V. Naipaul - The nightwatchman's occurrence book - and other comic inventions

Their silence imposed silence on Margaret and Mr Stone as well, and even when Miss Chichester brought out tea for the party the silence continued. The man fell wordlessly on plates and pots and tasteful jugs as though he had been sparing his energies for this moment. He attacked the dainty sandwiches, the fresh scones, the homemade jam; and with every mouthful he appeared to grow more energetic, restless and enterprising. His thin, hairy hand shot out in all directions, making to grab teapots, cake-plates, jam-bowls, gestures so decisive and of such authority that his keepers, who were at first inclined to deflect his pouncing actions, surrendered entirely, and contented themselves with salvaging what food they could. Abruptly the eater finished. He worked his lips over his teeth, made a few sucking noises, and perceptibly the expression of blind eagerness gave way to the earlier sour dejection. He stared straight ahead, at nothing; while his keepers, rescuing their tea interlude from premature extinction, intermittently nibbled at bread and butter as if without appetite. Throughout there had been no speech at the table.

The habit of examining people older than himself was one into which Mr Stone had been falling during the past year. It was something he fought against; observation told him that only women, very young children and very old men inspected and assessed others of their group with such intensity. But now in spite of himself he stared with horror and fascination, and found that, as the eater’s actions had grown more frenzied, his own had grown exaggeratedly slow.

Their own tea arrived and they prepared to begin. Attempting to break the silence Mr Stone found that he whispered, and the whisper was like gunshot. Silence continued, except for the kitchen clatter and the thumps of Miss Chichester’s shoes.

And then silence vanished. The door was pushed vigorously open and there entered a very tall fair man and a very small fair girl. The man was in mountaineering clothes, like one equipped for a Himalayan or at least Alpine expedition. He carried rucksack and ropes; his thick rough trousers were tucked into thick woollen socks, and these disappeared into massive lustreless boots with extraordinarily thick soles. He created, by his masculine entry and the laying down of detachable burdens, as much noise as for two or three. The girl was soft and mute. Her slacks, imperfectly and tremulously filled, suggested only fragility; so did her light-blue silk scarf. The pale colours of her clothes, the milky fawn of her raincoat, and the style of her pale tan shoes marked her as a European.

Sitting at the table, his rough-trousered knees reaching to the tablecloth, dwarfing the table and the flower vase, the mountaineer extended a greeting, accompanied by a bow, to the room. His English was only slightly accented.

The eater and his keepers nodded. Mr Stone’s eyebrows dropped, like one surprised and affronted. Margaret was only momentarily distracted from scones and jam.

But the man filled the room. His speech created a conversational momentum on its own; the silence of others did not matter. He said that he was Dutch; that in his country there were no mountains; that Cornwall was indescribably picturesque. All this in English which, because he was Dutch, was perfect; and the linguistic performance was made more impressive by his occasional sentences in Dutch to his mute scarfed companion.

He required no replies, but the eater and his keepers were steadily drawn into his talk. From nods and exclamations of ‘Yes’ and ‘Oh!’ they went on to speak approvingly of his English. These remarks the Dutchman translated to his companion, who, raising embarrassed eyes, appeared to receive the compliments as her own.

‘S-so—’ the eater began, and rolled his wrinkled cigarette between his lips. ‘S-so you’re on holiday?’ His voice was thin and curiously querulous.

‘A fortnight’s holiday,’ the Dutchman said.

The eater chewed at his cigarette. ‘I–I retired last Friday.’

The Dutchman spoke to his companion in Dutch.

‘Forty years with the same firm,’ the eater said joylessly.

His keepers glanced at Margaret and Mr Stone, inviting them to take cognition of the information just given.

‘Forty years,’ Margaret said, swallowing cake. ‘That’s very nice.’

‘Very nice indeed,’ said the Dutchman.

And now the keepers had broad smiles for everyone.

‘Show them, Fred,’ one said.

‘On Friday,’ Fred said, his face as sourly dejected as before, his voice as querulous, ‘I had a party. They gave it for me.’ He was having difficulty with his words and his throat. He paused, swallowed and added, ‘In my honour.’ His hand went to his vest pocket. ‘They gave me this.’

A keeper passed the watch to the Dutchman.

‘Forty years,’ Fred said.

‘Very nice,’ said the Dutchman, and spoke in Dutch.

His companion looked up, reddening, and smiled at Fred.

The keeper, recovering the watch, passed it to Margaret.

‘Now isn’t … that … nice?’ Margaret said, looking from the watch to Fred and speaking as to a child who must be encouraged. ‘Isn’t this nice, Richard?’

‘Very nice.’

‘They gave it to me on Friday,’ Fred said. ‘Retired on Friday—’

‘Brought him down here on Saturday,’ the head keeper said triumphantly.

Now Fred was really unwinding. ‘Read the inscription,’ he said, handing the watch back to Mr Stone. ‘It’s on the back. It was a sort of surprise, you know. Of course there was a lot of whispering—’

‘Very nice,’ Mr Stone said, holding out the watch.

‘Show it to her,’ Fred commanded, indicating Margaret. ‘But what’s so funny about a last day, I said. Last day’s same as any other. Last day’s just another—’

‘Very nice,’ Margaret said.

‘May I?’ the Dutchman said, reaching out.

‘I wasn’t looking for medals. That’s all that a lot of these young fellows are doing these days. Looking for medals. Young fellow comes up to me and asks for the keys. I say, “You take them, mate. I ain’t looking for no medals.” ’

*

Noticing his moodiness on the way back, Margaret said, ‘Don’t worry. Doggie, I’ll buy you a watch.’

It was the sort of joke they had begun to make, a residue of their wit. But she saw from his unchanging expression, the slight shift of his shoulder from hers, and his silence that he was annoyed. So she too fell silent and stared out of the window.

His annoyance went deeper than she imagined. It wasn’t only the grotesque scene in the teashop, the sight of the men, both mountaineer and mouse, reduced to caricature. In the teashop he had been seized by a revulsion for all the women. For Miss Chichester, corseted and fat and flourishing, however distressed, however widowed. For the eater’s keepers, gross in their cosiness. And the blushing little mute in soft colours he had hated most of all. The decorative little creeper would become the parasite; the keeper would become the kept, permitted to have his sayings, to perform his tricks.

For a fortnight, for twenty-four hours a day, except when he or she went to the bathroom, he and Margaret had been together. It was a new and disturbing experience. In the teashop this disturbance had reached its climax, and Margaret’s playful sentence—‘I’ll buy you a watch’—spoken in the tone of one encouraging a child, which was permissible in the circumstances (after the observation of something humorous in ‘life’), had released all his resentment.

Yet mingled with this was the feeling that his thoughts about women and his marriage as they drove through the darkening countryside, where darkness still conveyed threat, were a betrayal of her who sat beside him, not at all fat, not at all parasitic, full only of loving, humiliating, killing concern.