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    She sighs and looks out the window, where the air is now darkening above a scarlet horizon line, planning a casual reference Sluts in eastheath her American citizenship. Hobbs, willing him to turn and speak; but he does Sluts in eastheath do so. His older sister and her husband, however, are on the tour, which consists mainly of employees of the electric company for which his brother-in-law works, and their relatives. As Vinnie listens to these facts, Sluts in eastheath under friendly interrogation supplies a few of her own, she wonders why citizens of the United States who have nothing in common and will never see one another again feel it necessary to exchange such information.

    It can only clog up their brain cells with useless data, and is moreover often invidious, tending to estrange casual acquaintances. Gosh, I better watch my language, I was always a dumbhead in English. If strangers who find themselves sharing a railway compartment converse, it will be on topics of general interest, and usually without revealing their origin, destination, occupation, or name. By the time the plane is over Heathrow, Vinnie is already tired of Chuck Mumpson and his relatives. Unfairly, it is then announced over the loudspeaker that due to air-traffic congestion they will be placed in a holding pattern.

    When at last the tail of the plane thumps onto the runway at Heathrow she not only congratulates herself, as usual, on having survived the journey, but on being able Sluts in eastheath part with her new acquaintances. Because of her percipient choice of seat Vinnie is among the first to leave the plane and go through immigration and passport control. Celerity is important now, since the flight is over half an hour late and the buses to London will soon stop running. In the baggage-claim area, however, her expertise is of only limited use.

    She knows where to find a handcart, and the best place to stand by the conveyor in order to see and snare her suitcases as soon as they appear. The first one arrives almost immediately; but her other and larger bag fails to materialize. She begins to review the contents of her lost? While pieces of unclaimed luggage dumbly circle past her, she imagines what she will have to go through to replace all that was in that suitcase: And is it actually in one of those cartons, or is it at home in the locked spare room to which her tenants do not have the key? Should she mail a copy of this key to her tenants, thus giving two graduate students in architecture access to all her private letters and journals, her original editions of books illustrated by Arthur Rackham and Edmund Dulac, and her store of wines and spirits?

    Alien luggage continues to revolve in front of her, along with an invisible dirty-white dog, who whines pathetically at Vinnie each time he comes round. Poor Vinnie, what did you expect? She is now too exhausted and low in spirits to be much relieved or to face making a claim for damages. Dully she hauls the bag off the conveyor and wrestles it onto her cart. The customs inspector, yawning, waves her past him into the lobby. There, in spite of the lateness of the hour, people of many nationalities are still waiting. Some hold infants, others cardboard signs bearing the names of those they hope to meet. As Vinnie appears, all of them glance at her for a moment, then past her. They stare, wave, exclaim, lunge, embrace, shoving her aside to reach their friends and relations.

    Vinnie, unwanted and unmet, checks her watch and with an indrawn breath of anxiety begins pushing the cart toward the far end of the building as swiftly as possible, with Fido trotting at her heels. Soon she is panting, her heart pounding; she has to slow down. No doubt about it, she is getting older, weaker in body and in spirit. Her luggage feels heavier; one year, sooner than she imagines, she will be too old and weak and sickly to travel alone, the only way she ever travels-Fido rubs against her leg with a mournful snuffling. And surely, since all the flights are delayed tonight, the bus will wait.

    As it turns out, this is a mistake. When Vinnie, at a carefully moderate pace, shoves her cart out into the rainy, lamp-streaked night, she sees a red double-decker pulling away from the curb in the middle distance. Still worse, there are no cabs at the taxi rank, only a queue of exhausted-looking people. As she stands, chilled and weary, in the queue, jet-lag depression rises within her like cold brackish water. What is she doing at midnight in this wet, bare, ugly place? Why has she come so far, at such great expense? Nobody invited her; nobody wants her here or anywhere.

    Fido, who is now sitting atop the broken suitcase, lets out a foghorn howl. She can feel the rising sob in her throat, the sting and ache of tears behind her eyes. Well, she could go back into the terminal and try to telephone for a minicab, though they are notorious for not turning up when promised. And if they do overcharge, does she have enough English money? No use worrying about that, not yet. Taking a couple of deep breaths to calm herself, Vinnie shoves her luggage back toward the terminal, hoping for the miraculous apparition of a taxi. There is none, of course; only a mob of Sun Tourists and their luggage waiting to board a chartered bus.

    She is about to retreat when Mr. He is now wearing a tan cowboy hat trimmed with feathers and a fleece-lined sheepskin coat, and is hung about with cameras, making him look even more than ever like the caricature of an American tourist, Western division. Mumpson stares out across the empty, rain-sloshed, light-streaked pavement. Listen, I know what. You can come on the bus with us. Bet you can get a cab there. Luckily, since Vinnie and Mr. Mumpson are the last to board, they have to sit separately, and she is spared any more of his conversation.

    The journey to London passes in a silent blur of weariness. Though Vinnie has often been abroad, this is her first and she hopes last ride on a tour bus. She has of course often seen them from the street, and observed with a mixture of scorn and pity the tourists packed inside, gazing out with weak fishy stares through the thick green distorting glass of their rolling aquariums at the strange, soundless world outside. The bus stops at a large anonymous hotel near the Air Terminal, where several taxis are actually waiting. It is now nearly one in the morning. If anything can go wrong for her it will. But the young woman in the garden flat is in and still awake; the keys turn smoothly in their locks; the light switch is where Vinnie remembers it, just inside the door.

