memory, Joan asked:
‘Did he ever write his book on Warren Hastings?’
Blanche beamed at her.
‘Fancy your remembering that! Yes, indeed, a hundred and twenty thousand words.’
‘Was it published?’
‘Of course not! After that Tom started on a life of Benjamin Franklin. That was even worse. Funny taste, wasn’t it? I mean such dull people. If I wrote a life, it would be of someone like Cleopatra, some sexy piece—or Casanova, say, something spicy. Still, we can’t all have the same ideas. Tom got a job again in an office—not so good as the other. I’m always glad, though, that he had his fun. It’s awfully important, don’t you think, for people to do what they really want to do?’
‘It rather depends,’ said Joan, ‘on circumstances. One has to take so many things into consideration.’
‘Haven’t you done what you wanted to do?’
‘I?’ Joan was taken aback.
‘Yes, you,’ said Blanche. ‘You wanted to marry Rodney Scudamore, didn’t you? And you wanted children? And a comfortable home.’ She laughed and added, ‘And to live happily ever afterwards, world without end, Amen.’
Joan laughed too, relieved at the lighter tone the conversation had taken.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve been very lucky, I know.’
And then, afraid that that last remark had been tactless when confronted by the ruin and bad luck that had been Blanche’s lot in life, she added hurriedly:
‘I really must go up now. Good night—and it’s been marvellous seeing you again.’
She squeezed Blanche’s hand warmly (would Blanche expect her to kiss her? Surely not.) and ran lightly up the stairs to her bedroom.
Poor Blanche, thought Joan as she undressed, neatly laying and folding her clothes, putting out a fresh pair of stockings for the morning. Poor Blanche. It’s really too tragic.
She slipped into her pyjamas and started to brush her hair.
Poor Blanche. Looking so awful and so coarse.
She was ready for bed now, but paused irresolutely before getting in.
One didn’t, of course, say one’s prayers every night. In fact it was quite a long time since Joan had said a prayer of any kind. And she didn’t even go to church very often.
But one did, of course, believe.
And she had a sudden odd desire to kneel down now by the side of this rather uncomfortable looking bed (such nasty cotton sheets, thank goodness she had got her own soft pillow with her) and well—say them properly—like a child.
The thought made her feel rather shy and uncomfortable.
She got quickly into bed and pulled up the covers. She picked up the book that she had laid on the little table by the bed head, The Memoirs of Lady Catherine Dysart—really most entertainingly written—a very witty account of mid-Victorian times.
She read a line or two but found she could not concentrate.
I’m too tired, she thought.
She laid down the book and switched off the light.
Again the thought of prayer came to her. What was it that Blanche had said so outrageously—‘that cuts you off from prayer.’ Really, what did she mean?
Joan formed a prayer quickly in her mind—a prayer of isolated words strung together.
God—thank thee—poor Blanche—thank thee that I am not like that—great mercies—all my blessings—and especially not like poor Blanche—poor Blanche—really dreadful. Her own fault of course—dreadful—quite a shock—thank God—I am different—poor Blanche …
Joan fell asleep.
It was raining when Joan Scudamore left the rest house the following morning, a fine gentle rain that seemed somehow incongruous in this part of the world.
She found that she was the only passenger going west—a sufficiently uncommon occurrence, it appeared, although there was not much traffic this time of year. There had been a large convoy on the preceding Friday.
A battered looking touring car was waiting with a European driver and a native relief driver. The manager of the rest house was on the steps in the grey dawn of the morning to hand Joan in, yell at the Arabs until they adjusted the baggage to his satisfaction, and to wish Mademoiselle, as he called all his lady guests, a safe and comfortable journey. He bowed magnificently and handed her a small cardboard container in which was her lunch.
The driver yelled out cheerily:
‘Bye bye, Satan, see you tomorrow night or next week—and it looks more like next week.’
The car started off. It wound through the streets of the oriental city with its grotesque and unexpected blocks of occidental architecture. The horn blared, donkeys swerved aside, children ran. They drove out through the western gate and on to a broad, unequally paved road that looked important enough to run to the world’s end.
Actually it petered out abruptly after two kilometres and an irregular track took its place.
In good weather it was, Joan knew, about seven hours’ run to Tell Abu Hamid which was the present terminus of the Turkish railway. The train from Stamboul arrived there this morning and would go back again at eight-thirty this evening. There was a small rest house at Tell Abu Hamid for the convenience of travellers, where they were served with what meals they might need. They should meet the convoy coming east about half-way along the track.
The going was now very uneven. The car leapt and jumped and Joan was thrown up and down in her seat.
The driver called back that he hoped she was all right. It was a bumpy bit of track but he wanted to hurry as much as possible in case he had difficulty crossing the two wadis they had to negotiate.
From time to time he looked anxiously up at the sky.
The rain began to fall faster and the car began to do a series of skids, zigzagging to and fro and making Joan feel slightly sick.
They reached the first wadi about eleven. There was water in it, but they got across and after a slight peril of sticking on the hill up the other side drew out of it successfully. About two kilometres farther on they ran into soft ground and stuck there.
Joan slipped on her mackintosh coat and got out, opening her box of lunch and eating as she walked up and down and watched the two men working, digging with spades, flinging jacks at each other, putting boards they had brought with them under the wheels. They swore and toiled and the wheels spun angrily in the air. It seemed to Joan an impossible task, but the driver assured her that it wasn’t a bad place at all. Finally, with unnerving suddenness the wheels bit and roared,
