The two men said ‘Good night’ cordially enough. The two girls said nothing. She was out in the street, stumbling along in the blackness back to the Rosamund Tea Rooms. She was aware of an involuntary swaying in her walk, and in front of her eyes was a vision of Lieutenant Pike’s face as he had said ‘Good night’ – his look of disappointment, of embarrassment, and, almost certainly, of contempt. All the sudden delight and triumph had gone out of the evening, and she was more alone than ever. She had thought to score off the Rosamund Tea Rooms, but the Rosamund Tea Rooms had scored off her. She had to go back to the boarding-house now with her tail between her legs. She knew that those four back there were at this moment talking about her adversely or scornfully. She had no place in either environment, and she was alone in the world. She was, in fact, completely upset, and she fervently wished the thing had never happened. She was resentful towards the man for having upset her like this, and for having made her drink too much.
By the way she had drunk too much, too, and she had better look out. She was late for dinner as well – ten minutes late. Did she dare go in, ten minutes late and having drunk too much?
She washed hurriedly in her dim pink bedroom, and decided she was able to brazen it out. No sooner had she entered the dining-room, and taken her seat at the table, than she decided that she had made a mistake. She said ‘Good evening’ to a floating Mrs. Barratt and Mr. Thwaites, and she heard them say ‘Good evening’ back. She saw that they were well into the middle of the main dish, which was fish, and Sheila at once put some tepid soup in front of her. She stared at her soup as she ate it, and no one spoke. She waited for someone to speak, but still no one did so. Why? What was the matter? Was it because they knew she was drunk, because they were too appalled by her behaviour to speak? When Sheila replaced her soup with the fish, she looked up to see if they were looking at her. They were not. They were looking at nothing and not speaking.
Not a word was uttered throughout the meal. If Mr. Thwaites was not in a talking mood, such a thing was by no means unknown at the Rosamund Tea Rooms at dinner, but nothing could convince her that there was not some graver meaning behind the silence of the dining-room tonight. At last Miss Steele stole from the room with her Life of Katherine Parr. The others followed her one by one. Sheila put some jam tart in front of her and she was left alone, and as it were in disgrace, to eat it.
She went straight up to her room. Then she went to the bathroom and turned on a bath. She began to feel better, and stayed a long while in the hot water.
2
She slept well, but awoke at six, and could not go to sleep again. She reviewed the evening before dispassionately. She saw it in hues less black than those in which it had been steeped last night, but she still thought ill of it, and still had a feeling of having been, in a rather unfair way, upset.
She surprised herself saying to herself, with an air of resignation, that ‘that was the end of that, anyway’, and she asked herself what she meant by this. What was the end of what? Had anything begun, which had now ended?
She sought carefully for a solution to this problem, and found it in his remark that he had ‘spotted her first thing and made up his mind to meet up with her’. Most odd. Well, he would certainly have no further ambition to meet up with her now. Because of her general maladroitness, of her inability to drink, and of the arrival on the scene of those two girls, the whole thing had been bungled and was at an end.
The day was Saturday, and she did not have to go to London. In the morning she did some shopping in the town and succeeded, for the most part, in putting yesterday evening from her mind. She did, however, occasionally wonder what kind of night Lieutenant Pike had had after she had left him, and at what hour and in what place it had ended.
In the afternoon, coming in late to tea in the Lounge, she found Lieutenant Pike seated on the settee and in conversation with Mr. Thwaites. Mrs. Barratt and Miss Steele were also present. He rose as she entered, cup in hand, and smiled at her. Then he sat down and went on talking to Mr. Thwaites.
American and British institutions and customs were being compared and contrasted, and Lieutenant Pike, in the matter of words per minute, was more than holding his own with the tyrant. This pleased her a good deal. She realised that they were both, in their different ways, insurmountable talkers, but the Lieutenant, in a combat of this sort, had the power of youth, together with the gift and tradition in loquacity peculiar to his nation, on his side.
