Tales of the Unexpected

superficial pleasures of this life come too easily to them, and they seem to walk the world as though they themselves were personally responsible for their own good looks. I don’t mind a
woman
being pretty. That’s different. But in a man, I’m sorry, but somehow or other I find it downright offensive. Anyway, here was this one sitting right opposite me in the carriage, and I was looking up at him over the top of my
Times
when suddenly he glanced up and our eyes met.
    ‘D’ you mind the pipe?’ he asked, holding it up in his fingers. That was all he said. But the sound of his voice had a sudden and extraordinary effect upon me. In fact, I think I jumped. Then I sort of froze up and sat staring at him for at least a minute before I got a hold of myself and made an answer.
    ‘This is a smoker,’ I said, ‘so you may do as you please.’
    ‘I just thought I’d ask.’
    There
it was again, that curiously crisp, familiar voice, clipping its words and spitting them out very hard and small like a little quick-firing gun shooting out raspberry seeds. Where had I heard it before? and why did every word seem to strike upon some tiny tender spot far back in my memory? Good heavens, I thought. Pull yourself together. What sort of nonsense is this?
    The stranger returned to his paper. I pretended to do the same. But by this time I was properly put out and I couldn’t concentrate at all. Instead, I kept stealing glances at him over the top of the editorial page. It was really an intolerable face, vulgarly, almost lasciviously handsome, with an oily salacious sheen all over the skin. But had I or had I not seen it before some time in my life? I began to think I had, because now, even when I looked at it I felt a peculiar kind of discomfort that I cannot quite describe – something to do with pain and with violence, perhaps even with fear.
    We spoke no more during the journey, but you can well imagine that by then my whole routine had been thoroughly upset. My day was ruined; and more than one of my clerks at the office felt the sharper edge of my tongue, particularly after luncheon when my digestion started acting up on me as well.
    The next morning, there he was again standing in the middle of the platform with his cane and his pipe and his silk scarf and his nauseatingly handsome face. I walked past him and approached a certain Mr Grummitt, a stockbroker who has been commuting with me for over twenty-eight years. I can’t say I’ve ever had an actual conversation with him before – we are rather a reserved lot on our station – but a crisis like this will usually break the ice.
    ‘Grummitt,’ I whispered. ‘Who’s this bounder?’
    ‘Search me,’ Grummitt said.
    ‘Pretty unpleasant.’
    ‘Very.’
    ‘Not going to be a regular, I trust.’
    ‘Oh God,’ Grummitt said.
    Then the train came in.
    This time, to my great relief, the man got into another compartment.
    But the following morning I had him with me again.
    ‘Well,’ he said, settling back in the seat directly opposite. ‘It’s a
topping
day.’ And once again I felt that slow uneasy stirring of the memory, stronger than ever this time, closer to the surface but not yet quite within my reach.
    Then came Friday, the last day of the week. I remember it had rained as I drove to the station, but it was one of those warm sparkling April showers that last only five or six minutes, and when I walked on to the platform, all the umbrellas were rolled up and the sun was shining and there were big white clouds floating in the sky. In spite of this, I felt depressed. There was no pleasure in this journey for me any longer. I knew the stranger would be there. And sure enough, he was, standing with his legs apart just as though he owned the place, and this time swinging his cane casually back and forth through the air.
    The cane! That did it! I stopped like I’d been shot.
    ‘It’s Foxley!’ I cried under my breath. ‘Galloping Foxley! And still swinging his cane!’
    I stepped closer to get a better look. I tell you I’ve never had such a shock in all my life. It was Foxley all right. Bruce Foxley or Galloping Foxley as we used to call him. And the last time I’d seen him, let me see – it was at school and I was no more than twelve or thirteen years old.
    At that point the train came in, and heaven help me if he didn’t get into my compartment once again. He put his hat and cane up on the rack, then turned and sat down and began lighting his