Consider Her Ways and Others

  Then she jumped up, and, before I was half-way out of my chair, she was out of the room …

  Colin Trafford paused to light a fresh cigarette, and took his time before going on. At length he pulled his thoughts back.

  ‘Well,’ he went on, ‘obviously you will have realized by now that that Mrs Trafford was born Ottilie Harshom. It happened in 1928, and she married that Colin Trafford in 1949. Her father was killed in a plane crash in 1938 – I don’t remember her ever mentioning his first name. That’s unfortunate – there are a lot of things that are unfortunate: had I had any idea that I might be jerked back here I’d have taken more notice of a lot of things. But I hadn’t … Something exceedingly odd had happened, but that was no reason to suppose that an equally odd thing would happen, in reverse …

  ‘I did do my best, out of my own curiosity, to discover when the schism had taken place. There must, as I saw it, have been some point where, perhaps by chance, some pivotal thing had happened, or failed to happen, and finding it could bring one closer to knowing the moment, the atom of time, that had been split by some random neutron to give two atoms of time diverging into different futures. Once that had taken place, consequences gradually accumulating would make the conditions on one plane progressively different from those on the other.

  ‘Perhaps that is always happening. Perhaps chance is continually causing two different outcomes so that in a dimension we cannot perceive there are infinite numbers of planes, some so close to our own and so recently split off that they vary only in minor details, others vastly different. Planes on which some misadventure caused Alexander to be beaten by the Persians, Scipio to fall before Hannibal, Caesar to stay beyond the Rubicon; infinite, infinite planes of the random split and re-split by the random. Who can tell? But, now that we know the Universe for a random place, why not?

  ‘But I couldn’t come near fixing the moment. It was, I think, somewhere in late 1926, or early 1927. Further than that one seemed unable to go without the impossible data of quantities of records from both planes for comparison. Something happening, or not happening, about then had brought about results which prevented, among other things, the rise of Hitler, and thus the Second World War – and consequently postponed the achievement of nuclear fission on this plane of our dichotomy – if that is a good word for it.

  ‘Anyway, it was for me, and as I said, simply a matter of incidental curiosity. My active concerns were more immediate. And the really important one was Ottilie …

  ‘I have, as you know, been married – and I was fond of my wife. It was, as people say, a successful marriage, and it never occurred to me to doubt that – until this thing happened to me. I don’t want to be disloyal to Della now, and I don’t think she was unhappy – but I am immensely thankful for one thing: that this did not happen while she was alive; she never knew, because I didn’t know then, that I had married the wrong woman – and I hope she never thought it …

  ‘And Ottilie had married the wrong man … We found that out. Or perhaps one should put it that she had not married the man she thought she had. She had fallen in love with him; and, no doubt, he had loved her, to begin with – but in less than a year she became torn between the part she loved, and the side she detested …

  ‘Her Colin Trafford looked like me – right down to the left thumb which had got mixed up in an electric fan and never quite matched the other side – indeed, up to a point, that point somewhere in 1926–7 he was me. We had, I gathered, some mannerisms in common, and voices that were similar – though we differed in our emphases, and in our vocabularies, as I learnt from a tape, and in details: the moustache, the way we wore our hair, the scar on the left side of the forehead which was exclusively his, yet, in a sense, I was him and he was me. We had the same parents, the same genes, the same beginning, and – if I was right about the time of the dichotomy – we must have had the same memory of our life, for the first five years or so.

  ‘But, later on, things on our different planes must have run differently for us. Environment, or experiences, had developed qualities in him which, I have to think, lie latent in me – and, I suppose, vice versa.

  ‘I think that’s a reasonable assumption, don’t you? After all, one begins life with a kind of armature which has individual differences and tendencies, though a common general plan, but whatever is modelled on that armature later consists almost entirely of stuff from contacts and influences. What these had been for the other Colin Trafford I don’t know, but I found the results somewhat painful – rather like continually glimpsing oneself in unexpected distorting mirrors.

