“I’d like that. You’re not going to change your mind between now and tomorrow?”
“No. Never.”
She was already there, ahead of him, the anxious hostess in her wondering what she could possibly make that would be worthy of the occasion.
Dusk was falling, a pale lilac glow at the horizon all that remained of the daylight, as they walked back through the woods arm in arm, the trees in their dark suits lining the path on either side.
40
Wednesday, December 4, 1957
Howard stood in the doorway in Bedford Street looking out at a slab of fog. He had been in his workshop all afternoon resizing rings and mending an elegant pocket watch under bright artificial light and had not been aware of its gathering presence. It was thick as custard and glowed a sickly yellow in the lamplight.
On his way into work in the morning visibility had been poor. He had felt a bit congested as he walked along the Strand, but a cigarette had settled his cough, and he had been able to see well enough to pick up some hothouse roses from the market—at an exorbitant price—for Mrs. Swinney. They were now standing in a chipped mug in the washbasin. The florist had told him to stir some cigarette ash into the water to preserve the blooms, but Howard wasn’t sure if he was pulling his leg, so decided not to risk it.
He took off his twill overall and hung it on its usual hook. The cash box from the till was locked in the wall safe. His tools were neatly put away on their pegs, the cabinets locked. He put on his ulster overcoat and felt hat, and tied a cleanish handkerchief over his nose and mouth. （Freshly laundered linen had been an early casualty of Gretchen’s departure.）
In his pocket was a velvet box containing the silver bracelet with moonstones that Jean had picked out as her favorite on that unexpected visit to the shop with Margaret. Already a little in love with her, he had stored the memory away in case there should ever come a time in some unimaginable future when he might be able to make a gift of it. She wouldn’t have forgotten, either; he was sure of it. She had spent a lifetime on the sidelines, observing, noting, learning; the little details that other people missed were not lost on her.
He hesitated on the threshold, shuffling the keys in his hand, before stepping out blindly into the milky mass, surprised to find that it offered no resistance. It seemed substantial enough to be carved into chunks. He drew down and padlocked the metal shutters and turned the key in the door, a nightly ritual, the scrape and rattle of locking up tolling the end of each working day.
Progress down Bedford Street was slow, hampered by fear of near misses with other pedestrians. He could hear approaching footsteps but see nothing until suddenly a figure would be almost upon him, when they would apologize and step around each other and move on. Scattered particles of light and the persistent ringing of a bicycle bell alerted him that he had strayed near the curb, and he stepped back as the cyclist wobbled into view, its headlight combing from side to side.
He was nearly at the Strand, when he remembered the flowers, still in the sink. Damn and blast. He would miss the 5:18 if he went back and that would make him late. He couldn’t decide what would be worse—to arrive late or empty-handed. Unpunctuality—especially on an occasion like this—looked thoughtless, but the roses had been so expensive and the gesture so well meant that he couldn’t bear to waste them. No, he would go back. Jean would understand—if the weather was anything like as bad at Hayes, she would have had a difficult journey home herself and might well be glad of a little extra time to prepare.
He turned and floundered up the street the way he had come, holding his arms out in front of him as though warding off an assailant and apologizing to left and right. Now that he had no chance of making the early train there was no point in trying to rush. In spite of his handkerchief mask, the metallic taste of the fog filled his mouth. He was glad to reach the temporary refuge of the shop once more for a few breaths of relatively unpolluted air.
His decision to return was vindicated by the discovery that he had left the tap on at a rapid drip and the plug in the sink. By morning there would have been a flood to deal with.
He put these lapses of concentration down to preoccupation with seeing Jean rather than the absent-mindedness of age. Inside, he felt no different from the young man who had jumped into the Thames at Battersea and swum across to the opposite bank just to impress the sister of one of his school friends. It was only when he was forced to look at his reflection while shaving that he was confronted with evidence of the hungry years.
He wrapped the bouquet of roses in newspaper, forming it into a sealed parcel, to protect the blooms from the murky atmosphere, and restarted his journey, keeping close to the buildings and feeling his way along the wall. On the corner, he passed the pub where he had recently whiled away the evenings with a pint rather than return to the empty house. The windows were lit up, and the interior of polished wood and shining brass was bright and welcoming. A few solitary drinkers were defying the weather, or sitting it out, but Howard pressed on, untempted, thinking only of Jean waiting and wondering as his promised time of arrival came and went.