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