The Slaves of Solitude (30 page)

‘Can you manage Wednesday afternoon?’

‘Why, yes, I think so.’

‘Well, if you can, that’s fine.’ Mr. Prest fished in his breast pocket. ‘Here’s two seats. I was going to give them to a pal down here but he can’t use
’em. There you are. Is that a date?’

‘Why, thank you. That’ll be lovely. Thank you
very
much,’ said Miss Roach.

‘Have another drink?’ said Mr. Prest, a little later.

‘No, I don’t think I’d better. I think I’d really better be going,’ said Miss Roach, and Mr. Prest, hailed at that moment by a friend, did not urge her to stay. She
was glad of this, because she wanted to get out and think.

‘Well, see you Wednesday,’ said Mr. Prest, as she left him amidst the noise, and ‘Yes!’ said Miss Roach, and ‘Come round and see me afterwards!’ said Mr.
Prest, and ‘Yes! Thank you! Goodbye!’ said Miss Roach, and she was out again in the blackness.

So it was really all over now!

So that was the sort of man the Lieutenant was. So this was the final touch to her ‘romance’. She had known well enough already that it was at an end, but now it appeared that there
had never been any ‘romance’ at all. What she had always suspected – the shop-girls – everything – was true. And the shop-girls, no doubt, were offered marriage and
taken to the same seat by the river!

And she had allowed herself to be flattered by his offer, even if she had never seriously thought of accepting it. And she had, if she faced facts, at moments even thought seriously of accepting
it, if only as a means of escape from certain spinsterhood and her present mode of existence. And she had, if she faced facts, at moments not altogether disliked his kisses in the dark. And she had
even taken a certain pride in the fact that she had ‘her’ American in the town.

Instead of this she had never had any offer, for if it was offered to all it was no offer, and she had never had ‘her’ American, and she had been simply made a fool of, deprived of
any sort of dignity, in a typical set-up of war-time wildness and folly which comprised Vicki Kugelmann and the hostile shop-girls in the town.

‘
Old Roach
.’ ‘
Old Cockroach
.’ Driven out on to the streets, and walking about in the blackness, as she had done that night, months ago, before all this had
begun. ‘
Old Cockroach
.’ That was her. That was how they had started with her, and that was how it would always be. She might have known this – she might have known better
than to have suspected the possibility of any brighter destiny.

If she hadn’t cried herself out already, she could go back and cry. But she had cried herself out. It was all over now – even tears.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

1

B
UT
it was not all over.

That extraordinary next day began in an extraordinary way.

Miss Roach, going downstairs to have breakfast, and passing Mr. Thwaites’ door, heard the sound of groaning within.

At least she was almost certain she heard this: she did not stay to listen.

As she went on down the stairs it struck her either that Mr. Thwaites, unknown to her previously, practised Yogi breathing exercises in his room, or that he was in pain. But she could not
associate pain with so healthy and virile a man.

Also the absurd idea occurred to her that Mr. Thwaites somehow knew that she was passing his room, and was groaning for her benefit: that he was pretending he had just that moment been pushed
over and was groaning with pain, shamming ‘hurt.’

2

Only because, late the night before, she had had a little talk with Mrs. Payne, was she now going down to the dining-room for breakfast: she had not originally intended to
have another meal in the dining-room of the Rosamund Tea Rooms.

Late the night before she had had to go downstairs in her dressing-gown for another telephone conversation about her aunt with Mrs. Spender. At the end of this Mrs. Payne had come into the
room.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I’m very sorry about tonight, Mrs. Payne. I suppose I’ll have to go away from here as soon as I can.’

‘Oh no,’ said Mrs. Payne. ‘I hope not. I hope
you
won’t be going.’

‘Well,’ said Miss Roach, ‘I really think it would be for the best. I’m very sorry for what happened.’

‘Oh no,’ said Mrs. Payne. ‘I’m sure you were very much provoked. It’s not you who I want to go. It’s another person I want to go. In fact, I’m going to
ask them to leave.’

‘Oh, really?’ said Miss Roach, and wondered whether Mrs. Payne was alluding to Mr. Thwaites or Vicki.

‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Payne. ‘I didn’t like certain things that took place on Boxing Day. I didn’t like it at all.’