    There is the white telephone with its familiar number, and the stack of phone books in their elegant pastel colors: The sofa and chairs are in their proper places; the gold-framed engravings of Oxford colleges glow quietly on either side of the mantel. The clean grate is decorated as always with a white paper fan that echoes the white enameled pots of English ivy on their stand in the tall bay window.

    1-May-1918 › Page 28 - Fold3.com

    Since she is unobserved, she allows them to fall. Weeping quietly, she hauls her bags into the flat, bolts the door behind them, and is safe at last, home in London. Restlessly, he stamps from one foot to the other, staring across Sluts in eastheath dark dirty tracks at bright colored advertisements of products he will never purchase: Black Magic chocolates and Craven cigarettes. Trained in the close reading of texts he is an assistant professor of Anal escorts in tracy Sluts in eastheath, he wonders how the British public can be persuaded to buy candy that suggests an evil spell and tobacco designated as cowardly.

    Maybe there is a darker meaning to the glossy social and sexual occasions illustrated in Sluts in eastheath posters. Is the scarlet-mouthed blonde Sluts in eastheath the box of chocolates about to poison or bewitch her guests? Are the smiling, smoke-breathing Sluts in eastheath man and woman secretly terrified of each other? Though he has been in London for three weeks, this is the first time Fred has used the Underground. Usually he walks everywhere, regardless of the distance or the weather, in imitation of the eighteenth-century author Sluts in eastheath Gay, about whom he is supposed to be writing a book. What walker shall his mean ambition fix On the false lustre of a coach and six?

    O rather give me sweet content on foot, Wrapped in my virtue, and a good surtout! In a vain search for sweet content, Fred has tramped Sluts in eastheath over London. Unless it rains Sluts in eastheath, he also runs two miles every morning in Kensington Gardens, pounding along past dripping empty benches and gnarled bare trees, under a dark or dappled sky. While his lungs fill Sluts in eastheath damp chill air and the thin smoke of his breath steams away, he asks himself what the hell he is doing Horny milfs in rashid, alone in this cold, unpleasant city. Sluts in eastheath of the other people on the Underground platform are not gazing at the advertisements, but-more or less covertly-at Fred Turner.

    A miniskirted billing clerk thinks he looks exactly like the hero on the cover of The Secret of Rosewynone of her favorite Gothics. Fred is not embarrassed by this attention. Since babyhood his appearance has Sluts in eastheath admiration, and often comment. Fred Turner knows, of course, that he is a handsome, athletic-looking young man, the type that directors employ to battle carnivorous vegetables. It would be going too far to say that he has never derived any satisfaction from this fact, but he has often wished that his appearance was less striking.

    He has the features, and the physique, of an Edwardian hero: If he had lived before World War II, he might have been more grateful for his looks; but since then it has not been fashionable for Anglo-Saxon men to be handsome in this style unless they are homosexual. For modern straight tastes his chin is too firmly rounded and cleft, his carriage too erect, his hair too wavy, and his eyelashes much too long. Were Fred in fact an actor his appearance might be an asset. But he has no histrionic ability or ambition; and in his profession beauty is a considerable handicap, as he has been made to realize over the last five years. Boys are allowed to be handsome, as long as that is not their only asset, and Fred was an all-round achiever: As anyone who has been to college knows, most professors are not especially strong or beautiful; and though they may appreciate or at least forgive these qualities in their students they do not much care for them in their peers.

    If Fred had been in Theater Arts or Painting and Design, he might not have stood out so from his colleagues or had so much trouble with them. In English, his appearance was held against him: In his first term as a TA at least a third of his female students, and one or two of the males as well, developed crushes on him. When he called on these students they went all woozy and breathless and became quite incapable of concentrating on the topic of discussion. But Fred had no wish to sleep with ten screwed-up freshmen, or even with one carefully selected well-balanced freshman. He also suspected correctly that if he fell and was found out he might be in serious professional trouble.

    During that first year of teaching, Fred learnt to put more social distance between himself and his students; for one thing, though with irritation and regret, he stopped asking them to call him Fred. As time passed, the emotional and sexual pressure moderated-especially after he had met a woman whose appearance and temperament kept him fully occupied. But he still feels uncomfortable in the classroom. Time will solve his problem, but not for perhaps a quarter of a century, which from the perspective of twenty-eight might as well be forever. Meanwhile he has to put up with the belief of students that he is cold and formal-a belief promulgated every fall in the student-published Confidential Guide to Courses.

    Before that, he had assumed that his wife Ruth, known to him as Roo, would be coming abroad with him. They had prepared for the trip together, read books, studied maps, consulted all their friends-Roo even more excited by their plans than he was. But a domestic storm had blown up: No good thinking about it, going over the bad memories of a bad time. Fred is alone for five months in a London empty of joy and meaning, where a cold drizzly rain seems to fall perpetually both within and without. He is more steadily miserable than he has ever been in his life. When you see her walking down the Parliament Hill, with her big Indian shopping basket clanging against her knee like a great bamboo bell, you know that there is at least one free, sovereign, woman abroad on the earth.

    Free to do what? Free to spend time, or to use time, or to pass time. Free to walk or stop walking. Free to break her quarter-mile journey to the shops half-way, sit down on the kerb and eat a bun. Free, in fact, to deal with the dream when it arrives. Free to do any of the things which may lead to the making of a new poem. Of course, people stare. But it is not every day that you can see a Free Elizabethan reciting a barbed lyric to herself in the middle of East Heath Road. Anna Wickham declares that she does not write poetry:


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