Nocturnes_ Five Stories of Music and Nightfall - Kazuo Ishiguro [35]
Maggie apologised and left her with her piece of roll—which I noticed the woman made no move to touch. Maggie looked at me as she came past and I gave her a shrug. Then a few moments later, my sister asked the woman, very nicely, if there was anything else she’d like.
“No. I want nothing else.”
I could tell from her tone she should be left alone, but with Maggie it was a kind of reflex. She asked, like she really wanted to know: “Was everything all right?”
For at least five or six seconds, the woman went on reading, like she hadn’t heard. Then she put down her book again and glared at my sister.
“Since you ask,” she said, “I shall tell you. The food was perfectly okay. Better than in many of the awful places you have around here. However, we waited thirty-five minutes simply to be served a sandwich and a salad. Thirty-five minutes.”
I now realised this woman was livid with anger. Not the sort that suddenly hits you, then drains away. No, this woman, I could tell, had been in a kind of white heat for some time. It’s the sort of anger that arrives and stays put, at a constant level, like a bad headache, never quite peaking and refusing to find a proper outlet. Maggie’s always so even-tempered she couldn’t recognise the symptoms, and probably thought the woman was complaining in a more or less rational way. Because she apologised and started to say: “But you see, when there’s a big rush like we had earlier …”
“Surely you get it every day, no? Is that not so? Every day, in the summer, when the weather is fine, there is just such a big rush? Well? So why can’t you be ready? Something that happens every day and it surprises you. Is that what you are telling me?”
The woman had been glaring at my sister, but as I came out from behind the counter to stand beside Maggie, she transferred her gaze to me. And maybe it was to do with the expression I had on my face, I could see her anger go up a couple more notches. Maggie turned and looked at me, and began gently to push me away, but I resisted, and kept gazing at the woman. I wanted her to know it wasn’t just her and Maggie in this. God knows where this would have got us, but at that moment the husband came back in.
“Such a marvellous view! A marvellous view, a marvellous lunch, a marvellous country!”
I waited for him to sense what he’d walked into, but if he noticed, he showed no sign of taking it into account. He smiled at his wife and said, presumably for our benefit in English:
“Sonja, you really must go and have a look. Just walk to the end of the little path out there!”
She said something in German, then went back to her book. He came further into the room and said to us:
“We had considered driving on to Wales this afternoon. But your Malvern Hills are so wonderful, I really think we might stay here in this district for the remaining three days of our vacation. If Sonja agrees, I will be overjoyed!”
He looked at his wife, who shrugged and said something else in German, to which he laughed his loud, open laugh.
“Good! She agrees! So it is settled. We will no longer drive to Wales. We will hang out here in your district for the next three days!”
He beamed at us, and Maggie said something encouraging. I was relieved to see the wife putting her book away and getting ready to leave. The man, too, went to the table, picked up a small rucksack and put it on his shoulder. Then he said to Maggie:
“I wonder. Is there by any chance a small hotel you can recommend for us nearby? Nothing too expensive, but comfortable and pleasant. And if possible, with something of the English flavour!”
Maggie was a bit stumped by this and delayed her answer by saying something meaningless like: “What sort of place did you want?” But I said quickly:
“The best place around here is Mrs. Fraser’s. It’s just down along the road to Worcester. It’s called Malvern Lodge.”
“The Malvern Lodge! That sounds just the ticket!”
Maggie turned away disapprovingly and pretended