The Slaves of Solitude (23 page)

‘What’s the matter with you?’ said Mr. Thwaites. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Nothing,’ said Miss Roach. ‘I’m going out, that’s all.’

‘Oh – you
two
!’ said Vicki. ‘Can’t you two stop
squabbling
?’

‘Come on – come back,’ said Mr. Thwaites, and ‘Stop squabbling!’ said Vicki.

‘No. I’m going out,’ said Miss Roach, and she did.

‘Our Worthy Dame,’ she heard Mr. Thwaites saying, after she had closed the door, ‘seems to be in Somewhat of a Huff.’

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

1

T
HE
mystery, at this time, was the Lieutenant.

Having some experience of the Lieutenant as a mystery, his complete absence and silence hardly bothered Miss Roach: she wondered what Vicki thought about it, and if she was as little
bothered.

Naturally, not a word about him passed between them, and this added to the general strain.

‘Where’s your American friend?’ Mr. Thwaites asked them both one day, and Miss Roach said that she did not know. Vicki did not answer.

It occurred to her that Vicki might be meeting him in secret. But she did not really believe this, any more than she really believed that Vicki was in fact a German spy. But she wouldn’t
put either of these things beyond her.

The mystery was in some measure solved, and in some measure deepened, when, after eight days of silence, the Lieutenant rang up.

It was at lunch-time, and Sheila came up to Miss Roach, saying, ‘Lieutenant Pike on the phone, miss.’

Miss Roach had foreseen such a situation, but she had not foreseen doing what she now did.

‘Oh . . .’ she said, and hesitated. ‘Oh . . . Will you tell him that I’m not in? Will you tell him I’m out to lunch – or something?’

‘Yes, miss,’ said Sheila, and went away.

In the silence that followed she dared not look at Vicki, though she knew that Vicki was looking at her. She was aware that Mr. Thwaites was looking at her. She was aware that everyone in the
room, in some sort of way, was looking at her. She looked at her food, and wondered why she had done this.

Soon enough her motive became clear to her. It was nothing more complicated than revenge – a sudden impulse of revenge against Vicki – Vicki who supposed that the English Miss was
jealous of the interest the Lieutenant was showing towards Vicki. This would ‘show’ her – this would ‘English Miss’ her! She had for days been longing to have this out
with Vicki, to make her own complete indifference towards the Lieutenant quite clear. Now the result had been achieved by a single gesture. She was glad at what she had done, though rather sorry
for the Lieutenant. It was unfortunate for him to have got caught up in feminine politics of this kind. She would have liked to have seen him, too.

Sheila returned.

‘Please, miss,’ she said, speaking to Miss Roach, but glancing at Vicki, ‘he said if you wasn’t here, could he speak to Miss Koogle?’

(It was a boarding-house joke that Sheila could get no further than this with the German woman’s name.)

Vicki rose.

‘Yes. I’ll go,’ she said, and went out. Miss Roach, looking at her food, could not, of course, see her expression.

She had not foreseen this, and yet she ought to have. What now?

Complete silence reigned in the room. They, like her, were waiting to see what would happen next. She glanced up at Mr. Thwaites and Mrs. Barratt, and saw that they were not looking at her. But
their way of not looking at her, she observed, was a way of looking.

Vicki returned. There was a long silence, and then Miss Steele got up and left the room. It was the end of the meal. Mr. Thwaites, oddly enough, got up and went out next. After him Mrs. Barratt
went, and after her Mr. Prest. She and Vicki were alone. It was as though the guests had decided to leave them alone.

She had a little left on her plate, and in awful silence she made herself finish it. No, the silence was not awful – it was just plain silly. She decided to put an end to it.

‘Well,’ she said, rising, and putting her napkin into its ring, ‘what did the Lieutenant have to say?’

‘Oh, nothing much,’ said Vicki, also rising and doing the same thing. ‘He seemed to want me to come out this evening, that’s all.’

‘And are you going?’ said Miss Roach, still busy with her napkin and ring.

There was a pause. Then, with a look in her eye which Miss Roach was never to forget, and with a stronger foreign accent than Miss Roach had ever heard in her, and patting Miss Roach soothingly
on the shoulder, Vicki answered.

‘No,’ said Vicki. ‘That is not me, my dear. I do not Snatch. I do not Snatch the Men . . .’

Miss Roach was about to say something, but Vicki, still patting her, went on.

