The Slaves of Solitude (32 page)

‘Did he have a bad fall?’ asked the doctor, out of mere curiosity.

‘Oh no. Nothing bad. In fact, he was walking about and perfectly normal after it. Well, the only point is – the only thing I want to ask you is – could it be in any way
possible that his illness could be connected with it – could there be any possible connection between the two?’

The doctor looked at Miss Roach, thinking quickly. Thank God, he had a simple truthful answer and might get her out of the room in two minutes. But he just had to make sure that Miss Roach
didn’t
want
the fall to be connected with Mr. Thwaites’ illness. No, surely such a thing would be ludicrous – out of the question. No psychological complication could bring
about such a desire.

‘Well,’ he said, having decided this, ‘I can give you a perfectly simple and straightforward answer.’

‘Yes?’ said Miss Roach, her liquid, limpid eyes looking into his. ‘What?’

‘Not the faintest connection,’ he said. ‘No connection of any sort.’

And, seeing the look of exquisite relief which came into those liquid, limpid eyes, he knew he was on safe ground, and went ahead.

‘Not the
remotest, faintest
,’ he said. ‘You can get
that
out of your mind.’

‘Oh, thank God,’ said Miss Roach. ‘That’s all I wanted to know.’

There was a moment in which the doctor thought that Miss Roach was going to cry.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you can set your mind at rest about that. I’m afraid poor Mr. Thwaites had it coming to him, as they say.’

‘Oh, thank heavens,’ said Miss Roach.

‘As a matter of fact,’ said the doctor, ‘I’d  been attending him for indigestion, and there were all the symptoms there. It just happened suddenly like that, as you know it does.’

‘Oh, thank you,’ said Miss Roach. ‘Thank you very much.’

‘Not at all,’ said the doctor, putting forth a getting-up atmosphere. ‘Is there anything else you want to know?’

Miss Roach rose.

‘No. Nothing else. I just had to ask you, that’s all. I’m afraid you’ll think me very silly.’

‘Well, that idea
is
silly!’ admitted the doctor humorously, and rose also. ‘But I know what ideas people get about these things.’

‘Oh, thank you,’ said Miss Roach, going to the door. ‘I can’t thank you enough.’

He took her out into the hall to the front door, reflecting that actually he could hardly thank her enough for going so quickly and not being a nuisance.

‘Will you let me have a bill, or will you tell me what I owe you, or what?’ said Miss Roach.

‘No. No bill,’ said the doctor. ‘I’m only too glad.’

‘Well, that’s terribly kind of you,’ said Miss Roach, and ‘Not at all,’ said the doctor, and ‘Thank you
again
,’ said Miss Roach as they shook
hands, and ‘It’s pretty dark, I’m afraid,’ said the doctor, and ‘It’s all right, I’ve got a torch. And thank you
so
much. Good night!’ said
Miss Roach, and she had gone.

Returning to his consulting-room, the doctor reflected for a few moments on the oddity of the interview which had just taken place. He was glad to have been able to tell the truth, and he was
conscious of having done it tactfully and well.

It struck him that it was conceivably arguable by medical men that a fall might be put down as some sort of secondary cause, but it hadn’t struck him at the time, and of course he would
never have told the miserable woman that. He returned to his income-tax problems, and forgot about her permanently.

He did not know that the miserable woman was at that moment almost prancing down the hill in the blackness with divine, divine happiness in her heart – with that divine serenity of
happiness which only relief, as opposed to mere joy or pleasure, can bring, and which exceeds any joy or pleasure known to human beings.

And the miserable woman had decided in her divine happiness to pack her clothes that night and go back to London tomorrow. She didn’t know where she’d get in, but she’d get in
somewhere – a police station or workhouse, if necessary.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

1

O
DDLY
enough, that feeling of divine and serene happiness was, in a quiet and modified way, still with her next
morning. Indeed it persisted, really, throughout the entire day.

She had told Mrs. Payne the night before of her intention of leaving, and now, this morning, she rose earlier than usual, and was down before breakfast in Mrs. Payne’s room telephoning her
employer, Mr. Lindsell, at his London flat. She was a little afraid of annoying him by phoning so early, but she knew that it was his habit to rise at seven.

