The Remains of the Day (25 page)

I have finally arrived at Little Compton, and at this moment, am sitting in the dining hall of the Rose Garden Hotel having recently finished lunch. Outside, the rain is falling steadily.

The Rose Garden Hotel, while hardly luxurious, is certainly homely and comfortable, and one cannot begrudge the extra expense of accommodating oneself here. It is conveniently situated on one corner of the village square, a rather charming ivy-covered manor house capable of housing, I would suppose, thirty or so guests. This ‘dining hall’ where I now sit, however, is a modern annexe built to adjoin the main building – a long, flat room characterized by rows of large windows on either side. On one side, the village square is visible; on the other, the rear garden, from which this establishment presumably takes its name. The garden, which seems well sheltered from the wind, has a number of tables arranged about it, and when the weather is fine, I imagine it is a very pleasant place to partake of meals or refreshments. In fact, I know that a little earlier, some guests had actually commenced lunch out there, only to be interrupted by the appearance of ominous storm clouds. When I was first shown in here an hour or so ago, staff were hurriedly stripping down the garden tables – while their recent occupants, including one gentleman with a napkin still tucked into his shirt, were standing about looking rather lost. Then, very soon afterwards, the rain had come down with such ferocity that for a moment all the guests seemed to stop eating just to stare out of the windows.

My own table is on the village square side of the room and I have thus spent much of the past hour watching the rain falling on the square, and upon the Ford and one or two other vehicles stationed outside. The rain has now steadied somewhat, but it is still sufficiently hard as to discourage one from going out and wandering around the village. Of course, the possibility has occurred to me that I might set off now to meet Miss Kenton; but then in my letter, I informed her I would be calling at three o’clock, and I do not think it wise to surprise her by arriving any earlier. It would seem quite likely then, if the rain does not cease very shortly, that I will remain here drinking tea until the proper time comes for me to set off. I have ascertained from the young woman who served me lunch that the address where Miss Kenton is presently residing is some fifteen minutes’ walk away, which implies I have at least another forty minutes to wait.

I should say, incidentally, that I am not so foolish as to be unprepared for disappointment. I am only too aware that I never received a reply from Miss Kenton confirming she would be happy about a meeting. However, knowing Miss Kenton as I do, I am inclined to think that a lack of any letter can be taken as agreement; were a meeting for any reason inconvenient, I feel sure she would not have hesitated to inform me. Moreover, I had stated in my letter the fact that I had made a reservation at this hotel and that any last-minute message could be left for me here; that no such message was awaiting me can, I believe, be taken as further reason to suppose all is well.

This present downpour is something of a surprise, since the day started with the bright morning sunshine I have been blessed with each morning since leaving Darlington Hall. In fact, the day had generally begun well with a breakfast of fresh farm eggs and toast, provided for me by Mrs Taylor, and with Dr Carlisle calling by at seven thirty as promised, I was able to take my leave of the Taylors – who
continued not to hear of remuneration – before any further embarrassing conversations had had a chance to develop.

‘I found a can of petrol for you.’ Dr Carlisle announced, as he ushered me into the passenger seat of his Rover. I thanked him for his thoughtfulness, but when I made inquiries as to payment, I found that he, too, would hear none of it.

‘Nonsense, old boy. It’s only a little bit I found at the back of my garage. But it’ll be enough for you to reach Crosby Gate and you can fill up good and proper there.’

The village centre of Moscombe, in the morning sunshine, could be seen to be a number of small shops surrounding a church, the steeple of which I had seen from the hill yesterday evening. I had little chance to study the village, however, for Dr Carlisle turned his car briskly into the driveway of a farmyard.

‘Just a little short cut,’ he said, as we made our way past barns and stationary farm vehicles. There seemed to be no persons present anywhere, and at one point, when we were confronted by a closed gate, the doctor said: ‘Sorry, old chap, but if you wouldn’t mind doing the honours.’

Getting out, I went to the gate, and as soon as I did so, a furious chorus of barking erupted in one of the barns near by, so that it was with some relief that I rejoined Dr Carlisle again in the front of his Rover.

We exchanged a few pleasantries as we climbed a narrow road between tall trees, he inquiring after how I had slept at the Taylors and so forth. Then he said quite abruptly:

‘I say, I hope you don’t think me very rude. But you aren’t a manservant of some sort, are you?’

