She then wondered whether this feeling of tranquillity and happiness was wholly dependent upon her new attitude, or partially dependent upon the three drinks inside her.
The thought of these three drinks, as she let herself into the Rosamund Tea Rooms, accidentally brought to her mind another thought – the thought that whereas she had paid for two out of these three drinks, Vicki had only paid for one, and that this unequal division of payment had taken place, actually, on three other occasions. She rebuked herself for this thought.
She was, she saw, always having thoughts for which she rebuked herself. It then flashed across her mind that the thoughts for which she rebuked herself seldom turned out to be other than shrewd and fruitful thoughts: and she rebuked herself for this as well.
CHAPTER FOUR
1
DAWN, slowly filling Church Street with grey light, disclosed another day of war.
Because it did this, this dawn bore no more resemblance to a peace-time dawn than the aspect of nature on a Sunday bears a resemblance to the aspect of nature on a weekday. Thus it seemed that dawn itself had been grimly harnessed to the war effort, made to alter its normal mode of existence, had been Bevin-conscripted.
As the weak, winter light grew, however, a charming thing happened: the time of day permitted the withdrawal of black-out curtains, and a few lights shone from the windows of early risers. These remained on for ten minutes or so, and in this period there was a Christmas-card effect, a brief resumption, or rather imitation, of the happy and unstrenuous lighting arrangements of the days before the war.
Much the same sort of thing would happen in the evening, when other social benefactors would keep on their lights unscreened until the last moment allowed by the regulations. But these evening lights gave forth, of course, quite a different atmosphere from those of the morning. At the end of the day such lights spoke soothingly of ease, recreation, repose: in the morning they burned intently and dramatically, speaking of renewed tension, of the battle of life, of the arduous endeavour and agitation of the day ahead.
Awareness of what went on outside penetrated hardly at all into the consciousness of those who lay on in bed within the walls of the Rosamund Tea Rooms. To these people, this part of the day in Church Street remained a pallid secret, which was either never disclosed to them at all, or was only disclosed when one of them, for some strange and forceful reason or other, got up to catch the early train to London. Then this adventurer would be delighted and impressed by the freshness, novelty, and quietness of what he saw: would be aware of being let into a secret: but the next day, sleeping on, he would become totally oblivious of its existence once again.
Certain sounds from the street did, indeed, float up into the stuffy, curtained bedrooms – an occasional lorry crashing through, the desultory disturbance of the quiet caused by the milkman and by the street-sweeper, the footsteps of the few people hurrying to the early train, the conversation of girls going to their war-work on bicycles – but the day did not begin at the Rosamund Tea Rooms until Sheila began to bounce about and knock on doors.
Even then the guests did not wake into full life. Instead, there was a dazed period in which each guest, turning in bed, renewed his acquaintanceship with his own problems and the fact that a war was being waged all over the world, and, finally rising and flinging back the curtains, contemplated the awful scene of wreckage caused by his sleep. The feeling of the morning after the night before is not a sensation endured by the dissolute only: every morning, for every human being, is in some sort a morning after the night before: the dissolute merely experience it in a more intense degree. There is an air of debauch about tossed bedclothes, stale air, cold hot-water bottles, and last night’s cast-off clothing, from which even the primmest of maiden ladies cannot hope to escape. Sleep is gross, a form of abandonment, and it is impossible for anyone to awake and observe its sordid consequences save with a faint sense of recent dissipation, of minute personal disquiet and remorse.
This perception, on the part of the guest, of his animal self, was made even more dreary by certain impressions which were now wafted towards him of the coarser bedroom selves of his fellow-guests. These impressions were conveyed to him in partially ghostly and mysterious ways – in the uncanny gurgling and throbbing of unlocated water-pipes, which seemed softly and eerily to answer each other all over the house: in the sound of unidentified windows shrieking open or being slammed shut: in sudden furious rushes of water from taps into basins: in the sound of bumps, and of thuds: of tooth-glasses being rattled with tooth-brushes, and of expectorations: of coughs, and stupendous throat-clearings: of noses being blown: even of actual groans. To listen carefully to these noises was to sense a peculiar intensity in the bedroom life of the boarders: it was as if they were taking advantage of their brief privacy to serve too eagerly the physical compulsions of life.
