Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [607]
Hunting bored him personally, but he usually liked women who did.
“Well,” he said easily, tucking his swagger stick under his arm, “I must be getting along.”
Patricia Shockley. A nice girl: and interesting too, perhaps.
At half past one Patricia Shockley sat opposite the large, burly form of John Mason in the narrow little restaurant near the entrance to the close called the House of Steps. It was just that: a medieval house, with heavy beams, and an extraordinary number of small steps and staircases between its many rooms and landings. It was also one of the best places to eat lunch.
But Patricia Shockley was not enjoying it.
What could she say?
“Tell me, is it because I’m not in uniform?”
There were little beads of sweat on the front of his head, where the hair was rapidly thinning. Would he sweat so much if he did not insist on wearing, even at the start of summer, that heavy brown suit of herringbone tweed and those heavy brown shoes, always polished until you could see your face in them, and which required those thick brown socks? Did he wear a woollen vest and underpants too? She imagined he did.
He was thirty-five. He might have been fifty. More. Sometimes she could almost scream.
Now. Should she tell him it was because he was not in uniform; should she tell him the truth; should she think of some other excuse? If in doubt, she decided, the truth.
“John, I’m just not in love with you. I’m sorry.”
“I thought perhaps . . .”
“Because I let you kiss me? No.”
“I see. That wasn’t my fault.”
Of course not. Nothing was ever John Mason’s fault. It was not his fault that his weak lung had prevented him getting into the army, though it preyed on his mind and made him feel guilty every day. Thank God women aren’t handing out white feathers in this war, she thought. As it was, John Mason had done more for the war effort than ten other men. He had done just enough of his work as a solicitor to pay his bills. All the rest of his time was devoted to war service. In the early days, he had been one of the few to take the threat of gas seriously and help organise some first aid volunteers; the volunteer fire brigade; the A.R.P. wardens; Mrs Roper’s hospital car service for ferrying patients about; and the system of inviting officers and G.I.s into Salisbury houses for a meal: there was almost nothing he had not had a hand in. He was an excellent organiser.
And no, it was not his fault she had felt sorry for him, let him take her out several times and, one evening, kissed him and let him return her kiss. She had thought it would do him good.
Would she have gone further – if he had not immediately become so serious and asked her to marry him? No. She did not think so.
“Perhaps later you may . . .”
“No.” She must be absolutely firm. “Please forget me.”
He looked at her hopelessly.
“I’ll try.”
She refused to feel guilty any more. Enough was enough.
It was absurd of him, John Mason thought dismally, to suppose this lovely, golden-haired girl in her trim uniform could possibly be interested in him. Yet behind her outgoing ways, he was sure he could see something vulnerable, childlike, that needed protecting. He would have protected her.
The coffee came. Thank heaven, she thought, that whatever the rationing, coffee was always in plentiful supply.
She was going to say; “We’ll have lunch next week.” Then she thought better of it. “I think we’d better not meet for a little while, John.”
“It’s all right,” he said.
“No it isn’t.” She got up. “I must go.”
She fled.
John Mason sat and considered. She had said: “It isn’t.” Did that mean she was upset? Clearly she was. And if she was upset, then she must at least feel something for him. She cared. He sipped his coffee moodily: he would not entirely give up hope.
The people of Sarum had done their best to make the huge influx of Americans welcome. But often they were puzzled. Two years of familiarity had ironed out many difficulties for both sides now, but misunderstandings