Youll sleep, my aunt said in a tone not to be denied.
Tooley looked at me askance as though after all I might be the tiger type. Oh, Ill sleep too, she said, I love sleep. She looked at a huge wrist-watch on a strap an inch wide with only four numerals, coloured scarlet. Its not one yet, she said doubtfully. Id better take a pill.
Youll sleep, my aunt said in a tone not to be denied.
Chapter 12
We were just pulling out of Lausanne when I awoke. I could see the lake between two tall grey apartment buildings and there was a tasteful advertisement for chocolates and then another for watches. It was the conductor who had woken me, bringing me coffee and brioches[121] (I had asked for croissants[122]). Is the lady in Seventy-two awake? I asked.
She did not wish to be disturbed before Milan, he replied.
Is it true that theres no restaurant car?
Yes, monsieur.
At least you will give us breakfast tomorrow?
No, monsieur, I leave the train at Milan. There is another conductor.
Italian?
Yugoslav, monsieur.
Does he speak English or French?
It is not likely.
I felt hopelessly abroad.
I drank my coffee, and then from the corridor I watched the small Swiss towns roll smoothly by: the Montreux Palace in baroque Edwardian like the home of a Ruritanian king, and rising behind it, out of a bank of morning mist, pale mountains like an underexposed negative: Aigle, Bex, Visp We stopped at nearly every station, but it was seldom that anyone either got in or out. Like my aunt, foreign passengers were not interested in Switzerland without snow, and yet it was here that I was seriously tempted to leave her. I had fifty pounds of travellers cheques and I had no interest at all in Turkey. I caught glimpses of meadows running down to water, of old castles on hills spiked with vines and of girls on bicycles; everything seemed clean and arranged and safe, as my life had been before my mothers funeral. I thought of my garden. I missed my dahlias, and at some small station beyond Mürren, where a postman was delivering letters from a bicycle, there was a bed of mauve and red flowers. I think I might really have got off if the girl called Tooley hadnt at that moment touched my arm. Was there anything so wrong with the love of peace that I had to be forcibly drawn away from it by Aunt Augusta?
Did you sleep well? Tooley asked.
Oh yes, and you?
I hardly slept a wink. Her Pekinese eyes stared up at me, as though she were waiting for something from my plate. I offered her a brioche, but she refused it.
Oh no, thanks a lot. Ive had a chocolate bar.
Why couldnt you sleep?
Im sort of worried.
I remembered, from my cashier days, faces just as timid as hers, peering through a hygienic barrier where a notice directed them to speak through a slot placed inconveniently low. I almost asked her whether she had an overdraft[123].
Anything I can do?
I just want to talk, she said.
What could I do but invite her in? My bed had been made into a sofa while I stood in the corridor, and we sat down side by side. I offered her a cigarette. It was an ordinary Senior Service, but she turned it over as though it were something special she had never seen before.
English? she asked.
Yes.
What does Senior Service mean?
The Navy.
You dont mind, do you, if I smoke one of my own?
She took a tin marked EUCALYPTUS-AND-MENTHOL LOZENGES out of her bag and picked from it an anonymous cigarette which looked as though it had been home-rolled. On second thoughts she offered me one, and I thought it would be a little unkind of me to refuse.
It was a very small cigarette, and it looked rather grubby.
It had an odd herbal flavour, not disagreeable.
Ive never smoked an American cigarette before, I said.
I got these in Paris from a friend.
Or French ones.
He was a terribly nice man. Groovy.
Who was?
This man I met in Paris. I told him my trouble too. What is your trouble?
I had a quarrel with my boy-friend, I mean. He wanted to go third-class to Istanbul. I said its crazy, we couldnt sleep together in the third-class, and Ive got the money, havent I? Your stinking allowance, he said. Sell all you have and give it to the poor thats a quotation, isnt it, from somewhere? I said, It wouldnt be any use. Father would pay me back. He need never know, he said. He has sources of information, I said, hes very high up, I mean, in the CIA[124]. He said, You can stick your money up your arse thats an English expression, isnt it? Hes English. We met when we were sitting down in Trafalgar Square.
Feeding the pigeons? I asked.
She gave a bubble of a laugh and choked on the smoke. You are ironic, she said. I like men who are ironic. My fathers ironic too. You are a bit like him when I come to think of it. Irony is a very valuable literary quality too, isnt it, like passion?
You mustnt ask me about literature, Miss Tooley, I said. Im very ignorant.
Dont call me Miss Tooley. Tooleys what my friends call me.
At Saint Moritz a gang of schoolgirls passed down the platform. They were nice-looking schoolgirls; not one of them wore a miniskirt or visible make-up and they carried neat little satchels.