  ‘There were certain cautions, restraints, and expectations in Ottilie that taught me a number of things about him, too. Moreover, in the next day or two I read his novels attentively. The earliest was not displeasing, but as the dates grew later, and the touch surer I cared less and less for the flavour; no doubt the widening streaks of brutality showed the calculated development of a selling-point, but there was something a little more than that – besides, one has a choice of selling-points … With each book I resented seeing my name on the title-page a little more.

  ‘I discovered the current “work in progress” too. With the help of his notes I could, I believe, have produced a passable forgery, but I knew I would not. If I had to continue his literary career, it would be with my kind of books, not his. But, in any case, I had no need to worry over making a living: what with the war and one thing and another, physics on my own plane was a generation ahead of theirs. Even if they had got as far as radar it was still someone’s military secret. I had enough knowledge to pass for a genius, and make my fortune if I cared to use it …’

  He smiled, and shook his head. He went on:

  ‘You see, once the first shock was over and I had begun to perceive what must have happened, there was no cause for alarm, and, once I had met Ottilie, none for regret. The only problem was adjustment. It helped in general, I found, to try to get back to as much as I could remember of the pre-war world. But details were more difficult: unrecognized friends, lapsed friends, all with unknown histories, some of them with wives, or husbands, I knew (though not necessarily the same ones); some with quite unexpected partners. There were queer moments, too – an encounter with a burly cheerful man in the the bar of the Hyde Park Hotel. He didn’t know me, but I knew him; the last time I had seen him he was lying by a road with a sniper’s bullet through his head. I saw Della, my wife, leaving a restaurant looking happy, with her arm through that of a tall legal-looking type; it was uncanny to have her glance at me as at a complete stranger – I felt as if both of us were ghosts – but I was glad she had got past 1951 all right on that plane. The most awkward part was frequently running into people that it appeared I should know; the other Colin’s acquaintanceship was evidently vast and curious. I began to favour the idea of proclaiming a breakdown from overwork, to tide me over for a bit.

  ‘One thing that did not cross my mind was the possibility of what I took to be a unique shift of plane occurring again, this time in reverse …

  ‘– I am thankful it did not. It would have blighted the three most wonderful weeks in my life. I thought it was, as the engraving on the back of the watch said: “C. for ever O.”

  ‘I made a tentative attempt to explain to her what I thought had happened, but it wasn’t meaning anything to her, so I gave it up. I think she had it worked out for herself that somewhere about a year after we were married I had begun to suffer from overstrain, and that now I had got better and become again the kind of man she had thought I was … something like that … but theories about it did not interest her much – it was the consequence that mattered …

  ‘And how right she was – for me, too. After all, what else did matter? As far as I was concerned, nothing. I was in love. What did it matter how I had found the one unknown woman I had sought all my life. I was happy, as I had never expected to be … Oh, all the phrases are trite, but “on top of the world” was suddenly, half-ridiculously vivid. I
was full of a confidence rather like that of the slightly drunk. I could take anything on. With her beside me I could keep on top of that, or any, world … I think she felt like that, too. I’m sure she did. She’d wiped out the bad years. Her faith was re-growing, stronger every day … If I’d only known – but how could I know? What could I do …?’

  Again he stopped talking, and stared into the fire, this time for so long that at last the doctor fidgeted in his chair to recall him, and then added:

  ‘What happened?’

  Colin Trafford still had a faraway look.

  ‘Happened?’ he repeated. ‘If I knew that I could perhaps – but I don’t know … There’s nothing to know … It’s random, too … One night I went to sleep with Ottilie beside me – in the morning I woke up in a hospital bed – back here again … That’s all there was to it. All there is … Just random …’

  In the long interval that followed, Dr Harshom unhurriedly refilled his pipe, lit it with careful attention, assured himself it was burning evenly and drawing well, settled himself back comfortably, and then said, with intentional matter-of-factness:

  ‘It’s a pity you don’t believe that. If you did, you’d never have begun this search; if you’d come to believe it, you’d have dropped the search before now. No, you believe that there is a pattern or rather, that there were two patterns, closely similar to begin with, but gradually, perhaps logically, becoming more variant – and that you, your psyche, or whatever you like to call it, was the aberrant, the random factor.

