Charlotte Gray Read Free

hair was pinned up beneath a small hat.
    I do hope they're not going to talk to me, she thought.
    Everything about her attitude discouraged conversation. She opened a book and began to read with obvious concentration. There was a slight flush on her cheek, though it was not at once possible to say if this was her usual colour or whether exertion or embarrassment had raised this mild pink beneath the pale skin. There was a scattering of freckles beneath her eyes, and her eyebrows were the colour of the darkest of the different shades in her hair.
    They were almost at Berwick when the man who had first opened the door suddenly began to talk. He began by introducing himself.
    "Richard Cannerley. But my friends, like Morris here, all call me Dick."
    "Charlotte Gray," she conceded, briefly shaking his proffered hand.
    "What takes you south?" said Cannerley.
    "I'm going to work in London." She had a slight Scottish accent.
    "I wanted to do something to help."
    "The good old war effort." Cannerley laughed, and a lock of fair hair fell down over his forehead.
    Charlotte crossed her legs and turned a little into the compartment. It was a long journey and her book was not that interesting.
    "And are you from Edinburgh?" said Cannerley.
    "Not originally."
    "I thought not. Your voice is not as ... precise."
    "No. Not an Edinburgh Mary." Charlotte smiled.
    "I was brought up in the Highlands. My parents moved to Edinburgh about ten years ago when my father took up a position in a hospital there."
    "I see. Morris and I have been playing golf. Do you play?" She shook her head.
    "I expect we'll go along for dinner in a bit. Would you like to join us?"
    "No, thank you. I had some high tea with my mother before I left."
    "Well, just come and have a glass of wine with us. They have an awfully good list. I know from previous journeys. My treat."
    Charlotte looked at Cannerley with rapidly appraising eyes.
    "All right," she said.
    "Thank you. Excuse me for a minute."
    She stood up and reached to the luggage rack for her handbag. The button on the cuff of her jacket became entangled in the string mesh and it was difficult for her to stretch up with the other hand to free it. The jacket rose up to reveal the creases of her blouse tucked into the waistband of her skirt. The skirt had also ridden up a little, showing the fine little bones of her knee. For a moment she was trapped and unwilling to stretch up further in case of some immodesty. Just as Cannerley rose to help, she managed to free her wrist and take down the bag. She disappeared through the sliding doors and down the corridor.
    "What's an Edinburgh Mary?" said Morris.
    "I'm not entirely sure. I presume it's someone from Momingside with that prim accent."
    "You're a fast worker."
    "It's the war, Robin. Autres temps, autres moeurs. She understands."
    "What about Celia?"
    "Celia?" Cannerley looked vague as he pulled out a cigarette.
    "Now what do you think for a cold evening on the train? I remember last time they had a rather good Crozes Hermitage. Perhaps she's more of a Burgundy girl. Something full but not too heavy ..."
    Cannerley settled back in his seat and rubbed his hand over the scarlet plush. Above him was a small rectangular mirror with bevelled edges in which Morris could see the top of his own head, where the dark, almost black hair was receding either side of a tongue-shaped peninsula. Morris had a dark, close-shaven face, small hands and a cautious, candid manner intensified by the way he so seldom blinked.
    "Will you be at the departmental meeting tomorrow?"
    Morris nodded.
    "I wish I didn't have to go, but Sir Oliver insists."
    "I suppose it's the French question." Cannerley brushed some cigarette ash from his knee.
    "It's always the French question."
    "I've almost completed my paper. I imagine you'll get a copy in due course. It's B-listed."
    "I hope so. I'd like to know how you pass your time. Do you think you'll be able to get down to Welling at the weekend?"
    "It's hard