Howard handed Jean in first and then hopped in after her, the shriek of whistles reaching a crescendo as the train lurched forward in a series of starts as though tugged on elastic. Their eyes slid toward the bunch of roses, now limp and battered beyond redemption, and they began to laugh.
“Oh dear,” said Jean, unable to stifle her giggles. “They don’t look at all well. Were they for a special occasion?”
“No, nothing like that. I just picked them up at Covent Garden this morning on a whim. I’ll have to have another whim tomorrow instead, because these have had it.”
Lucky Gretchen, thought Jean, to have a husband who brought home flowers on a Thursday evening for no reason.
Around them the other passengers were stony-faced; either disgruntled at having to stand, or guilty and irritable at having a seat that could not be properly enjoyed because of those looming over them.
“If only I had a seat myself I’d offer it to you,” Howard said a little too loudly, or perhaps just loudly enough, as a young man sitting in the middle of the row hauled himself to his feet with an air of resignation and nodded to Jean.
She would rather have stayed where she was, next to Howard, but didn’t want to humiliate the young man, who was already looking flushed from his belated gallantry. And besides, now that he had stood up there really wasn’t enough room, so there was nothing for it but to clamber past him, apologizing, over a tangle of feet, to take his seat.
The windows on both sides were opaque with grime and it was an unfamiliar line, so Jean had no idea where they were. The gray shapes of tall Victorian houses and narrow walled backyards slid past, one street indistinguishable from another. She looked in her bag for something to occupy her—the woman next to her was patiently crocheting, the ball of wool jumping in her lap—and noticed the envelope for Gretchen. She could give it to Howard to pass on and save herself a stamp. She took out her notebook and began to write, in her best Dutton’s Longhand, an account of her meeting with Martha.
At Hither Green the compartment emptied a little and Howard moved to the seat opposite Jean. He took a copy of The Times from his briefcase and folded it into a small rectangle, to avoid overspreading himself, and seemed to be absorbed in the crossword. But every time Jean looked up he was watching her, unembarrassed, and would give her a smile or raise his eyebrows as if at the length and inconvenience of the journey.
Eventually they had the carriage to themselves and, having finished her note-writing, Jean moved to sit beside him to see what progress he was making with the crossword.
“You haven’t done any!” she remonstrated. “It’s completely blank.”
“I don’t have a pen,” Howard replied with great dignity. “I’ve been doing it blind. When I get home, I’ll fill it in just like that!” He snapped his fingers.
Jean handed him her ballpoint with a skeptical expression.
He gave her an unfriendly look and then began to write, at great speed and shielding the page from her inquisitive gaze. A moment later he cast the paper aside, with the word “Done!” And when she retrieved it she saw he had filled in the grid with the words:
She gave a peal of laughter.
“Here we are,” he said as the train drew into Sidcup station, stopping with a jolt that threw them backward in their seats. “I hope you won’t be too late.”
“Mother knows I’m up in town this afternoon, but she still gets anxious if I’m even slightly delayed.”
“Is it just the two of you?” Howard inquired, directing her out of the station to the adjoining street where he had left the Wolseley.
“Yes. Just us two. My sister, Dorrie, lives in Kenya and my father died in the war. Like so many.”
“No less a tragedy for you, though,” said Howard.
Jean was usually adept at fielding personal questions and steering conversations onto safe, neutral territory. But there was something about the sanctuary and silence of a private car, where you could talk without having to make eye contact, that made her uncharacteristically open. She was aware that Howard was hardly an appropriate confidant, but he was so sensible and safe and unlikely to do anything at all except sympathize that she couldn’t restrain herself.
“I’ve made him sound like a hero. He wasn’t. He walked out on my mother just as the war started. I think he had some kind of breakdown. He’d fought in the first war and survived. And when it looked as though it was happening all over again it was too much for him.”
“I don’t think that was an uncommon reaction among veterans of the Great War,” said Howard. “All that sacrifice for nothing.”