The Slaves of Solitude (8 page)

The Saturday-night place became very crowded, but they had a comfortable corner to themselves. Every now and again he went to the bar to refill their glasses. She felt the drink affecting her
potently, but this time the result was not one of making her unhappy, of setting her on edge, but of composing her beautifully, of balancing and refreshing her.

She dreaded the renewed appearance of Lieutenant Lummis and the two girls, but this did not happen. Soon enough she noticed that it was six and twenty minutes past seven, which meant that she
had four minutes in which to return to the Rosamund Tea Rooms for dinner. She mentioned the time of the evening to Lieutenant Pike, but it did not seem to impress him. A little later she mentioned
it again, and he explained that they were going to eat upstairs at the River Sun. Though she had been prepared for this, she was filled with joy and terror. She said, if that was the case, she must
‘let them know’. He said why let them know, it was a free country, wasn’t it? She said they would ‘worry’. He said let them worry. Pressed on the point, he agreed that
it might be wise to telephone, and said he would do so himself in the near future. Pressed to do so at once, he got up and did so. When he returned she eagerly asked to whom he had spoken, and what
had been ‘said’. But he gave her no satisfactory information: he said no more than that it was ‘all O.K.’: he was uncommunicative and inconsequent.

It was, actually, at this moment that there first dawned upon her a realisation of the quality which mainly characterised the Lieutenant – his inconsequence. He was not only inconsequent,
as most human beings are, in drink: he was chronically and inveterately inconsequent. His sudden suggestion, the night before in the hall of the Rosamund Tea Rooms, that she should join him in a
drink, had been inconsequent. His remark that he had spotted her first thing and had made up his mind to meet up with her had, she believed, been inconsequent. His prompt and easy relinquishing of
her when his friend and the two girls had joined them had been inconsequent. Now he had on the spur of the moment decided to give her dinner, adopting an inconsequent attitude in regard to the
Rosamund Tea Rooms and any social consequences whatsoever.

She was far from being in a mood to criticise this characteristic trait tonight, however. On the contrary, in her escape from the long inhibitions enclosing her at the Rosamund Tea Rooms, she
was disposed to regard it as a merit, and to remind herself that she herself would be improved by a more inconsequent attitude generally. Bearing this in mind, she did not think it fitting to
refuse his next offer of a drink, nor yet another offer which came a little later.

They were not up in the dining-room until half-past eight, did not begin to eat until ten to nine, and had not finished until a quarter to ten. After this he was anxious to add a final polish to
his evening’s drinking with further whiskies downstairs, but the bars below were now so packed with noisy civilians and his compatriot soldiers that he allowed her to prevail upon him to
abandon the project and leave the place – not, however, before he had fought his way to the bar and obtained a half-bottle of whisky for his pocket in the way of insurance. She observed that
he was now drunk, but not as yet dangerously so, and she herself had enough drink inside her to fear no evil results.

Walking along arm-in-arm in the direction of the Rosamund Tea Rooms she asked him where they were going, and he said he didn’t have any notion, where were they? Then he said,
‘Let’s go and see the folks.’ She asked him what folks, and he said ‘The folks. The old guy. Let’s go and see ’em.’ At this she realised that the old guy
was Mr. Thwaites and that he proposed to burst in upon the sacred after-dinner stillness of the boarding-house Lounge. Her spirits being as high and bold as they were, she was for a moment tempted
to support this plan, but was wise enough to see its folly in time, and to attempt to dissuade him. He asked where in hell could they go, anyway, and she said she personally would like to go to
bed. There followed an argument about this, which continued until they reached the steps of the Rosamund Tea Rooms, where it had to be continued in lowered voices. She was now hardened in her
resolution to go to bed, and all at once – and again inconsequently – he consented. He himself would go into the Lounge for a bit, and then he also would go to bed.

