Out of the Shelter

by David Lodge

  Now she was talking about the offer of Dolores’ room.

  – Well, the trouble is, he’s dead set against it, you know what boys are like at that age, the idea of living in a girls’ hostel just makes him curl up. Yes I’m sure you would, but not everybody’s . . . well, I wish he would . . . quite, and not only that but it would save me quite a few Marks . . . You’ll have to help me persuade him, but tactfully, now. Right, see you about seven. ’Bye.

  Kath put down the telephone and Timothy hastily shut his eyes. He heard a click as she switched on the radio, and dance music filled the room. Then the music stopped and a mellow American voice announced:

  – A.F.N. Frankfurt, and this is Staff Sergeant MacCabe with the news at eighteen hundred hours. First the headlines. Korea: truce talks continued at Kaesong today, but no progress was reported on the exchange of prisoners. Two US airmen died and three others were seriously injured in an automobile accident on the Frankfurt-Mannheim autobahn last night. At home, Senator Joseph McCarthy made new allegations of Communist infiltration of the State Department at a press conference in Washington . . .

  Timothy sat up in bed and yawned.

  – Oh, so you’re awake at last, said Kath. I put the radio on purposely.

  – It’s funny listening to the news and hearing nothing about England.

  – Did you sleep well?

  – Like a log. Kath, I’ve been thinking. Maybe I ought to take your friend’s room.

  Kath beamed.

  – I’m so glad! What made you change your mind?

  – Oh, I dunno. It seems silly not to take the offer.

  – Well, I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable there. I didn’t like to think of you in that dismal attic. Rudolf has brought your bag over, by the way.

  – Good. You’ll find a pair of trousers, brown ones, near the top. Bung them over.

  – Wouldn’t you like to have your shower straightaway?

  – No, I don’t think I’ll bother today, he said. Catching a look of consternation on her face, he added: I had a bath the night before last.

  Kath exploded in a mixture of amusement and protest.

  – But you’ve been travelling hundreds of miles since then. In all those dirty trains.

  – Oh, all right then, he said hastily. Where’s the bathroom?

  – Just next to the toilet, where you went this morning.

  – Won’t there be some women about?

  – There might be, yes. Kath pondered. I know . . .

  She dressed him in an old dressing-gown of her own, and covered his head with a plastic shower-cap trimmed with artificial flowers.

  – There, she giggled. It’s a good job you haven’t started to shave yet.

  She opened the door, looked out conspiratorially, then signalled to him that the corridor was clear.

  Clutching the buttonless dressing-gown across his chest and knees, Timothy slunk along the corridor and slipped into the bathroom. He bolted the door and leaned against it. His grotesque image confronted him in a mirror at the other end of the room. He dragged off the shower-cap and threw it to the floor. Already he regretted changing his mind about Dolores’ room. It would be like this all the time there. If it hadn’t been for Kath’s reference to money on the phone, he would have changed his mind once again.

  When he returned the bed was made, and Kath had changed into a black silky dress with a deep neckline that showed a lot of what the Daily Express called cleavage.

  – Smashing dress, Kath.

  – Well, thank you, Timothy, coming from you that’s quite a compliment. Have a nice shower?

  – I had a bath. I don’t go much for showers.

  – Oh, I find showers so much more refreshing. And it’s cleaner, I always think.

  Kath obviously had a bit of an obsession about washing, he thought to himself, as he turned his back and, preserving modesty with the aid of the dressing-gown, put on his brown gaberdine trousers. He dressed with more than usual care, for the remarks he had heard about his appearance rankled somewhat. He put on his best white shirt, his brown Harris tweed sports jacket and a wine-coloured tie.

  – Well, you do look smart, Kath said. But he sensed a certain reserve in her voice.

  – I don’t have a suit, he said. Is this all right?

  – It’s fine, Timothy, fine. I’m just thinking that you may find that jacket a little warm here. It’s a wonderful piece of material, isn’t it? She fingered his lapel.

  – Harris tweed. Utility.

  – You haven’t got anything lighter?

