The Man Who Understood Women Read Free

Christopher ran frantically for help.
    The girl in the summer dress was swinging her legs; Christopher could see the flash of white socks from the corner of his eye.
    Now he was the only man in a household of women. His father had died in an air crash when he was nine, and in the holidays Christopher came home to the tall old house in the Square where he lived with his three small sisters, his mother, Aunt Evelyn and, until today, Grandfather who every holiday greeted him with the same words: ‘Thank goodness you’ve come, Christopher. I’m fed up with all these women.’
    Every morning after breakfast he would go into the old man’s room and discuss the ailments of the world, or his own particular problems, until Grandfather wanted to get up. When it was time for him to go, Grandfather would let him get as far as the door, then say: ‘Christopher, would you like a piece of chocolate?’ And Christopher would say: ‘Yes please, Grandfather,’ and have to go back all the way across the roomto get it. Two squares of the same make of chocolate every day that he had been at home since he was five, and now he was fifteen. It was always two squares only and never offered until he had his hand on the doorknob. Today, against his mother’s wishes, he had gone into the bedroom to say a last goodbye to his grandfather. The nurse, bustling starchily about, looked at him disapprovingly. Grandfather, it was true, was paler than usual, but looked only as if he were sleeping. There seemed nothing, as he had told his grandson, to be afraid of. At the door, Christopher had found himself hesitating and, meeting the nurse’s curious stare, realised that he was waiting, as he had always done, to be called back. ‘Christopher, would you like a piece of chocolate?’ But it was only in his own head. His grandfather lay peacefully silent, and the nurse said: ‘I think you’d better go now.’
    He felt something warm and damp on his knees and, looking down, saw to his horror that great teardrops were soaking through his trousers and making dark patches on the grey flannel. He reached for his handkerchief but found nothing except a Victorian half-crown, his talisman, and a piece of string. The feet in the white socks shuffled nearer and soon a fold of pink cotton lay across his knee.
    Nothing was said but he had to look up. There was no choice but to accept the proffered handkerchief. Accustomed to the continual baiting of his sisters, he waited for the caustic comment. After all, tears in a fifteen-year-old boy could provide the material for a whole afternoon’s entertainment. There was no comment. Christopher dabbed at his eyes andhis trousers and then handed back the little white square. The eyes above the pink cotton were large and black. He felt a strange, drowning sensation and it was a few minutes before he was able to look away.
    ‘I’ve seen you here lots of times,’ she said.
    ‘I’ve never seen you.’
    ‘I know, you were always talking to your grandfather.’
    ‘I shan’t be any more.’
    ‘Is that why you were crying?’
    Christopher nodded.
    ‘It’s very sad,’ the girl said, ‘but beautiful. I know because of my granny. He was a nice old man, wasn’t he?’
    ‘He was my friend,’ Christopher said. ‘I told him everything.’
    ‘What was that pink newspaper you were always reading?’
    ‘The
Financial Times
. Grandfather taught me all about shares and used to ask my advice. Sometimes he even took it.’
    ‘What else did he teach you?’
    Christopher considered. It was a difficult question. They had discussed together everything from Horace’s Odes, Grandfather disagreeing with his pronunciation, to modern youth, which Grandfather, contrary to most of his generation, considered no worse than his own, only different. Sometimes they didn’t talk at all. The old man would bury his nose in
The Times
leaders, and Christopher would think about whatever happened to be on his mind. At times they both just sat,