I must confess, my overwhelming feeling on hearing this was one of relief.

‘I am indeed, sir. In fact, I am the butler of Darlington Hall, near Oxford.’

‘Thought so. All that about having met Winston Churchill and so on. I thought to myself, well, either the chap’s
been lying his head off, or – then it occurred to me, there’s one simple explanation.’

Dr Carlisle turned to me with a smile as he continued to steer the car up the steep winding road. I said:

‘It wasn’t my intention to deceive anyone, sir. However …’

‘Oh, no need to explain, old fellow. I can quite see how it happened. I mean to say, you are a pretty impressive specimen. The likes of the people here, they’re bound to take you for at least a lord or a duke.’ The doctor gave a hearty laugh. ‘It must do one good to be mistaken for a lord every now and then.’

We travelled on in silence for a few moments. Then Dr Carlisle said to me: ‘Well, I hope you enjoyed your little stay with us here.’

‘I did very much, thank you, sir.’

‘And what did you make of the citizens of Moscombe? Not such a bad bunch, are they?’

‘Very engaging, sir. Mr and Mrs Taylor were extremely kind.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t call me “sir” like that all the time, Mr Stevens. No, they’re not such a bad bunch at all around here. As far as I’m concerned, I’d happily spend the rest of my life out here.’

I thought I heard something slightly odd in the way Dr Carlisle said this. There was, too, a curiously deliberate edge to the way he went on to inquire again:

‘So you found them an engaging bunch, eh?’

‘Indeed, Doctor. Extremely congenial.’

‘So what were they all telling you about last night? Hope they didn’t bore you silly with all the village gossip.’

‘Not at all, Doctor. As a matter of fact, the conversation tended to be rather earnest in tone and some very interesting viewpoints were expressed.’

‘Oh, you mean Harry Smith,’ the doctor said with a laugh. ‘You shouldn’t mind him. He’s entertaining enough
to listen to for a while, but really, he’s all in a muddle. At times you’d think he was some sort of Communist, then he comes out with something that makes him sound true blue Tory. Truth is, he’s all in a muddle.’

‘Ah, that is very interesting to hear.’

‘What did he lecture you on last night? The Empire? The National Health?’

‘Mr Smith restricted himself to more general topics.’

‘Oh? For instance?’

I gave a cough. ‘Mr Smith had some thoughts on the nature of dignity.’

‘I say. Now that sounds rather philosophical for Harry Smith. How the devil did he get on to that?’

‘I believe Mr Smith was stressing the importance of his campaigning work in the village.’

‘Ah, yes?’

‘He was impressing upon me the point that the residents of Moscombe held strong opinions on all manner of great affairs.’

‘Ah, yes. Sounds like Harry Smith. As you probably guessed, that’s all nonsense, of course. Harry’s always going around trying to work everybody up over issues. But the truth is, people are happier left alone.’

We were silent again for a moment or two. Eventually, I said:

‘Excuse me for asking, sir. But may I take it Mr Smith is considered something of a comic figure?’

‘Hmm. That’s taking it a little too far, I’d say. People do have a political conscience of sorts here. They feel they
ought
to have strong feelings on this and that, just as Harry urges them to. But really, they’re no different from people anywhere. They want a quiet life. Harry has a lot of ideas about changes to this and that, but really, no one in the village wants upheaval, even if it might benefit them. People here want to be left alone to lead their quiet little
lives. They don’t want to be bothered with this issue and that issue.’

I was surprised by the tone of disgust that had entered the doctor’s voice. But he recovered himself quickly with a short laugh and remarked:

‘Nice view of the village on your side.’

Indeed, the village had become visible some way below us. Of course, the morning sunshine gave it a very different aspect, but otherwise it looked much the same view as the one I had first encountered in the evening gloom, and I supposed from this that we were now close to the spot where I had left the Ford.

‘Mr Smith seemed to be of the view,’ I said, ‘that a person’s dignity rested on such things. Having strong opinions and such.’

‘Ah, yes, dignity. I was forgetting. Yes, so Harry was trying to tackle philosophical definitions. My word. I take it it was a lot of rot.’

‘His conclusions were not necessarily those that compelled agreement, sir.’

