Free A Girl in Winter by Philip Larkin Page B

without comment, so that she could follow the main press of people up a concrete passage out onto the railway platform. Robin Fennel was standing under a notice-board which said: “To the Boats.”
    They saw each other simultaneously.
    “Katherine?”
    She held out her hand, smiling.
    “So glad you could come. Did you have a good journey?”
    “Yes—good.”
    “Let me take your bag—we’d better get seats.”
    She followed him up the platform. He had a very clear voice, and she was thankful to find that she could separate his words without difficulty. A soft grey hat shaded his eyes and face. They got into a first-class compartment and he put her bag onto the rack and let down the window as far as it would go. The carriage was otherwise unoccupied and filled with dusty light.
    “Would you sooner face the engine?”
    She blushed. “Please——?”
    Without embarrassment, he made an effort to translate, slowly, with an accurate accent.
    “Oh!—no. I never mind.”
    They sat down, Robin throwing his hat and a copy of The Times on the seat by him.
    “We’ll have lunch on the train. I expect you are hungry. Did you have anything to eat on the boat?”
    “I had some coffee.”
    “Oh, then we’ll eat on the train. We should get to London before two, and meet my father. He will drive us home.”
    “In a motor-car?”
    “Yes, then you’ll be able to see the country.” He sat opposite her composedly, his arms folded, speaking as if they were old friends. “You haven’t been to England before, have you?”
    “Never.”
    “I hope this fine weather will hold. It will be too bad if it rains all the time.”
    The photograph had not been bad, but it had not quite done him justice. The thing it had failed to capture was the contrast between his severely-cut features and the gaiety conferred upon them by his youthfulness and fresh skin. Although he was only a boy, it was already quite plain what he would look like as a man—stern, with strong nose, chin and forehead. The muscles round his mouthwould become prominent, and his cheeks hint at concavity . The dry black hair would appear on his wrists, and with constantly shaving his jowl would be dark-blueish . But this was all in the future: at the moment his mature look was counterbalanced by the almost feminine gentleness of youth, smooth as the skin of a pear and as delicate as linen.
    She had been greatly afraid that they would find nothing to say to each other. This was well-grounded as far as she was concerned, but Robin seemed to feel no constraint. His manner was unhurried: he wasted no words or gestures, and this calmed her: he explained that his father and himself had stayed the previous night in London, and while his father had gone about some business , Robin had travelled down that morning to Dover, and spent the time wandering about the town until her boat was due. He said that it was a perfect day for seeing across to France. She remembered how she fancied she could see large patches of weed dark through the lucid water, but dare not try to explain this. No-one else got into their compartment and after a while the train started, easing forward with a surprising absence of shock: as they moved steadily out Katherine noticed two posters by the station bookstall: “Heat Wave” and “Lunchtime Scores”. She wondered what they meant but did not ask. Robin went on talking quietly about nothing in particular: at one point she was disconcerted to learn he rode horseback .
    “Is your case locked?” he asked as they rose to go along for lunch.
    “Locked? … Yes…. I leave it here, don’t I?”
    “Oh, yes. It’s safest to lock it, though.”
    “The keys are safe.”
    The dining-car was not full, and they had a table to themselves, with a vase of flowers which Robin moved aside. Clear soup swayed to and fro in the deep plates.Katherine realized that she was very hungry. She took a roll from the wicker basket.
    “People say food on English trains is very