The Boarding-House

by William Trevor

  ‘Do not worry, my dear. Provision has been made for you.’

  Rose Cave became angry. She shook her head. The fingers of her left hand moved of their own accord, as Mr Bird once noticed they were apt to. ‘You are deliberately misunderstanding me,’ she cried.

  ‘Good night,’ said Studdy, moving to go.

  ‘Stay,’ cried Rose Cave. ‘You are in this too, Mr Studdy. You are the one who offered money.’

  ‘I have a serious appointment,’ said Studdy. ‘I don’t know what you’re on about, Miss Cave.’

  Studdy was behaving badly, Nurse Clock thought; he was trying to get out of everything.

  ‘Stay if you can, Mr Studdy,’ she ordered. ‘We should hear Miss Cave’s complaint together.’ She looked at Mr Scribbin and Venables. ‘Would the others like to go, perhaps?’ Venables made a move.

  ‘No,’ said Rose Cave.

  ‘This is the room I would like,’ said Mr Scribbin. ‘This room at the top of the house, far away from everyone, where the noise would not be disturbing–’

  ‘The neighbours have been in,’ cried Nurse Clock. ‘The neighbours have said they cannot stand it. What can I do? You must see, all of you, how I am placed. Major Eele incapable in the hall at midnight, the roar of railways driving all in earshot mad. Be reasonable, Miss Cave.’

  ‘In this room no one would hear a thing. I would play the records very low. Not a neighbour could hear, I would move in straight away. I don’t need help–’

  But Nurse Clock repeated that The Boarding-House was not the Regent Palace Hotel, that the room was already assigned to other uses, that in any case it needed immediate redecoration.

  Out on her rounds that afternoon Nurse Clock had run into Mrs le Tor. ‘My dear, I’m sorry about all that fuss,’ Mrs le Tor had said. ‘It was the most unexpected thing: I did not know he was given over to drink.’ Nurse Clock had shaken her head and said that she had not known that either. ‘I’m only sorry you had to be woken up,’ Mrs le Tor continued. ‘A bad thing, a whole house roused for one man’s selfishness.’ The encounter had gone well between them, with both heads shaking and sympathy exchanged. ‘Come and have a coffee in the Jasmine,’ Mrs le Tor urged, and Nurse Clock propped her bicycle up and followed Mrs le Tor, resplendent in an orange suit and matching lipstick, into the Jasmine Café.

  ‘You see how it is,’ Nurse Clock insisted in Mr Bird’s room. ‘What on earth am I expected to do?’

  ‘Nurse is in a fix,’ said Studdy.

  ‘I am trying to be fair to everyone.’ She glanced quickly at Studdy, who was still standing at the door. He had a way of standing, she thought, with idleness in every bone and every muscle. Imagine saying she was in a fix: what did he mean by that?

  Nurse Clock examined the present situation and kept the evidence of this labour out of her face. Major Eele, it seemed, was certainly going to move; and Venables; and now apparently Miss Clerricot. Mr Scribbin was being difficult, but she saw that as a temporary thing: Mr Scribbin would go in the end. Rose Cave was left, but Rose Cave was welcome to stay and help. Rose Cave was conscientious, there was no doubt about that. Nurse Clock could see her working till all hours, counting sheets and tidying up the day rooms.

  ‘I arranged to see Major Eele,’ Mrs le Tor had said, ‘because of the letters I have been getting. Well, I got the first one about the donkey and I came post haste to see you all, to find an explanation. But then I received another that was downright libellous. I couldn’t understand it, not a word. A most extraordinary letter. So round I came again and met Major Eele on his owney-oh and he engaged me in this amazing conversation.’