  ‘However, let’s not go into the philosophical, or metaphysical consideration of what you call the dichotomy now – all that stuff will keep. Let us say that I accept the validity of your experience, for you, but reserve judgement on its nature. I accept it on account of several features – not the least being, as I have said, the astronomical odds against the conjunction of names, Ottilie and Harshom, occurring fortuitously. Of course, you could have seen the name somewhere and lodged it in your subconscious, but that, too, I find so immensely improbable that I put it aside.

  ‘Very well, then, let us go on from there. Now, you appear to me to have made a number of quite unwarrantable assumptions. You have assumed, for instance, that because an Ottilie Harshom exists on what you call that plane, she must have come into existence on this plane also. I cannot see that that is justified by anything you have told me. That she might have existed here, I admit, for the name Ottilie is in my branch of the family; but the chances of her having no existence at all are considerably greater – did not you yourself mention that you recognized friends who in different circumstances were married to different wives? – is it not, therefore, highly probable that the circumstances which produced an Ottilie Harshom there failed to occur here, with the result that she could not come into existence at all? And, indeed, that must be so.

  ‘Believe me, I am not unsympathetic. I do understand what your feelings must be, but are you not, in effect, in the state we all have known – searching for an ideal young woman who has never been born? We must face the facts: if she exists, or did exist, I should have heard of her, Somerset House would have a record of her, your own extensive researches would have revealed something positive. I do urge you for your own good to accept it, my boy. With all this against you, you simply have no case.’

  ‘Only my own positive conviction,’ Colin put in. ‘It’s against reason, I know – but I still have it.’

  ‘You must try to rid yourself of it. Don’t you see there are layers of assumptions? If she did exist she might be already married.’

  ‘But to the wrong man,’ Colin said promptly.

  ‘Even that does not follow. Your counterpart varied from you, you say. Well, her counterpart if she existed would have had an entirely different upbringing in different circumstances from the other; the probability is that there would only be the most superficial resemblance. You must see that the whole thing goes into holes wherever you touch it with reason.’ He regarded Colin for a moment, and shook his head. ‘Somewhere at the back of your mind you are giving house-room to the proposition that unlike causes can produce like results. Throw it out.’

  Colin smiled.

  ‘How Newtonian, Doctor. No, a random factor is random. Chance therefore exists.’

  ‘Young man, you’re incorrigible,’ the doctor told him. ‘If there weren’t little point in wishing success with the impossible I’d say your tenacity deserves it. As things are, I advise you to apply it to the almost attainable.’

  His pipe had gone out, and he lit it again.

  ‘That,’ he went on, ‘was a professional recommendation. But now, if it isn’t too late for you, I’d like to hear more. I don’t pretend to guess at the true nature of your experience, but the speculations your plane of might-have-been arouses are fascinating. Not unnaturally one feels a curiosity to know how one’s own counterpart made out there – and failing that, how other people’s did. Our present Prime Minister, for instance – did both of him get the job? And Sir Winston – or is he not Sir Winston over there? – how on earth did he get along with no Second World War to make his talents burgeon? And what about the poor old Labour Party …? The thing provokes endless questions …’

  After a late breakfast the next morning Dr Harshom helped Colin into his coat in the hall, but held him there for a final word.

