The Map of Time Collection, page 151
When Wells finally managed to make his legs obey him, he ran over to his wife, with Emma close behind. Jane was still on the ground, protected by Murray’s huge frame. Several men had grabbed the reins and were trying to steer the horses away from them, although the animals appeared to have calmed down miraculously, as had the Pekinese, which, after its display of bravura, had returned to its mistress’s soft bosom. Wells and Emma knelt beside their respective companions, still shocked by what they had witnessed. Murray raised his head, and only when he was sure they were completely safe did he move away from Jane, freeing her from the makeshift shield of his body. The young woman’s eyes were tight shut.
“Mrs. Wells, Jane . . . ,” he whispered gently. “Are you all right?”
She nodded, slightly dazed, and then glanced about for her husband’s face.
“Oh, B-Bertie, I was so afraid,” she stammered. “The horses reared up, that man in the cloak pushed me, I lost my balance and fell right under . . . Oh, God, I thought they were going to—”
“Don’t think about it, dear. You’re safe now. It’s all over.”
They embraced tearfully while, next to them, Murray and Emma did the same, and the crowd that had gathered around them applauded excitedly. Jane’s cheeks were wet with tears, and through her disheveled locks Wells’s eyes met Murray’s. Murray smiled.
“You damned fool,” muttered Wells, “I don’t know how you always succeed in stealing the limelight.”
Murray gave a hearty laugh, beaming with happiness. And slowly the four of them, still shaking, rose to their feet, aided by the now solicitous footmen. As they brushed off their clothes, listening to the crowd congratulating Murray, Wells noticed Jane gesturing to him discreetly. No more than a slight bob of the head and a fleeting look, but he understood. He nodded with a sigh and turned toward Murray.
“Well, er . . . I don’t think even I can find the suitable words to thank you for what you did this evening, so at least allow me to offer you and your fiancée a ride in our carriage, since your coachman seems to have left you high and dry, which in my opinion shows good judgment . . .” A discreet nudge in the ribs from Jane dissuaded Wells from continuing that line of thought. “Er, yes, allow us to accompany you to your respective residences. I am sure that some words of thanks will come to me on the way . . .”
The offer was graciously accepted, and the four of them walked toward Wells’s carriage, the two men receiving the odd clap on the shoulder from the crowd. They located Emma’s aunt, who had devoted the past half hour to the pleasurable pastime of criticizing her niece’s insufferable fiancé to her friends, completely oblivious to what had been happening behind her back. The old lady screwed up her face as she climbed into the carriage, like someone entering a pigsty. Only when the three ladies had sat down did the men prepare to climb aboard as well. Murray smiled politely and stepped aside to let Wells pass.
“You first, George.”
Wells smiled back sardonically and, stepping aside, replied, “No, please, you first. I’d rather not turn my back on you . . . Monty.”
12
IS ONE OBLIGED TO BECOME the friend of someone who saves the life of your spouse? What if that person is your fiercest enemy? These questions tormented Wells for weeks after that night at the opera, which he was having difficulty describing because of the changes in mood he had experienced that night. Jane kept insisting he thank Murray—Monty, as she called him—for saving her life. Shouldn’t courtesy transcend resentment? Wells nodded glumly, like a child attempting to digest some grown-up truth, but was content to remain stubbornly silent until Jane stopped nagging him, and he assumed his passive resistance had finally won out over his wife’s eagerness to be courteous. But again he was mistaken, because one morning, without any warning, he heard Jane say from the kitchen that Monty and his fiancée were coming to lunch that day.
The Wellses had moved to Sandgate, where the fresh air would be more beneficial to Wells’s fragile health, and had rented Beach Cottage, which was proving less permanent than they had hoped, for it was too close to the sea and in stormy weather the waves would break over the roof. Nonetheless, at noon on that day, a coach with a pompous “G” on the door drew up at that cottage. Murray’s new coachman, an old fellow who moved slowly, opened the carriage door, and Murray and his fiancée emerged, radiant and smiling, anticipating a pleasant day in the company of their new friends, the Wellses. Needless to say, the reception they got from Wells was rather frosty, but Jane, who had no intention of allowing her husband to spoil the lunch she had so lovingly prepared behind his back, took the couple by the arm and led them into the garden and began pointing out the virtues of the place. Disgruntled, Wells stayed behind with the coachman, who gave him an incongruously meaningful smile. Suddenly, Wells felt an overwhelming desire to cry—not to shed a few quiet tears, but to fill the oceans, because a deep melancholy had begun gnawing at his insides. Taken aback by that violent unhappiness, which not even Murray’s presence could explain, Wells went back inside the house, afraid he would end up weeping on the coachman’s shoulder. Once in the dining room, he thought it opportune to spend a few moments mulling over the sporadic attacks of melancholy he had been experiencing lately, but he had no time because at that very instant he heard the voices of Jane and their guests.
