back, Mr Hilditch watches the cars arriving and employees of both sexes moving into the factory. There are greetings, names called out, groups formed. At twenty past eight the buses arrive.
‘He’s not here,’ the girl declares in a woeful tone of voice when these buses have emptied. ‘The siren’s gone and he’s not.’
‘You just slip across, dear, and ask at the barrier. It could be he’s nights. Or late turn. You never know. Better sure than sorry, eh?’
In her absence he goes through the two carrier bags she has left in the car. At the bottom of the second one, stuffed into the sleeves of a navy-blue jersey, are two bundles of banknotes. He hesitates for a moment, before transferring the money to an inside pocket of his jacket.
‘No,’ the girl reports when she returns. ‘He doesn’t work here. They don’t have a stores like the kind he described.’
‘I’m sorry, Felicia. I’m really sorry.’
When, without warning, she begins to cry, the flesh of Mr Hilditch’s face creases in sympathy, puffing up around his tiny eyes. Between sobs he hears about a breakdown of communication, how the boyfriend failed to leave an address or telephone number behind, how she’d been frightened of seeming pushy. She was shy, the girl says, and he is put in mind of Elsie Covington, who couldn’t walk into a crowded room without suffering palpitations apparently.
‘I know, I know,’ he sympathizes. ‘It’s a horrible affliction, shyness.’
The boyfriend’s mother hadn’t been agreeable to handing over the address, and seemingly there was no one else who might have known it. All of it is worse, the Irish girl insists, because she knows that if she’d pressed for it he’d have given it to her immediately, no doubt about that.
Pull the other one, is Mr Hilditch’s silent response before he turns the ignition on and drives slowly from the car park. He knows where the local hospital is: he went there once on the off chance that one of the night nurses might be tired enough to accept a lift. Walked off their feet, some of them, and the next thing is they could be giving the whole thing up, in need of help and advice from an older man. When the car is parked he says:
‘I’ll just pop in, dear, find out the state of play.’
The girl blows her nose in a tissue that looks to Mr Hilditch as if it has been used before. Young Sharon had a dreadful habit ofkeeping used tissues on her person, and cotton wool she dabbed her make-up with, and half-smoked cigarettes.
‘I’ll make off now,’ the girl says. The rims of her eyes are almost scarlet. Tears come again. ‘I’m OK,’ she says.
‘You be a good girl and hold on, Felicia. I’ll be gone five minutes, just get a report on her. Then we’ll maybe have a cup of tea and see what’s what.’
When her teeth show they glisten, due to a coating of saliva. Gaye had a gap between her two front teeth where saliva used to gather, but of course you can’t have everything.
‘I don’t want to be a nuisance to you.’
‘You’re never a nuisance, Felicia. You’d never be that.’
In the hospital reception area he asks where the lavatory for visitors is, and follows the direction he’s given. He finds a telephone and rings the catering department to say he has been delayed that morning as a result of having to assist a neighbour who suffered a stroke in the night. Slowly he returns to the car park.
She will have to walk back to that factory to make certain. She should have made further inquiries, not just asked the security man. She shouldn’t have got into the car again; she should have said she’d like to be on her own, so that she could think about what to do next. But the disappointments that have accumulated, and the addition of this latest one, form a necklace of despair that shackles her will. Wearily she reflects that the man has been good to her: the least she can do is to accept his concern, and what use is there, anyway, in her searching? What point is there in
‘He’s not here,’ the girl declares in a woeful tone of voice when these buses have emptied. ‘The siren’s gone and he’s not.’
‘You just slip across, dear, and ask at the barrier. It could be he’s nights. Or late turn. You never know. Better sure than sorry, eh?’
In her absence he goes through the two carrier bags she has left in the car. At the bottom of the second one, stuffed into the sleeves of a navy-blue jersey, are two bundles of banknotes. He hesitates for a moment, before transferring the money to an inside pocket of his jacket.
‘No,’ the girl reports when she returns. ‘He doesn’t work here. They don’t have a stores like the kind he described.’
‘I’m sorry, Felicia. I’m really sorry.’
When, without warning, she begins to cry, the flesh of Mr Hilditch’s face creases in sympathy, puffing up around his tiny eyes. Between sobs he hears about a breakdown of communication, how the boyfriend failed to leave an address or telephone number behind, how she’d been frightened of seeming pushy. She was shy, the girl says, and he is put in mind of Elsie Covington, who couldn’t walk into a crowded room without suffering palpitations apparently.
‘I know, I know,’ he sympathizes. ‘It’s a horrible affliction, shyness.’
The boyfriend’s mother hadn’t been agreeable to handing over the address, and seemingly there was no one else who might have known it. All of it is worse, the Irish girl insists, because she knows that if she’d pressed for it he’d have given it to her immediately, no doubt about that.
Pull the other one, is Mr Hilditch’s silent response before he turns the ignition on and drives slowly from the car park. He knows where the local hospital is: he went there once on the off chance that one of the night nurses might be tired enough to accept a lift. Walked off their feet, some of them, and the next thing is they could be giving the whole thing up, in need of help and advice from an older man. When the car is parked he says:
‘I’ll just pop in, dear, find out the state of play.’
The girl blows her nose in a tissue that looks to Mr Hilditch as if it has been used before. Young Sharon had a dreadful habit ofkeeping used tissues on her person, and cotton wool she dabbed her make-up with, and half-smoked cigarettes.
‘I’ll make off now,’ the girl says. The rims of her eyes are almost scarlet. Tears come again. ‘I’m OK,’ she says.
‘You be a good girl and hold on, Felicia. I’ll be gone five minutes, just get a report on her. Then we’ll maybe have a cup of tea and see what’s what.’
When her teeth show they glisten, due to a coating of saliva. Gaye had a gap between her two front teeth where saliva used to gather, but of course you can’t have everything.
‘I don’t want to be a nuisance to you.’
‘You’re never a nuisance, Felicia. You’d never be that.’
In the hospital reception area he asks where the lavatory for visitors is, and follows the direction he’s given. He finds a telephone and rings the catering department to say he has been delayed that morning as a result of having to assist a neighbour who suffered a stroke in the night. Slowly he returns to the car park.
She will have to walk back to that factory to make certain. She should have made further inquiries, not just asked the security man. She shouldn’t have got into the car again; she should have said she’d like to be on her own, so that she could think about what to do next. But the disappointments that have accumulated, and the addition of this latest one, form a necklace of despair that shackles her will. Wearily she reflects that the man has been good to her: the least she can do is to accept his concern, and what use is there, anyway, in her searching? What point is there in
Similar Books
