The Remains of the Day pdfdrive com

DAY THREE · MORNING
Taunton, Somerset
I lodged last night in an inn named the Coach and Horses a little way
outside the town of Taunton, Somerset. This being a thatch-roofed
cottage by the roadside, it had looked a conspicuously attractive
prospect from the Ford as I had approached in the last of the daylight.
The landlord led me up a timber stairway to a small room, rather bare,
but perfectly decent. When he inquired whether I had dined, I asked him
to serve me with a sandwich in my room, which proved a perfectly
satisfactory option as far as supper was concerned. But then as the
evening drew on, I began to feel a little restless in my room, and in the
end decided to descend to the bar below to try a little of the local cider.
There were five or six customers all gathered in a group around the
bar – one guessed from their appearance they were agricultural people
of one sort or another – but otherwise the room was empty. Acquiring a
tankard of cider from the landlord, I seated myself at a table a little way
away, intending to relax a little and collect my thoughts concerning the
day. It soon became clear, however, that these local people were
perturbed by my presence, feeling something of a need to show
hospitality. Whenever there was a break in their conversation, one or the
other of them would steal a glance in my direction as though trying to
find it in himself to approach me. Eventually one raised his voice and
said to me:
‘It seems you’ve let yourself in for a night upstairs here, sir.’
When I told him this was so, the speaker shook his head doubtfully
and remarked: ‘You won’t get much of a sleep up there, sir. Not unless
you’re fond of the sound of old Bob’ – he indicated the landlord –
‘banging away down here right the way into the night. And then you’ll
get woken by his missus shouting at him right from the crack of dawn.’
Despite the landlord’s protests, this caused loud laughter all round.
‘Is that indeed so?’ I said. And as I spoke, I was struck by the thought –

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the same thought as had struck me on numerous occasions of late in Mr
Farraday’s presence – that some sort of witty retort was required of me.
Indeed, the local people were now observing a polite silence, awaiting
my next remark. I thus searched my imagination and eventually
declared:
‘A local variation on the cock crow, no doubt.’
At first the silence continued, as though the local persons thought I
intended to elaborate further. But then noticing the mirthful expression
on my face, they broke into a laugh, though in a somewhat bemused
fashion. With this, they returned to their previous conversation, and I
exchanged no further words with them until exchanging good nights a
little while later.
I had been rather pleased with my witticism when it had first come
into my head, and I must confess I was slightly disappointed it had not
been better received than it was. I was particularly disappointed, I
suppose, because I have been devoting some time and effort over recent
months to improving my skill in this very area. That is to say, I have
been endeavouring to add this skill to my professional armoury so as to
fulfil with confidence all Mr Farraday’s expectations with respect to
bantering.
For instance, I have of late taken to listening to the wireless in my
room whenever I find myself with a few spare moments – on those
occasions, say, when Mr Farraday is out for the evening. One programme
I listen to is called Twice a Week or More, which is in fact broadcast three
times each week, and basically comprises two persons making humorous
comments on a variety of topics raised by readers’ letters. I have been
studying this programme because the witticisms performed on it are
always in the best of taste and, to my mind, of a tone not at all out of
keeping with the sort of bantering Mr Farraday might expect on my part.
Taking my cue from this programme, I have devised a simple exercise
which I try to perform at least once a day; whenever an odd moment
presents itself, I attempt to formulate three witticisms based on my
immediate surroundings at that moment. Or, as a variation on this same
exercise, I may attempt to think of three witticisms based on the events
of the past hour.