  – Only my blazer, but that’s a bit dirty.

  – Is that a nylon shirt?

  – Yes, you sent it to me two Christmases ago.

  – Did I? And it still fits you?

  – It’s a bit tight round the neck, he admitted. Mum moved the button on the collar.

  – Yes, said Kath, I can see . . . We’ll have to get you some lighter clothes. A lightweight jacket, and maybe a pair of pants.

  – I’ve got plenty of pants, he said. Mum washed me four pairs.

  – Sorry, I mean trousers, Kath laughed. The American boys call them pants. You pick these words up.

  – You don’t have an American accent, though.

  – I’m glad you think so. Between you and me, a good English accent goes down very well with the Americans. It’s my biggest social asset.

  One up for Dad, Timothy thought to himself.

  – You must be getting pretty hungry, Timothy, but the boys will be here soon. I’ll go get you a Coke and some ice and we’ll fix ourselves a drink while we’re waiting.

  When she was gone he took off his jacket. Kath was perfectly right – it was too thick for the weather. He was perspiring already. His blazer was lighter, but when he tried it on in front of the mirror it looked wrong with his brown trousers, and anyway it was filthy from the journey. He flung the blazer aside and scowled at his reflection. He had dragged nearly his entire wardrobe with him to Germany, and here he was with nothing suitable to wear on his very first evening.

  Kath served the drinks with some ceremony. She poured the Coca-Cola, already well chilled, to judge by the condensation on the bottle, over several cubes of ice in a tall glass, added a slice of lemon and two straws.

  – How’s that?

  He sucked long and deeply on the straws and felt the drink pierce his thirst like an icicle.

  – Delicious! What are you drinking, Kath?

  – Martini on the rocks. The experts would shudder, but I can’t be bothered to get out the shaker. Want to try it? No? Well, perhaps you’d better not. I don’t want Mum and Dad accusing me of leading you into bad habits.

  – Where’d you get the ice from?

  – There’s a communal kitchen on each floor. We share a big fridge.

  – I wish we had a fridge at home.

  – Why doesn’t Mum get one?

  – I dunno. Export only, I s’pose. Or it’s too expensive. Everything in England’s one thing or the other. He helped himself liberally to the salted nuts that Kath had put on the table beside him. As well as peanuts there were almonds, walnuts and brazils. Every day seemed to be like Christmas here.

  – I don’t know how Mum manages without a fridge, said Kath. Or rather I do know, only too well. Keeping the butter and milk in the sink in the summer, with the tap running. Sniffing the food in the larder to see if it’s gone off . . . She sighed humorously, blowing out a plume of cigarette smoke.

  – And she never throws anything away. She eats it up herself if nobody else will.

  – Ah, yes, eating up. This needs eating up. It’s a wonder she hasn’t poisoned herself before now.

  – Oh, well, I s’pose it’s rationing that made her like that, said Timothy, making up for some obscure feeling of disloyalty.

  – I feel so guilty sometimes, when I think of rationing still going on at home. We eat so well out here. Even the Germans are better off, and in France or Belgium you can get any food you like.


  – It’s the Government.

  – I read in Time the other day they think there’ll be another election soon.

  – Old Attlee’s hanging on ’cos he knows he’ll be chucked out.

  – You think the Conservatives will win next time, then?

  – It’s a dead cert, said Timothy confidently.

  – That will please the Americans. They adore Churchill. What do you think of this Burgess and Maclean affair? The Americans are furious about it.

  – I don’t see how anybody could have guessed what they were doing. I mean, why should two Englishmen spy for the Russians? It just doesn’t make sense.

  – Perhaps they did it for the money. Or they think Russia’s going to win the next war, Kath said lightly.

  On the radio, to the background of lilting violins, an American voice drawled:

  – Music by Candelight . . . A.F.N. presents background music for dancing, dining or just eeeeeeasy listening.

  – So you can cook for yourself here, then? said Timothy.

  – Yes, but I’m not much of a cook, I warn you. Vince suggested – he was on the phone just now – that we go to the Molkenkur tonight. I think you’ll like that. It’s halfway up the Königstuhl – that’s the big mountain you saw from the station this morning.

