Bettina Crole: Guest of the Season: The Chair

A turn

“It is rude to a man not to laugh at him,” she says, settling back. “But I shall try. This is Vernon, who likes fishing and has not caught anything since 1974. Look at him. Now, what he wants, before I die, is for someone to say something he can repeat to his sister. That is the whole audience. The rest of them are merely chewing.” Down the table, twenty heads incline politely, chewing. She watches you. “One story, all of it, in order. Never mind whether it is true. It was last year, we had a man here who did not eat. I sent him pudding twice and he built it into a tower.” Her eye travels to your plate, untouched: “You have eaten nothing, and I shall not have it said that my table starves a wit. Have the fish.

A

She waits. You say nothing at all. She cuts a piece of your fish herself and sets the fork down near your hand. “The Silent Guest,” she says to the table. “It has been an hour and I have had one word from him, which was that he is not Fenwick-Sloane. A ringing line. Vernon will repeat that to his sister and she will ask for the long version.” She lifts the fork again, patient. “Eat, or talk. Either one, dear. Both would be a miracle.”

B

“Let us have the tally, then,” she says, and counts on her fingers, kindly, the way one counts a child’s teeth. “One: you are not Fenwick-Sloane. Two: you know nobody. Three: you want your coat. Four: silence, twice, while twenty people watched you do it. That is the entire season so far, dear.” She cuts another piece of your fish, though you have not touched the first. “I have had livelier funerals.” Down the table a woman in jet repeats “livelier funerals” to her neighbour, and writes nothing down, having nowhere to write it.

C

She sets the fork down and looks at you the way one looks at a nephew who has brought no present. “Four moves, dear, and the fourth was a shrug. I have kept a whole table waiting to hear you say anything at all, and you have replied by declining to exist. That is not an act. That is a chair.” She picks the fork back up. "Eat something. It will give you the strength to have an opinion."

D

Lady Thrubb sets down the fork and studies you with the unhurried pity of a woman sizing up a hedge. “Vernon, look. He has done it again.” Vernon looks. “Four hours, one sentence, and a shrug. I have had better conversation from the dog.” Down the table, mirth, obedient. She takes your glass and moves it out of reach, as though a drink were the problem. “No wine for the mute. Have you considered, dear, that you might have stayed home?”

E

Lady Thrubb sighs, rings the bell, and stands. “The guest of the season,” she tells the table, “has declined to exist. I suppose we must drink to that.” The toast is drunk to you by name. Your luggage is sent for, the Blue Room is aired, and a small dog is deposited in your lap. The flower show committee welcomes you with a round of applause. Lady Thrubb hands you a hamper and a schedule of Friday dinners. “If you ever speak,” she says, “do let us know.”