Mr. Thwaites glanced at her suspiciously, but had no idea what she was doing. She ran upstairs to her room, hastily put on her hat and coat, grabbed her torch, and came down the stairs again to the front door and went out into the black Thames Lockdon.

7

But what did she think she was doing and where did she think she was going now?

The black street resounded with the gloomy, scraping tramp of the boots of conscripted British soldiers far from their homes. There were some Americans about, too, further still from their homes. At this time of the evening they passed through Church Street on their way towards or returning from the public-houses over the bridge. Sometimes they shouted or sang, but for the most part they said nothing, giving expression to their slow sorrow and helplessness in their boots.

Where did she think she was going, amidst all these boots? She found herself in the narrow High Street, walking in the direction of the Station.

She had better walk as far as the Station, and then walk back and go in again. She had better try to look upon herself as one who had come out in a sane way for a short walk, not as what she really was, one who had rushed out on to the black streets of a small riverside town in a sort of panic.

Two Americans, lurking at a corner, spoke out to her invitingly, calling her ‘sister’. She walked on, conscious of having let them off – of having spared them the chill embarrassment which would have fallen upon them had they realised their ambition to talk to her and see her –  conscious, therefore, of a blackness within the blackness of this fleeting street episode of which they, in common with other soldiers who accosted her under similar conditions, remained unaware.

Blackness. Cockroaches were black. ‘Miss Roach.’ ‘Old Cockroach.’ As the schoolmistress at Hove that had been her nickname – she had heard them using it more than once – so little fear did they have of her that they had almost used it to her face. She could never even keep proper discipline in class. And she had set out with such ideas, such enthusiasm, such grave, exhilarating theories in regard to ‘youth’ and ‘modern education’. She had thought she had found her gift and place in life. They had ‘liked’ her, however, though she couldn’t even keep proper discipline, and had abandoned her exhilarating theories within three weeks.

She passed the Station and went on towards the riverfront. She was now moving back towards the Rosamund Tea Rooms by the route she had used earlier in the evening.

Mr. Thwaites would be missing her by now, wondering what she was up to. Though he didn’t do much talking and bullying after dinner, he liked you to be there. He didn’t like anyone to be out. It filled him with angry curiosity and jealousy. He was never out, off duty, himself. He looked upon the Rosamund Tea Rooms as a sort of compulsory indoor game, in which he perpetually held the bank and dealt the cards.

She turned into Church Street again, and was again amongst the boots. What now? Go in and submit to Mr. Thwaites after all? Never. Or go to her room and try somehow to read and go to bed? No, no. Or stay out amongst the boots? Or go by herself to the Cinema? She had no desire to do so – in fact she hated the idea – but it was either that or the boots on the dark streets, and she had better go round and see if she could get in.

8

The quite recently built Odeon Cinema was in the narrow High Street. She pushed back the heavy door, and was dazzled by the light in the foyer, and smitten suddenly by the air of tension pervading the house – a tension which comes into being in the foyer of a crowded theatre anywhere, which centres around the inimical box-office, which repels the newcomer, and gives rise to a feeling of awe, of having to lower one’s voice and walk practically on tiptoe in deference to what is taking place inside.

She could only get the most expensive sort of seat – three and sixpence upstairs – and she was lucky to get this. That was the war. In the old days you could have strolled in at any time of the evening for ninepence. In the war everywhere was crowded all the time. The war seemed to have conjured into being, from nowhere, magically, a huge population of its own – one which flowed into and filled every channel and crevice of the country – the towns, the villages, the streets, the trains, the buses, the shops, the hotels, the inns, the restaurants, the movies.

She was given a seat in the gangway, and was no longer awed, because she was now herself taking part in the rites which had seemed so momentous from the foyer. The ‘News’ was on – war pictures, naturally – war, war, war .