They talked until a quarter to six, and then Mr. Thwaites left the room in a sardonic temper and disliking the United States of America more than usual. By this time Mrs. Barratt and Miss Steele had also gone, and she was left alone in the Lounge with Lieutenant Pike. ‘Well,’ he said, rising and smiling at her again, ‘it’s just about time you and I went for a walk, isn’t it?’
She had no difficulty in seeing that by this he meant that it was just about time that the public-houses were opening their doors, and although she was not certain that she was going to accept his invitation, she felt a lift of pleasure and relief. So it was not ‘all over’, after all!
‘Is it?’ she said, and a few minutes later he was holding her arm as they steered a course along the black street in the direction of the River Sun.
3
She begged him to make her gin and french a small one, and this time he did as she wished. This improved her opinion of him. She noticed that he was faithful to a large whisky and soda for himself. She asked him how they had all got on last night, and he groaned deeply and raised his eyes to heaven – thus indicating that he had drunk to excess and now bitterly repented it. She asked him about the two girls, and he said, casually, oh, they had faded out soon after her. At once her heart, in the same occult collusion with the gin and french as had come into being the night before, began to glow. He was now definitely on her side against yesterday evening, as yesterday evening he had been on her side against the Rosamund Tea Rooms, and the same warm, exhilarating atmosphere began to prevail.
The Saturday-night place became very crowded, but they had a comfortable corner to themselves. Every now and again he went to the bar to refill their glasses. She felt the drink affecting her potently, but this time the result was not one of making her unhappy, of setting her on edge, but of composing her beautifully, of balancing and refreshing her.
She dreaded the renewed appearance of Lieutenant Lummis and the two girls, but this did not happen. Soon enough she noticed that it was six and twenty minutes past seven, which meant that she had four minutes in which to return to the Rosamund Tea Rooms for dinner. She mentioned the time of the evening to Lieutenant Pike, but it did not seem to impress him. A little later she mentioned it again, and he explained that they were going to eat upstairs at the River Sun. Though she had been prepared for this, she was filled with joy and terror. She said, if that was the case, she must ‘let them know’. He said why let them know, it was a free country, wasn’t it? She said they would ‘worry’. He said let them worry. Pressed on the point, he agreed that it might be wise to telephone, and said he would do so himself in the near future. Pressed to do so at once, he got up and did so. When he returned she eagerly asked to whom he had spoken, and what had been ‘said’. But he gave her no satisfactory information: he said no more than that it was ‘all O.K.’: he was uncommunicative and inconsequent.
It was, actually, at this moment that there first dawned upon her a realisation of the quality which mainly characterised the Lieutenant – his inconsequence. He was not only inconsequent, as most human beings are, in drink: he was chronically and inveterately inconsequent. His sudden suggestion, the night before in the hall of the Rosamund Tea Rooms, that she should join him in a drink, had been inconsequent. His remark that he had spotted her first thing and had made up his mind to meet up with her had, she believed, been inconsequent. His prompt and easy relinquishing of her when his friend and the two girls had joined them had been inconsequent. Now he had on the spur of the moment decided to give her dinn
er, adopting an inconsequent attitude in regard to the Rosamund Tea Rooms and any social consequences whatsoever.
She was far from being in a mood to criticise this characteristic trait tonight, however. On the contrary, in her escape from the long inhibitions enclosing her at the Rosamund Tea Rooms, she was disposed to regard it as a merit, and to remind herself that she herself would be improved by a more inconsequent attitude generally. Bearing this in mind, she did not think it fitting to refuse his next offer of a drink, nor yet another offer which came a little later.
They were not up in the dining-room until half-past eight, did not begin to eat until ten to nine, and had not finished until a quarter to ten. After this he was anxious to add a final polish to his evening’s drinking with further whiskies downstairs, but the bars below were now so packed with noisy civilians and his compatriot soldiers that he allowed her to prevail upon him to abandon the project and leave the place – not, however, before he had fought his way to the bar and obtained a half-bottle of whisky for his pocket in the way of insurance. She observed that he was now drunk, but not as yet dangerously so, and she herself had enough drink inside her to fear no evil results.