  ‘I spent what was left of the night thinking about this,’ he said earnestly. ‘Whatever the explanation may be, you must write it down, every detail you can remember. Do it anonymously if you like, but do it. It may not be unique, some day it may give valuable confirmation of someone else’s experience, or become evidence in support of some theory. So put it on record – but then leave it at that … Do your best to forget the assumptions you jumped at – they’re unwarranted in a dozen ways. She does not exist. The only Ottilie Harshoms there have been in this world died long ago. Let the mirage fade. But thank you for your confidence. Though I am inquisitive, I am discreet. If there should be any way I can help you …’

  Presently he was watching the car down the drive. Colin waved a hand just before it disappeared round the corner. Dr Harshom shook his head. He knew he might as well have saved his breath, but he felt in duty bound to make one last appeal. Then he turned back into the house, frowning. Whether the obsession was a fantasy, or something more than a fantasy, was almost irrelevant to the fact that sooner or later the young man was going to drive himself into a breakdown …

  During the next few weeks Dr Harshom learnt no more, except that Colin Trafford had not taken his advice, for word filtered through that both Peter Harshom in Cornwall and Harold in Durham had received requests for information regarding a Miss Ottilie Harshom who, as far as they knew, was non-existent.

  After that there was nothing more for some months. Then a picture-postcard from Canada. On one side was a picture of the Parliament Buildings, Ottawa. The message on the other was brief. It said simply:

  ‘Found her. Congratulate me. C. T.’

  Dr Harshom studied it for a moment, and then smiled slightly. He was pleased. He had thought Colin Trafford a likeable young man; too good to run himself to pieces over such a futile quest. One did not believe it for a moment, of course, but if some sensible young woman had managed to convince him that she was the reincarnation, so to speak, of his beloved, good luck to her – and good luck for him … The obsession could now fade quietly away. He would have liked to respond with the requested congratulations, but the card bore no address.

  Several weeks later there was another card, with a picture of St Mark’s Square, Venice. The message was again laconic, but headed this time by an hotel address. It read:

  ‘Honeymoon. May I bring her to see you after?’

  Dr Harshom hesitated. His professional inclination was against it; a feeling that anything likely to recall the young man to the mood in which he had last seen him was best avoided. On the other hand, a refusal would seem odd as well as rude. In the end he replied, on the back of a picture
of Hereford Cathedral:

  ‘Do. When?’

  Half August had already gone before Colin Trafford did make his reappearance. He drove up looking sunburnt and in better shape all round than he had on his previous visit. Dr Harshom was glad to see it, but surprised to find that he was alone in the car.

  ‘But I understood the whole intention was that I should meet the bride,’ he protested.

  ‘It was – it is,’ Colin assured him. ‘She’s at the hotel. I – well, I’d like to have a few words with you first.’

  The doctor’s gaze became a little keener, his manner more thoughtful.

  ‘Very well. Let’s go indoors. If there’s anything I’m not to mention, you could have warned me by letter, you know.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not that. She knows about that. Quite what she makes of it, I’m not sure, but she knows, and she’s anxious to meet you. No, it’s – well, it won’t take more than ten minutes.’

  The doctor led the way to his study. He waved Colin to an easy-chair, and himself took the swivel-chair at the desk.

  ‘Unburden yourself,’ he invited.

  Colin sat forward, forearms on knees, hands dangling between them.

  ‘The most important thing, Doctor, is for me to thank you. I can never be grateful enough to you – never. If you had not invited me here as you did, I think it is unlikely I would ever have found her.’

  Dr Harshom frowned. He was not convinced that the thanks were justified. Clearly, whoever Colin had found was possessed of a strong therapeutic quality, nevertheless:

  ‘As I recollect, all I did was listen, and offer you unwelcome advice for your own good – which you did not take,’ he remarked.

  ‘So it seemed to me at the time,’ Colin agreed. ‘It looked as if you had closed all the doors. But then, when I thought it over, I saw one, just one, that hadn’t quite latched.’

  ‘I don’t recall giving you any encouragement,’ Dr Harshom asserted.

  ‘I am sure you don’t but you did. You indicated to me the last, faintly possible line – and I followed it up – No, you’ll see what it was later, if you’ll just bear with me a little.