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You will perhaps appreciate then my disappointment concerning my
witticism yesterday evening. At first, I had thought it possible its limited
success was due to my not having spoken clearly enough. But then the
possibility occurred to me, once I had retired, that I might actually have
given these people offence. After all, it could easily have been
understood that I was suggesting the landlord’s wife resembled a
cockerel – an intention that had not remotely entered my head at the
time. This thought continued to torment me as I tried to sleep, and I had
half a mind to make an apology to the landlord this morning. But his
mood towards me as he served breakfast seemed perfectly cheerful and
in the end I decided to let the matter rest.
But this small episode is as good an illustration as any of the hazards
of uttering witticisms. By the very nature of a witticism, one is given
very little time to assess its various possible repercussions before one is
called to give voice to it, and one gravely risks uttering all manner of
unsuitable things if one has not first acquired the necessary skill and
experience. There is no reason to suppose this is not an area in which I
will become proficient given time and practice, but, such are the
dangers, I have decided it best, for the time being at least, not to attempt
to discharge this duty in respect of Mr Farraday until I have practised
further.
In any case, I am sorry to report that what the local people had
themselves offered last night as a witticism of sorts – the prediction that
I would not have a good night owing to disturbances from below –
proved only too true. The landlord’s wife did not actually shout, but one
could hear her talking incessantly both late into the night as she and her
husband went about their tasks, and again from very early this morning.
I was quite prepared to forgive the couple, however, for it was clear they
were of diligent hardworking habits, and the noise, I am sure, was all
attributable to this fact. Besides, of course, there had been the matter of
my unfortunate remark. I thus gave no indication of having had a
disturbed night when I thanked the landlord and took my leave to
explore the market town of Taunton.
Perhaps I might have done better to have lodged here in this

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establishment where I now sit enjoying a pleasant mid-morning cup of
tea. For indeed, the notice outside advertises not only ‘teas, snacks and
cakes’, but also ‘clean, quiet, comfortable rooms’. It is situated on the
high street of Taunton, very close to the market square, a somewhat
sunken building, its exterior characterized by heavy dark timber beams.
I am at present sitting in its spacious tearoom, oak-panelled, with
enough tables to accommodate, I would guess, two dozen people
without a feeling of crowding. Two cheery young girls serve from behind
a counter displaying a good selection of cakes and pastries. All in all,
this is an excellent place to partake of morning tea, but surprisingly few
of the inhabitants of Taunton seem to wish to avail themselves of it. At
present, my only companions are two elderly ladies, sitting abreast one
another at a table along the opposite wall, and a man – perhaps a retired
farmer – at a table beside one of the large bay Windows. I am unable to
discern him clearly because the bright morning sunlight has for the
moment reduced him to a silhouette. But I can see him studying his
newspaper, breaking off regularly to look up at the passers-by on the
pavement outside. From the way he does this, I had thought at first that
he was waiting for a companion, but it would seem he wishes merely to
greet acquaintances as they pass by.
I am myself ensconced almost at the back wall, but even across the
distance of this room, I can see clearly out into the sunlit street, and am
able to make out on the pavement opposite a signpost pointing out
several nearby destinations. One of these destinations is the village of
Mursden. Perhaps ‘Mursden’ will ring a bell for you, as it did for me
upon my first spotting it on the road atlas yesterday. In fact, I must say I
was even tempted to make a slight detour from my planned route just to
see the village. Mursden, Somerset, was where the firm of Giffen and Co.
was once situated, and it was to Mursden one was required to dispatch
one’s order for a supply of Giffen’s dark candles of polish, ‘to be flaked,
mixed into wax and applied by hand’. For some time, Giffen’s was
undoubtedly the finest silver polish available, and it was only the
appearance of new chemical substances on the market shortly before the
war that caused demand for this impressive product to decline.
As I remember, Giffen’s appeared at the beginning of the twenties, and
I am sure I am not alone in closely associating its emergence with that

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change of mood within our profession – that change which came to push
the polishing of silver to the position of central importance it still by and
large maintains today. This shift was, I believe, like so many other major
shifts around this period, a generational matter; it was during these
years that our generation of butlers ‘came of age’, and figures like Mr
Marshall, in particular, played a crucial part in making silver-polishing
so central. This is not to suggest, of course, that the polishing of silver –