The guided tour of the garden and cottage, forcibly brief, ended in the dining room, where Wells was waiting for them with the brooding expression of a cornered rat. Murray promptly described the room as “cozy,” making Jane glow with pride, since that morning she had filled the room with roses in an attempt to make it look less bleak. Wells, on the other hand, instantly made it clear that he had no intention of making his guests feel at home there. On the contrary, the first thing he did when they sat down to lunch was make a sarcastic remark about the “exuberant youth” of Murray’s new coachman. However, ignoring his impertinence, Murray simply observed that the fellow was a careful driver and didn’t drink, and that was all he asked. He was clearly much too happy to engage in a duel of words, and Wells’s truculence soon proved as futile as it was inappropriate amid the festive mood that had settled over the table. Emma and Jane soon behaved with the ease of those who have known each other since childhood, and Murray, content to see his beloved having a good time, spoke casually about this and that, laughing at anything and everything, praising Jane’s cooking and her and Emma’s beauty, and, at every opportunity, lavishing his affection on Wells, who responded with growing irritation at the turn the lunch was taking. At one point, Murray slipped a great paw inside his jacket and conjured out of nowhere an invitation to his engagement ceremony. Jane insisted they would attend, but Wells merely made a vague gesture that could have been taken to mean anything, hurriedly slipping the invitation into his jacket pocket in the vain hope that everyone would forget it had ever been there. Later, when Jane whisked Emma away to show her the hibiscus bush adorning the back wall of the garden and the men sat down in front of the fire to smoke, Murray informed Wells, as if there could be any doubt, that he was the happiest man alive and that all that happiness he owed to the advice Wells had given him in his letter. It mattered little that for the umpteenth time Wells denied having written it: Murray was delighted by Wells’s stubborn refusal to confess to that splendid gesture.
When the couple finally left for London, Wells reluctantly admitted to himself that Murray’s enthusiasm had caused a tiny crack to appear in the façade of his hostility. But there was no reason for alarm: it was such a small chink it would take years to open up, and Wells had no intention of letting that happen. And yet, he soon discovered that what he thought or ceased to think had little bearing on his own life, for as they stood in front of the hibiscus bush the two women had already conspired to arrange another rendezvous for the following week, this time at Ascot, where the cream of English society would come together. Wells received the news with equanimity and during the intervening week made no objections, as he knew that arguing with Jane about it would be a waste of breath. He had already shown his reluctance to forge a friendship with the couple, for what he considered the most sensible of reasons, and the fact that his wife insisted on arranging those unnatural gatherings made it clear how little his opinion mattered to her.
On the afternoon they were to meet, Wells arrived at Ascot with his lips set in an expression of dignified defeat. Murray, who wore an elegant grey frock coat with matching waistcoat, was in high spirits as he welcomed them and guided them to his box, thanking them effusively all the while for having come. On the way, they were forced to pass through a sea of people, who glided from one side to the other like languorous ballet dancers, gauging each of their gestures to appear as dignified as possible. All the other gentlemen were dressed like Murray, in immaculate grey frock coats, with white flowers in their buttonholes. The tips of their mustaches were waxed, and around their necks hung the obligatory binoculars. For their part, the ladies showed off their beautiful gowns, many with long trains it was difficult not to step on, strings of pearls, lace parasols, and huge, preposterous hats. Emma was waiting for them in the box. She had on a tight-fitting white dress with a black stripe down each side that enveloped her curvaceous figure from neck to toe. In keeping with the Ascot custom, Emma, too, wore a flamboyant hat with a large black-and-white-striped ribbon, a spray of white gauze, and two bright red blooms, which, like an oyster, seemed to enfold the beautiful pearl of her head. When Wells saw how warmly the two women greeted each other, and how Murray reveled in their company, he thought it best once and for all to cast off the role of resentful sarcastic fellow he had insisted on playing and to enjoy that splendid afternoon at the races along with everyone else. If he went on swimming against the tide, he told himself, he would only end up drowning. And so he pretended to blend in with those wealthy, stylish creatures, and he and Murray soon found themselves making fun of the mannered gestures of the gentlemen in the neighboring boxes and looking for comparisons among the ladies’ impossible headwear.
“That one is shaped like a bell,” said Murray.
“And that one resembles a shark’s fin,” Wells parried.
“And the one over there a toadstool.”
“And that of her friend a bird’s nest,” Wells said, and then, before Murray had a chance to point out another, he quickly cut in, flaunting his superior inventiveness: “And the one that girl is wearing looks like a bowl of fruit.”
Murray looked at the woman Wells was referring to and nodded silently, grinning to himself.
“Well, can you come up with a better comparison?”
“Oh, no, George, as always you have hit the nail right on the head. I was only smiling because I know that girl. And I assure you she is capable of far more fanciful acts than sporting such a hat.” Wells looked at the young woman, intrigued. “Her name is Claire Haggerty, and the gentleman beside her is her husband, the son of a rich shipping magnate called Fairbank. We met them at a party last week. She didn’t recognize me, of course, but I could never forget her.”
“And why is that?” asked Wells, imagining some kind of romantic entanglement.
“Because she was one of the group who went on the second expedition I organized to the future,” replied Murray. “And when I saw her climb aboard the Cronotilus, I swear I would never have imagined that bubbling away inside her little head was the mad idea of separating from the group and hiding in the ruins in order to stay behind in the year 2000. Luckily, we found her before she was able to get very far. I hate to imagine what might have happened if we hadn’t discovered her in time.”