Mrs. Payne, pettishly hitting at her gong below, announced the proper commencement of day, and the end of privacy.
2
Mr. Thwaites made a habit of being the first in the dining-room for breakfast. No one had ever been known to beat him to it. Five, or even ten minutes before the time, he would be found sitting in his place at the table for four in the corner. It was as though he were fretful for the day to start, to be in his presidential position and to take charge of the day from the beginning. However early they appeared, those who entered after him, saying ‘Good morning, Mr. Thwaites’ and catching his eye, had a distant feeling of being on the mat for being late. Miss Roach did, at any rate.
This morning, the Saturday following the one on which she had had drinks with Vicki Kugelmann at the River Sun, Miss Roach was in the room while the gong was still being hit, and took her place at the table with Mr. Thwaites.
‘Good morning,’ said Mr. Thwaites. ‘You’re very early, aren’t you?’ But this was not intended as a compliment: it still meant that she was late. It implied merely that a chronically late Miss Roach had appeared relatively early upon the scene.
‘Yes,’ said Miss Roach, ‘I suppose I am.’
Mr. Thwaites, fingering his knife, now quietly stared at Miss Roach. When alone with her he frequently stared at her like this, quite unconscious of her embarrassment and even of the fact that he was doing it. It was the preoccupied stare of one who sought to discover some fresh detail in her appearance or demeanour about which he could say or think something nasty. Prepared for this stare, she had come armed with her newspaper, which she now took up, looking at the headlines. She was defiantly conscious of her paper being the News Chronicle, which was, strictly speaking, banned by Mr. Thwaites. All newspapers, with the exception of the Daily Mail, which he himself took, were strictly speaking banned by Mr. Thwaites. But the fires of personal liberty are unextinguishable, even in so unlikely a precinct for their survival as the Rosamund Tea Rooms, and Miss Roach was not actually alone in her defiance. Miss Steele took The Times and Mr. Prest the Daily Mirror.
Miss Steele now came in, followed by Mrs. Barratt and, a little later, by Mr. Prest. Plates of porridge and racks of toast were handed round by Sheila, and breakfast began. The sky had cleared outside, and the sun, low in the sky, now shone into the room with the peculiar yellow brilliance which only a winter sun can achieve. In this hard and revealing light Mr. Thwaites succeeded in looking more immaculately clean and radiantly healthy than ever. There was not even any hope for Miss Roach that Mr. Thwaites would ever die.
As with his soup, Mr. Thwaites had a vigorous and single-minded technique with his porridge, and nothing was said for a minute or so, during which period there was a good deal of movement and adjustment of crockery and utensils upon the table. Even here the war had risen to the occasion and achieved its characteristic crowding effect, each guest having been supplied with a separate dish for butter and a separate bowl for sugar. This, in addition to its inconvenience, created a disagreeable atmosphere of niggardliness and caution, and caused Miss Roach further self-consciousness and difficulty. For Mr. Th
waites, she was fully aware, had his eye upon every cut she made at her butter and every spoonful she took of her sugar, mutely accusing her, if she took too much too early in the week, of greed or prodigality, or of parsimoniousness and tenacity if she saved either up for the end of the week and perpetrated the atrocious impropriety of having some left when all his had gone and consuming it in front of him. There was no pleasing this man.
‘Nice to see the sun again,’ said Mrs. Barratt. ‘It looks as though it might be a nice day.’
Mr. Thwaites, taking this remark, as he took all remarks made in this room, as being addressed to himself, looked over towards the window.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘A fine morning, in Troth . . . In veritable Troth – a Beauteous Morning . . .’ And he went on with his porridge.
When Mr. Thwaites started this Troth language it generally meant that he was in a good temper. If only as a symptom of this Miss Roach hoped that it might continue, and it did.
‘And dost thou go forth this bonny morn,’ he said, addressing Mrs. Barratt, ‘into the highways and byways, to pay thy due respects to Good King Sol?’
