Джон Пристли - Benighted

"No telephone here, I suppose?" Sir William had turned to Mr. Femm.

"No telephone or any other sign and mark of civilisation," Mr. Femm told him. "You are now completely cut off from the world, sir, but apparently this house will not suffer from the floods and the landslides."

"The road must have gone completely at each side now," said Philip. He remembered how he had resented the magnate's super-man airs in town, and found a certain malicious pleasure now in the sight of his helplessness. It would do him good. "It was impassable when we came here, three-quarters of an hour ago. I can't imagine how you got here at all."

"We must have been just behind you." Sir William found a chair and drew up to the table. "Think I saw your lights once. I pressed on, no good going back, and found myself in a devil of a situation. Car was nearly under water, stopped, started again, stopped again, then ran into a landslide or something of that sort. The bonnet was hit by a flying rock, the wheels were stuck, and in a minute the car was half buried. Took us all our time to get out."

"How did you find this place?" Philip asked him.

"Left the car there. It's there now if it hasn't been washed into the valley – damn shame, too – it's a little Hispano I had made specially, to drive myself – only car I ever cared about. Always the same though, care about a thing and it's done in before you can say 'knife.' Well, we crawled out and didn't know where we were. Pitch black and raining like fury and water spouting all over the place. Had to leave everything, bags and all. No use going back, I said, we hadn't passed a light or signs of a house for miles. We went on, sloshing in mud, up to the knees in water, climbing over rocks. We'd an electric torch, but that wasn't much good. Then we saw a light and made for it as best we could. And here we are, and here we'll have to stay, at least till morning and perhaps longer. It's getting worse out there. You'd think it was the end of the world after being out in it for ten minutes; I don't mind telling you I thought I was nearly through. Can I use this glass?" He produced a flask from his pocket, emptied it into the glass, and promptly swallowed the inch of whisky in one gulp.

"Hello!" his late companion called across. "You've not finished it, have you?"

"Afraid I have, Gladys." And he showed her the flask.

"Well, I must say, Bill, you are a pig." And the girl made a face when he threw her a rather perfunctory "Sorry." She was now sitting close to the fire and, having pulled off the high boots she had been wearing, was holding out one steaming silk-stockinged foot after another near the blaze.

"I've got a pair of slippers with me that I had in the car," she confided to Margaret, "and that's all I have got. What a night! I'll bet you had it pretty rough, didn't you?"

"Yes, it was very bad," Margaret answered indifferently.

"Well, we're out of it now all right unless this place is swamped during the night." Then she lowered her voice. "Any beds going?"

Margaret shook her head. "No, we shall have to stay in here all night." Her voice sounded stiff, unfriendly, and that was a pity perhaps, but really she couldn't help it. She had spent years disliking the type at a distance and she couldn't change in a few minutes just because this obvious week-ending chorus girl had chanced to come under the same roof, out of the same wild night. The man was different. She didn't mind him. Indeed, his very bluffness and vulgarity would be useful here, breeding a coarse sanity in this queer situation.

They were returning to supper now. Morgan had lurched off with his plate, and the others were settling down again at the table. The baronet confessed that he was ready for some cold meat and bread and cheese, and had found a place between Margaret and Mr. Femm. "Come along, Gladys," he called, "if you want something to eat. We interrupted this little supper party and we've been asked to join it."

"Righto," she cried. "I'm coming." And Penderel brought up a chair for her and she sat down by his side. He noticed that she met the long stare of Miss Femm, now so much folded and silent fat, with a smile that was deliciously near a grin. It wasn't mere cheek either. This girl was all right.

She looked at him frowningly. "What's your name? Sorry, but I can never remember."

"Penderel." And that's the worst of being nobody in particular, he thought, for you always feel a fool when you bring out your name.

She frowned at him again. "What else? "Scuse me asking."

"Roger," he told her, and thought it sounded rusty. It was some time since he heard it.

"Roger Penderel." She was obviously turning it over in her mind. "Look here, don't you know a boy called Ranger, Dick Ranger?"

"Lord, yes. I know young Ranger. His elder brother, Tom, used to be a great pal of mine. He's somewhere in the Sudan now, being done to a turn. Dick's not been down long from Oxford and has developed into a tremendous West Ender. He knows all the places, stops out late, and is as cynical as a taxi driver. He quite frightens me, makes me feel old and simple."

"I know him too," she said. "He's rather a nice boy really, bit young and silly of course. I asked because I'm sure I saw you with him once. I knew I'd seen you somewhere and I couldn't think where, but now I remember. Weren't you with him one night – three or four months ago – at the 'Rats and Mice'?"

"The 'Rats and Mice'?" Then he remembered the place, one of the smaller night clubs. "Yes, I did go there one night with Dick Ranger. It's a little place, isn't it, with everything and everybody jammed together. There was a band all squashed in a balcony, just like sardines in a half-opened tin. I remember the name of the place because I told Ranger it was like being inside a cheese. I hated it. The drinks were about the worst and the dearest I've ever known."

"Pretty rotten, yes, but not quite so bad if you're in with the crowd who are running it. I go there a lot, though it's not my favourite haunt."

"Haunt's a good word, isn't it?" He grinned at her and she – perhaps mechanically, he didn't know – wrinkled her nose in reply. "We have to go somewhere, haven't we?"

"That's just it. That's what I always say." She was quite eager about this. "You can have a dance or two and a drink with some of the girls and boys you know, and the band's making a cheerful row and the lights are nice and bright, and so you turn in there night after night and hang on, not wanting to turn out and crawl home to your rotten digs."

"I know. Once down the steps and outside the door, it's dark and raining probably and to-morrow's begun. So you put it off."

"You've hit it in one," she told him. And then, after a moment's reflection, she went on: "It's like being in here after that." She jerked her head towards the door. Then she lowered her voice. "This seems a funny, dingy sort of hole – funny people here too – but it's the Ritz itself after being out there."

"Yes, I suppose it is." He didn't want to sound dubious, but he couldn't help wondering. He turned his glance on the impassive Miss Femm for a moment, then looked across at her brother, who was talking to Porterhouse.

"You surprise me, sir," Mr. Femm was remarking, though there was no surprise but something quite different flickering in his eyes. "But then, I have been out of the world, you might say, for at least ten years. I never even see a newspaper now."

"You wouldn't know it, then. Take my word for that," said Porterhouse. "You couldn't come back into it. It's a different world altogether. I've kept pace with it, so to speak; might even say I've been in front; but it's taken me all my time."

"The world will be very different," said Mr. Femm, slowly, "when all the people have been cleared out of it, and not before. Men and women do not change. Their silly antics are always the same. There will always be a few clever ones, who can see a yard or two in front of their noses, and a host of fools who can see nothing, who are all befuddled, who pride themselves on being virtuous because they are incompetent or short-sighted."