  Mrs le Tor at this point had broken off to ask Nurse Clock’s opinion of her orange suit. ‘Such style!’ said Nurse Clock. ‘Wherever did you get it?’ She was not much interested in clothes and was not always aware what the fashions were. In truth, she considered Mrs le Tor’s orange suit rather hideous. ‘Anyway,’ Mrs le Tor continued, ‘I ended up by taking it into my head that the brave Major was responsible for all. Well, you’ve heard of that kind of thing?’ Nurse Clock shook her head, because she did not know what kind of thing Mrs le Tor meant. ‘Filthy letters,’ said Mrs le Tor; ‘people who ring up on the telephone and say what they want to do. You must have had it?’ Nurse Clock had smiled, without committing herself. ‘Foolishly I did not retain that second letter. You know how it is, you are disgusted and must get rid of them. It was here, to the Jasmine, you know, he took me; he hired the whole place for after hours. The Misses Gregory worked like beavers.’ ‘How nice,’ murmured Nurse Clock, thinking of something different. She knew that Major Eele had not written letters to Mrs le Tor. Major Eele was not the kind of man to write to a stranger and say that someone unknown to her had died and left her a donkey carved in bog-oak. ‘Did the letters ask for money?’ she asked. Mrs le Tor placed a cigarette in her cigarette-holder. ‘Isn’t that nice?’ she said, drawing Nurse Clock’s attention to the holder. ‘I got it in that shop in Knightsbridge. The second one seemed to talk of money. I was to place a card in Dewar’s window advertising for a basement flat. Of course, I never did. I’m only sorry I didn’t go straight to the police. They’re very good, I believe, in cases like this.’ Nurse Clock knew then that this was the work of Studdy. Over the past few weeks she had seen evidence of Studdy’s handiwork. She remembered his bleeding from the face, struck by the man from a Morris Minor. Clearly, he had been up to something similar with Mrs le Tor. And how did he know about this Mrs Sellwood in relation to Miss Clerricot? ‘You should have gone to the police,’ Nurse Clock said, a quick idea shaping in her kind. ‘That kind of thing has got to be stamped down. Did you burn that second letter? It wouldn’t be still in a w.p.b.?’ As she saw it, Studdy’s usefulness was fast coming to an end. What point would there be in having the man idling about, upsetting the elderly with his cigarettes and his quaint expressions? Studdy would never do a hand’s turn. ‘Oh, I threw the thing away,’ said Mrs le Tor. ‘Honestly, I can’t remember.’ In fact, the letter was still in a drawer of her bureau. It was a letter she liked to think about, but for some reason did not wish to show around.

  ‘I must be going,’ said Studdy, sniffing by the door. ‘I have a serious engagement to attend to.’

  ‘Off you go then,’ said Nurse Clock. ‘I will have a private word with Miss Cave.’

  ‘What about me?’ demanded Mr Scribbin. ‘I don’t feel like moving, you know.’

  ‘It’ll all pan out,’ Nurse Clock assured him. ‘Whatever happens will happen for the best. Take my word on that, Mr Scribbin dear.’

  ‘No one must leave this boarding-house against their will,’ Rose Cave pronounced. ‘I really do insist upon that. Where would poor Mr Obd go?’

  ‘Heavens above,’ cried Nurse Clock. ‘I had clean forgotten Mr Obd.’

  Miss Annabel Tonks had completed the attentions to her eyes when the doorbell rang. She glanced at her watch and said to herself that he was early. He would just have to wait; she was still in her dressing-gown.

  As she walked from her bedroom towards the hall-door she remembered that of course this was Mr Obd. For twelve years in this flat whenever the bell rang unexpectedly she thought of Mr Obd, and remained still and silent, so that Mr Obd would ring again, and then again, and eventually shuffle off. She had tried everything with Mr Obd; it was becoming difficult because quite often it was not Mr Obd at all who was ringing the bell but someone else whom she would have quite liked to see. She had explained to him a hundred times that she would prefer it if he did not call round without an invitation.

  ‘Annabel,’ said Mr Obd when she opened the door, holding out to her twelve red roses.

  ‘Now, Tome,’ she said, speaking crisply, ignoring the roses.

  ‘Now, Tome, you know I do not like you to come here like this. I have repeatedly asked you–’

  ‘Annabel, may I come in? For old times’ sake?’

  She shook her head, and then changed her mind.

  ‘I am just going out. I am in
the middle of getting ready. But come in for five minutes, because I have a few words to say to you.’

  ‘Put these in water,’ cried Mr Obd, shaking his roses in the air. ‘It is indeed wonderful to see your precious flat again, Annabel.’

  She led the way to her small sitting-room and told him to sit down.

  ‘Take a pew,’ she said. ‘This will not take long.’

  ‘You are looking sweet,’ he began, but she held up her right hand for silence.

  ‘I am tired of telling you, Tome, that you must not come here bothering me. You must try to understand that the years have passed by. For instance, I am engaged to be married.’

  ‘Married?’

  ‘Engaged to be married. Spoken for. Do you understand?’

  ‘Annabel, you did not tell me this. You never told me. Why are you doing this? Whatever is happening?’

