The Tiger In the Smoke Read Free Page A

it gently up and down on the cushion.
    â€˜I’m a damned fool,’ he said. ‘I ought not to have asked you that, my dear, dear girl. Look, we’ll get out of this somehow and we’ll go through with the whole programme. We’ll have everything we planned, the kids and the house and the happiness, even the damned great wedding. It’ll be all right, I swear it, Meg. Somehow, it’ll be all right.’
    â€˜No.’ She had the gentle obstinacy of her kind of woman. ‘I want to tell you, Geoffrey, because I’ve thought it all out, and I want you to know so that whatever I do, well at least you’ll understand. You see, this message may mean just what it looks to mean, and in an hour I may find I’m talking to Martin. I’ve been thinking how horrible that’ll be for
him
. You see, I’ve
forgotten
him. The only thing I keep remembering and dreading is that I must tell him about the dog.’
    â€˜The dog?’ he repeated blankly.
    â€˜Yes. Old Ainsworth. He died soon after Martin was – presumed killed. Martin will hate that. He loved Ainsworth. They used to sit and look at each other for hours and hours. It’s horrible, but it really is the clearest thing I remember about either of them. Martin in pyjamas and Ainsworth in his tight brown skin, just sitting and looking at each other and being quite happy.’
    She made a small gesture with her free hand. Its arc took in a lost world of air-raids and hurried meals in crowded restaurants, hotels, railway stations, khaki, sunlight – stolen pools of peace in chaos.
    â€˜When he was in the Desert he wrote a poem to Ainsworth. Never to me, you know – but he did write one to Ainsworth.’ Her husky voice filled the rain-drenched world. ‘I’ve never forgotten it. He sent it home, probably
for
Ainsworth. You’d never imagine Martin writing verse. It went:
    â€˜I had a dog, a liver-coloured mongrel
    With mild brown eyes and an engaging manner.
    He had a studious mind and thought
    Deeply about himself
    And food and sex.
    He was also a liar.
    He wasn’t proud:
    He’d shake hands very gravely
    With almost anybody not in uniform …
    I’d like to talk to him again;
    Now I’m a soldier we’ve a lot in common.’
    She was silent and Levett did not move. It was as though the fog had brought coldly a third person into the cab. At length, since something had to be said, he made the effort.
    â€˜A queer chap,’ he murmured briefly.
    â€˜I don’t think so.’ It was evident that she was trying to remember. ‘He was being a soldier then, you see. He was doing that all the time I knew him.’
    â€˜Oh God, yes!’ He recognized the haunt at last from his own days in that strange hinterland of war which was receding faster and faster with every day of the fleeting years. ‘Oh God, yes! Poor little chap. Poor silly little chap.’
    Meg bowed her head. She never nodded, he noticed suddenly. All her movements were sweeping and gracious, like an Edwardian woman’s, only less studied.
    â€˜I never saw him out of war,’ she said, in much the same way as she might have said ‘I never saw him sober’. ‘I didn’t know him, I suppose. I mean, I don’t really know him at all.’
    The last word faded and ceased uncertainly. The taxi started again and, seizing an opportunity, swung sharply into the station approach.
    â€˜Are you coming with me, Geoff?’
    â€˜No.’ The disclaimer was altogether too violent, and he hastened to soften it. ‘I don’t think so, do you? I’ll telephone you about five. You’ll be all right with Campion and his bloodhound, won’t you? I think you’ll be happier without me. Won’t you?’
    The final question was genuine. The flicker of hope appeared in it unbidden. She heard and recognized it but hesitated too long.
    â€˜I just don’t