‘No, my dear. I put him off. Have no fear. I do not Snatch. I am not the Snatcher.’

Then, with a final ‘No, I am not the Snatcher. Do not be alarmed. I do not Snatch,’ the German woman, in a dignified way, left the English one alone in the dining-room of the
Rosamund Tea Rooms.

2

Oh! . . . Oh! . . .
Oh! . . .

She was walking in the Park, by the river. She walked in a high wind and a lurid red-and-yellow sunset – one of those sunsets which seem to be imitating the postcard work of the firm of De
La Rue, and she groaned at the cold and the wind and the memory of that woman’s words.

‘Do not be alarmed. I am not the Snatcher’!
The
snatcher!
The!
Oh . . . oh . . .
oh
!
. . .

She had missed tea. She had made up her mind she couldn’t face it. She had thought she would have it somewhere outside. But when she was out in the air she knew she couldn’t sit
still anywhere, and made up her mind to walk in the wind.

‘No. I do not Snatch the men.’ And that indescribable glance of spite and condescension!

That condescension – above all, that condescension – the hideous twisting of the true situation into one in which she seemed to be able to condescend!

‘That is not me. I do not Snatch.’ All the implications of that! Firstly, the calm assumption that she was in a position to snatch – that in this case the Lieutenant’s
inclinations had obviously been already transferred from Miss Roach to herself! Then, that such cases were continually arising in the life of this
femme fatale,
so much so that she had had
to make a special rule to deal with them – that she was now (in spite of Miss Roach’s warped and intemperate jealousy) maintaining her standards and heroically refraining from
snatching. Then (and here was the most hideous twist), that Miss Roach had refused to go to the phone because she was angry with the Lieutenant for showing a preference for another woman –
because she was too piqued even to speak to him. That was how it had been made to look – that was what the soothing pat on the shoulder had meant. Really, before long she would do this woman
some harm. Miss Roach’s brown eyes glowed black in the angry sunset, as she forced her way through the wind.

And then the implication that she
wanted
the Lieutenant, that the man, by now, didn’t bore her
stiff
! Well, that might be exaggerating, but it was practically the truth.

As if, if she had wanted him, she could not have answered the phone and made an appointment to meet him separately! He had enquired for her, had he not – not Vicki?

This could not go on. She must have it out. Since the hint had failed, she must tell Vicki in so many words that she took not the slightest interest in the man – that she was welcome to
him. She must make this clear, or she could no longer stay in the same house with the woman.

Have it out, then. When? Now? Yes – why not now – why not go back and have it out now? She turned her back on the sunset and the wind.

The silence of the wind, now it was behind her, smote her with sudden fear, but her determination remained.

Where would Vicki be now? At tea? Then she must call her out of tea, ask her if she could have a word with her alone.

What if she refused? No – she could hardly do that.

Or perhaps she would be up in her room. She usually went to her room after tea, and stayed there a long while. What she did there, nobody knew – probably sent messages to Nazi Germany on a
secret wireless transmitter.

It didn’t matter where she was – she must find her and have it out.

It was almost dark when she reached the Rosamund Tea Rooms. Her heart beat faster as she put the key in the door. The dim oil-lamp was burning in the hall, illuminating the hall-table, the tinny
brass gong, and the green letter-rack criss-crossed with black tape.

As she climbed the stairs she heard Mr. Thwaites’ voice booming in the Lounge, but as she passed the door, stopping to listen for a moment, she could not hear Vicki’s voice.

On the top landing she saw a light under Vicki’s door. She went into her room, switched on the light, and hastily did the black-out. Now for it! Now for it!

She walked about her room, looked at herself in the glass, and walked about again. She opened her door, listened, almost closed it, walked about the room again, and looked at herself in the
glass.

All at once she heard Vicki open her door and come out. Now for it! Now for it! She went to the door.

‘Oh – Vicki,’ she said. ‘Can I have a word with you for a moment?’

She was surprised, but rather pleased, to hear herself calling her ‘Vicki’, in a calm and more or less friendly way like that. Perhaps this thing could be done in a more or less
friendly way: perhaps this thing could be more or less smoothed out.

‘Yes,’ said Vicki. ‘What is it?’ She came into the room. She was dressed for going out.

‘Oh, it’s only about something you said at lunch-time this morning,’ said Miss Roach, swallowing slightly, but maintaining her calm.