  ‘Nothing is happening, Tome except that I am telling you once again that it is my wish that you cease to bother me.’

  ‘I do not understand. You say married, but I have been bringing you flowers for a long time, Annabel.’

  ‘For twelve years.’

  ‘I have written you letters. I have said what is in my heart. Tome Obd has hidden nothing. Who is ashamed? Annabel, this man before you now is not ashamed.’

  ‘Of course not, Tome. Now, time is flying away. I simply wish to say to you that you must not come again–’

  ‘You are surely ashamed, Annabel? Are you not ashamed to be talking of marriage in this way tonight? You are talking of marriage to me who has walked to see you, up the stone stairs, carrying you roses.’

  ‘You must not bring me roses. I have asked you before–’

  ‘Dear Annabel, I thought it was asters. I refused asters only today. This evening I said, “No, no, not asters, my Annabel does not care for asters.” What is this about roses? I thought roses would please your heart.’

  ‘You must not bring me any flowers at all. I have said that before; you cannot have forgotten.’

  ‘When last I came another lady answered this door and told me you had gone far away. But in the hall I saw your coat and knew that the lady lied. Why did she do that? What is happening? Have you forgotten the days we played ping-pong? You were better than Tome Obd.’

  ‘That was fourteen years ago.’

  ‘What is time, Annabel?’

  ‘I must tell you now, Tome, that I wish you to leave me alone. I wish you not to come here, with flowers and letters which I cannot read–’

  ‘You cannot read?’

  ‘I cannot read your handwriting.’

  ‘So–’

  ‘So it is useless to write long letters to me. There is no point to that at all. I am sorry to say it to one who has been a friend, but say it I must.’

  ‘Do not say it, Annabel. Please–’

  ‘‘Nonsense, of course I must say what I have to say.’

  ‘You will break Tome Obd’s heart. You will break an old African heart here in the lounge-room of your flat.’

  ‘I have no alternative but to inform the police if you persist in coming here. Tome. I am sorry.’

  Mr Obd rolled his eyes.

  ‘What more can I say?’ said Annabel Tonks, thinking of the time.

  ‘You have said too much. Already too many words have passed. Oh, Virgin Mary.’

  ‘Go now, Tome. Please go quietly.’

  Mr Obd, his eyes rolling again, found them arrested by a mark that seemed to have appeared, like a spot of fog, high up in the room, on the ceiling. It was a shredded, lemon-coloured shape, with frayed ends that seemed to move about.

  ‘Alas, Tome Obd,’ said a voice in his mind, the voice of the dead Mr Bird.

  ‘Alas,’ said Mr Obd, ‘how can I go?’

  Annabel Tonks flung up her hands, annoyed, no longer prepared to be understanding. She tried to say something, to explain how he might go: by walking as he had come, across the room and into the hall and through the door. Words formed on her lips but did not materialize. She saw Mr Obd staring at the ceiling, opening and closing his mouth. Quickly she thought that she might be doing the same thing: opening and closing her lips, trying to issue words but failing for some reason. It was absurd, she saw, that she and he should be at the same moment in the same predicament.

  ‘Why did we ever meet?’ cried Annabel Tonks. ‘What a lot of trouble it has been!’

  She had not meant to say it quite like that. She had, in fact, not meant to release that sentiment at all. ‘What a nuisance you have been’ was a sentiment nearer to her, because that was true. But the way she said it made it sound as though the two of them had just indulged in some tragic love affair, which was far from the truth.

  She lifted the flowers and picked up Mr Obd’s Evening Standard and bundled all together and told him again to go. She pushed him towards the door, pressing his belongings upon him, rejecting the roses, and referring again to the police.

  ‘The police?’ said Mr Obd. ‘What are policemen to me? I am a first-class citizen.’

  He said no more. He heard the door clatter into place behind him and found himself on the stone landing, standing with rolling eyes, with roses and an Evening Standard, greatly shaken.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Nurse Clock into the telephone. ‘It is your duty to report this. I know a desk sergeant.’

  ‘A desk sergeant?’ said Mrs le Tor.

  ‘We would not have to go to the station. I know the house. Root out that letter and let us straightaway go round.’

  ‘Oh, my dear, I have no idea where that old letter is. Maybe I burnt it.’

  But Nurse Clock, who knew all about such matters, what one burnt in the way of correspondence and what one did not, paused judiciously, screwing her face into a grimace.