He was surprised to hear her at this time of day, but cordial in his tone, and after an exchange of greetings, asked her facetiously what he could do for her.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘there
is
something you can do, as a matter of fact, if you can manage it. I’ve got to leave this place down here suddenly, you see. In fact,
I’ve got to clear out today.’

‘Oh yes?’ said Mr. Lindsell. ‘Any trouble?’

She had told Mr. Lindsell, when she had seen him just before Christmas, that she was not too happy where she was, and she saw that he was now going to be pleasantly understanding, as he always
was. He was a nice man.

‘Yes,’ she said, glad of Mrs. Payne’s absence from the room, and looking at the door to see that it was properly closed. ‘Quite a lot. It’s all very absurd, but
I’ve really had a very bad time.’

‘Oh dear,’ said the nice Mr. Lindsell.

‘Well, the point is,’ said Miss Roach, ‘that I’ve got to get in somewhere in London, and I’m wondering if you can help me.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Mr. Lindsell. ‘That’s a bit difficult nowadays, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, I know, but I don’t mind where I go. I mean I don’t mind what it costs. Surely one can get in at a really expensive hotel, can’t one? I mean a really expensive
place.’

‘M’m. I see what you mean,’ said Mr. Lindsell. ‘M’m . . . Now let me think . . . You mean a
really
expensive place?’

‘Yes. It doesn’t matter if it costs the earth. I need only stay a night or two, and then I can find somewhere else.’

‘Yes. I see. Do you mean a sort of place like Claridge’s? Because I’ve got some pull there, and I think I could get you in.’

For a moment Miss Roach wavered. Claridge’s! The resort of princes! But, because of her serene mood, she felt she could even cope with Claridge’s.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’d do, excellently. Do you think you might manage it?’

‘Well, I’ll have a try,’ said Mr. Lindsell, and a few moments later, having said that he would ring her back when he had tried, he rang off.

Claridge’s! From the Rosamund Tea Rooms to Claridge’s! Miss Roach’s soul smiled to itself.

2

Miss Roach’s soul was still smiling to itself when she entered the dining-room for breakfast, and she was still filled with that curious residue of the divine
happiness which had fallen upon her last night. It was because of this, and because of a remark made by Miss Steele, that she was able to revenge herself upon Vicki.

She went to her separate table, and was aware that Miss Steele was looking over at her more than she usually did. At last Miss Steele spoke.

‘You’re looking very pleased with yourself this morning,’ she said, smiling amiably.

‘Yes,’ said Miss Roach. ‘I’m feeling in very good form.’

‘Is it true that you’re a great heiress now?’ said Miss Steele. ‘Is it true that you’ve come into an enormous sum of money?’

Mrs. Payne had evidently been gossiping, and this was the crucial moment. Normally Miss Roach would have told the truth – would not have equivocated in the smallest way. Normally she would
have said that she had not as yet, strictly speaking, come into any money, and that five hundred pounds was not the enormous amount of money which Miss Steele’s tone was suggesting she had
come into. But today, because of that residue of serenity and happiness, she did otherwise. She condescended, even, to be mischievous. She glanced over at Vicki, who was silently putting food in
her mouth.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it’s pretty good. It’s quite enough for me, at any rate.’

And the room was filled with a picture, not of five hundred, but of five thousand pounds.

‘Well, I’m sure you deserve it,’ said Miss Steele, ‘if anybody ever did. And so you’re leaving us today?’

‘Yes. That’s right. I’m going back to town.’

‘Where are you staying?’ asked Miss Steele. ‘Have you got somewhere nice to go?’

Miss Roach again glanced over at the eating, silent Vicki, and again equivocated.

‘Well, it’s very hard to find anywhere,’ said Miss Roach, ‘so I’m staying at Claridge’s just for the time being.’

‘Claridge’s!’ said Miss Steele. ‘I say! You really are an heiress, aren’t you?’

Miss Roach got the impression that Miss Steele, instead of really speaking to her, was, like herself, really speaking to Vicki.

‘Well, it’s all extremely nice,’ she said.

‘Extremely,’ said Miss Steele. ‘I said everything would come out in the Wash, didn’t I?’

‘Yes. You did. Indeed.’

