to David. "As though I don't have any missing parts any more, like spark plugs and ignition switches, the bits and pieces that make something go."
But there was something other than the wholeness, something that marred that joy, and she kept silent about this, afraid that voicing it would give it strength. She had not felt it before, although she had sensed it in David and tried to convince him that it was false. Now she knew it was not false, that it was real and valid, and it came between them when she least wanted it, hovering over a table while they ate, her couch when they lay together, walking beside them as they strolled through a London park, her hand reaching up to tuck itself beneath his arm. Fear.
Sara Kent... the burnt child come back to the fire... closer this time... and this time a hotter fire.... What will happen in the spring when David goes back home?... What will happen then?... Take what you have now and be happy with it.... It's time now to grow up, Sara.... Forget the spring... Forget the spring..
..
During David's absences at Oxford she painted with a brush once again in her own hands and not the hands of a stranger, and on a morning when the rain was pounding on the skylight as forcefully as it had the afternoon she had raced to Paddington Station, she started her first abstraction, all yellows and blues and shades of rose, standing back from it every now and then to laugh delightedly. When Hunter Travis saw this one, a beautiful friendship would end with a bang. She started mental squabbles with Hunter about art—the only kind she ever really won were the mental ones—and considered giving the finished canvas to Marcia, who would love it and in sheer contrariness would hang it someplace where Hunter would be bound to see it every time he came to the house. Sara, squarest, she thought; that's you.
She showed it to David, who said, "What do you mean, 'square'? I'm the guy they invented the word for. I think it's real beeyootiful...."
She tried to hug him, never completely successful at this because her arms would scarcely reach, and he picked her up and held her against his shoulder. "The better to kiss you, my dear." When he set her down he said, "Listen, where's the picture Hunter told me about that he wants you to save for his father to see? Don't I rate a look?"
She hesitated. From the moment she had started the painting of the little black boy she had known that on that particular canvas no one's judgment, amateur or expert, would count except David's. At that time she had thought he would never see it, that she would never know if she had somehow succeeded in translating fantasy into reality.
She walked to the storage cupboard, separated the black-boy canvas from several unfinished ones, and brought it to the easel. As she set it up she said: "I haven't named it yet. I don't know what to call it. Usually I know beforehand—"
He stood without speaking for so long that any thought she had that he might like it vanished and she steeled herself for criticism. At last he moved forward, closer to the picture, a smile she could not interpret disturbing the impassivity of his face.