Saturday Night at the Greyhound by John Hampson

Author:John Hampson [Hampson, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Valancourt Books
Published: 2014-07-28T00:00:00+00:00

III

When the car pulled up outside the Greyhound Inn with a jerk, Roy Grovedon turned to his companion gravely, and asked, “Well, which shall it be? Inn or ancestral hall?” Ruth Dorme laughed and chose once more the Inn. It might be dull, but a dust-curtained dining-room would be worse. She was starving, and could not wait till they got back to Matlock for food. A meal at the Greyhound might be amusing. It would be something to talk about. Anything, so long as it had novelty, that was the thing nowadays. People would enjoy hearing of her meal among the miners. If it proved too ghastly she could embroider it a little.

Ruth Dorme, an unmarried woman of thirty, found life rather boring in spite of her money. She was fairly clever and considered to be intellectual by her friends. Knowing that, she let it rule her life. She dare not say or do anything she considered might be traitorous to the intellect with which she allowed herself to be endowed. Few people liked her.

Acting on a sudden impulse she had fled from the gloom of London, dripping under February rains. Arriving at Matlock she decided she must be mad. The glum hotel, the stuffy provincial people who insisted on being friendly, were far worse than anything she left behind in London.

Of the stuffy people she soon disposed. Her defence of such old-established practices as prostitution and vivisection shocked them horribly. To one old woman who tried to convert her, she said bluntly: “A woman who eats lamb straight from the mother holds no right to condemn the cruelties of vivisection.” The woman got up and left the lounge, her remaining arguments unexpounded. Ruth was bothered by no more friendly people the next evening. Those who had spoken before pretended not to see her. In any case she seemed destined to spend a loathsome week-end. Inspection of the hotel library discovered nothing more exciting than the works of Michael Arlen and Warwick Deeping. Her fat-headed maid had packed Sodome et Gomorrhe and Prancing Nigger. Neither of them suited her mood. Proust seemed incredibly boring and Ronald Firbank frantically irritating. When she was dressed for dinner she carried the books down to the lounge. It was crowded with people who looked weird. A mournful orchestra did its lurid best to depress her. Had her aim been certain she might have hurled a volume of Sodome et Gomorrhe at the conductor’s head. That at least would cause a stir; the management might even request her to leave. Why had she come to the wretched place? Remembering the lines of Walter Raleigh on the human race, she felt his wishes absurd. The thing to do was to take the next train back to London. To people who were impertinent enough to inquire the reason of her abrupt return, she could explain that Matlock was a hideous mistake. They would admire her honesty. Getting up hastily she saw Roy Grovedon; he was one of the few men she really liked.

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