‘Yes,’ said Vicki, with an innocent and slightly puzzled expression. ‘What?’

‘Oh – only something you said about – taking – men’. (She could not bring herself to repeat that awful word ‘snatch’!).

‘Yes,’ said Vicki, ‘I remember. What of it?’

‘Well, it’s only,’ said Miss Roach, again swallowing, ‘that with this particular man . . .’ For a moment she could not go on.

‘Yes,’ prompted Vicki. This particular man? . . .’

‘Well, it’s only that I haven’t got the faintest interest in him. . . . And I’m sure he hasn’t got the faintest interest in me. . . . And so I didn’t want you
to think there was anything of that sort, that’s all.’

For a moment Vicki paused, looking at her. Then, with the look of charmed incredulity with which one hears a child’s story, with a look of infinite benevolence, combined somehow with a
look of infinite spite, she put out her hand and patted Miss Roach’s cheek.

‘Really!’ said Vicki, again in her most guttural accent. ‘You are rather A dear, aren’t you?’

Then she again patted Miss Roach’s cheek, and went to the door.

‘Yes. You are rather A dear!’ she said, and was out in the passage . . .

What now?. . . Call her back? Go out and
haul
her back? – hit her in the face? – kick her down the stairs?

Instead, Miss Roach went out on to the landing and listened to Vicki going all the way down the stairs. There was something maliciously and exquisitely genial and forbearing even in the sound of
her footsteps. Then Miss Roach heard the front door being closed.

Mr. Thwaites’ nasal voice came booming up from behind the closed door of the Lounge. . . .

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

T
HOUGH
the Rosamund Tea Rooms was, as regards bedroom accommodation, full up, there was still plenty of space in the
dining-room, and Mrs. Payne, whose love of gain over-rode all other considerations, did not hesitate, when the occasion arose, to inflict her regular guests with the company of strangers at meals.
Sometimes these strangers, temporary visitors to Thames Lockdon, would come in just for one meal, sometimes for two or three days, sometimes for as long as a week.

This was something of an ordeal for the regular guests, but more so for the strangers, who were stuck out in the middle of the room, and, surrounded by an atmosphere of silent curiosity and
seeming dislike, did not dare to speak, adopted a timid and tentative attitude towards the food and the service, and were very glad indeed to get out of the room again.

The lift-rumbling, knife-fork-and-plate silence was, it seemed, particularly awful on these occasions, as even Mr. Thwaites, though speaking, spoke less – not caring to impress his
personality on mere passing strangers who could not absorb it fully or adequately in the time.

Amongst these intruders was a piano-tuner, of the name of Albert Brent, heavily moustached and in late middle-age. He did not come to tune any piano, for there was no such thing at the Rosamund
Tea Rooms, but he was an old personal friend of Mrs. Payne. (For, incredibly enough, Mrs. Payne had a private life, ate and drank, went out to tea, went to the pictures, loved and hated, like any
other woman.) And when he was in this part of the world, doing this ‘territory’, Mrs. Payne provided him with lunch in the dining-room, where he was given a table in the corner.

This respectable man took an interest in human nature, and, without their knowing it, studied and came to conclusions about the guests.

Thus looked at from outside, these guests – in this dead-and-alive dining-room, of this dead-and-alive house, of this dead-and-alive street, of this dead-and-alive little town – in
the grey, dead winter of the deadliest part of the most deadly war in history – thus seen from a detached point of view, they presented an extraordinary spectacle.

Albert Brent, who liked talking and a glass of beer, could not understand how people could live in this way – how they could have ever reached, and could continue to suffer, such a
condition of dullness, torpidity, inactivity, stupidity, and silence. It was enough, he thought, to drive anybody raving mad.

They didn’t talk, they didn’t laugh, they didn’t seem to enjoy their food, they didn’t seem to go out, they didn’t seem to have any interests, they didn’t
seem to like each other much, they didn’t even seem to hate each other, they didn’t seem to do anything. All they seemed to do was to crawl in one by one, murmur a little to the
waitress, mutter little requests to pass the salt, shift in their chairs, occasionally modestly cough or blow their noses, sit, eat, wait, eat, sit, and at last crawl out again, one by one, without
a word, to heaven knew where to do heaven knew what . . . It was all beyond Albert Brent, who lived for the most part in London and had been in close touch with the world of affairs and the
war.