Contango (Ill Wind) by James Hilton Read Free Book Online Page A

Lauterbrunnen. Then, amidst the warming
sunshine, she thought, with sudden boldness: “I’m interested in
him and would rather like to get to know him; why shouldn’t I, then,
deliberately enter the same carriage and sit next to him in the new
train?” After all, nobody would ever blame a man for doing that, if he
were interested in a girl…. That final argument, with all that it implied
in connection with the equality of the sexes, clinched the matter. Miss
Faulkner waited till the man had chosen a seat in the train that goes up to
Wengen and Scheidegg, and then led her small party in after him. “Here
again,” she exclaimed brightly, banging the window down. He
smiled— a rather slow, cautious smile, as if for the first time he
were taking real notice of her. “You are going up to the Joch?”
he queried.
    “Yes. Are you?”
    “Yes.”
    “It’s a long journey, but well worth it. Is this your first
visit?”
    “Yes.”
    She felt rather glad of that. “You’ll be impressed, on a day
like this. I was, tremendously, when I first came. In fact, I always
am.”
    “You come pretty often, I suppose?”
    “Once a week during August.”
    “Oh?”
    “You see, I’m only here for the month. This is really my
holiday….” And in a quarter of an hour—before the train
reached the green slopes and red-roofed chalets of Wengen—she had told
him all about her job, her school in Bermondsey, and her friendship with
Bertrand Russell. He listened politely, without saying very much. At
Scheidegg, where there was another change of trains, she kept the
conversation going so incessantly that it would have been nearly impossible
for them not to re-seat themselves together. All this time she had been
somewhat neglectful of her party, but as soon as the train set off she rose
and delivered, in her very best style, a short account of the building of the
Jungfrau Railway, its cost, difficulties, and the number of lives lost during
its construction. When she had finished she smiled at everybody, and then,
sitting down, bestowed a little private smile upon the man next her. “I
hope you weren’t startled by my sudden burst into professional
activity,” she began.
    “Not at all,” he answered. “On the contrary, it was most
interesting—all that you said. A marvellous piece of engineering…
And another thing interested me too.”
    “Yes?”
    “The way—if you’ll excuse my being personal—the
way you managed to make yourself heard above the noise of the train without
shouting. I—I could never manage to do that.”
    She laughed. “Have you tried?”
    “Not exactly in trains. But I’ve had other experience. I
suppose it’s partly knack and partly the voice one’s born
with.”
    “Surely not THAT,” she answered. “Babies can always make
themselves heard anywhere. At least, my babies can.”
    This time it was he who laughed. “Yes, of course.”
    A moment later it occurred to her to add: “I meant my official
babies, you know—the children of four and five at my school. I
haven’t any other kind of babies.”
    Accepting the information, he seemed a little pensive afterwards, and by
the arrival of the train at the terminus Miss Faulkner thought she had
progressed distinctly well, though she was forced to confess that she knew
scarcely anything more about him. And yet to have led the conversation to
babies! She smiled with extra emphasis as she gave her people the usual
cautions about wearing sun-spectacles and not over-exerting themselves at the
unaccustomed altitude. Babies, indeed! For she had a sense of humour, no less
acute because it sometimes and for long intervals deserted her
completely.
    Few places could have been more helpful to the ripening of acquaintance
than the Jungfraujoch. In the restricted area round the station and hotel
there was little to do except send off picture-postcards, peer through the
telescopes at distant skiers, and enjoy the novel