The umbrella lay like a recently swatted daddy-long-legs, expiring sadly on the ground. Tiny gusts of wind made it twitch a little.
He picked it up.
“Er,” he said. There didn’t seem to be a lot of point in offering the thing back to her.
“How did you know my name?” she said.
“Er, well,” he said. “Look, I’ll get you another one …”
He looked at her and tailed off.
She was tallish with dark hair which fell in waves around a pale and serious face. Standing still, alone, she seemed almost sombre, like a statue to some important but unpopular virtue in a formal garden. She seemed to be looking at something other than what she looked as if she was looking at.
But when she smiled, as she did now, it was as if she suddenly arrived from somewhere. Warmth and life flooded into her face, and impossibly graceful movement into her body. The effect was very disconcerting, and it disconcerted Arthur like hell.
She grinned, tossed her bag into the back and swivelled herself into the front seat.
“Don’t worry about the umbrella,” she said to him as she climbed in. “It was my brother’s and he can’t have liked it or he wouldn’t have given it to me.” She laughed and pulled on her seatbelt. “You’re not a friend of my brother’s are you?”
“No.”
Her voice was the only part of her which didn’t say “Good”.
Her physical presence there in the car, his car, was quite extraordinary to Arthur. He felt, as he let the car pull slowly away, that he could hardly think or breathe, and hoped that neither of these functions were vital to his driving or they were in trouble.
So what he had experienced in the other car, her brother’s car, the night he had returned exhausted and bewildered from his nightmare years in the stars had not been the unbalance of the moment, or, if it had been, he was at least twice as unbalanced now, and quite liable to fall off whatever it is that well- balanced people are supposed to be balancing on.
“So …” he said, hoping to kick the conversation off to an exciting start.
“He was meant to pick me up – my brother – but phoned to say he couldn’t make it. I asked about buses but the man started to look at the calendar rather than a timetable, so I decided to hitch. So.”
“So.”
“So here I am. And what I would like to know, is how you know my name.”
“Perhaps we ought to first sort out,” said Arthur, looking back over his shoulder as he eased his car into the motorway traffic, “where I’m taking you.”
Very close, he hoped, or long away. Close would mean she lived near him, a long way would mean he could drive her there.
“I’d like to go to Taunton,” she said, “please. If that’s all right. It’s not far. You can drop me at …”
“You live in Taunton?” he said, hoping that he’d managed to sound merely curious rather than ecstatic. Taunton was wonderfully close to him. He could …
“No, London,” she said. “There’s a train in just under an hour.”
It was the worst thing possible. Taunton was only minutes away up the motorway. He wondered what to do, and while he was wondering with horror heard himself saying, “Oh, I can take you to London. Let me take you to London …”
Bungling idiot. Why on Earth had he said “let” in that stupid way? He was behaving like a twelve-year-old.
“Are you going to London?” she asked.
“I wasn’t,” he said, “but …” Bungling idiot.
“It’s very kind of you,” she said, “but really no. I like to go by train.” And suddenly she was gone. Or rather, that part of her which brought her to life was gone. She looked rather distantly out of the window and hummed lightly to herself.
He couldn’t believe it.
Thirty seconds into the conversation, and already he’d blown it.
Grown men, he told himself, in flat contradiction of centuries of accumulated evidence about the way grown men behave, do not behave like this.