Back by Henry Green Page B

not have these questions. What’s come over you? I’ve a life of my own, haven’t I? It’s not my fault, is it? And if I’m being nice to you it’s only that I’ve the responsibility. Even if he did send you along so things wasn’t natural, like crossing one another in the street.”
    He began to hate. He saw her, yet again, as a tart, and could not bear the idea of these men having her, night after night having the old Rose.
    “Oh no?” he brought out, bitter.
    “What do you mean, thank you? I don’t quite fathom how I’m expected to take that, do you? Besides, I’ll tell you something. Just because you’re crazy, and a bit knocked off balance when you’re with me, you’re not entitled to pass remarks.”
    “I’m sorry,” he said.
    “Wanting to know where I’d met Arthur Middlewitch. The sauce.”
    The one thing he could not have, was for her to send him away. If she believed she had a responsibility, in the state she was in, then how much the greater was his own.
    “Forget it,” he said. And, with a great effort, he returned to his normal manner of speaking, “Bit awkward for the rest of us, you see. The dead come to life,” he said.
    “You are cheerful, aren’t you?”
    “Bad about Mrs Grant, isn’t it?” he began. “Loss of memory can be a terrible thing.”
    “I don’t want to hear about them, I’ve already told you.”
    “Sorry,” he said. “I can’t seem to keep off the subject.”
    She moved impatiently in her chair. “I’ve got my own life, as I mentioned before,” she explained. “It’s not exactly cheerful for a girl, is it, to talk of someone losing their memories when I’m a sort of walking memory to other people, complete strangers in every case? It’s only natural I suppose, but you men, that used to know her I mean, with her red hair you all talk about, I suppose you’re dead easy to think only of yourselves?”
    Suddenly frantic, he looked about for the bed, to torture himself with the sight. She must have guessed, and guessed wrong, because she drew her skirt down over her knees, although she had not been showing too much leg, or no more than is usually shown.
    “You’ll have to go in another minute,” she said, “and that’s meant to mean what it says.”
    “I’ll go now before … before …,” but he could not finish. He rushed out, grabbing his hat, and slammed the door.
    “Was there ever any girl as unlucky as me,” she wondered. “But I like his brown eyes. Oh well that’s all over, and I shan’t see him again, thank God,” she thought.

 
    The next morning, after about the worst night he had ever had, he telephoned Mr Grant. He did not bother to ask Dot to leave the room. She was all the more certain something must be very wrong when she heard him insist that he should meet Mr Grant the same evening. He even fixed the time he would be there. And it did not help him, she noticed, for his work still suffered terribly all day.
    When Charley got out to Redham, straight from the office, he found Rose’s father hanging around in the front garden.
    “She’s better,” this man began at once. “Mother’s much better today. Tell you the truth I can’t make her keep to her bed, she will begin running downstairs the whole time. So I shan’t take you inside, if you’ll overlook it. Not after the recent occasion.”
    He said this in such a way as to make it appear that he blamed Charley for the last visit, when Mrs Grant had been so upset to see what she understood to be her brother John. And Charley found himself tongue tied.
    “So I presume you’ve come to apologise, my boy, eh?” Mr Grant said, walking up and down past Charley on the small patch of lawn. “But there, we mustn’t blame you young fellows. I know. You’ve been through a whole lot, and we all ought to be grateful. What’s more you’re not looking too fit in yourself. Gone thin. Lost weight? You want to take things easy at first, believe me. I’ve no doubt it’s the food.