The heiress about to put up at Claridge’s looked over at the silent German woman, and wondered whether she should punish her further. She decided that she was in the mood to do so, and
that she would.

‘But what’s making me really cheerful,’ she said, ‘is that I saw the doctor last night – Mr. Thwaites’ doctor . . .’

‘Oh yes?’

‘You know, I was afraid there might be some sort of connection between that push I gave him and his illness. But he told me there’s absolutely no connection – no conceivable
connection of any sort.’

‘Of course there wasn’t,’ said Miss Steele, almost angrily, and now definitely glancing at Vicki. ‘It’d be absurd to think of such a thing . . . But I’m glad
the doctor told you.’

And Miss Roach looked at Vicki as well.

And seeing her at that moment, glumly and silently eating (she had always been a filthy eater, by the way, but that had been a mere detail), and having nothing to say, and not being an heiress
who was going to stay at Claridge’s, but an alien under sentence of expulsion from the boarding-house in which she was now obviously disliked by all – seeing her thus, Miss Roach felt
that she had somehow obtained her revenge at last.

Miss Roach, a modest woman, had modest notions of revenge. She was at that moment, and ever afterwards, completely satisfied.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

1

S
HE
aimed to catch the eleven-twenty-five to London, and before this time she was twice called into Mrs. Payne’s
room to answer the telephone. The first call was from Mr. Lindsell, who told her that he had managed to get her in at Claridge’s, and the second was from the Lieutenant, who asked her to
spend the evening with him. She explained that she would not be able to do this as she was going to London, and he said that this was a pity, as he was being moved away from Thames Lockdon in two
days’ time, more than a hundred and fifty miles away, and for good, and that it would have been nice if they could have met before he went. She agreed politely that it would have been nice,
but did not see what could be done. He then said that he would have to come and see her when he had some leave in London, and that he would ‘write’ to her.

As a final piece of perfect inconsequence he was ringing off without making any enquiry as to where he could write to her in London, and she pointed this out, telling him that she could always
be got care of Reeves and Lindsell. She was entirely certain, however, that she would never get any letter from the Lieutenant, and that she would not ever see him again.

She permitted herself a little further malicious pleasure in the thought that Vicki as well as herself would not ever be seeing the Lieutenant again. Quite conceivably the Lieutenant had also
suggested to Vicki that she should marry him: she would be the sort of person to take such a suggestion at its face value: and her not ever seeing him again would make her decidedly despondent.
Somehow, everything seemed to be going against that woman now.

At ten past eleven, when she was already thinking about the arrival of the taxi to take her to the station, she was thrown into a sudden panic by finding, in her bag, two seats for a performance
that very afternoon at the Theatre Royal, Wimbledon. In all the excitement of the last few days she had completely forgotten about Mr. Prest! She did some quick thinking, and then realised that it
was all right, she could manage it. In fact, it would do her a lot of good to go to the theatre that afternoon: nothing could be nicer.

She said goodbye to Miss Steele, and to Mrs. Payne, and Mrs. Barratt was looked for, but could not be found. Then she said goodbye to Sheila, and tipped her, and Sheila carried her suitcase for
her into the taxi. She was only taking one suitcase with her: the rest of her things were going to be sent on.

It was only when she was sitting in the train, and the train had started, that it dawned upon her that there was not really any need for her to fly from the Rosamund Tea Rooms and return to
London. Mr. Thwaites was dead, Vicki had been told to leave, and it would have been more than easy to endure the company of the sometimes somewhat foolish Miss Steele and the lethargic Mrs.
Barratt. And yet here she was, and there was no going back now!

Such were the psychological accidents, errors, and complications which governed a person’s movements and destiny.

2

On arrival at Paddington she put her suitcase into the cloakroom and then telephoned Mr. Lindsell again on a matter concerning a manuscript which she thought might be
urgent, and which she had forgotten to mention over the telephone in the morning. The matter was not urgent, and Mr. Lindsell, in a cheerful mood, possibly induced by sherry, asked her how she was
doing, and suggested that she should have a drink with him at Claridge’s at six-thirty, as he was going to be about the Brook Street part of the world at that time. She accepted eagerly, and
felt that this was heaven, to have someone, when she first arrived, who knew the ropes in the big, frightening hotel.