The Man on the Bridge by Stephen Benatar

Author:Stephen Benatar
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781497693739
Publisher: Open Road Distribution

21

I passed my test. It didn’t elate me particularly—I’d never supposed I’d fail—but at least it provided me with half an hour of complete escape while I thought of nothing but my driving. When I returned to the Embankment Oliver gave me a bear hug. His depression was over. In some ways—how selfishly!—I almost wished it wasn’t. “We must paint the town,” he said.

I’d envisaged an evening spent at home; I hadn’t yet settled on how best to break the news. But on the other hand, I thought, it might be easier to do it some place where there would be bustle and bright lights.

“I’ve bought us both a small present,” he added, “to commemorate your success. Come into my parlour … said the spider to the fly!”

“And supposing I hadn’t been successful?” My state of mind turned me contrary. Why did he have to make me all these gifts? What would I have to do—return them? (I couldn’t return the car; definitely not the car.)

“Then there’d probably have been more need of it,” he said.

“What is it?”

“Well, you remember that hour or so we passed in Hamley’s…?” Oliver held open the door of his studio.

I stopped and stared and forced a laugh. “You’re crazy!”

Laid out on the floor was an extensive network of railway lines, bridges, stations. There were two electric engines and each one drew six coaches.

“Now don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy yourself that morning,” said Oliver. “Remember how we decided we’d suffered deprived childhoods and I said we’d have to do everything in our power to correct this?”

“But I didn’t think you meant it.”

“I didn’t entirely. But then—hunting around for something to get you—us,” he amended, “it all came back to me. You can buy hills and houses and lakes and churches and … oh, I don’t know … masses of other things … and build up quite a little community, once you really get started. Look, my love: these are the controls.”

“Well, I would never have guessed that,” I said sarcastically.

But I ran the two trains round the circuit a couple of times and shunted them back and forth a bit. I couldn’t show much enthusiasm.

“Again,” he said, “I’m so sorry it wasn’t all wrapped up in pretty paper, with ribbons and bows and tinsel; but one of these days, maybe…” He saw I had tears running down my face (of course!) and he must have supposed it was like when he’d given me the car. He tried to wipe them away with his thumbs but there were too many for that. Once more he had to use his handkerchief. “Come on. I know what you need,” he told me. “I’m such a thoughtless bastard: it suddenly occurs to me you haven’t had anything to revive you since your big ordeal.”

But I was still being bolshie—perhaps this seemed to me a good means of defence? “I don’t want anything … and it wasn’t an ordeal! In fact, it was by far the best part of the day.

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