Mrs. Barratt, familiar, as all in the Rosamund Tea Rooms were, with the Troth language, was able quickly to translate this, and see that Mr. Thwaites was asking her if she was going out for a walk. As she went for a walk every morning, and as Mr. Thwaites knew this perfectly well, the question was totally meaningless, and was put to Mrs. Barratt solely in order that Mr. Thwaites might exercise his eccentric and exuberant prose.
‘Well,’ said Mrs. Barratt, ‘as a matter of fact I’ve got to go round and see my doctor at twelve.’
There was a pause as Mr. Thwaites worked out what he could do with this.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘So at the Hour of Noon thou visiteth the Man of Many Medicines – dost thou?’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Barratt. ‘That’s right.’
‘Issuing therefrom, I take it,’ said Mr. Thwaites, ‘with diverse pills and potions, to heal thine ills?’
Mrs. Barratt did not reply to this.
‘As for me,’ said Mr. Thwaites, ‘I betake myself unto the House of a Thousand Volumes – there to acquire a novel, detective, or of other vulgar sort, to beguile the passing hour.’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Barratt, ‘I want to change my book, too.’
‘And what of my Lady of the Roach?’ asked Mr. Thwaites. ‘How doth she disport herself this morning?’
‘I haven’t really made up my mind,’ said Miss Roach, as agreeably as she was able.
‘She goeth, perchance, unto the coffee-house,’ said Mr. Thwaites, ‘there to partake of the noxious brown fluid with her continental friends?’
Ah – here we were, thought Miss Roach. He had to get nasty sooner or later. This was a reference to Vicki Kugelmann, and her habit of having a cup of coffee with her on a Saturday morning.
‘How do you mean?’ she said, ‘my continental friends?’
‘Why,’ said Mr. Thwaites, ‘dost thou not forgather, of a Saturday morning, with a certain dame of Teutonic origin?’
‘Oh,’ said Miss Roach, ‘you mean Vicki Kugelmann. Yes – I do have coffee with her.’
‘Is that her name?’ said Mr. Thwaites, and here Miss Steele, at her table alone, cut in.
‘Yes. I’ve seen you with her,’ she said. ‘Is it true that she’s coming here?’
‘What?’ said Mr. Thwaites, his amazement knocking him back into plain English. ‘Did I hear you say coming here?’
Miss Roach had for some time been wondering when this news was going to break. She herself had had a word about the matter with Mrs. Payne, but had not, for some reason, quite had the courage to mention it to anyone else. Though actually the whole thing had been arranged independently of her by Vicki Kugelmann and Mrs. Payne, she still felt that, because she was known in the boarding-house as the friend of the German girl in the town, she was in fact responsible and would have to bear the brunt of any shocked or resentful sentiment amongst the guests which the news might possibly cause.
Now, bracing herself to face this alone, she found succour from an unexpected source.
‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Barratt, in the most matter-of-fact way. ‘She’s coming in next Wednesday.’
‘What?’ said Mr. Thwaites. ‘Coming in here – coming into the house?’
‘Yes – that’s right,’ said Mrs. Barratt. ‘I know, because she’s coming into my room. I’m going over the way to a room at the back – away from the noise.’
‘Well,’ said Mr. Thwaites, after a pause, and staring at Miss Roach, ‘this is pretty good. I must say this is pretty good.’
‘What’s pretty good?’ Miss Roach was suddenly defiant. ‘How do you mean, Mr. Thwaites?’
‘Well, I should say it is. I should say it’s just about as good as it could be.’
‘Yes, it is good,’ said Miss Steele, sternly, from her table. ‘I think it’ll be very nice to have her.’
‘Oh, so you think it will be nice to have her? What do you think, Mrs. Barratt?’
‘Yes, I think it’ll be nice, too,’ said Mrs. Barratt. ‘I hear she’s very nice.’
‘Well, it’s good to hear your opinions,’ said Mr. Thwaites. ‘Personally, it makes me wonder what we’re fighting for, that’s all.’
‘Well,’ said Miss Steele, who was evidently in a combatant mood, and looked as though she might use some History upon Mr. Thwaites at any moment, ‘we’re not fighting against individuals, are we? We’re fighting against Fascism, aren’t we?’