She did not like the idea of his going into the Lounge, but it was not her responsibility or business. Also he seemed suddenly more sober, and she thought this would be the best compromise. In
the hall, as he took off his overcoat, she thanked him, in whispers, for the evening, and on the stairs going up he said good-night, he’d be seeing her. She went on up to her room. She heard
him entering the Lounge.

She decided to wash some stockings before going to bed. For this reason, when, a quarter of an hour later, she heard a soft knocking on the door, she was not undressed. She opened the door and
found Lieutenant Pike standing in the doorway with a half-bottle of whisky in his hand. He explained that he had come up for one for the road, and had she got a glass and some water or something?
She whispered he mustn’t, he must go away, he
mustn
’
t
! He said Come on, just one for the road, and she could have one too. She noticed that he was now drunk again, drunker
than he had been throughout the entire evening. He was a very baffling man. She let him in and said he must be quiet, he must go and he must be quiet.

She went out on to the landing to see if anyone was about. She heard nothing, and concluding that her fellow-lodgers were all as yet in the Lounge, guessed that the situation might be retrieved
if she got rid of him at once.

She came back, not knowing whether to shut the door so that nothing was heard, or to leave it open so as to defeat the charge of clandestinity. She compromised by leaving it two inches open. He
had already poured a large amount of whisky into her tooth-glass and filled up with water from her tap. He said God Almighty they were a stuffy bunch down there. She said he must be quiet. He must
be quiet and go! Didn’t he
understand
?

He was quiet. He nodded with the air of a man who had cottoned on to a clever idea. He was quiet with a mad, infinitely portentous quietude. This caused him, as it were, to go to sleep on his
feet as he gazed at her, glass in hand, and to sway faintly from side to side. He took another swill at his drink, and was as quiet as a contemplating Buddha. She saw that he was willing to go on
standing there being quiet in this way all night.

She went out on to the landing again. She returned and said ‘Go on. Drink it up. You must go!’ He drank it up. She stuffed the bottle of whisky into his pocket and manoeuvred him
towards the door. He said ‘Well – good night,’ and looked at her. She said ‘Good night,’ and smiled. He paused, and put his arms around her, in order to kiss her. She
offered him her cheek to be kissed. He kissed her cheek, and then kissed her neck. Then he kissed her mouth. She said ‘Good night.’ He said ‘Good night’ and disappeared.

She closed the door and went on washing her stockings. She undressed and smoked a cigarette in bed. She was not nauseated or shocked by what had just happened. She was curiously pleased and
cheerful. She had enjoyed her evening to the full. She wondered what he meant by it all, and she did not much care. She hoped he had not made a fool of himself in the Lounge, but she did not much
care about that, either. It was not her business. In a curious way she felt a new woman. She put out her light and slept profoundly.

4

No arrangement had been made between them to meet again, but she had a feeling, the next morning, that she would see him at tea-time. She appeared ten minutes late for
tea, half expecting to find him there; but he was not. Nor did he appear at all for tea, though she waited in the room an hour and a half. Nor did he appear anywhere during the evening.

On Monday evening, returning from her work, she again imagined she would see him, if not by himself, at any rate in the dining-room with his friend. But she was again disappointed. On Tuesday
she heard accidentally, through Mrs. Payne, that he and his friend had three days’ leave which they were spending in London.

She did not see or hear from him again until Thursday evening. Then, as she was dressing for dinner in her room, Sheila came rushing up the stairs to announce that she was wanted on the
telephone. The telephone being in Mrs. Payne’s private room on the ground floor, this was a boarding-house sensation. The residents of the Rosamund Tea Rooms were not telephone-using animals.
Mrs. Payne was in the room, and did not see any reason to leave it.

He asked her how she was, and said that he had been in London for three days and that he was now at the River Sun. She was to come round at once to have a drink. She explained that she was just
about to have dinner, and he said she needn’t bother about dinner, there was plenty of that round where he was. He sounded in extremely high spirits, and if only in order to cut the
conversation short, she agreed to do as he said. She rang off, and thanked Mrs. Payne for the use of the telephone. Mrs. Payne replied affably, but not ostentatiously so. Miss Roach had a
remarkable feeling that Mrs. Payne was the headmistress of an academy from which, if she went on like this, she was likely to be expelled at an early date.