Walking along arm-in-arm in the direction of the Rosamund Tea Rooms she asked him where they were going, and he said he didn’t have any notion, where were they? Then he said, ‘Let’s go and see the folks.’ She asked him what folks, and he said ‘The folks. The old guy. Let’s go and see ’em.’ At this she realised that the old guy was Mr. Thwaites and that he proposed to burst in upon the sacred after-dinner stillness of the boarding-house Lounge. Her spirits being as high and bold as they were, she was for a moment tempted to support this plan, but was wise enough to see its folly in time, and to attempt to dissuade him. He asked where in hell could they go, anyway, and she said she personally would like to go to bed. There followed an argument about this, which continued until they reached the steps of the Rosamund Tea Rooms, where it had to be continued in lowered voices. She was now hardened in her resolution to go to bed, and all at once – and again inconsequently – he consented. He himself would go into the Lounge for a bit, and then he also would go to bed.
She did not like the idea of his going into the Lounge, but it was not her responsibility or business. Also he seemed suddenly more sober, and she thought this would be the best compromise. In the hall, as he took off his overcoat, she thanked him, in whispers, for the evening, and on the stairs going up he said good-night, he’d be seeing her. She went on up to her room. She heard him entering the Lounge.
She decided to wash some stockings before going to bed. For this reason, when, a quarter of an hour later, she heard a soft knocking on the door, she was not undressed. She opened the door and found Lieutenant Pike standing in the doorway with a half-bottle of whisky in his hand. He explained that he had come up for one for the road, and had she got a glass and some water or something? She whispered he mustn’t, he must go away, he mustn’t! He said Come on, just one for the road, and she could have one too. She noticed that he was now drunk again, drunker than he had been throughout the entire evening. He was a very baffling man. She let him in and said he must be quiet, he must go and he must be quiet.
She went out on to the landing to see if anyone was about. She heard nothing, and concluding that her fellow-lodgers were all as yet in the Lounge, guessed that the situation might be retrieved if she got rid of him at once.
She came back, not knowing whether to shut the door so that nothing was heard, or to leave it open so as to defeat the charge of clandestinity. She compromised by leaving it two inches open. He had already poured a large amount of whisky into her tooth-glass and filled up with water from her tap. He said God Almighty they were a stuffy bunch down there. She said he must be quiet. He must be quiet and go! Didn’t he understand?
He was quiet. He nodded with the air of a man who had cottoned on to a clever idea. He was quiet with a mad, infinitely portentous quietude. This caused him, as it were, to go to sleep on his feet as he gazed at her, glass in hand, and to sway faintly from side to side. He took another swill at his drink, and was as quiet as a contemplating Buddha. She saw that he was willing to go on standing there being quiet in this way all night.
She went out on to the landing again. She returned and said ‘Go on. Drink it up. You must go!’ He drank it up. She stuffed the bottle of whisky into his pocket and manoeuvred him towards the door. He said ‘Well – good night,’ and looked at her. She said ‘Good night,’ and smiled. He paused, and put his arms around her, in order to kiss her. She offered him her cheek to be kissed. He kissed her cheek, and then kissed her neck. Then he kissed her mouth. She said ‘Good night.’ He said ‘Good night’ and disappeared.
She closed the door and went on washing her stockings. She undressed and smoked a cigarette in bed. She was not nauseated or shocked by what had just happened. She was curiously pleased and cheerful. She had enjoyed her evening to the full. She wondered what he meant by it all, and she did not much care. She hoped he had not made a fool of himself in the Lounge, but she did not much care about that, either. It was not her business. In a curious way she felt a new woman. She put out her light and slept profoundly.
4
No arrangement had been made between them to meet again, but she had a feeling, the next morning, that she would see him at tea-time. She appeared ten minutes late for tea, half expecting to find him there; but he was not. Nor did he appear at all for tea, though she waited in the room an hour and a half. Nor did he appear anywhere during the evening.
