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

Altogether, it was a relief when Whymper left for his holiday, though the presence of his familiar never ceased to be irritating.

*

Margaret appeared to be unusually excited when she let Mr Stone in that evening — such duties no longer being performed by Miss Millington, who had been dismissed with a standing invitation, so far not taken up, to come back and watch television whenever she liked — and it was with an unusually businesslike air that she hustled Mr Stone into the sitting-room. There he found Olive. She was dressed as for a morning’s shopping, in clothes formal yet festive. But she looked grave and exhausted, and Margaret wore a careful expression in which concern was mingled with the plain desire not to be thought interfering. With her subdued impresario-like manner Margaret seated Mr Stone, then settled down herself. It was clear that Olive had brought news of importance and that this news — there were cups of tea about — had already been given. But it was not immediately forthcoming, for first there were the inquiries about the office from Margaret and Olive, and there were offers of tea and the things that went with tea. Then, the scene prepared, Margaret glanced at Olive as though encouraging her to begin, and then glanced at Mr Stone, almost, it seemed — Mr Stone couldn’t help being reminded of the infants’ radio programme — to see whether he was ‘comfortable’. She herself sat forward in her chair, restlessly rocking about and rearranging her skirt over her knees as though she had made several witticisms.

At last it came out, and the calmest person appeared to be Olive.

Gwen wanted to go away on holiday with Whymper.

Margaret, watching them both anxiously like a referee, asked, ‘Did you know about this, Richard?’

He didn’t reply. But his mind, ranging far and fast, instantly settled on various incidents which, though ignored at the time, now turned out to have registered. The deceptions of the young never took in the young; they took in only the old. So much about Whymper’s recent behaviour was now explained. The burden of such secrecy had been too great, even for Whymper. And Mr Stone had no doubt that this secrecy had been maintained at the instance of Gwen: he could see the sour foolish face as, mistaking her own fulfilment for power, she childishly exacted promises and made threats in Whymper’s shabby front room with the bullfighting poster, Whymper’s tenants moving about the hall outside.

But Whymper!

‘Well, of course you’ll refuse. Gwen’s just being very foolish.’

He noted their hesitation.

Then Olive said that Gwen had left home that morning and gone to Whymper’s house.

‘This is ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.’ He got up and walked about the tigerskin. ‘And if you knew what I know about him you wouldn’t both be sitting there looking so pleased with yourselves.’ They were, in fact, both looking up at him with some apprehension. ‘Whymper! Bill! The man is — the man is immoral. I know him better than any of you. Immoral,’ he repeated, adding with satisfaction, ‘and common. Immoral and common.’

His violence startled them. The saliva in the corners of Olive’s mouth was perceptible.

‘We are as shocked and upset as you are, Richard,’ Margaret said unconvincingly. ‘But I don’t imagine Olive came here to hear you talk like this.’

‘All this talk about a pagan country,’ Mr Stone said.

There was a pause.

‘Wanting her tea,’ he said reflectively. ‘Well, she’s got it now. Running off with this man just like any shop assistant on holiday. And now you come to see me. Why don’t you go to Bill? But I imagine you want me to go and bring her home and read her a little Enid Blyton and tell her a little story about what I did at the office today.’ He saw himself entering Whymper’s house, saw Whymper’s frightened, contemptuous face; saw Gwen sulky, satisfied, triumphant; saw Whymper being ‘firm’ and offensive. It was too much. ‘But that’s something you and Margaret can see about. You can tell her about the big red bus and the choo-choo train.’

‘Richard!’ Margaret cried. The solemn scene she had visualized was all but destroyed.

Too late, then, it came out that Gwen was pregnant.

‘I’m not surprised! I’m not surprised!’ He was, deeply. ‘But the welfare state hasn’t run short of milk and orange juice and cod-liver oil.’

And incapable of further irony, he grew so violent in his language that it was all Margaret could do to prevent an open breach between brother and sister.

It was only later, when Olive had left, with nothing settled or even talked over, that he calmed down.

‘I don’t understand you, Richard,’ Margaret said that evening when they were getting ready for bed. ‘If you hate them both so much, why should you be so upset?’

‘You are quite right,’ he said, looking out of the bedroom window past the old thick brown velvet curtains. ‘You are quite right. They deserve one another. And I loathe them both.’ He even managed a laugh. ‘Poor Olive.’

*

Before the end of the week Whymper’s resignation was officially announced.

‘Bill’s had an offer from Gow’s,’ the junior accountant said importantly. ‘Sacred Gow’s, the gondemporary people.’

His master’s voice, Mr Stone thought.

And on Thursday afternoon the boy came into Mr Stone’s office with a copy of the World’s Press News.

‘Have you seen this about Bill?’

Next to a photograph of a presentation of antique furniture to a retiring executive, Mr Stone read:

BILL WHYMPER JOINS GOW’S

Bill Whymper is leaving Excal at the end of this month to take up the newly created executive position of publicity director with Gow’s. ‘The appointment emphasizes the importance attached to progressive marketing and publicity policies in Gow’s expanding operations, and Mr Whymper will advise in the overall formulation and review of plans,’ a spokesman said.

Mr Whymper moves to this top post with the asset of years of success in Excal’s P.R. division. He will be remembered as the man behind the energetic and resourceful promotion of Excal’s signally successful ‘Knights Companion’ scheme last year.

When at last he put the paper down, the office was silent. He went out into the corridor. Traffic noises came up from the street unchallenged. The typists’ room was empty, lights turned off, the machines all draped with black covers. The clock said twenty past four.

LONDON WAS WALKING that day. He had forgotten the one-day transport strike which, only partial in the morning, had steadily mounted in drama, the evening papers issuing breathless front-page bulletins on the dislocation and suspension of services. He found the Embankment choked with unmoving cars and buses. People who had stood in hopeless queues and fought to get seats in buses remained where they were and stewed in the heat: the strikers had chosen a fine day. And still, scarcely noticeable in the slow two-way movement on the crowded pavements, the queues remained. At first he stood in a queue. Then he pursued a rogue bus down a side street into the Strand, boarded it without difficulty and discovered it was going no farther. So he decided to walk. And he walked with the city. Along the Embankment, across the bridge, losing all sense of time and distance in the steady tread of thousands of feet, here in the openness of the glinting river crisper and more resonant, he walked with swinging strides, enjoying the exertion, not looking forward to the end, wishing to exhaust himself, to numb the pain within him, hardly aware of the people about him, faceless, their clothes in the mass so uniform, the military-minded and the officerly alone distinguishing themselves by their stride and the little competitive knots about them. Across the river, many disappeared into Waterloo Station, and corner by corner thereafter the noise of feet diminished and the pavement cleared. The signs of commonplace public houses, open doors revealing empty cream-and-brown interiors, were like invitations to rest and relief. And now the walk required will, for it led through long streets of dark brick and stucco peeling like the barks of the pollarded plane trees, past rows of small bright shops made more mean by signboards and display cards and samples bleaching in the windows. Nightly, from the warm, bright heart where they worked and to which they went back for their pleasures, the people of the city returned to such areas, such streets, such houses.