The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro [55]
For instance, I have of late taken to listening to the wireless in my room whenever I find myself with a few spare moments – on those occasions, say, when Mr Farraday is out for the evening. One programme I listen to is called Twice a Week or More, which is in fact broadcast three times each week, and basically comprises two persons making humorous comments on a variety of topics raised by readers’ letters. I have been studying this programme because the witticisms performed on it are always in the best of taste and, to my mind, of a tone not at all out of keeping with the sort of bantering Mr Farraday might expect on my part. Taking my cue from this programme, I have devised a simple exercise which I try to perform at least once a day; whenever an odd moment presents itself, I attempt to formulate three witticisms based on my immediate surroundings at that moment. Or, as a variation on this same exercise, I may attempt to think of three witticisms based on the events of the past hour.
You will perhaps appreciate then my disappointment concerning my witticism yesterday evening. At first, I had thought it possible its limited success was due to my not having spoken clearly enough. But then the possibility occurred to me, once I had retired, that I might actually have given these people offence. After all, it could easily have been understood that I was suggesting the landlord’s wife resembled a cockerel – an intention that had not remotely entered my head at the time. This thought continued to torment me as I tried to sleep, and I had half a mind to make an apology to the landlord this morning. But his mood towards me as he served breakfast seemed perfectly cheerful and in the end I decided to let the matter rest.
But this small episode is as good an illustration as any of the hazards of uttering witticisms. By the very nature of a witticism, one is given very little time to assess its various possible repercussions before one is called to give voice to it, and one gravely risks uttering all manner of unsuitable things if one has not first acquired the necessary skill and experience. There is no reason to suppose this is not an area in which I will become proficient given time and practice, but, such are the dangers, I have decided it best, for the time being at least, not to attempt to discharge this duty in respect of Mr Farraday until I have practised further.
In any case, I am sorry to report that what the local people had themselves offered last night as a witticism of sorts – the prediction that I would not have a good night owing to disturbances from below – proved only too true. The landlord’s wife did not actually shout, but one could hear her talking incessantly both late into the night as she and her husband went about their tasks, and again from very early this morning. I was quite prepared to forgive the couple, however, for it was clear they were of diligent hardworking habits, and the noise, I am sure, was all attributable to this fact. Besides, of course, there had been the matter of my unfortunate remark. I thus gave no indication of having had a disturbed night when I thanked the landlord and took my leave to explore the market town of Taunton.
Perhaps I might have done better to have lodged here in this establishment where I now sit enjoying a pleasant mid-morning cup of tea. For indeed, the notice outside advertises not only ‘teas, snacks and cakes’, but also ‘clean, quiet, comfortable rooms’. It is situated on the high street of Taunton, very close to the market square, a somewhat sunken building, its exterior characterized by heavy dark timber beams. I am at present sitting in its spacious tearoom, oak-panelled, with enough tables to accommodate, I would guess, two dozen people without a feeling of crowding. Two cheery young girls serve from behind a counter