The Slaves of Solitude (27 page)

Although going downstairs involved meeting Vicki and Mr. Thwaites again, which she had hoped to avoid until lunchtime, she did not really see what else she could do.

There had been a most odd atmosphere at breakfast. She had rather expected to find Mr. Thwaites repentant, embarrassed, not knowing quite where to look. But not a bit of it. He looked her
straight in the eye, in just the same critical and contemptuous way, rather as if it was she who had got drunk and made a fool of herself instead of him. It occurred to her that the weak-brained
man might have forgotten all about the night before.

In any case, nothing was said about this. It was particularly noticeable that Miss Steele said nothing – ordinarily she would have wanted to hear about their outing. Miss Roach remembered
Miss Steele’s frightened laughing exit at an early stage of yesterday’s celebrations.

Miss Steele, however, gave forth bright ‘Merry Christmases’ all round, and it was very difficult to ascertain how much precisely was known about last night, how much they were in
disgrace generally, and whether the blame was allotted in equal or unequal proportions.

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She heard the Lieutenant staying rather a long time in Vicki’s room, and then they came out and went downstairs.

Miss Roach now decided to change her dress, and so it was not until some ten minutes later that she herself went down to the Lounge.

She had only to open the door to realise that already, at a quarter to twelve, the Christmas madness and evil was in full swing. Glasses of gin-and-orange had been given to everybody, and
everybody was there. Miss Steele was there, Mrs. Barratt was there, even Mrs. Payne (extraordinary yet characteristically Christmas phenomenon!) was there. Above all this, Mrs. Barratt’s
forty-year-old son in the Air Force was there, having arrived late last night to spend Christmas Day with his mother.

He had to be introduced to everyone. The presence of Mrs. Payne, and Mrs. Barratt’s son, in a characteristically Christmas way threw everything completely out of gear, and one had the
sensation of being at a crowded cocktail party of strangers in London, rather than in the familiar Lounge of the Rosamund Tea Rooms.

This, seemingly, was all the Lieutenant’s doing, but Miss Roach had a feeling that, even if there had been no Lieutenant, the same thing, merely because it was Christmas, would have
somehow happened. The madness of Christmas is not to be resisted by any human means. It either stealthily creeps or crudely batters its way into every fastness or fortress of prudence all over the
land.

The Lieutenant, of course, had shown instinctive shrewdness in bringing round gin-and-orange instead of whisky. The spirit of gin, served in a small glass with orange juice, passes as a
‘cocktail’, which old ladies are allowed to take at Christmas. Whisky, and particularly whisky in large glasses, would have been raw drinking and impermissible.

The spirit of gin, however, is as powerful as the spirit of whisky, and soon enough old and young were getting decidedly talkative and silly. Miss Roach, mercifully in a corner with Mrs. Barratt
and her son, was aware even of herself being talkative, and of feeling silly. Drink always went to her head and made her feel silly at this time of day.

There you had Christmas again, all over. She had actually foreseen that she would have to get silly, and had made plans to do so in a modest and moderate way of her own. She had arranged to meet
the Poulton boy at a quarter to one at the River Sun to give him a ‘Christmas’ drink. This, she had thought, would keep her out of trouble. And yet here she was, at twelve
o’clock, and with the Poulton boy ahead of her, already silly! Christmas denied one the right to any sort of sane or premeditated adjustment either to itself or to other people.

Because of the noise and confusion she was able to slip out unobserved from the Lounge at half-past twelve, and soon she was walking through the streets – streets steeped in the grey
gaiety of Christmas – the cotton-wool snowstorms in the shut-shop windows, the children wearing their Christmas-present clothes and carrying their Christmas-present toys – towards the
River Sun.

Here she found, waiting for her, the Poulton boy, who had had two glasses of beer, and was, in consequence, she thought, rather silly. Also he now wanted, for his ‘Christmas’ drink,
a short gin drink, which Miss Roach thought silly, wondering whether his mother would approve.

But he was a nice, simple boy, and for a quarter of an hour she enjoyed talking to him. Then, as she had known for certain would happen, the Lieutenant came in with Vicki, and although they were
the other side of the room, she was too conscious of their presence, and their glances, to enjoy herself any more . . .

