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William Trevor
'Why should they have a child and then destroy it? Why should
your mother not love you because your face is like your father's
face?'
'My mother —'
'Your mother's a disgrace,' she cried in sudden, new emotion.
'What life is it for a child to drag around hotels and lovers, a piece
of extra luggage, alone, unloved?'
'It's not too bad. I get quite used to it —'
'Why can He not strike them dead?' she whispered. 'Why can't
He make it possible? By some small miracle, surely to God?'
He wasn't looking at her. He heard her weeping and listened to
the sound, not knowing what to do.
'You're a sorrowful mess, Carruthers,' she whispered. 'Yet you
need not be.'
'Please. Please, Miss Fanshawe —'
'You'd be a different kind of person and so would I. You'd have
my love, I'd care about the damage that's been done to you. You
wouldn't come to a bad end: I'd see to that.'
He didn't want to turn his head again. He didn't want to see her,
but in spite of that he found himself looking at her. She, too, was
gazing at him, tears streaming on her cheeks. He spoke slowly and
with as much firmness as he could gather together.
'What you're saying doesn't make any sense, Miss Fanshawe.'
'The waiter said that you were mad. Am I crazy too? Can people
go mad like that, for a little while, on a train? Out of loneliness
and locked-up love? Or desperation?'
'I'm sure it has nothing to do with madness, Miss Fanshawe —'
'The sand blows on to my face, and sometimes into my eyes. In
my bedroom I shake it from my sandals. I murmur in the sitting-
room. "Really, Beryl," my mother says, and my father sucks his
breath in. On Sunday mornings we walk to church, all three of us.
I go again, on my own, to Evensong: I find that nice. And yet I'm
glad when it's time to go back to Ashleigh Court. Are you ever
glad, Carruthers?'
'Sometimes I have been. But not always. Not always at all. I —'
'"Let's go for a stroll," the algebra teacher said. His clothes were
stained with beer. "Let's go up there," he said. "It's nice up there."
And in the pitch dark we climbed to the loft where the Wolf Cubs
meet. He lit his cigarette-lighter and spread the tent out. I don't
mind what happens, I thought. Anything is better than nothing
Going Home 537
happening all my life. And then the man was sick.'
'You told me that, Miss Fanshawe.'
'"You're getting fat," my mother might have said. "Look at
Beryl, Dad, getting fat." And I would try to laugh. "A drunk has
made me pregnant," I might have whispered in the bungalow, sud-
denly finding the courage for it. And they would look at me and see
that I was happy, and I would kneel by my bed and pour my thanks
out to God, every night of my life, while waiting for my child.' She
paused and gave a little laugh. 'They are waiting for us, those
people, Carruthers.'
'Yes.'
'The clock on the mantelpiece still will not chime. "Cocoa", my
mother'll say at half-past nine. And when they die it'll be too
late.'
He could feel the train slowing, and sighed within him, a gesture
of thanksgiving. In a moment he would walk away from her: he
would never see her again. It didn't matter what had taken place,
because he wouldn't ever see her again. It didn't matter, all she had
said, or all he had earlier said himself.
He felt sick in his stomach after the beer and the wine and the
images she'd created of a life with her in a seaside bungalow. The
food she'd raved about would be appalling; she'd never let him
smoke. And yet, in the compartment now, while they were still
alone, he was unable to prevent himself from feeling sorry for her.
She was right when she spoke of her craziness: she wasn't quite
sane beneath the surface, she was all twisted up and unwell.
'I'd better go and brush my teeth,' he said. He rose and lifted his
overnight case from the rack.
'Don't go,' she whispered.
His hand, within the suitcase, had already grasped a blue sponge-
bag. He released it and closed the case. He stood, not wishing to
sit down again. She didn't speak. She wasn't looking at him now.
'Will you be all right, Miss Fanshawe?' he said at last, and re-
peated the question when she didn't reply. 'Miss Fanshawe?'
'I'm sorry you're not coming back to Ashleigh, Carruthers. I
hope you have a pleasant holiday abroad.'
'Miss Fanshawe, will you —'
'I'll stay in England, as I always do.'
'We'll be there in a moment,' he said.
'I hope you won't go to the bad, Carruthers.'
538
William Trevor
They passed by houses now; the backs of houses, suburban gar-
dens. Posters advertised beer and cigarettes and furniture.
Geo.
Small. Seeds,
one said.
'I hope not, too,' he said.
'Your mother's on the platform. Where she always stands.'
'Goodbye, Miss Fanshawe.'
'Goodbye, Carruthers. Goodbye.'
Porters stood waiting. Mail-bags were on a trolley. A voice called
out, speaking of the train they were on.
She didn't look at him. She wouldn't lift her head: he knew the
tears were pouring on her cheeks now, more than before, and he
wanted to say, again, that he was sorry. He shivered standing in the
doorway, looking at her, and then he closed the door and went
away.
She saw his mother greet him, smiling, in red as always she was.
They went together to collect his luggage from the van, out of her
sight, and when the train pulled away from the station she saw
them once again, the mother speaking and Carruthers just as he
always was, laughing his harsh laugh.
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