‘I don’t know about Fascism –’ began Mr. Thwaites, but Miss Steele went on.
‘It’s not as though she’s not lived here the greater part of her life. And if she’s adopted our ways and our country, it’s up to us to give her our protection, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know about protection –’ began Mr. Thwaites, but Miss Steele went on.
‘That’s what democracy is, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘It doesn’t mean anything if it doesn’t mean that, does it?’
‘Yes, I quite agree,’ said Mrs. Barratt. ‘She has lived here nearly all her life, hasn’t she, Miss Roach?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Miss Roach, ‘she has.’
And at this there was a silence as Sheila replaced the plates of porridge with plates which contained a small rasher of bacon set upon a generous pile of watery scrambled American dehydrated egg.
‘Well, it’s not what I’m fighting for, anyway,’ said Mr. Thwaites, at last, giving the impression that his principles had caused him to enter upon the second world war of his own accord, and that he was a formidable and tireless battler therein.
‘Where’s she going to sit, may I ask?’ he asked a little later, again looking at Miss Roach. ‘Is she going to have a table with you?’
Miss Roach was seeking an answer to this when Mrs. Barratt answered instead.
‘I hope not,’ she said. ‘I hope she’s going to come and sit with us. There’s plenty of room for another.’
‘Yes. I hope so, too,’ said Miss Steele.
This was slightly absurd of Miss Steele, as the table at which Mr. Thwaites, Mrs. Barratt, and Miss Roach sat was not, strictly speaking, Miss Steele’s business at all. It was Miss Steele’s only way, however, of supporting Miss Roach and again establishing her sentiments on this matter.
It was now clear to Miss Roach that the Rosamund Tea Rooms as a whole, so far from manifesting any symptoms of revulsion against the notion of a German girl appearing in its midst, was willing to throw out a warm and active welcome – so that Vicki Kugelmann was, in fact, to be treated with less fear and suspicion than any newcomer of the ordinary sort would have had to face, and was starting from something a good deal better than scratch.
‘Oh – so she’s sitting here, is she?’ said Mr. Thwaites, and no one answered him . . .
‘Well – we shall see,’ said Mr. Thwaites. ‘Sometimes it happens that two people can play at that sort of game.’
And on this mystifying yet menacing note he wa
s silent for the rest of the meal.
As usual, Mr. Thwaites being silent, all the rest were silent. Knives and forks clattered on plates. Cups were raised to mouths and were heard being put back gently on to saucers. Chairs creaked.
3
After breakfast it was Mr. Thwaites’ habit to go up into the Lounge. Here he sat in his chair, put on his spectacles, opened his newspaper, and, if anyone else was present, intermittently Saw things about what he called his ‘friends’ – saw, for example, that our friends the Russians had retreated in a certain sector, that our friends the Italians were undergoing bombardment, that Friend Rommel had done this, and that Friend Montgomery had done that, that Friend Churchill was to broadcast next week, that Friend Woolton was further tampering with ‘the nation’s larder’, that Friend Bevin had issued a fresh decree in regard to man-power, and so on and so forth.
After this, which took about twenty minutes, he left the Lounge and went into his bedroom, in which he was heard walking savagely about for at least half an hour – or at any rate what seemed at least half an hour to his fellow-boarders. What was he doing in there? This mystery, repeated relentlessly each morning, but never clarified, hung like a sullen cloud over the Rosamund Tea Rooms at this time of day.
When he at last came out the other elderly guests were already setting about their business – the business, that is to say, of those who in fact had no business on this earth save that of cautiously steering their respective failing bodies along paths free from discomfort and illness in the direction of the final illness which would exterminate them.
4
The relatively active Miss Steele was usually the first off the mark, and after her came Mrs. Barratt.
Miss Steele, who was fond of talking at length to her acquaintances on street corners, in whom street corners actually stimulated loquacity, invariably engineered excuses to go shopping in the town: while Mrs. Barratt, who disliked shopping and talking, went for a ‘walk’ as an end in itself.
The Slaves of Solitude Page 9