Dr Carlisle nodded, but seemed to have become immersed in his own thoughts. ‘You know, Mr Stevens,’ he said, eventually, ‘when I first came out here, I was a committed socialist. Believed in the best services for all the people and all the rest of it. First came here in ‘forty-nine. Socialism would allow people to live with dignity. That’s what I believed when I came out here. Sorry, you don’t want to hear all this rot.’ He turned to me cheerily. ‘What about you, old chap?’

‘I’m sorry, sir?’

‘What do
you
think dignity’s all about?’

The directness of this inquiry did, I admit, take me rather by surprise. ‘It’s rather a hard thing to explain in a few words, sir,’ I said. ‘But I suspect it comes down to not removing one’s clothing in public’.

‘Sorry. What does?’

‘Dignity, sir.’

‘Ah.’ The doctor nodded, but looked a little bemused. Then he said: ‘Now, this road should be familiar to you. Probably looks rather different in the daylight. Ah, is that it there? My goodness, what a handsome vehicle!’

Dr Carlisle pulled up just behind the Ford, got out and said again: ‘My, what a handsome vehicle.’ The next moment he had produced a funnel and a can of petrol and was most kindly assisting me in filling the tank of the Ford. Any fears I had that some deeper trouble was afflicting the Ford were laid to rest when I tried the ignition and heard the engine come to life with a healthy murmur. At this point, I thanked Dr Carlisle and we took leave of each other, though I was obliged to follow the back of his Rover along the twisting hill road for a further mile or so before our routes separated.

It was around nine o’clock that I crossed the border into Cornwall. This was at least three hours before the rain began and the clouds were still all of a brilliant white. In fact, many of the sights that greeted me this morning were among the most charming I have so far encountered. It was unfortunate, then, that I could not for much of the time give to them the attention they warranted; for one may as well declare it, one was in a condition of some preoccupation with the thought that – barring some unseen complication – one would be meeting Miss Kenton again before the day’s end. So it was, then, that while speeding along between large open fields, no human being or vehicle apparent for miles, or else steering carefully through marvellous little villages, some no more than a cluster of a few stone cottages, I found myself yet again turning over certain recollections from the past. And now, as I sit here in Little Compton, here in the dining room of this pleasant hotel with a little time on my hands, watching the rain splashing on the pavements of the village square outside, I am unable
to prevent my mind from continuing to wander along these same tracks.

One memory in particular has preoccupied me all morning – or rather, a fragment of a memory, a moment that has for some reason remained with me vividly through the years. It is a recollection of standing alone in the back corridor before the closed door of Miss Kenton’s parlour; I was not actually facing the door, but standing with my person half turned towards it, transfixed by indecision as to whether or not I should knock; for at that moment, as I recall, I had been struck by the conviction that behind that very door, just a few yards from me, Miss Kenton was in fact crying. As I say, this moment has remained firmly embedded in my mind, as has the memory of the peculiar sensation I felt rising within me as I stood there like that. However, I am not at all certain now as to the actual circumstances which had led me to be standing thus in the back corridor. It occurs to me that elsewhere in attempting to gather such recollections, I may well have asserted that this memory derived from the minutes immediately after Miss Kenton’s receiving news of her aunt’s death; that is to say, the occasion when, having left her to be alone with her grief, I realized out in the corridor that I had not offered her my condolences. But now, having thought further, I believe I may have been a little confused about this matter; that in fact this fragment of memory derives from events that took place on an evening at least a few months after the death of Miss Kenton’s aunt – the evening, in fact, when the young Mr Cardinal turned up at Darlington Hall rather unexpectedly.

Mr Cardinal’s father, Sir David Cardinal, had been for many years his lordship’s closest friend and colleague, but had been tragically killed in a riding accident some three or four years prior to the evening I am now recalling. Meanwhile, the young Mr Cardinal had been building something
of a name for himself as a columnist, specializing in witty comments on international affairs. Evidently, these columns were rarely to Lord Darlington’s liking, for I can recall numerous instances of his looking up from a journal and saying something like: ‘Young Reggie writing such nonsense again. Just as well his father’s not alive to read this.’ But Mr Cardinal’s columns did not prevent him being a frequent visitor at the house; indeed, his lordship never forgot that the young man was his godson and always treated him as kin. At the same time, it had never been Mr Cardinal’s habit to turn up to dinner without any prior warning, and I was thus a little surprised when on answering the door that evening I found him standing there, his briefcase cradled in both arms.