On Monday evening, returning from her work, she again imagined she would see him, if not by himself, at any rate in the dining-room with his friend. But she was again disappointed. On Tuesday she heard accidentally, through Mrs. Payne, that he and his friend had three days’ leave which they were spending in London.
She did not see or hear from him again until Thursday evening. Then, as she was dressing for dinner in her room, Sheila came rushing up the stairs to announce that she was wanted on the telephone. The telephone being in Mrs. Payne’s private room on the ground floor, this was a boarding-house sensation. The residents of the Rosamund Tea Rooms were not telephone-using animals. Mrs. Payne was in the room, and did not see any reason to leave it.
He asked her how she was, and said that he had been in London for three days and that he was now at the River Sun. She was to come round at once to have a drink. She explained that she was just about to have dinner, and he said she needn’t bother about dinner, there was plenty of that round where he was. He sounded in extremely high spirits, and if only in order to cut the conversation short, she agreed to do as he said. She rang off, and thanked Mrs. Payne for the use of the telephone. Mrs. Payne replied affably, but not ostentatiously so. Miss Roach had a remarkable feeling that Mrs. Payne was the headmistress of an academy from which, if she went on like this, she was likely to be expelled at an early date.
She did not know exactly how much Mrs. Payne had heard, and she did not have the courage to tell her she would not be in to dinner. Instead, as she went out, she caught Sheila in the dining-room, and quietly broke the news to her.
She was a little dubious as to the condition she was going to find him in, and was relieved to see that his high spirits seemed to be due to nothing in addition to high spirits. A small gin and french was awaiting her on the table in their corner of the Lounge, along with his large whisky and soda, and they began at once busily and cheerfully to talk. He described his trip to London, and had many questions to ask about the town, questions which she was able to answer with the same modest Londoner’s pride as he had evoked in her the first evening they had met.
They were in the dining-room by half-past eight, and had finished eating by nine.
After dinner he did not seem to want to go on drinking, but suggested that they should take a walk along the river. It was a mild night, and not so completely black as usual because of a little diffused light from an invisible moon. It was still very black, how
ever. She suggested that they should cross the bridge and walk along on the far side of the river, but it seemed that he preferred to walk through the little Thames Lockdon park on the near side. The thought flitted across her mind that on this near side there were seats upon which one could sit in comfort and look at the river: on the far side there was nothing of this kind. It also flitted across her mind that the same thought had flitted across his. She rebuked her mind for these hyper-imaginative flittings.
They walked slowly for twenty minutes in the darkness by the side of the river, and then turned round and walked back. On again reaching the little park he suggested that they should sit down on one of the seats. They did so, and soon he put his arm around her and began, as in her bedroom earlier in the week, to kiss her with unabashed enthusiasm and thoroughness. On the whole she disliked this at first, but after a while she found that she disliked it a good deal less. After half an hour, in which they scarcely spoke, they rose and moved into Thames Lockdon again.
He said he could do with a drink, and she also welcomed the idea. They returned to the brightly lit Lounge of the River Sun. He prevailed upon her to have one of his large whiskies and soda. They sat in their usual corner, and as the place filled up in preparation for the final din and panic of closing-time, they talked with renewed freshness and eagerness.
The Lieutenant did most of the talking, and for the first time furnished some details of his personal background – of his life ‘back home’ and of his ‘folks’. He came from Wilkes Barre in Pennsylvania: his folks were in the catering business, and he was now attached, on the catering side, to a medical unit stationed three or four miles outside Thames Lockdon. They were building a camp out there. Though his folks were in the catering business, his personal ambitions, beliefs, and hopes for the future lay in the way of the laundry business. He descanted upon the laundry business at some length, speaking of the connections he had already established with it, and making it clear that on his return home after the war the laundry business was as eager to embrace him as he was eager to embrace the laundry business.
The Slaves of Solitude Page 6