THAT LAST TRAM!

Press, Volume LXXIV, Issue 22419, 4 June 1938, Page 19

THAT LAST TRAM!

££T’VE written a poem.” I “HAVE you? Really? -• My dear, how awfully clever! Show me!” “Well, it’s not exactly a poem; but it’s in lines, you know.” “I MUST see it. My dear, where is it?” “I’m sitting on it. I’ll read it to you. But if I just finish this letter first, you could post it in the Square, couldn’t you?” “Yes, I’ll post it. What’s the time? I don’t want to miss the last tram.” “My DEAR! How PECULIAR! That’s just what my poem is about. But you’ve got oceans of time to-night. It’s only 10 to 10.” “Well,” Geraldine began. “Oh, never mind. You finish your letter and then we’ll have the poem.” * I did. “Now,” I explained to her as I got ready to read, “I wrote this after I made you miss the last tram the other night: it’s called As Others See Us, or Guilty Conscience at Midnight, I’ll begin now. When people come I am happy; And I think: now I really will let them go early. Yes. I won’t keep them. -No. Let them catch the last tram. Yes. Remember the miles to walk. Yes. It’s fun. Put everything off. Forget about work. Those letters? There’s no hurry. There’s always tomorrow. People are here. I am happy. Come in, come in! How nice to see you! . .. Take off your coats. (Build up the fire). See my new picture? The one on the wall. Excuse me a minute. (Did I leave the gas on?) What were you saying? When I interrupted, I mean? You’ve forgotten? A pity. But as I was saying . . . Just listen to this. It’s Mozart. You’ll love it. You must. You like that one better? Oh, come now! Extraordinary! That word. Don’t you know what it means? Dear me! Here, take my Pocket Oxford. More music? Of course. Now what would you like me to play? Some Chopin? Good God, no! Not after Mozart. We’ll have some Bach fugues. Now can you amuse yourselves for a time? While I get the supper? What? Help? No, thank you, my dear. I’m much quicker alone. What on earth have you talked about all this long time? Without me, I mean? . No, not on that table. On this one. Yes, there. Thank you so much. No, give me that here. Thanks.

[Specially written for "The Press” by DIANA BAHTON]

Now, black or white? Sugar? Oh, do eat some more! Oh, please eat some more; Why, I haven’t begun. What? Trams? Oh, but it’s early. No, really: that’s fast. You’ve got lots of time. Ten minutes at' least. Besides, I’ve still got to show you my pictures. Yes, you must see them. Really you must. Now this one . . . I’m certainly well pleased with that. What? You’ve missed it? No. Surely not. My watch must have stopped. Oh, I’m most terribly sorry. Such a long way to walk. A taxi?" No. Well. . . Oh, I am sorrv. It won’t happen again. Really it won’t. I promise. Good night. Good night.” I paused. “Well, what do you think of it?’’ Geraldine laughed and said kind things. She said that there were two sides to every picture. “What is the time?” she said. “Only 20 past 10. Goodness, you’ll catch the one before the last.” She smiled. Strange, I thought, Geraldine seems to find the whole thing much funnier than I do. She had a look on her face as if she had a joke that I didn’t know. “Well,” I said, “I’m turning over a new leaf. I’m never going to lei you miss the last tram again. II you’d like to be really early I’ll even let you go now; and you can catch two before the last.” “I think I will go now; and I’ll post your letter.” And Geraldine smiled and smiled as she went out on to the landing and down the stairs into the dark hall. And when she got there, down there in the half light, she Iqoked up at me and she said in a small, teasing voice, scarcely more than a whisper: “But you forgot, my dear, that it’s Sunday. And the last tram goes at 10 o’clock on Sunday.” And she went swishing out the door and down the path, and she was laughing and laughing to herself. Mortified, that was how I felt.