Lunch was at a quarter to two, and total Christmas confusion reigned in the dining-room. There were half-bottles of white wine on the tables – one for each person and presented by Mrs.
Payne stupendously – and so that Mrs. Barratt could sit with her son, Miss Roach had been put (presumably on Sheila’s initiative) with Mr. Prest. Why with Mr. Prest rather than with
Miss Steele, Miss Roach did not know, and why Mr. Prest shouldn’t have been brought to the Thwaites table, and Mrs. Barratt and her son put at a table by themselves, she did not know either.
These were Christmas mysteries.

Mr. Prest was not a lively table-companion. She did not want liveliness, but Mr. Prest was rather less lively than she desired, causing them, in the many long silences which fell upon them, to
look about the room with a disinterested, interested air, or to finger their knives and stare at the tablecloth, and even find themselves blushing.

She had often wondered what exact motive Mr. Prest had in being alive – if, and by what means, this seemingly empty, utterly idle and silent man justified his existence – and now she
wondered more than ever.

The mystery was deepened by a remark he made at this meal. He had recently, for a week or more, been absent from the Rosamund Tea Rooms during the day.

‘By the way,’ she said, trying to keep one of their small outbursts of conversation going, ‘we haven’t seen much of you lately, have we? Have you been up to
London?’

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Prest. ‘That’s right. I’m  back at work now. Going back to London after lunch.’

What did this mean? He had at one time, she gathered, been something to do with the theatre – but what work was this? And why this travelling on Christmas Day?

She did not like to ask him, and he was not the sort of man to tell her unless she asked. But she thought she had noticed a dim gleam of pride and pleasure in his eyes as he spoke.

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Towards the end of the meal, Miss Steele, who at half-past twelve had already admitted to being ‘tiddly’, gave a toast.

‘Well, here’s to Mrs. Payne,’ she said, though Mrs. Payne was not in the room. ‘And here’s Christmas wishes to all.’

The company assented shyly and murmuringly, and there was a clinking of glasses.

‘And here’s to next Christmas,’ Miss Steele went on. ‘A real Christmas of Peace, we hope.’

‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Barratt. ‘Of peace.’

‘Yes,’ said Vicki, in a rather strange tone. ‘Of peace – and understanding.’

Miss Roach pricked up her ears. What was this? She did not like that tone in Vicki’s voice, nor that little pause before ‘ – and understanding.’

What, pray, did she mean to imply? That when peace came understanding would return between the German nation and her enemies? That it was only through lack of this ‘understanding’
that the present war was being prosecuted? That Nazi Germany was, therefore, as much ‘in the right’ as her opponents? That Nazi Germany was, in fact,
more
‘in the
right’ than her opponents, because her opponents had so foolishly misunderstood her?

Miss Roach hoped that she had not meant to imply this. Vicki had recently made more than one slightly ambiguous remark of this sort. This one seemed, really, hardly ambiguous. But Miss Roach
hoped that she was wrong.

If she was not wrong, and any more remarks of this sort were made, there was going to be trouble – Miss Roach would be forced to do something. She had put up with a lot from this woman,
swallowed, very patiently, the increasing liberties she had chosen to take. But if she was now going to start either slyly to suggest, or to come out into the open with, the opinion that
concentration-camp Nazi Germany was of all countries the one deserving sympathy and support in the present situation – this was going to be too much, and Miss Roach would be forced to do
something. She did not know what she would do, but she would do something.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

1

Y
OU
would have thought they’d stop. You would have thought that after their big Christmas meal they would call
it a day. But they didn’t. It was carried on all through Boxing Day. And on the evening of Boxing Day the Lieutenant came to see her in her room!

After that Christmas lunch there had been a brief period of calm, for the Lieutenant had vanished. But he was back again at a quarter to six, with another bottle of whisky, in the Lounge. At
least Miss Roach afterwards heard that he had brought a bottle of whisky – she herself was up in her bedroom when he arrived. She had heard noises from below, and, roughly realising what was
happening and might happen, had decided to dodge it by going out for a long walk. On the way downstairs, passing the Lounge, she had heard all the noises of a Lieutenant entertaining others with a
bottle of whisky.

She took care not to return until five minutes after dinner-time, and on entering the dining-room she found (what she had hoped to find) that the Lieutenant and Vicki had gone out to dinner.

