Part 6
I told her I certainly would, if I could. I said that I wasn't terribly prolific.
"It doesn't have to be terribly prolific! Just so that it isn't childish and silly." She
reflected. "I prefer stories about squalor."
"About what?" I said, leaning forward. "Squalor. I'm extremely interested in squalor."
I was about to press her for more details, but I felt Charles pinching me, hard, on my
arm. I turned to him, wincing slightly. He was standing right next to me. "What did one
wall say to the other wall?" he asked, not unfamiliarly.
"You asked him that," Esme said. "Now, stop it."
Ignoring his sister, and stepping up on one of my feet, Charles repeated the key
question. I noticed that his necktie knot wasn't adjusted properly. I slid it up into place,
then, looking him straight in the eye, suggested, "Meetcha at the corner?"
The instant I'd said it, I wished I hadn't. Charles' mouth fell open. I felt as if I'd struck
it open. He stepped down off my foot and, with white-hot dignity, walked over to his own
table, without looking back.
"He's furious," Esme said. "He has a violent temper. My mother had a propensity to
spoil him. My father was the only one who didn't spoil him."
I kept looking over at Charles, who had sat down and started to drink his tea, using
both hands on the cup. I hoped he'd turn around, but he didn't.
Esme stood up. `Il faut que je parte aussi," she said, with a sigh. "Do you know
French?"
I got up from my own chair, with mixed feelings of regret and confusion. Esme and I
shook hands; her hand, as I'd suspected, was a nervous hand, damp at the palm. I told
her, in English, how very much I'd enjoyed her company.
She nodded. "I thought you might," she said. "I'm quite communicative for my age."
She gave her hair another experimental touch. "I'm dreadfully sorry about my hair," she
said. "I've probably been hideous to look at."
"Not at all! As a matter of fact, I think a lot of the wave is coming back already."
She quickly touched her hair again. "Do you think you'll be coming here again in the
immediate future?" she asked. "We come here every Saturday, after choir practice."
I answered that I'd like nothing better but that, unfortunately, I was pretty sure I
wouldn't be able to make it again.
"In other words, you can't discuss troop movements," said Esme. She made no move
to leave the vicinity of the table. In fact, she crossed one foot over the other and, looking
down, aligned the toes of her shoes. It was a pretty little execution, for she was wearing
white socks and her ankles and feet were lovely. She looked up at me abruptly. "Would
you like me to write to you?" she asked, with a certain amount of color in her face. "I
write extremely articulate letters for a person my--"
"I'd love it." I took out pencil and paper and wrote down my name, rank, serial
number, and A.P.O. number.
"I shall write to you first," she said, accepting it, "so that you don't feel compromised
in any way." She put the address into a pocket of her dress. "Goodbye," she said, and
walked back to her table.
I ordered another pot of tea and sat watching the two of them till they, and the
harassed Miss Megley, got up to leave. Charles led the way out, limping tragically, like a
man with one leg several, inches shorter than the other. He didn't look over at me. Miss
Megley went next, then Esme, who waved to me. I waved back, half getting up from my
chair. It was a strangely emotional moment for me.
Less than a minute later, Esme came back into the tearoom, dragging Charles behind
her by the sleeve of his reefer. "Charles would like to kiss you goodbye," she said.
I immediately put down my cup, and said that was very nice, but was she sure?
"Yes," she said, a trifle grimly. She let go Charles' sleeve and gave him a rather
vigorous push in my direction. He came forward, his face livid, and gave me a loud, wet
smacker just below the right ear. Following this ordeal, he started to make a beeline for
the door and a less sentimental way of life, but 1 caught the half belt at the back of his
reefer, held on to it, and asked him, "What did one wall say to the other wall?"
His face lit up. "Meet you at the corner!" he shrieked, and raced out of the room,
possibly in hysterics.
I told her I certainly would, if I could. I said that I wasn't terribly prolific.
"It doesn't have to be terribly prolific! Just so that it isn't childish and silly." She
reflected. "I prefer stories about squalor."
"About what?" I said, leaning forward. "Squalor. I'm extremely interested in squalor."
I was about to press her for more details, but I felt Charles pinching me, hard, on my
arm. I turned to him, wincing slightly. He was standing right next to me. "What did one
wall say to the other wall?" he asked, not unfamiliarly.
"You asked him that," Esme said. "Now, stop it."
Ignoring his sister, and stepping up on one of my feet, Charles repeated the key
question. I noticed that his necktie knot wasn't adjusted properly. I slid it up into place,
then, looking him straight in the eye, suggested, "Meetcha at the corner?"
The instant I'd said it, I wished I hadn't. Charles' mouth fell open. I felt as if I'd struck
it open. He stepped down off my foot and, with white-hot dignity, walked over to his own
table, without looking back.
"He's furious," Esme said. "He has a violent temper. My mother had a propensity to
spoil him. My father was the only one who didn't spoil him."
I kept looking over at Charles, who had sat down and started to drink his tea, using
both hands on the cup. I hoped he'd turn around, but he didn't.
Esme stood up. `Il faut que je parte aussi," she said, with a sigh. "Do you know
French?"
I got up from my own chair, with mixed feelings of regret and confusion. Esme and I
shook hands; her hand, as I'd suspected, was a nervous hand, damp at the palm. I told
her, in English, how very much I'd enjoyed her company.
She nodded. "I thought you might," she said. "I'm quite communicative for my age."
She gave her hair another experimental touch. "I'm dreadfully sorry about my hair," she
said. "I've probably been hideous to look at."
"Not at all! As a matter of fact, I think a lot of the wave is coming back already."
She quickly touched her hair again. "Do you think you'll be coming here again in the
immediate future?" she asked. "We come here every Saturday, after choir practice."
I answered that I'd like nothing better but that, unfortunately, I was pretty sure I
wouldn't be able to make it again.
"In other words, you can't discuss troop movements," said Esme. She made no move
to leave the vicinity of the table. In fact, she crossed one foot over the other and, looking
down, aligned the toes of her shoes. It was a pretty little execution, for she was wearing
white socks and her ankles and feet were lovely. She looked up at me abruptly. "Would
you like me to write to you?" she asked, with a certain amount of color in her face. "I
write extremely articulate letters for a person my--"
"I'd love it." I took out pencil and paper and wrote down my name, rank, serial
number, and A.P.O. number.
"I shall write to you first," she said, accepting it, "so that you don't feel compromised
in any way." She put the address into a pocket of her dress. "Goodbye," she said, and
walked back to her table.
I ordered another pot of tea and sat watching the two of them till they, and the
harassed Miss Megley, got up to leave. Charles led the way out, limping tragically, like a
man with one leg several, inches shorter than the other. He didn't look over at me. Miss
Megley went next, then Esme, who waved to me. I waved back, half getting up from my
chair. It was a strangely emotional moment for me.
Less than a minute later, Esme came back into the tearoom, dragging Charles behind
her by the sleeve of his reefer. "Charles would like to kiss you goodbye," she said.
I immediately put down my cup, and said that was very nice, but was she sure?
"Yes," she said, a trifle grimly. She let go Charles' sleeve and gave him a rather
vigorous push in my direction. He came forward, his face livid, and gave me a loud, wet
smacker just below the right ear. Following this ordeal, he started to make a beeline for
the door and a less sentimental way of life, but 1 caught the half belt at the back of his
reefer, held on to it, and asked him, "What did one wall say to the other wall?"
His face lit up. "Meet you at the corner!" he shrieked, and raced out of the room,
possibly in hysterics.
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