  – A restaurant, is it?

  – Yes, and a club for officers and civilian personnel. We go there quite a lot. They have a regular band. D’you dance, Timothy?

  – No.

  – Too bad, I’ll have to teach you.

  – I don’t see much in dancing, myself, he said guardedly. Vince is an American, I s’pose?

  – Yes, Greg too. They’re great fun – you’ll like them. I must have mentioned them in my letters.

  – Are they in the Army?

  – They were during the war, but now they’re civilians working for the Army.

  – Sort of civil servants, like Uncle Ted?

  Kath smiled.

  – Well, sort of civil servants, yes, but not a bit like Uncle Ted. They have very good jobs – high salaries – and I think Vince must have a private income of his own. He comes from an old Washington family – his father was an ambassador or a consul or something like that. But whatever they have, they spend. Easy come, easy go.

  – Are they married?

  Kath looked startled.

  – Good heavens, no. What gave you that idea?

  – I was just wondering, he said.

  – No, they’re real bachelor boys. I can’t imagine either of them settling down and getting married. They enjoy high living too much.

  She drained her glass and gazed thoughtfully at the olive in the bottom. Timothy wondered whether to throw in some leading question, like, And what about you Kath? But the moment passed. There was a knock at the door.

  Timothy’s first impression of Vince and Greg was that they were positive and negative versions of the same person. Vince had startlingly blond hair, a tanned complexion, and was wearing a dark blue suit. Greg had black hair, a pale face, and was dressed in beige. But on closer inspection they were quite different. Vince was strikingly handsome and athletic in build and had a moustache: he looked like a film star. Greg was shorter and stouter, and his snub nose, slightly protuberant eyes and hint of a double chin gave him the appearance of a genial baby. Timothy found himself smiling as soon as he saw Greg, who advanced into the room with his arms outstretched.

  – Kiss me, Kate! Honey, you look wonderful.

  Kath obliged him with a peck on the cheek, smiling over his shoulder at Vince.

  – Greg, Vince, this is Timothy.

  – I’m always glad to meet a fellow artist, said Greg, as they shook hands. Oh, you may laugh, Kate, but let me tell you, I used to draw moustaches on the New York subway posters that were very widely admired. That was my moustache period. He threw himself down on the sofa and crossed his plump little legs.

  – Take no notice, said Vince, smiling at Timothy. He’s always like this.

  – How about a drink, boys? Martini on the rocks O.K?

  – You know how Vince likes it, honey, said Greg. Just pass the Martini bottle once over the gin.

  – Kate tells me you had a rough trip, Timothy, said Vince.

  – Yes, I didn’t have a seat.

  – Gee, no seat? That’s terrible, said Greg. Whaddya do, give it up to a lady?

  – No, I just couldn’t get one, said Timothy, seeing too late that Greg was joking.

  – Oh, Kate, said Vince. We brought you a corsage. He presented her with a small bunch of purplish flowers in a cellophane box.

  – Oh, how sweet of you. Aren’t they lovely, Timothy? She went to the mirror and pinned them to her dress.

  – Mind you don’t puncture your falsies with the pin, honey, Greg said.

  – That’s one artificial aid I don’t need, Gregory Roche, Kath retorted, flushing slightly.

  – I’m only kidding, honey. Say, did you hear about the guy who discovered on his wedding night that his bride wore falsies? He said, There seems to have been a misudderstanding.

  – Greg! I’m going to have to censor your jokes while Timothy is here, said Kath, laughing.

  – Aw, come on, said Greg. Timothy knows about falsies, don’t you Timothy?

  – Yes, he admitted with some embarrassment.

  – Are we going to the Molkenkur? said Vince.

  – Yes, said Kath. It’s such a lovely view from the terrace. I want to show Timothy.

  – Gosh! Timothy exclaimed, as they walked out on to the terrace.

  – Isn’t it beautiful?

  – Fantastic.

