‘But why—?’ Renthall slumped back. ‘Haven’t they got the intelligence to realize that it’s just at this sort of time that we need every social get-together we can organize? People are hiding away in their back bedrooms like a lot of frightened ghosts. We’ve got to bring them out, give them something that will pull them together.’
He gazed up thoughtfully at the watch-tower across the street. Shadows circulated behind the frosted panes of the observation windows. ‘Some sort of gala, say, or a garden fte. Who could organize it, though?’
Hanson pushed back his chair. ‘Careful, Charles. I don’t know whether the Council would altogether approve.’
‘I’m sure they wouldn’t.’ After Hanson had left he remained at the table and returned to his solitary contemplation of the watch-towers.
For half an hour Renthall sat at the table, playing absently with his empty coffee cup and watching the few people who passed along the street. No one else visited the caf, and he was glad to be able to pursue his thoughts alone, in this miniature urban vacuum, with nothing to intervene between himself and the lines of watch-towers stretching into the haze beyond the roof-tops.
With the exception of Mrs Osmond, Renthall had virtually no close friends in whom to confide. With his sharp intelligence and impatience with trivialities, Renthall was one of those men with whom others find it difficult to relax. A certain innate condescension, a reserved but unmistakable attitude of superiority held them away from him, though few people regarded him as anything but a shabby pedagogue. At the hotel he kept to himself. There was little social contact between the guests; in the lounge and dining room they sat immersed in their old newspapers and magazines, occasionally murmuring quietly to each other. The only thing which could mobilize the simultaneous communion of the guests was some untoward activity in the watch-towers, and at such times Renthall always maintained an absolute silence.
Just before he stood up a square thick-set figure approached down the street. Renthall recognized the man and was about to turn his seat to avoid having to greet him, but something about his expression made him lean forward. Fleshy and dark-jowled, the man walked with an easy, rolling gait, his double-breasted check overcoat open to reveal a well-tended midriff. This was Victor Boardman, owner of the local flea-pit cinema, sometime bootlegger and procurer at large.
Renthall had never spoken to him, but he was aware that Boardman shared with him the distinction of bearing the stigma of the Council’s disapproval. Hanson claimed that the Council had successfully stamped out Boardman’s illicit activities, but the latter’s permanent expression of smug contempt for the rest of the world seemed to belie this.
As he passed they exchanged glances, and Boardman’s face broke momentarily into a knowing smirk. It was obviously directed at Renthall, and implied a pre-judgement of some event about which Renthall as yet knew nothing, presumably his coming collision with the Council. Obviously Boardman expected him to capitulate to the Council without a murmur.
Annoyed, Renthall turned his back on Boardman, then watched him over his shoulder as he padded off down the street, his easy relaxed shoulders swaying from side to side.
The following day the activity in the watch-towers had subsided entirely. The blue haze from which they extended was brighter than it had been for several months, and the air in the streets seemed to sparkle with the light reflected off the observation windows. There was no sign of movement among them, and the sky had a rigid, uniform appearance that indicated an indefinite lull.
For some reason, however, Renthall found himself more nervous than he had been for some time. The school had not yet opened, but he felt strangely reluctant to visit Mrs Osmond and remained indoors all morning, shunning the streets as if avoiding some invisible shadow of guilt.
The long lines of watch-towers stretching endlessly from one horizon to the other reminded him that he could soon expect to receive the Council’s ‘directive’ — Hanson would not have mentioned it by accident — and it was always during the lulls that the Council was most active in consolidating its position, issuing a stream of petty regulations and amendments.
Renthall would have liked to challenge the Council’s authority on some formal matter unconnected with himself the validity, for example, of one of the byelaws prohibiting public assemblies in the street — but the prospect of all the intrigue involved in canvassing the necessary support bored him utterly. Although none of them individually would challenge the Council, most people would have been glad to see it toppled, but there seemed to be no likely focus for their opposition. Apart from the fear that the Council was in touch with the watch-towers, no one would stand up for Renthall’s right to carry on his affair with Mrs Osmond.