“And why would anyone want to live in a ruined world?” Wells murmured, incredulous.
“I think she fell in love with Captain Shackleton.” Murray smiled good-humoredly. Wells raised his eyebrows. “I assure you she wasn’t the only one, George. You can’t imagine the extent of some young girls’ fantasies.”
“Well, she seems to have found her hero without having to travel to the future,” Wells said, noticing how the young woman doted on her affluent husband.
Murray nodded and, looking away from the couple, began rummaging through his pockets.
“Incidentally, George, I brought you something.”
“Another invitation to travel to the year 2000 to add to my collection?”
Murray’s loud guffaw almost made the box quake.
“You should have accepted one of them, George,” he said. “I guarantee you would have enjoyed the trip. But no, I’m afraid it’s something else.”
With a solemn gesture, he placed in Wells’s hands the letter he denied having written. Wells opened it and at last was able to read the advice someone else had given Murray, to forget about reproducing a Martian invasion and simply make Emma laugh.
“Well, what have you to say now, George?”
A triumphant smile appeared on Wells’s lips.
“This isn’t my handwriting, I assure you,” he told Murray, passing the letter back to him, “and I can prove it to you whenever you wish. As I told you, this was written by an imitator.”
Murray folded the letter again and slipped it back into his pocket with great care. Then he studied Wells with an amused grin.
“Don’t you think an imitator would try to reproduce your handwriting? Besides, how do you explain a stranger replying to a letter only you and I know exists?”
Wells shrugged. For a moment he imagined Jane replying secretly to the letter he hadn’t wanted to answer but instantly ruled that out. Jane would never do anything behind his back. Besides, that wasn’t her handwriting either.
“Do you know what my theory is?” said Murray. Wells shrugged again. “The letter is so clumsily executed it looks like someone crudely attempting to disguise his own handwriting, perhaps so that he could later deny his selfless act.”
Murray concluded his theory with a wink that came close to rousing all the old resentment Wells had made such an effort to smother. And yet, knowing that this puzzling misunderstanding would one day be cleared up, he managed to contain himself and change the subject. Toward the end of the day, worn down by Murray’s indefatigable bonhomie, Wells even thought it might only be a matter of time before, as the apocryphal letter announced, he would end up considering him his friend.
A week later, at the engagement ceremony, Wells was one of those who applauded the most. Somehow, he had grown used to the couple’s mutual displays of affection and couldn’t help feeling happy when he saw them formalize their betrothal. Murray and Emma agreed to marry in London, the city invaded by Martians that had joined their lives forever, but the wedding date was postponed until Emma’s father, who had suffered the spectacular loss of all his hair, had recovered. Despite the couple’s eagerness to tie the knot, they decided to wait until the bride-to-be’s parents could cross the Atlantic, considering that they had already broken quite enough conventions.
Life went on regardless, and after the reprieve he had given Murray, Wells began to experience a kind of spiritual inertia, which to his surprise brought him a degree of serenity. Now that he had no great adversary who regularly upset him, who made him seethe whenever he thought about him, Wells felt oddly calm. If he stopped short of describing himself as happy it was because he had always been suspicious of such emphatic statements. As for his work, it had also begun to flow harmoniously, as though in accordance with his mood. Gone was his youthful zeal, the times when, in an attempt to find his own style, he would read his favorite authors with the methodical attention of a spy, as he dreamed of blazing a trail so original nothing hitherto published could be compared to it. And although critics had praised the imagination his novels exuded, the fact was that many of them hadn’t evolved from his own ideas: he owed The Time Machine, The Island of Doctor Moreau, and The Wonderful Visit in part to Joseph Merrick, better known as the Elephant Man, with whom Wells had enjoyed a most inspiring meeting in 1888. But the novel with the strangest beginnings of all was undoubtedly The War of the Worlds, the work that had marked the start of his unexpected friendship with Murray. A stranger had passed the plot on to him when he was fifteen years old. At that time, Wells was apprenticed to the loathsome bakery in Southsea where his mother had sent him to learn a trade. Every afternoon after work he would saunter down to the jetty and stare into the black waters while he wondered forlornly whether drowning in them wouldn’t be his only escape from the depressing future that awaited him. It was on one of those melancholy evenings that a strange fellow of about fifty had walked up to him and started to talk to him as if he knew him better than anyone else in the world. Despite Wells’s initial mistrust, they had ended up holding a conversation, as brief as it was astonishing, during which the stranger had told him a terrifying tale about Martians conquering the Earth. After he had finished, he told Wells that the story was a gift: he could write it one day if he became an author, although if that happened, which the man seemed in no doubt about, Wells must promise to find a more suitable, hopeful ending. And his prediction had come true: that youth had gone on to become a writer and with five novels to his name had finally felt equal to the task the stranger had entrusted him with eighteen years before. In the end, he thought it had turned out rather well. As had occurred with The Time Machine, his readers, oblivious to the social message in his novel, had interpreted it as a simple fantastical tale, but Wells consoled himself by thinking that if the stranger on the jetty were still alive and had read the book, he might feel satisfied with the ending Wells had given it.
