The Heart of the Matter - Graham Greene [31]
‘He’ll be happier without me.’
‘He couldn’t be.’
‘Henry doesn’t love me,’ she said gently, as though she were teaching a child, using the simplest words to explain a difficult subject, simplifying ... She leant her head back against the guichet and smiled at him as much as to say, it’s quite easy really when you get the hang of it. ‘He’ll be happier without me,’ she repeated. An ant moved from the woodwork on to her neck and he leant close to flick it away. He had no other motive. When he took his mouth away from hers the ant was still there. He let it run on to his finger. The taste of the lipstick was like something he’d never tasted before and that he would always remember. It seemed to him that an act had been committed which altered the whole world.
‘I hate him,’ she said, carrying on the conversation exactly where it had been left.
‘You mustn’t go,’ he implored her. A bead of sweat ran down into his right eye and he brushed it away; on the guichet by her shoulder his eyes took in again the phallic scrawl.
‘I’d have gone before this if it hadn’t been for the money, poor dear. He has to find it.’
‘Where?’
‘That’s man’s business,’ she said like a provocation, and he kissed her again; their mouths clung like bivalves, and then she pulled away and he heard the sad - to and fro - of Father Rank’s laugh coming up along the path. ‘Good evening, good evening,’ Father Rank called. His stride lengthened and he caught a foot in his soutane and stumbled as he went by. ‘A storm’s coming up,’ he said. ‘Got to hurry,’ and his ‘ho, ho, ho’ diminished mournfully along the railway track, bringing no comfort to anyone.
‘He didn’t see who we were,’ Wilson said.
‘Of course he did. What does it matter?’
‘He’s the biggest gossip in the town.’
‘Only about things that matter,’ she said.
‘This doesn’t matter?’
‘Of course it doesn’t,’ she said. ‘Why should it?’
‘I’m in love with you, Louise,’ Wilson said sadly.
‘This is the second time we’ve met.’
‘I don’t see that that makes any difference. Do you like me, Louise?’
‘Of course I like you, Wilson.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t call me Wilson.’
‘Have you got another name?’
‘Edward.’
‘Do you want me to call you Teddy? Or Bear? These things creep on you before you know where you are. Suddenly you are calling someone Bear or Ticki, and the real names seems bald and formal, and the next you know they hate you for it. I’ll stick to Wilson.’
‘Why don’t you leave him?’
‘I am leaving him. I told you. I’m going to South Africa.’
‘I love you, Louise,’ he said again.
‘How old are you, Wilson?’
‘Thirty-two.’
‘A very young thirty-two, and I am an old thirty-eight.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘The poetry you read, Wilson, is too romantic. It does matter. It matters much more than love. Love isn’t a fact like age and religion ...’
Across the bay the clouds came up: they massed blackly over Bullom and then tore up the sky, climbing vertically: the wind pressed the two of them back against the station. ‘Too late,’ Louise said, ‘we’re caught.’
‘How long will this last?’
‘Half an hour.’
A handful of rain was flung in their faces, and then the water came down. They stood inside the station and heard the water hurled upon the roof. They were in darkness, and the chickens moved at their feet
‘This is grim,’ Louise said.
He made a motion towards her hand and touched her shoulder. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Wilson,’ she said, ‘don’t let’s have a petting party.’ She had to speak loud for her voice to carry above the thunder on the iron roof.
‘I’m sorry ... I didn’t mean...’
He could hear her shifting further away, and he was glad of the darkness which hid his humiliation. ‘I like you, Wilson,’ she said, ‘but I’m not a nursing sister who expects to be taken whenever she finds herself in the dark with a man. You have no responsibilities towards me, Wilson. I don’t want you.’
‘I love you, Louise.’
‘Yes, yes, Wilson. You’ve told me. Do you think there are snakes in here - or rats?’
‘I’ve no idea. When are you going to South Africa, Louise?’
‘When Ticki can raise