Mr. Thwaites, having evidently been wise enough to refuse any invitation to join the others, or perhaps having not been asked, was at his table and noisy. He had clearly been taking something
from the bottle upstairs, but was (if Mr. Thwaites could ever be said to be exactly this) in possession of his senses. Mrs. Barratt’s son had gone, and so had Mr. Prest.

The next day, Boxing Day, the Lieutenant was round again at half-past eleven, not with gin-and-orange as on the previous morning, but with another bottle of whisky. This was going too far. He
might have again got away with the gin-and-orange, but at the sight of the bottle of whisky both Mrs. Barratt and Miss Steele were plainly shocked, and made early excuses to leave the room.

Mr. Thwaites again accepted the whisky, and grew noisier and noisier, and more and more excited.

Christmas morning was to a certain extent repeated. Miss Roach had another appointment with the Poulton boy at the River Sun, and there they were again joined, and looked at a good deal from a
distance, by Vicki and the Lieutenant, and Mr. Thwaites, who had on this occasion accompanied them . . .

Mr. Thwaites was noisier than ever at lunch, and the lunch as a whole was probably the noisiest ever experienced in the dining-room of the Rosamund Tea Rooms. For the Lieutenant had decided to
join them, and, sitting at the vanished Mr. Prest’s table, and in a semi-intoxicated state, he shouted across the room at the Thwaites table all through the meal.

After lunch there was an ugly episode in the Lounge, for the Lieutenant, now rather more fully than semi-intoxicated, persisted in demanding that Miss Steele should have a drink of whisky, and
Miss Roach had to intervene.

‘No,’ Miss Roach had to say. ‘She doesn’t want it. Don’t you see? She doesn’t want it!’

‘It’s all right,’ said Miss Steele. ‘I’m  going. It’s all right. I’ll go.’ And she went.

‘You know, you can’t turn her out like that,’ said Miss Roach. ‘If you want to drink, why don’t you go somewhere else?’

‘All right,’ said the Lieutenant. ‘Let’s go somewhere else. Let’s go to your room.’

‘You can come to mine if you like,’ said Vicki.

‘No,’ said Mr. Thwaites. ‘Come to mine.’ And he looked at Vicki. ‘What? Will you come to my room? What?’

‘All right, we’ll go to yours,’ said the Lieutenant, and they went.

‘That’s right,’ she heard Mr. Thwaites saying as they went. ‘You come to my room. What! You come to my room. What! . . .’

At that moment she foresaw that there was shortly going to arrive some sort of climax in Mr. Thwaites’ behaviour. Like an over-excited and pleasure-surfeited child at the end of its
birthday, the man had an unnatural brightness of eye, an air of boldness, inconsequence and hysteria, which was going to lead to some sort of disaster. The child, she was certain, was going either
to break its toy or commit some outrage, and be taken by physical force screaming to bed.

When they had gone she went and knocked on Miss Steele’s door, and told her that the coast was clear for her return. Miss Steele gratefully returned to the Lounge.

‘I think they’re going a little too far, don’t you?’ she said. ‘I know Christmas is Christmas, and nobody likes a little fun more than me, but I think they’re
going a little too far.’

Miss Roach agreed. She talked peacefully to Miss Steele for about twenty minutes, and then went up to her room to try to do some work.

The door of Mr. Thwaites’ room was half open as she passed it, and electric light was burning inside, for it was a dark afternoon.

She could not see what the Lieutenant was doing, for he was out of sight. But she saw Mr. Thwaites and Vicki, who were on the edge of the bed. Mr. Thwaites was trying to kiss Vicki on the mouth,
and one of Vicki’s legs was up in the air.

Miss Steele had been right. Christmas was Christmas, but they were going a little too far.

A pretty scene, in a pretty boarding-house, in a pretty Christmas, of a pretty war.

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The Lieutenant knocked at her door at half-past six.

She had refrained from going down to tea, and, having become more or less immersed in her work, had not realised it was so late. She had been aware, from noises floating up to her from below,
that the Lieutenant was still in the house, and it had struck her as possible that he might come up.

‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘Can I come in?’

As far as she could judge he was almost completely sober again. This man’s inconsequence was such that you could not even rely upon him to remain drunk!