So Mrs. Payne had also had glimpses through open doors! Miss Roach now felt almost sure that Vicki was the one who was going to be asked to go. In boarding-house and landlady psychology it was
always the woman to whom was attached the initiation and guilt of scandals of this sort.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I really don’t feel I can have any more meals in that room.’

‘Oh – that’s all right,’ said Mrs. Payne. ‘We’ll put you at a separate table. That’ll be all right.’

And there the matter had been left.

3

It was very awkward, going to that separate table.

‘Good morning, Mrs. Barrett,’ she said, and smiled at her, and Mrs. Barrett said ‘Good morning’ and smiled back. Vicki, fortunately (and she had reckoned on this when
deciding to brazen it out), had her back to her.

‘Good morning, Miss Steele,’ she said, and Miss Steele said ‘Good morning’ and smiled back with a wink which suggested again that all things would ultimately come out in
the Wash.

Miss Roach’s separate table was in the window, near to the table of the newcomer, Mrs. Crewe.

Miss Roach, without speaking, smiled at Mrs. Crewe, who smiled back in what seemed to Miss Roach a rather uneasy way.

As a complete newcomer, the situation was, of course, very difficult for Mrs. Crewe, who, presumably, took what had happened last night as the normal standard of behaviour at the Rosamund Tea
Rooms, and who, no doubt, thought that Miss Roach would at any moment take her up on the matter of international politics, insult her, drive her up the stairs and push her over.

Miss Roach sat down, and Sheila served her.

Although she had consented to being put at a separate table last night, Miss Roach now doubted the wisdom of this decision. Did it not look as though she had disgraced herself and been put in a
corner? If Mrs. Payne was on her side, ought not Vicki to have been put in the corner? It was all very involved.

It was a grey day, and a hideous spiritual heaviness lay all over the room. A storm was supposed, in the ordinary way, to clear the air. But so far from this having happened, the atmosphere, in
a new way, was more stiflingly oppressive than ever before.

For the first time it now occurred to Miss Roach that Mr. Thwaites was not in the room. How silly of her! – how could he be in the room if he was groaning or doing Yogi exercises upstairs?
But what was the matter? Why was he not down? She had never known him not to be first in his place before.

Miss Steele voiced her thoughts.

‘Where’s Mr. Thwaites this morning?’ she asked. ‘It’s not like him not to be down.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Mrs. Barratt. ‘No – it’s certainly not like him.’

Then Vicki spoke.

‘He is ill, I think,’ said Vicki quietly. ‘Quite badly ill.’

And something in Vicki’s voice told Miss Roach that this remark had been addressed to her – or uttered so that she in particular might hear.

What was this? What new trick was the woman up to?

Were she and Mr. Thwaites going to try and throw Mr. Thwaites’ illness, if he had one, on to her?

Were they going to try and pull an injured spine, or something of that sort, out of the bag?

They were capable of anything.

4

After breakfast Miss Roach had some shopping to do.

Going up to her bedroom to dress, and passing Mr. Thwaites’ door, she heard the same sound of groaning.

Coming downstairs again, five or six minutes later, she heard nothing. Relieved, she went out into the town.

Returning three-quarters of an hour later, and passing Mr. Thwaites’ door, she again heard Mr. Thwaites groaning, this time more loudly, and, it seemed to her, in genuine physical
anguish.

She went up to her room, walked about it, and then went downstairs to try and find Mrs. Payne.

But there was no sign of Mrs. Payne. There was no sign of anybody. She seemed to be alone in the house with a groaning Mr. Thwaites . . .

Well – it was not her business. She was sorry for Mr. Thwaites, if he was ill and in pain, but it was not her business.

All the same, she was conscious of a silly sort of fear, and felt that she must get out of the house. Get out and stay out.

She went for a long walk, which calmed, without removing, that funny feeling of fear, and she had lunch at a restaurant in the town.

Then she went for another walk, and returned to the Rosamund Tea Rooms at about a quarter past three.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

1

S
HE
had not set foot in the house before she realised that panic was reigning within its walls – had been so
reigning for a considerable time.

Mrs. Payne, rushing down the stairs, hardly looked at her as she dashed into her room. She heard Mrs. Payne using the telephone.

She climbed the stairs, and the groaning met her as she rose. ‘Oh! . . . Oh! . . . Oh!. . .’

