himself. In this dream Joyce revealed she had been nursing a lonely passion for him for years, that she adored him, that her lips ached to kiss him, that she had never dared to hope for the bliss of holding him in her arms. Were this wild dream ever to come true – his whole lanky frame shuddered with the thought of it – his heart would explode – the fiery lake of love within him would erupt – the world would melt before the force of his passion – he would, in short, fall in love.
In the meantime, there was friendship. A tepid first stage, but manageable. The great thing was to plant the idea in Joyce’s mind, and let time do its work. He dreaded the end of the war, the return to solitary rooms in Cambridge. Why should Joyce not have a similar fear? Together, friends, companions, and one day lovers, they could face the future.
At this point in his musings, Peter Wilson passed him, heading in the opposite direction.
‘Do you play golf, Rupert?’
‘A little,’ said Rupert.
‘There’s a funny old course up in the hills of Nuwara Elya, I was up there yesterday morning. The ninth hole runs right across the front of the clubhouse veranda. Par three, about a hundred and sixty yards. I played it with a five iron, all the planters and their wives watching, knocking back the John Collinses. I took one great whack at the ball, and up it went, and onto the green, and plopped into the hole. My God! What a cheer I got! Never done it before, never do it again.’
‘Well done, Peter,’ said Rupert.
‘So what do you make of Dickie’s latest? More hurry up and do nothing, eh?’
*
The Chinese restaurant was half empty in the early evening, as Rupert and Joyce sat down at one of the stained oilcloth-covered tables. They’d come early knowing that it filled up quickly. Both were still in uniform. They agreed to share a large plate of the Special, which consisted of fried rice, boiled eggs, and whatever was currently being cooked in the kitchen.
‘The remarkable thing about the Special,’ said Rupert, ‘is that it’s not special at all. If anything it’s universal. All-inclusive.’
‘Oh, I always have the Special,’ said Joyce. ‘I never know what I want to eat until I see it.’
They drank green tea to start with, and then shared a bottle of the local beer. The lighting was poor in the room, and Joyce sat partly with her back to such light as there was.
‘Good idea, Rupert. This way we halve the cost.’
‘And it’s more friendly. After all, we have known each other for ages.’
‘Years,’ said Joyce. ‘God, this war has gone on for ever. It makes me feel so old.’
The large greasy platter arrived with suspicious speed, mounded high with nameless lumps. They both gazed at it in awe.
‘I think this is what’s called fodder,’ said Rupert.
‘Anything’s better than the mess,’ said Joyce.
They sipped at their beers and picked at their fried food as the restaurant filled up.
‘Looks like it’s going to be over soon now,’ said Rupert.
‘By Christmas, everyone says,’ said Joyce.
‘What will you do after the war?’
‘Help! I don’t know. Get a job, I suppose. How different everything will be.’
‘You don’t sound all that excited about it.’
‘I don’t mind admitting it,’ said Joyce. ‘I’ll miss some things. I’ll miss Dickie rushing in and out all the time.’
‘Me too,’ said Rupert. ‘Dickie does have a way of making you feel like you’re at the centre of the known universe.’
‘So what about you, Rupert? What will you do?’
‘Pick up where I left off before the war, I suppose. I was at Cambridge, doing a doctorate in philosophy.’
‘That sounds so brainy. What was it about?’
‘Free will. Determinism. Is everything we do really caused by things that have happened before?’
‘Is that what you think?’
‘It’s certainly not what I feel. I feel as if I make my own decisions. But when you start to look into it you find that what you
In the meantime, there was friendship. A tepid first stage, but manageable. The great thing was to plant the idea in Joyce’s mind, and let time do its work. He dreaded the end of the war, the return to solitary rooms in Cambridge. Why should Joyce not have a similar fear? Together, friends, companions, and one day lovers, they could face the future.
At this point in his musings, Peter Wilson passed him, heading in the opposite direction.
‘Do you play golf, Rupert?’
‘A little,’ said Rupert.
‘There’s a funny old course up in the hills of Nuwara Elya, I was up there yesterday morning. The ninth hole runs right across the front of the clubhouse veranda. Par three, about a hundred and sixty yards. I played it with a five iron, all the planters and their wives watching, knocking back the John Collinses. I took one great whack at the ball, and up it went, and onto the green, and plopped into the hole. My God! What a cheer I got! Never done it before, never do it again.’
‘Well done, Peter,’ said Rupert.
‘So what do you make of Dickie’s latest? More hurry up and do nothing, eh?’
*
The Chinese restaurant was half empty in the early evening, as Rupert and Joyce sat down at one of the stained oilcloth-covered tables. They’d come early knowing that it filled up quickly. Both were still in uniform. They agreed to share a large plate of the Special, which consisted of fried rice, boiled eggs, and whatever was currently being cooked in the kitchen.
‘The remarkable thing about the Special,’ said Rupert, ‘is that it’s not special at all. If anything it’s universal. All-inclusive.’
‘Oh, I always have the Special,’ said Joyce. ‘I never know what I want to eat until I see it.’
They drank green tea to start with, and then shared a bottle of the local beer. The lighting was poor in the room, and Joyce sat partly with her back to such light as there was.
‘Good idea, Rupert. This way we halve the cost.’
‘And it’s more friendly. After all, we have known each other for ages.’
‘Years,’ said Joyce. ‘God, this war has gone on for ever. It makes me feel so old.’
The large greasy platter arrived with suspicious speed, mounded high with nameless lumps. They both gazed at it in awe.
‘I think this is what’s called fodder,’ said Rupert.
‘Anything’s better than the mess,’ said Joyce.
They sipped at their beers and picked at their fried food as the restaurant filled up.
‘Looks like it’s going to be over soon now,’ said Rupert.
‘By Christmas, everyone says,’ said Joyce.
‘What will you do after the war?’
‘Help! I don’t know. Get a job, I suppose. How different everything will be.’
‘You don’t sound all that excited about it.’
‘I don’t mind admitting it,’ said Joyce. ‘I’ll miss some things. I’ll miss Dickie rushing in and out all the time.’
‘Me too,’ said Rupert. ‘Dickie does have a way of making you feel like you’re at the centre of the known universe.’
‘So what about you, Rupert? What will you do?’
‘Pick up where I left off before the war, I suppose. I was at Cambridge, doing a doctorate in philosophy.’
‘That sounds so brainy. What was it about?’
‘Free will. Determinism. Is everything we do really caused by things that have happened before?’
‘Is that what you think?’
‘It’s certainly not what I feel. I feel as if I make my own decisions. But when you start to look into it you find that what you
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