  He leaned on the parapet and gazed down. The green, thickly wooded mountainside fell away sharply beneath them till it met the red, grey and brown roofs of the town, quaintly shaped and densely packed together, with the spires of churches sticking up here and there. Beyond the roofs was the river, broad and calm, spanned by two bridges. There was only a thin sprinkling of houses on the other bank, and behind them another wooded mountain rose steeply into the sky. To his right, the river passed out of sight between more mountains; to his left it lost itself in the sunset haze of an endless plain. He could see trams and cars moving slowly through the streets below, but only the faintest murmur of traffic carried up to this height. He had never seen a town so completely before.

  – It’s like a toy town.

  – It’s so romantic, I always think, said Kath. All those old buildings, and so unspoiled. You can just see the edge of the Castle over there. Down below is the Old Bridge, the one with the two towers on this side. The Americans built the other one, after the war. The Germans were ordered to blow up all the bridges as they retreated.

  – But not the old one?

  – Yes, even that one, said Vince. But only the middle span, and they restored it soon after the war. The Burgermeister was telling me just the other day, it was the first bridge to be restored in the whole of Germany. You can see the bricks in the middle are a different colour when you’re close up.

  – Folks, this is a fascinating travelogue, said Greg, but if Timothy is as hungry as I am . . .

  – Yes, let’s eat, said Kath.

  As it was so warm, they decided to eat outside on the terrace. A waiter handed Timothy an enormous menu, which he stared at blankly. The only item that looked familiar was ham ’n eggs, but this was cried down as too unenterprising. Eventually he settled on Chicken-in-the-Rough as his main course, and after being assured that a shrimp cocktail contained no gin (an innocent enquiry that was received as a great witticism) he consented to try one as a starter. The shrimps seemed to him more like oversized prawns, but it was the fried chicken, served in a basket overflowing with chips, that really astonished him. Incredulously he counted the joints.

  – Blimey! he said. There must be a whole chicken here.

  – Think you can manage it? Kath said, smiling.

  – I just pick it up and eat it in my fingers?

  – That’s right.

&n
bsp; – Here goes, then.

  He grasped a drumstick and bit deeply into the meat. The three adults delayed starting their own dishes to watch him.

  – So that’s what it’s like to have an appetite, said Vince. I’d forgotten. He began to cut up his food into small pieces, which he then ate with a fork held in his right hand. Timothy was intrigued to see that Greg and even Kath also ate in this fashion.

  – Chicken is a luxury in England, remember, Kath said.

  – Yes, the last time we had chicken at home was Easter Sunday, said Timothy, and then it lasted us for three days.

  – How about that? said Greg. But where d’you get your eggs from if you haven’t any chickens?

  – Don’t you know anything? said Vince. Laying hens aren’t good to eat.

  – They do say eggs will come off ration soon, Timothy said.

  – Eggs on ration? I don’t believe it, said Greg. The hens must be constipated.

  The meal passed quickly and pleasantly. The conversation kept Timothy constantly diverted. It wasn’t that any of the remarks were roaringly funny in themselves; but each joke derived an impetus from the previous one, so that conversation rode forward on little waves of hilarity. Greg was the chief comedian, but all three adults treated conversation as a kind of team game, passing the ball deftly between them, never letting it drop to the ground. Timothy, used to meals consumed rapidly, and often alone (he and his parents rarely sat down together at the table except on Sundays) found this new style of social intercourse fascinating. As he listened, he watched the river turn a dull gold in the rays of the setting sun, thrown into relief by the dark face of the mountain on the further bank. Then the stars came out and the lights of the town twinkled in the valley below. An illuminated pleasure boat sailed up the river, disturbing its own reflection, so that it seemed to turn up a furrow of gold in the dark water.

  The others took no dessert, but Vince, who insisted that the meal was his treat, ordered for Timothy something called Baked Alaska, a hot pudding miraculously filled with unmelted ice cream. The windows of the restaurant were open, and music carried out on to the terrace. Kath danced in turn with the two men. She tried to persuade Timothy to take a lesson from her, but he declined.