Mr. Thwaites’ door was closed, and she listened outside.

‘Oh! . . . Oh! . . . Oh! . . .’ she heard, and, beneath this noise, the sound of two strange men talking in quiet and level tones. Only doctors, and frightened doctors at that, would
be talking in just that quiet and level way.

Was Mr. Thwaites going to die? And had she killed him?

She rushed down to Mrs. Payne’s room. Mrs. Payne had just finished her telephone call.

‘What’s the matter, Mrs. Payne?’ she said. ‘Is he ill?’

‘Yes. He’s very bad, I’m afraid,’ said Mrs. Payne. ‘He’s got to have an operation. They’re sending an ambulance.’

‘But what
is
it?’ asked Miss Roach passionately. ‘What’s the
matter
?’

‘It’s peritonitis, they think,’ said Mrs. Payne. ‘And he’s got to go to Reading at once and have an operation.’

‘Oh!’ said Miss Roach. ‘Then it’s not anything else?’

‘How do you mean?’ said Mrs. Payne.

Impossible to explain to Mrs. Payne what she had really meant! She had meant, of course, that since it was peritonitis, something to do with his stomach, it was nothing to do with his fall,
nothing to do with herself. She saw Mrs. Payne looking at her in a puzzled way.

‘How awful!’ she said, but her voice throbbed with relief. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘No. I don’t see there’s anything, thank you very much,’ said Mrs. Payne. ‘It’s so sudden, isn’t it? It was just the same with my brother. It comes out
of the blue. It looks pretty bad to me.’

Had Mrs. Payne’s never-before-heard-of brother died of this complaint? Miss Roach did not like to ask. Was Mr. Thwaites going to die? It looked as though Mrs. Payne thought that he
was.

‘Well, let me know if there’s anything I can do,’ said Miss Roach as she left the room, and Mrs. Payne said that she would.

That groaning, as she went up the stairs! Was the man completely lacking in fortitude, or did those groans express the genuine agony they seemed to? Of course, he had a noisy, nasal, resounding
enough voice always, and he was hardly the sort of man to make light of his own illness. All the same, she somehow believed in those groans. Why didn’t they give him morphia or something?

2

When the ambulance came, at four o’clock, Miss Roach was in the hall.

She was in her out-door clothes, for it had not occurred to her to remove them, and she had spent the intervening period walking about her room and going out on to the landing and listening.

Mr. Thwaites’ door was opened, and the groaning came out into the open and down the stairs.

Mrs. Payne and Sheila were there, but no one else was present.

Even whiter of face than she had anticipated (and she had certainly anticipated a white face), in the white blankets of the stretcher, Mr. Thwaites groaned.

‘
Oh! . . . Oh! . . . Oh! . . .
’ he groaned, and, as the stretcher paused in the doorway, he caught her eye, and looked at her, and groaned at her.

‘Oughtn’t someone to go with him?’ she said to Mrs. Payne, and ‘Yes!’ said Mrs. Payne. ‘Go on! You go with him. Can you manage it? Go on. You go with
him!’

‘All right,’ said Miss Roach. ‘I’ll go.’

And so it came about that the ex-schoolmistress took her place with the boarding-house bully in the ambulance going to Reading.

3

The ambulance moved slowly through the darkening town and she sat on the seat opposite and looked at him. She would have held his hand, but his hands were beneath the
blankets.

He looked at her, in the electric light of the interior, and groaned, and went on looking at her.

There was no reproach in his look, no dislike – only a look of intense mystification at what was happening to him, and of concentration on the pain inside him. It was a faraway look and an
inward look at one and the same time. If his eyes were saying anything to Miss Roach they were asking her to offer some explanation.

When they got out into the country they began to move faster, and she talked a little to the attendant, who explained that for some medical reason or other morphia could not be given in cases of
this sort . . .

At one time, Mr. Thwaites, still groaning, tried to sit up and look out of the window, as if to find out where they were going, as if it was his business to see where they were going. Then she
took his hand.

‘It’s all right, Mr. Thwaites,’ she said. ‘We’ll soon be there now. It won’t be long. You’ll soon be out of pain.’

And he let her hold his hand, looking into her eyes, and still groaning. But in a more peaceful and resigned way, she thought, or liked to think.