Rushton walked slowly, almost casually, towards the glimmering marquee. The rhythm of the dance music searched, it seemed, in his soul,for a response, for some answering enthusiasm. How he wished he could summon it forth! To escape from the daily treadmill of hopes and fears, to enter a world where for once he could forget the dismal trivialities of life, could walk in simple contemplation of beauty and joy!
“Sorry!” A man brushed past him, tall, gangling, obviously the worse for drink. Stooping to tie up his shoelace, Rushton noticed a girl standing hesitantly at the entrance. There was something in her nervous but hopeful glance at him that stilled, for the moment, his gloomy thoughts. He assumed a gentle, ironical manner, and smiled.
She had seen his tall, lean, gaunt profile as he sauntered so casually towards the music and the bright lights. A man who, while nursing some private loss or sorrow, had sought this place for escape, for excitement? His face was gentle, his gaze tentative and mild, and as he came over to her, she searched his eyes for some clue to his restraint, to his rather weary and soulful manner.
He asked if she was new here, or had she been before? She said she had not, and had come here really by chance.
“My mother thought I might like it …” she said, “and you?”
“I’ve been ill!” was his answer, with a smile. “Chest trouble”, he added, “and it had me in hospital.”
It was believable. His tired eyes were beginning to revive, she hoped, at the sight of her, but here was a man who, she felt, was not making any claims for himself, but was waiting, as it were, for some kindness and consideration. Was it for her to provide them?
He knew he had not seen her before. What was it about her that spoke to him of something different and unknown? It was simply that she did not impose on him the necessity of providing some stock answer or manner – it was not an effort to talk with her. Was he just being lazy, supposing that conversations on these occasions had to be arch, witty, self-deferential and all the rest? He felt almost guilty at talking with her like this – so easily, so naturally. Was there nothing more to do, no provocative gesture or suitable witticism?
No. Nothing was necessary. Yet there was something else that compelled him to make an effort, a pleasurable effort. And that was simply – her. It was not enough for him to play the part of ironical medical student with her. There was a concern in her manner which he had not had from anyone else, which he knew he needed now. He could not refuse it.
You're a natural. I see a career ahead. On one small matter - the gangling man who appears and disappears is something of a distraction, and the way you've put it, 'A man brushed past him, tall, gangling, obviously the worse for drink. Stooping to tie up his shoelace, Rushton...' gives the momentary impression that Rushton is tying the man's shoelace. Another problem might be your use of point of view. You start with his, then go to hers, then back to his: this is too much for the reader to deal with easily. But we'll look at this in a later lesson. Generally though another accomplished psychic landscape.
ReplyDeleteYou have a wonderful mastery of words Tony. I envy it. What a wonderful start to a great romance. I loved it.
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