Not that the earlier part of the evening had been deficient in drama. Dover’s appearance in the dining-room had acted like a red rag to a bull where Mrs Boyle was concerned. Nostrils flaring, she had launched herself into the attack while everybody else sat around in a cringing and embarrassed silence. Although Mrs Boyle frequently boasted that she feared neither man nor beast, she wasn’t quite prepared to risk a head-on collision with Dover. She opted for an oblique assault and in a loud voice addressed her remarks ostensibly to poor Miss Dewar.
‘One appreciates,’ she began, ‘the limitations of the male bladder but that, in my opinion, is no excuse for well-nigh hourly excursions throughout the entire night.’
The male bladder! Miss Dewar died a thousand deaths.
‘Most of us here,' continued Mrs Boyle, carefully avoiding looking at her prey, ‘need our rest. We are beyond the age when we can tolerate havin’ our sleep shattered by the thoughtlessness of others. You would think that some people, especially in view of their supposedly responsible official positions, would show more consideration.’
The loaded fork in Dover’s hand wobbled as the implications of Mrs Boyle’s one-sided conversation began to sink in.
‘Servants of the public, indeed!’ sneered Mrs Boyle. ‘It would never have been permitted in my father’s day, that I can tell you. He believed in keepin’ the artisan classes in the positions to which it had pleased God to call them. I may have told you, dear, about the occasion when he refused to share a railway compartment with some jumped-up little bank clerk who’d had the insolence to buy himself a first-class ticket. My late husband, the admiral, was forced to be more broadminded, of course, but even he knew where to draw the line.’
‘That cistern is very noisy,’ said Miss Kettering with a temerity that astonished even her.
Mrs Boyle administered a coup de grace. ‘That cistern is perfectly quiet,’ she thundered, ‘if it is not used. I am surprised at you, Miss Ketterin’, taking such an attitude. It is that sort of thinkin’ that has brought this country to the sorry pass in which we find it today. The mechanics of this hotel’s sanitary arrangements have nothin’ at all to do with the problem under discussion. They have been with us for a long time and, in spite of repeated complaints to the management, will no doubt be with us for many years to come. It is the selfish and thoughtless use of those facilities which is causin’ all the trouble.’
Dover leaned across the table and tapped MacGregor on the arm with his knife. ‘If I wasn’t a gentleman,’ he hissed, ‘I’d give that old cow over there a punch up the bracket!’
‘And it is not only the flushin’ of the cistern, as I am sure you will agree, Miss Dewar,’ continued Mrs Boyle, smiling grimly now that she had drawn blood. ‘There is also the heavy trampin’ up and down the stairs – to say nothin’ of the continual slammin’ of doors.’
‘Some people have . . . difficulties,' ventured Miss Kettering.
‘As a married woman. Miss Ketterin’,’ – came the stem rejoinder – ‘I am well aware of that. The late admiral’s bowels were a source of great concern to us both, especially towards the end of his life. But, whatever the discomfort, we would never have dreamed of inflictin’ it upon other people.’
‘Did you hear that?’ demanded Dover hoarsely, leaving another smear of gravy on MacGregor’s sleeve. ‘Talking like that when people are eating! It’s downright disgusting.’ MacGregor was by now too full for words. In any case he was trying to block out the whole terrible scene by selecting the eight gramophone records he would take with him on a desert island, should he ever be lucky enough to be cast away on one.
‘Continence!’ boomed Mrs Boyle. ‘Continence and a modicum of self-restraint! I don’t think that’s too much to ask, do you, Miss Dewar? If it is,’ – she gave a very unpleasant laugh -4 we shall have to try some kind of a deterrent.’
‘So help me,’ swore Dover passionately, ‘I’ll get that fat bitch if it’s the last thing I do!’ He glared at MacGregor’s barely touched plate. ‘Get a move on, can’t you? I’m not going to sit here all night and be insulted!’
Back at Mrs Boyle’s table Miss Kettering was rallying again. ‘What happened to that article you were going to lend?’ she asked sweetly.
‘The chamber pot?’ Mrs Boyle, whatever her faults, was not mealy mouthed. ‘Unfortunately I have mislaid the keys to my leather trunk. In any case, I doubt if it would be a solution. You can take a horse to the water,’ she proclaimed sententiously, ‘but you can’t make it drink. But you have no need to worry, Miss Ketterin’. I have other plans. I have issued my final warnin’. Those who choose to ignore it do so at their peril!’
It was at this point that Dover had choked down his last mouthful of creme caramel and stormed out of the diningroom. For a man who was not unused to public abuse, he had put up a very poor show. He had let that opinionated old battle-axe trample all over him without so much as bloodying her nose for her. He must be losing his grip. In a crisis of selfconfidence Dover was never one to blame himself. He looked around for a whipping-boy – and there, on cue, was MacGregor slinking after him through the dining-room door.
Not that bawling out MacGregor was much consolation and its effect on Mrs Boyle was negligible. So, as Dover stood on the Studio doorstep waiting for his ring to be answered, he tried to work out something in the way of revenge.
