“That sounds super,” said Silvano.
“It doesn't go very well over beer,” said Munday. “But I never miss my tea,” said Silvano.
“Really.”
“I know Alfred wants to take you around the village.”
“There's not an awful lot to see,” said Munday. “I’m sure we’d be more comfortable right here.” But the visit was unavoidable. They drove to the village of Whitchurch shortly after, found St Candida's altar with the three openings, and Munday explained how it was thought that a diseased limb could be cured if it was inserted in one of the holes. Emma was over at the baptismal font. Munday said in a low voice to Silvano, “Or I daresay you could stick your tumba in, if circumstances required.” Silvano giggled and said, “That’s interesting!”
The coarse joke was for the African, and it made Munday view the next days with dread. In Uganda he had been friendly with Silvano, and Silvano had informed part of his research; the relationship had been an easy one. Munday was grateful for that; he had recommended Silvano for a Commonwealth scholarship. But here, and really from the moment Silvano had said, “Only the new style. London style—Munday had viewed him as someone of ponderous weight whom he had managed easily enough in Africa but whom he would struggle with in England—like the gliding sea-animal which becomes insupportable out of water. It wasn’t Silvano's fault, but Munday saw him posing problems to the smallest venture; he was like an invalid guest whose affliction had to be carefully considered before any move could be made. And even then he would remain helpless; he had to be shown things—this church, that house, that view—and for this Munday was required to carry him. Munday was newly conscious of Silvano’s color, and while feeling a prompt sympathy for the African, he knew he might have to defend that color to the villagers. He did not relish the possibility; he wanted to hide him.
More than this (now they had left the churchyard and were driving down a country lane to Shave’s Cross), Munday had the separated lover’s regret, of spending time and effort with people who knew him as the figure he had been in the past, a personality he had outgrown, but one for which they retained a loyal respect: the regret that he was not with his lover, giving her the attention he felt he was wasting on his wife and that burdensome acquaintance. The duties of sentiment and friendship, accumulated obligations, intruded on this secret life. So he drove and he could smell Caroline on his hands and taste the crush of her mouth and breast on his tongue, as pungent as apples.
“Why don’t we give the tea a miss?” said Munday.
“I’d love a cup of tea,” said Emma. “I’m sure Silvano wants one, too. Don’t be a wet blanket, Alfred. You’re brooding so.” Eager to get it over with, he stopped at the first signboard that said Teas. It was a small bungalow of cob and hatch, set back from the road on a stony drive. The cob had been whitewashed and showed large smooth patched places; its windows were set deep in the bulging walls, as if retreating into sockets. It had a satisfying shape, as natural as a ground-swell, and a well-tended look; but dense clouds now filled the late-aftemoon sky, and the gray light on the dark grass that surrounded the dwelling gave it a cheerless air. Smoke billowed from the end chimney, and Munday found it hard to see all that streaming smoke and not think that the bungalow was about to go into motion and chug out of the garden like a locomotive.
A middle-aged woman in a blue smock met them at the door and greeted them uncertainly, avoiding Silvano’s gaze. She showed them to a parlor jammed with small tables. There was a fire crackling in the grate, and two other customers, a man and woman, seated near it. Munday wanted to leave as soon as he saw them. But the proprietor was seating Emma, and Silvano had already taken his place at the table—he was toying with a small oil-lamp which was the centerpiece. The couple at the other table did not look up. The man was wearing an overcoat, the woman a hat, and both were buttering toast with raised arms to keep their sleeves out of the tea.
“Not many customers,” said Silvano.
The woman in the blue smock frowned at her pad. She poised her pencil stub and said, “Will that be three teas?” Munday said, “With clotted cream.”
“Thank you.” She scribbled on the pad, and with deft simultaneous movements of her hands dropped the pad into her apron pocket and pushed the pencil into her hair. She removed the fourth place mat. Emma slipped her coat off; she leaned forward, her arms behind her back, her breasts brushing the table, as she worked her arms out of the sleeves. Munday had always found this one of the most attractive things a woman could do. He saw Silvano staring.
“Believe it or not,” said Munday, “this cottage is made out of mud. The walls are about two feet thick, of course, but it’s mud sure enough—clay, actually—on a wooden frame. Could be a few hundred years old.”
“Mudded walls and grass roof,” said Silvano. “Just like Bundibugyo!”
“But not as civilized,” said Munday.
“Oh, I think so,” said Silvano, seriously.
“Down here for a holiday?” It was the man by the fire who had spoken, and it was some while before Munday realized the man was addressing their table from across the empty room. The man hadn’t looked up. His hands were still raised, stropping a sliver of toast with butter.
“You might say that.” Munday was gruff; he hated the man’s probing question.
“It’s not a bad place,” said the man. “For a holiday, that is.”
“The weather’s been splendid lately,” said Emma.
“It’s holding,” said the man. “It’s been a mild winter—that’s why everyone’s down with flu.” Now he crunched his toast, and his chewing was like muttering, as if he had more in his mouth that a bite of toast. “It’s going to be a terrible summer—it always is after a winter like this.” He took another bite of toast and sipped his tea.
His wife spoke up: “We’ll pay for these warm days!” She stared at Munday from under her crooked hat.
“Yes, it’s not a bad place for a holiday,” said the man. “But you don’t want to move down here. Take my advice—we’ve been down here for eighteen months.”
“It’s a glorious part of the world,” said Emma.
“Hear that?” said the man to his wife.
The wife leaned in the direction of the Mundays' table. She said, “The people are so unfriendly around here. We’ve had them around to tea, but they never invite you back.”
“Just go their own way,” said the man.
“How awful for you,” said Munday.
“I know it looks very pretty,” said the man. “But I can tell you it’s no bed of roses.”
“We’re from London,” said the woman. “Retired.”
“Silvano’s from London,” said Emma.
Silvano smiled and started lighting a cigarette.
“Not from overseas?” asked the man.
“From overseas,” said Silvano, puffing on the cigarette. “And also from London, as well.”
“I knew you were strangers,” said the man. “I can always tell. London?”
“It’s rather a long story,” said Munday.
The man started to speak, then he fell silent. The door had opened and the woman in the blue smock entered with the tea things. She arranged them on the table, cups, teapot, a china pitcher of hot water, a plate of scones and fruitcake, a dish of dark jam, and a large dish of cream.
“Will that be all?” asked the woman.
“Lovely,” said Emma.
The woman scribbled again on her pad, tore off the leaf, and slipped it beside Munday’s plate. She left the room. An inner door banged.