Art and Nature, 1934 by Vida Lahey (Australian, 1882–1968)
Meierney
——
In September 1941, I was injured in London and hospitalized, and my military career was overshadowed. I'm disappointed in myself, and I'm disappointed in this war.
Late one night, I wanted to call a friend. The operator picked up my phone on the line of a woman who was about to talk to someone else.
"I'm Grosvenor 8829," I heard her docking student say, "I want Hampstead number, you got it wrong, and the hapless guy didn't want to talk to me." ”
"Oh, I think so." I was busy interjecting.
Her voice was soft and clear, and I immediately liked it. After apologizing to each other, we hung up the microphone. But two minutes later, I dialed her number again, perhaps by fate, and we talked on the phone for more than 20 minutes.
"Why are you talking to someone in the middle of the night?"she asked.
I told her why, and then I asked, "What about you?" ”
She said her old mother didn't sleep well, and she used to call late at night to talk to her. Then we talked about a few books we were reading and the war.
Finally I said, "I haven't spoken to people so freely in years." ”
"Really? Okay, here we go, good night. Good dreams. She said.
The next day, I kept thinking about last night's conversation, her wit, generosity, enthusiasm, and sense of humor. And, of course, the pleasant accent, so charming, as old as a piece of music that swirled around in my head. At night, I couldn't see anything. At midnight, Grosvenor 8829 flashed in my mind. I couldn't stand it and dialed the number with a shiver. As soon as the ringtone on the other end of the telephone line rang, it was immediately picked up.
"Harrow?"
"It's me." I said, "I'm sorry to bother you, let's move on to last night's topic, okay?" ”
Without saying yes or no, she immediately talked about Balzac's novel Aunt Becky. In less than two minutes, we were joking with each other, as if we had been friends for many years. This time we talked for 45 minutes. Midnight time and mutual acquaintance break the restraint of the two when they first make love. We offered to introduce each other's identities, but she politely declined. She said it would mess things all up, but she left my phone number. I promised to keep it for her until the end of the war. So she said something about her, when she was 17 she married a man she didn't like and has been separated ever since. She is 36 years old, and her only son, who was killed in a recent airstrike, was only 18 years old. He was her everything. She often spoke to him as if he were still alive. She described him as beautiful as Asaka, just like herself, so she left me a beautiful portrait, and I said she must be beautiful, and she smiled and asked, "How do you know?" ”
We are increasingly interdependent and talk about everything. We had similar views on most topics, including views on war, and we started reading the same books to spice up the conversation. Every night, no matter how late, we have to talk once. If one day I went out of town and couldn't talk, she would complain that she was lonely that night.
As time went on, I became more and more eager to see her. I sometimes scare her into saying I'm going to find a taxi and run to her immediately. But she wouldn't allow it. She said that if we met and found out that we were not in love with each other, she would die. For a full 12 months, I was expecting it. Although our love is close at hand, it bypasses the violent emotional waves and is smoothly sailing to the other side of eternity. The charm of the call trumps the autumn wave and the hug.
One night, as soon as I arrived in London from the countryside, I picked up the microphone and dialed her number. A hoarse scream replaced the crisp and pleasant silver bell of the past, and I suddenly felt a dizziness. This means that the phone line has malfunctioned or been removed. The next day was still a hoarse scream. I approached the operator and asked them to help me check the address of 8829 Grosvenor, and at first they ignored me because I couldn't say her name. Later, a sympathetic wiring lady agreed to help me check it out.
"Of course you can." She said, "You seem anxious. Is it? Well, the area to which this number belongs was bombed the night before, and the owner of the number was called..."
"Thanks," I said, "don't say it, please don't say it." ”
I put down the microphone.
Walter Crane (1845-1915), Neptune’s Horses, oil sketch
The stock image comes from the web
Copyright belongs to the original author
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