‘I’d just as soon be here,’ Dawne whispered, leaning forward a bit, daring at last to say that. ‘I’d just as soon be in Switzerland, Keithie.’
He didn’t reply, but looked around the teashop: at the display of cake in the long glass cabinet that served also as a counter – apricot and plum and apple, carrot-cake and Black Forest gateau, richly glazed fruitcake, marzipan slices, small lemon tarts, orange eclairs, coffee fondants. Irritated because his wife had made that statement and wishing to be unpleasant to her by not responding, he allowed his gaze to slip over the faces of the couples who sat sedately at round, prettily arranged tables. In a leisurely manner he examined the smiling waitresses, their crimson aprons matching the crimson of the frilled tablecloths. He endeavoured to give the impression that the waitresses attracted him.
‘It’s really nice,’ Dawne said, her voice still shyly low.
He didn’t disagree; there was nothing wrong with the place. People were speaking in German, but when you spoke in English they understood you. Enoch Melchor, in Claims, had gone to somewhere in Italy last year and had got into all sorts of difficulties with the language, including being-given the head of a fish when he thought he’d ordered peas.
‘We could say we liked it so much we decided to stay on,’ Dawne suggested.
She didn’t seem to understand that it wasn’t up to them to decide anything. Twelve days in Venice had been chosen for them; twelve days in Venice had been paid for. ‘No better’n a sewer,’ Enoch Melchor had said, not that he’d ever been there. ‘Stinks to high heaven,’ he’d said, but that wasn’t the point either. Memories of Venice had been ordered, memories that were to be transported back to London, with glass figurines for the mantelpiece because Venice was famous for its glass. The menus at the Pensione Concordia and the tunes played by the cafe orchestras were to be noted in Dawne’s day-to-day diary. Venice was bathed in sunshine, its best autumn for years, according to the newspapers.
They left the teashop and walked about the streets, their eyes stinging at first, until they became used to the bitter breeze that had got up. They examined windows full of watches, and went from one to another of the souvenir shops because notices said that entrance was free. There was a clock that had a girl swinging on a swing every hour, and another that had a man and a woman employing a cross-saw, another that had a cow being milked. All sorts of tunes came out of different-shaped musical boxes: ‘Lily Marlene’, ‘The Blue Danube’, ‘Lara’s Theme’ from
‘It’s ever so enjoyable here,’ Dawne remarked, with genuine enthusiasm. They went into another teashop, and this time Keith had a chestnut slice and Dawne a blackcurrant one, both with cream.
At dinner, in a dining-room tastefully panelled in grey-painted wood, they sat among the people from Darlington, at a table for two, as the clerk in the travel agency had promised. The chicken-noodle soup was quite what they were used to, and so was the pork chop that followed, with apple sauce and chipped potatoes. ‘They know what we like,’ the woman called Mrs Franks said, making a round of all the tables, saying the same thing at each.
‘Really lovely,’ Dawne agreed. She’d felt sick in her stomach when they’d first realized about the error; she’d wanted to go to the lavatory and just sit there, hoping it was all a nightmare. She’d blamed herself because it was she who’d wondered about so many elderly people on the plane after the man in the travel place had given the impression of young people, from Windsor. It was she who had frowned, just for a moment, when the name of the airport was mentioned. Keith had a habit of pooh-poohing her doubts, like when she’d been doubtful about the men who’d come to the door selling mattresses and he’d been persuaded to make a down-payment. The trouble with Keith was, he always sounded confident, as though he knew something she didn’t, as though someone had told him. ‘We’ll just be here for the night,’ he’d said, and she’d thought that was something he must have read in the brochure or that the clerk in the travel place had said. He couldn’t help himself, of course; it was the way he was made. ‘Cotton-wool in your brain-box, have you?’ Uncle had rudely remarked, the August Bank Holiday poor Keith had got them on to the slow train to Brighton, the one that took an hour longer.
‘Silver lining, Keithie.’ She put her head on one side, her small features softening into a smile. They’d walked by the lakeside before dinner. Just by stooping down, she’d attracted the birds that were swimming on the water. Afterwards she’d changed into her new fawn dress, bought specially for the holiday.
‘I’ll try that number again tomorrow,’ Keith said.
She could see he was still worried. He was terribly subdued, even though he was able to eat his food. It made him cross when she mentioned the place they’d bought the tickets, so she didn’t do so, although she wanted to. Time enough to face the music when they got back, better to make the best of things really: she didn’t say that either.
‘If you want to, Keithie,’ she said instead. ‘You try it if you’ve a call to.’
Naturally he’d feel it more than she would; he’d get more of the blame, being a man. But in the end it mightn’t be too bad, in the end the storm would be weathered. There’d be the
‘Banana split?’ the waiter offered. ‘You prefer meringue Williams?’
They hesitated. Meringue Williams was meringue with pears and icecream, the waiter explained. Very good. He himself would recommend the meringue Williams.
‘Sounds lovely,’ Dawne said, and Keith had it too. She thought of pointing out that everyone was being nice to them, that Mrs Franks was ever so sympathetic, that the man who came round to ask them if the dinner was all right had been ever so pleasant, and the waiter too. But she decided not to because often Keith just didn’t want to cheer up. ‘Droopy Drawers’, Uncle sometimes called him, or ‘Down-in-the-Dumps Donald’.
All around them the old people were chattering. They were older than Uncle, Dawne could see; some of them were ten years older, fifteen even. She wondered if Keith had noticed that, if it had added to his gloom. She could hear them talking about the mementoes they’d bought and the teashops they’d been to; hale and hearty they looked, still as full of vim as Uncle. ‘Any day now I’ll be dropping off my twig,’ he had a way of saying, which was nonsense of course. Dawne watched the elderly mouths receiving spoonfuls of banana or meringue, the slow chewing, the savouring of the sweetness. A good twenty years Uncle could go on for, she suddenly thought.
‘It’s just bad luck,’ she said.
‘Be that as it may.’
‘Don’t say that, Keithie.’