She did not know exactly how much Mrs. Payne had heard, and she did not have the courage to tell her she would not be in to dinner. Instead, as she went out, she caught Sheila in the
dining-room, and quietly broke the news to her.

She was a little dubious as to the condition she was going to find him in, and was relieved to see that his high spirits seemed to be due to nothing in addition to high spirits. A small gin and
french was awaiting her on the table in their corner of the Lounge, along with his large whisky and soda, and they began at once busily and cheerfully to talk. He described his trip to London, and
had many questions to ask about the town, questions which she was able to answer with the same modest Londoner’s pride as he had evoked in her the first evening they had met.

They were in the dining-room by half-past eight, and had finished eating by nine.

After dinner he did not seem to want to go on drinking, but suggested that they should take a walk along the river. It was a mild night, and not so completely black as usual because of a little
diffused light from an invisible moon. It was still very black, however. She suggested that they should cross the bridge and walk along on the far side of the river, but it seemed that he preferred
to walk through the little Thames Lockdon park on the near side. The thought flitted across her mind that on this near side there were seats upon which one could sit in comfort and look at the
river: on the far side there was nothing of this kind. It also flitted across her mind that the same thought had flitted across his. She rebuked her mind for these hyper-imaginative flittings.

They walked slowly for twenty minutes in the darkness by the side of the river, and then turned round and walked back. On again reaching the little park he suggested that they should sit down on
one of the seats. They did so, and soon he put his arm around her and began, as in her bedroom earlier in the week, to kiss her with unabashed enthusiasm and thoroughness. On the whole she disliked
this at first, but after a while she found that she disliked it a good deal less. After half an hour, in which they scarcely spoke, they rose and moved into Thames Lockdon again.

He said he could do with a drink, and she also welcomed the idea. They returned to the brightly lit Lounge of the River Sun. He prevailed upon her to have one of his large whiskies and soda.
They sat in their usual corner, and as the place filled up in preparation for the final din and panic of closing-time, they talked with renewed freshness and eagerness.

The Lieutenant did most of the talking, and for the first time furnished some details of his personal background – of his life ‘back home’ and of his ‘folks’. He
came from Wilkes Barre in Pennsylvania: his folks were in the catering business, and he was now attached, on the catering side, to a medical unit stationed three or four miles outside Thames
Lockdon. They were building a camp out there. Though his folks were in the catering business, his personal ambitions, beliefs, and hopes for the future lay in the way of the laundry business. He
descanted upon the laundry business at some length, speaking of the connections he had already established with it, and making it clear that on his return home after the war the laundry business
was as eager to embrace him as he was eager to embrace the laundry business.

Though she did not exactly know why, she found his enthusiasm for the laundry business faintly disheartening. Perhaps it was because the cold thoughts set in motion by the laundry business
assorted so quaintly with the warm thoughts recently set in motion on the seat in the park – because of the crude contrast, in fact, between kisses in the darkness by the river and washing
other people’s clothes in America.

5

He had in all four large whiskies before closing-time, and prevailed upon her to have two. It was not until he had his last whisky in front of him, and she had reason to
believe that he was drunk again, that he exploded his next bombshell. The talk had still been running upon himself and his future, and somehow or other the question of his getting married and
settling down had arisen, and somehow or other she had asked him who, or what sort of person, he would like to marry.

‘Why – who do you suppose,’ he said, ‘after all that?’

‘All what?’ she said, too stunned to get his meaning, or at any rate to believe that his meaning was what she thought it might be.

‘All that out there,’ he said.

‘Out where?’ she said.

‘Oh – along by the river,’ he said, and he looked at her. She looked quickly away at her glass, and there was a silence. Then he changed the subject, and she volubly assisted
him to do so. This was simply too much even to think about at the moment: she must put it away and take it out later, when she was alone.