Description
On the morning of the eleventh of November, 1937, precisely ateleven o'clock, some well-meaning busybody consulted his watch andloudly announced the hour, with the result that all of us in thedining-car felt constrained to put aside drinks and newspapers andspend the two minutes' silence in rather embarrassed stares at oneanother or out of the window. Not that anyone had intendeddisrespect--merely that in a fast-moving train we knew no rules forcorrect behaviour and would therefore rather not have behaved atall. Anyhow, it was during those tense uneasy seconds that I firsttook notice of the man opposite. Dark-haired, slim, and austerelygood-looking, he was perhaps in his early or middle forties; hewore an air of prosperous distinction that fitted well with hisneat but quiet standardized clothes. I could not guess whether hehad originally moved in from a third- or a first-class compartment.lf a million Englishmen are like that. Their inconspicuouscorrectness makes almost a display of concealment.As he looked out of the window I saw something happen to his eyes--a change from a glance to a gaze and then from a gaze to a glare, asudden sharpening of focus, as when a person thinks he recognizessomeone fleetingly in a crowd. Meanwhile a lurch of the trainspilled coffee on the table between us, providing an excuse forapologies as soon as the two minutes were over; I got in with minefirst, but by the time he turned to reply the focus was lost, hislook of recognition unsure. Only the embarrassment remained, andto ease it I made some comment on the moorland scenery, which wasindeed somberly beautiful that morning, for overnight snow lay onthe summits, and there was one of them, twin-domed, that seemed tokeep pace with the train, moving over the intervening valley like aghostly camel. That's Mickle, I said, pointing to it.Surprisingly he answered: Do you know if there's a lake--quite asmall lake--between the peaks?Two men at the table across the aisle then intervened with theinstant garrulousness of those who overhear a question put tosomeone else. They were also, I think, moved by a common desire totalk down an emotional crisis, for the entire dining-car seemedsuddenly full of chatter. One said there WAS such a lake, if youcalled it a lake, but it was really more of a swamp; and the othersaid there wasn't any kind of lake at all, though after heavy rainit might be a bit soggy up there, and then the first man agreedthat maybe that was so, and presently it turned out that thoughthey were both Derbyshire men, neither had actually climbed Micklesince boyhood.We listened politely to all this and thanked them, glad to let thematter drop. Nothing more was said till they left the train atLeicester; then I leaned across the table and said: It doesn'tpay to argue with local inhabitants, otherwise I'd have answeredyour question myself--because I was on top of Mickle yesterday.A gleam reappeared in his eyes. YOU were?Yes, I'm one of those eccentric people who climb mountains for funall the year round.So you saw the lake?There wasn't a lake or a swamp or a sign of either.Ah. . . . And the gleam faded.You sound disappointed?Well, no--hardly that. Maybe I was thinking of somewhere else.I'm afraid I've a bad memory.For mountains?For names too. MICKLE, did you say it was? He spoke the word asif he were trying the sound of it.
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