‘Yes, I will too, of course.’
‘Guy will be having leave soon,’ said Hugo.
‘Yes, and Mollie is coming home this summer.’
‘It would be good if we could all be here together.’
‘After the war, anyhow.’
‘Yes . . . after the war. . . .’
The train was going to start. The guard waved to all the waiting
passengers to get in. Hugo jumped in quickly. He leaned out of
the window and took both my hands.
‘Good-bye, Helen.’
‘Good-bye, Hugo . . . till next time. . . .’
The train jerked and puffed. A porter hurried along, slamming
the doors. Hugo drew back his head, the train jerked again, and
moved slowly forward.
I stood where I was, looking after the train. Hugo did not look
out of it again, and I did not wave my hand.
I watched it drawing past me; carriage after carriage reaching
the bend of the line where a station lamp threw a glittering
light upon the windows; then out into the fog and darkness; and
the smoke drifted back, chilly, mockingly, along the empty lines.
There were other women on the platform, walking back towards
the barrier now, and I walked with them, dazed, hardly sensible,
not knowing where I went.
And I never saw Hugo again.