  ‘Why are you phoning?’ asked Mrs le Tor.

  ‘Because I have discovered at last who is writing these ugly letters.’

  ‘That old Major?’

  ‘No, no. Major Eele would never be guilty of a thing like that. Major Eele’s a gentleman.’

  ‘Who then?’ asked Mrs le Tor, disappointed. ‘Who then, Nurse Clock?’

  ‘Shall I call around? And we can go together with the letter?’

  ‘Well, I will look for it,’ said Mrs le Tor, weighing up the pros and cons and then deciding that a bit of excitement was more valuable than keeping the letter hidden.

  ‘Ten minutes,’ said Nurse Clock.

  ‘Alas, Tome Obd,’ Mr Bird had said almost every time the two had met on their own, in a passage or on the stairs. ‘Alas, Tome Obd,’ he would say again as he proceeded on his way, and often Mr Obd heard the words repeated softly a second or a third time. For Mr Bird had felt that the grey-black face of Mr Obd hid, or failed to hide, the most corroding sensitivity of all The Boarding-House inmates.

  ‘Alas, Tome Obd.’

  He heard the words as he stepped down the stone stairs, feeling heavy in his body, as though he carried some new weight within him, as though emotional pain was made manifest in this physical way.

  ‘Alas, Tome Obd.’

  The words were there again, though the voice that spoke them was not the voice of Mr Bird, and it flashed into Mr Obd’s mind, an absurd thing, that perhaps it was the voice of Mr Bird made clear and close through death. Maybe, he thought, Mr Bird had taken on the voice of an angel. And he saw again, as he had seen a moment ago on the ceiling of Miss Tonks’ room, a floating form that was made, it seemed, of fog. ‘That is Mr Bird,’ he said to himself. For it seemed like Mr Bird with an angel’s wings attached, trailing his leg and carrying a trumpet. Mr Bird soared nearer and caught his eye, and said again in the voice that was not his: ‘Alas, Tome Obd.’

  ‘Ho, ho,’ remarked another man, going up the stairs.

  ‘Yes?’ cried Mr Obd, staring after him. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  The man looked down and laughed again, and Mr Obd heard himself saying: ‘Alas, Tome Obd,’ and realized that it was he who had been saying it all the time.


  ‘Obd seems demented,’ said the man when he reached Miss Tonks’ flat. ‘Whatever did you say to him?’ He then embraced her, preventing an immediate answer.

  ‘What could I do?’ she asked when all that was over. ‘I told him straight if he came again I’d have the police here.’

  22

  Rose Cave felt weary in the television lounge. She sat with her knitting, knowing what the matter was, feeling restless and fearful. She was aware of others in the room: Major Eele crouched by himself, reading something he had concealed in the Radio Times, Venables in pain, Mr Scribbin looking, she thought, a little cocky, as though some victory were newly his. It was she who had done the talking in the freshly plastered room upstairs: there was nothing for Mr Scribbin to seem so pleased about. In any case. Nurse Clock would winkle Mr Scribbin out sooner or later, employing ingenious methods.

  She heard voices from the television set but did not examine the screen. Her fingers ceased to move; needles and wool fell motionless to her lap. ‘I have sat too often in this room,’ she murmured. She spoke to herself, keeping her words low so that they did not register beyond her. Music blotted them away; she murmured again but did not hear herself. She thought it might be a good thing that The Boarding-House was coming to an end; in her despondency she saw it suddenly as a wretched place. ‘The change of life,’ she murmured – a thing she had always heard about and had of recent years prepared for.

  Venables gritted his teeth, trying not to show them, trying to hold them behind his closed lips. The pain rose from the depths of his bowels and raced like fire through his stomach, spreading to his ribs. He thought he felt it in the bones themselves but thought again that that must be wrong, that pain of this nature could not invade the bone structure. A groan began at the back of his throat, silently, like a warning or an urge. He held it back, clamping his teeth together. He pressed his feet hard on the floor and tore at the flesh of his fingers with two sharp thumb-nails.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ cried out Rose Cave, ‘go to a doctor.’

  Major Eele jerked his head, hearing these remote and unusual words. They rang in his ears, passionate like the cry of an animal in agony. They reflected all that was happening in Venables’ stomach, but Major Eele did not understand that, because he had never known that Venables was in pain. He didn’t know that Venables was dying on his feet because he feared the thought of hospitals.