Read Online English Correspondence by Janet Davey - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Janet Davey
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this was implied. He took orders for spirits. They were all takers.
They relaxed, talked about different things, started to laugh. There was no music, but they all heard it playing, rhythmic and steady, faintly suggestive.
It was half past one when they left. Maude and the boy who helped in the kitchen had already gone home. Sylvie found coats and helped people into them. One or two bungled it. A heavy man tried to get into a thin womanâs coat. Too short in the arm; thatâs how he knew. Sylvie held her breath as they reversed in the car park, but it turned out all right. Paul usually idled around the kitchen, checking the knives and listening to the radio; music from earlier decades, nothing anyone remembered, B movie stuff, interrupted by histrionic news. Tonight when Sylvie went to find him, the place was dark. Sylvie and Felix opened the windows in the dining room, got out the mop and the bucket. It didnât take them long. Felix had thrown up in thetoilet a few hours before, then felt better. He was young. She saw him off on his bike, watched him freewheeling down the hill. She locked up, shut the windows, turned the lights off.
7
THE ENGLISHMAN, WHO had dined alone, came down for breakfast at eight oâclock. He sat down at a corner table, the only client in the room. The scene was different â tidy, silent, slightly chilly, lit by daylight. Sylvie, glancing in the mirror, saw that she looked tired. She said she hoped he hadnât been disturbed by the noise of the party leaving; it had all gone on much later than she had expected. He said heâd slept through it. He sounded definite about it. She saw him there sleeping. He had conjured himself up. It disturbed her. She remembered that she had thought about him before falling asleep herself. He couldnât possibly know that. She was sure he couldnât. Yet he was capable of thinking, she could tell, in a way that most people werenât. Sheâd seen that last night. Heâd sat through the drama with restraint. He wouldnât dine out on it, make it into an anecdote. George could put on a voice for a certain type of Englishman. God, what an evening, in the middle of nowhere, back of beyond, bunch of provincials. One of them pegged it. Ruined my dinner.
He had got up from his table soon after they had taken Maurice away. The birthday couple had stayed on a little longer. Sylvie had gone across to him to say she was sorry, though this wasnât quite appropriate, and to wish him good night, which didnât seem right either. He had accepted both decently, aware of her difficulties, somehow conveying that. She had been grateful. She hadnât expected such consideration. She had watched him climb the first few stairs then turned away.
When she got to her own room at the end of the eveningthe light was off. She undressed in the dark, lay down on the bed. The slight disturbance must have woken Paul. She could see his eyes; they werenât shut. He asked her what she was doing on top of the covers, it was winter wasnât it? He gathered her under, said she felt cold, which she was. He felt hard against her. She registered pleasure and anticipation, but couldnât stop herself thinking that this was unusual, a throwback. They didnât make love at night any more. The kitchen wilted him. It hadnât in the past, but she couldnât put a date on it. She thought, the disasterâs revived him; death on the premises. Georgeâs hadnât done anything for him. The thinking took seconds, and was over dramatic. The moment passed. Timing was everything these days. He rolled over away from her, fell asleep instantly. She lay on her side, her face pressed on her arm. She was so tired she hardly noticed her flesh was her own. It was then that she thought of him; the solitary man at the table. Her thoughts werenât particular.
She poured him more coffee; it was the least she could do. He had only booked in for
They relaxed, talked about different things, started to laugh. There was no music, but they all heard it playing, rhythmic and steady, faintly suggestive.
It was half past one when they left. Maude and the boy who helped in the kitchen had already gone home. Sylvie found coats and helped people into them. One or two bungled it. A heavy man tried to get into a thin womanâs coat. Too short in the arm; thatâs how he knew. Sylvie held her breath as they reversed in the car park, but it turned out all right. Paul usually idled around the kitchen, checking the knives and listening to the radio; music from earlier decades, nothing anyone remembered, B movie stuff, interrupted by histrionic news. Tonight when Sylvie went to find him, the place was dark. Sylvie and Felix opened the windows in the dining room, got out the mop and the bucket. It didnât take them long. Felix had thrown up in thetoilet a few hours before, then felt better. He was young. She saw him off on his bike, watched him freewheeling down the hill. She locked up, shut the windows, turned the lights off.
7
THE ENGLISHMAN, WHO had dined alone, came down for breakfast at eight oâclock. He sat down at a corner table, the only client in the room. The scene was different â tidy, silent, slightly chilly, lit by daylight. Sylvie, glancing in the mirror, saw that she looked tired. She said she hoped he hadnât been disturbed by the noise of the party leaving; it had all gone on much later than she had expected. He said heâd slept through it. He sounded definite about it. She saw him there sleeping. He had conjured himself up. It disturbed her. She remembered that she had thought about him before falling asleep herself. He couldnât possibly know that. She was sure he couldnât. Yet he was capable of thinking, she could tell, in a way that most people werenât. Sheâd seen that last night. Heâd sat through the drama with restraint. He wouldnât dine out on it, make it into an anecdote. George could put on a voice for a certain type of Englishman. God, what an evening, in the middle of nowhere, back of beyond, bunch of provincials. One of them pegged it. Ruined my dinner.
He had got up from his table soon after they had taken Maurice away. The birthday couple had stayed on a little longer. Sylvie had gone across to him to say she was sorry, though this wasnât quite appropriate, and to wish him good night, which didnât seem right either. He had accepted both decently, aware of her difficulties, somehow conveying that. She had been grateful. She hadnât expected such consideration. She had watched him climb the first few stairs then turned away.
When she got to her own room at the end of the eveningthe light was off. She undressed in the dark, lay down on the bed. The slight disturbance must have woken Paul. She could see his eyes; they werenât shut. He asked her what she was doing on top of the covers, it was winter wasnât it? He gathered her under, said she felt cold, which she was. He felt hard against her. She registered pleasure and anticipation, but couldnât stop herself thinking that this was unusual, a throwback. They didnât make love at night any more. The kitchen wilted him. It hadnât in the past, but she couldnât put a date on it. She thought, the disasterâs revived him; death on the premises. Georgeâs hadnât done anything for him. The thinking took seconds, and was over dramatic. The moment passed. Timing was everything these days. He rolled over away from her, fell asleep instantly. She lay on her side, her face pressed on her arm. She was so tired she hardly noticed her flesh was her own. It was then that she thought of him; the solitary man at the table. Her thoughts werenât particular.
She poured him more coffee; it was the least she could do. He had only booked in for
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