The Goose Girl and Other Stories by Eric Linklater Page B

luncheon-party of ten people, and there persuaded him, easily enough, to go to the match. There were seats for all of them, but in different parts of the stand: two quartets and a pair.
    â€˜Latimer,’ said the crusty old man, mellowed now by food and a second glass of port, ‘you’re an Englishman and England’s going to be beaten. But you’re my guest, so we’ll need to provide you with pleasure of some kind. You’ll take Corinna, and sit with her . . .’
    â€˜Oh, look!’ she exclaimed, catching his arm and pointing to an ancient victoria, a shabby survival of carriage-days, that on creaking wheels rolled slowly towards them. It was drawn by a thin brown horse with enormous chestnuts depending from the inner faces of its large flat knees, and the cabman, in a greenish bowler and a short fawn-coloured coat, was small and old, pale of cheek but pink of nose, with a long unhappy upper lip. Three young men, who had done themselves too well at lunch-time and now regretted their extravagance, got hurriedly down, embarrassed by the attention they had attracted, and after quickly paying the cabman went off to their seats. The cabman, sour and dispirited, sat with the reins loose in his hands, and made no move to turn and go. The brown horse hung its head, and the pale sunlight showed the dust that lay thick upon the faded blue upholstery of the old carriage.
    â€˜Isn’t it heavenly?’ said Corinna.
‘How
I wish we could go for a drive!’
    â€˜There’s nothing to prevent us,’ said Latimer.
    â€˜There’s the match. Uncle Henry would be livid if we missed it. We can’t miss the match, can we? But it would be fun!’
    â€˜You can look at footballers every winter for the rest of your life; but cabmen are dying out.’
    â€˜So a carriage-drive might be an historic occasion?’
    â€˜It might.’
    â€˜You don’t want to see England beaten. You’re trying to escape.’
    â€˜That may be the reason. Or it may be the light-heartedness I spoke of before.’
    â€˜We can’t really go, can we?—Oh, he’s driving away! Shout to him!’
    â€˜Cabby!’ shouted Latimer.
    â€˜Where to?’ asked the old man as the carriage tilted, the springs protested, they got in, and dust rose from the stained blue cushions to meet them.
    â€˜I don’t think it matters.’
    â€˜Drive to the Castle,’ said Corinna, ‘and stop on the Esplanade. There’ll be a view to-day.—Oh, isn’t this the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened?’
    â€˜I’m not quite sure how it did happen. I’m not sure if it should. Do you think, perhaps, that we ought to go back? Your uncle—’
    â€˜Must we?’ she asked.
    She had leaned heavily against him as the cabman wheeled abruptly on to a main road, and an antic fear had momentarily possessed him that he could not refrain from taking her into his arms and embracing her, regardless of the many latecomers to the match, now hurrying past on either side, who were already looking over their shoulders with amused or curious glances at the ancient carriage and its occupants so strangely going the wrong way. The impulse had seemed, for an instant, beyond control, and very properly it had frightened him. Only forty-eight hours before he had been sitting at his wife’s bedside, his hands gripped fiercely by hers in her recurrent torment, and in his anxiety he had offered to the future all manner of extravagant bargains if she and her baby should survive their peril and their pain. For Latimer was in love with his wife, a lively black-haired girl, and the composure of his love was alarmed, as if a volcanic pulse had shaken it, by so urgent and unruly a desire to close with a young stranger. His conscience was perplexed, and over its surface ran the ruffle of fear lest he make an exhibition of himself. It was bad enough to be seen riding in a