“Silcox, Edith realised with respect, was so snobbish that he looked down upon himself.”
This is utterly prime Taylor, sad, stoical, objectively class-ridden days, Silcox a proud, stern waiter, Edith a sensibly dressed woman, she driven to imagine things by having to pretend to be married to Silcox in the eyes of a posh hotel where they obtained a job together as a married couple, in order to escape a down-trodden seaside ‘boarding-house’ hotel. Two strictly partitioned lives in one room, but they plant a picture, in this room, of a boy in school jacket to show the son of their loins, for other staff to see, such as co-waitress Carrie Hurt. They eventually decide not to be so tidy, as putting things away in drawers did not seem very marital.
Until the photo of the boy developed, in fantasy as well as truth.
Fantasy is a theft from truth, I guess. But in fiction, that also needs to be truth thieving from fantasy for it to work as well as this fiction? Table napkins as fancy cones set for riff raff, silver spoons, too?
Context of this review: https://etepsed.wordpress.com/1370-2/