Two Weeks to Remember. Бетти Нилс
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yes.’
‘Then I mustn’t keep you.’ He was his usual courteous self again and she bade him good night and went out into the chilly sombre autumn evening, feeling vaguely disturbed. She had no idea why and she shrugged the feeling off as she hurried along the crowded pavement to the bus stop.
She was already late and the next bus which came along was already full; a precious ten minutes had passed before she squeezed on to the next one. Sidney would be put out at having to wait for her and would have to be soothed back into good spirits again. She frowned. It would be nice if he soothed her for a change, but somehow he always made her feel that she worked to please herself, without due regard to his feelings, and if she came home tired of an evening it was entirely her own fault. She had tried to explain to him when they had first started going out together, but she had sensed his lack of interest and had long ago dropped the subject. What was the use of explaining to him that although her father was a retired solicitor and tolerably comfortable, his propensity for buying rare books ate great holes into his income, and her aunt, who had come to live with them when her mother had died years ago, was incapable of being economical. She hadn’t realised this herself until she had left school and found that there was to be no university because of lack of money. So she had taken a course of shorthand and typing, both of which she really didn’t like, and found herself a job; it made her independent and in a year or two she could have found herself a small flat and lived her own life, but her aunt had come to depend on her contributions to the housekeeping and she was too kind-hearted a girl to ignore that.
She had been at St Augustine’s for two years now and supposed that she would be there until Sidney asked her to marry him. She stood there, crammed between two men reading their evening papers, trying to imagine herself married to him. She still hadn’t got the image right when she got off the bus at St John’s Wood and walked briskly away from the Finchley Road down a sober side street. Her home was in the more unfashionable part, a modest semi-detached with a front garden hedged by laurel bushes and planted by her with daffodils, wallflowers and dahlias according to the season. In winter, alike with its neighbours, it was bare. Charity, who loved gardening, had done her best with chrysanthemums, but without much success. She stopped to look at them now, on her way up the garden path; they were soggy with October rain and damp, drooping against the sticks she had given them. For a few wild seconds she wanted to run away from London, to some quiet country spot where things grew, unhampered by soot and fog and neglect.
Sidney was in the sitting room with her aunt and she felt a wave of irritation when he didn’t bother to get up as she went in, but only remarked on her lateness in what she called his civil servant’s voice. She greeted her aunt and accorded him a ‘Hallo’, and stood a little uncertainly between them in the vaguely shabby room. The chairs needed new covers; if she didn’t buy a new winter coat perhaps they could get some… There were some nice pieces in the room: a canterbury and a davenport, a rent table in the window and a corner cupboard housing the Waterford glasses. She polished them all lovingly each weekend, but Aunt Emily didn’t bother during the week. She took off her jacket and went to hang it in the hall, and Sidney said, ‘I thought we were going out… I’ve been waiting.’ He sounded impatient.
‘I had some work to finish; I’ll only be ten minutes or so.’
‘Too late to go to the cinema.’
She turned to look at him. ‘The big film doesn’t start until after eight o’clock.’
‘Too late. I have to go to work in the morning—we can’t all please ourselves.’
‘I’m sure your work is very important,’ observed Aunt Emily with a vague desire to please someone.
Sidney passed a hand over his pale hair and looked important. ‘I hope I pull my weight,’ he observed smugly. Charity, still standing at the door, knew for certain at that moment that she would never marry him. She gave a great sigh of relief; it was like a heavy weight falling away, or coming out of a mist into the bright sunshine. She was about to throw away her secure future, another semi-detached, suitably furnished—although at the rate Sidney was going, it would take some years. I’m twenty-six, she thought, and in ten years time I’ll be thirty-six and very likely still living here. She said aloud, ‘Then I’ll make us all some coffee, shall I? Where’s father?’
‘In his study. A parcel of books came this morning.’ Her aunt gave her an apologetic look. ‘I believe there are some which he particularly wanted.’
Charity went along to the kitchen and made the coffee and cut the jam sponge she had made the evening before. She and Sidney usually had a snack supper when they went out together and she felt empty; when he had gone she would make a sandwich. She carried in the tray and pretended not to see his look of displeasure. Presently, she decided silently, she would walk to the corner of the street with him and tell him that she didn’t want to see him again. She was by nature a kind-hearted girl, and careful not to hurt people’s feelings, but she didn’t think that Sidney would be hurt. Offended perhaps, annoyed because he’d have to look for another suitable wife, but not hurt.
She took in the coffee and her aunt poured it, aware that something was wrong but not sure what it was so that she embarked on a pointless conversation about nothing in particular until Sidney put down his cup and announced that he might as well go home.
‘I’ll walk with you to the corner,’ said Charity and fetched her jacket, and Aunt Emily nodded and smiled, under the impression that whatever it was had blown over.
The corner wasn’t far; Charity wasted no time but said at once, ‘Sidney, I’ve been thinking—I’m not really what you want, you know. I think it would be a good idea if we didn’t see each other again.’ She glanced up at his face, lighted by a street lamp. ‘We’ve known each other too long,’ she finished flatly.
‘You are throwing me over?’ His voice was stiff with resentment.
‘Well,’ said Charity reasonably, ‘I’ve never really had you, have I? I mean you’ve never said that you wanted to marry me—nor that you loved me.’
‘There should be no need to state the obvious.’ He was outraged.
‘That’s all very well, but do you love me, Sidney? And do just for once stop being a civil servant and be honest.’
‘I have—did have—a deep regard for you, Charity.’
‘But do you love me?’ she persisted.
‘If by that you mean…’ He paused. ‘No, I don’t think that I do.’ He added coldly, ‘You would have been a most suitable wife.’
They had reached the corner. She said seriously, ‘But that wouldn’t have been enough for me, Sidney. I don’t want to be a suitable wife, I want to be loved just because I’m me and not because I’m suitable. There’s a difference, you know, although I’m not exactly sure what it is.’
Sidney gave a little sneering laugh. ‘If you don’t look out you’ll be too old to find out. Goodbye, Charity.’ He turned on his heel and walked away and after a moment she walked back to her home and went indoors, back to the sitting room to her aunt, who said, ‘Back so soon, my dear? I thought you and Sidney might be going to enjoy a pleasant stroll.’
‘We’re not going to see each other again,’ said Charity clearly. ‘It wouldn’t have worked out. I’m sure he’s a very good man and all that, but I’m not the wife for him—if ever he’d got around to asking me.’
‘My dear Charity,’ began Aunt Emily, and then, ‘What will your father say?’
Charity was peering at herself in the handsome rococo mirror over the fireplace, poking her hair. ‘Nothing much,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I don’t think he liked Sidney very much, did he? And he’s not really interested in me.’
Her aunt looked shocked. ‘Charity! What a thing to say about your father.’
‘Oh, I don’t mean that he doesn’t love me,’ Charity explained. ‘Just that there are