The Penguin Complete Novels of Nancy Mitford

by Nancy Mitford

  ‘I thought they had no money?’

  ‘They tear off their jewels.’

  ‘Well then, just tell the programme. You go sight-seeing or what?’

  ‘Nothing whatever. The British female goes abroad for romance and that’s that.’

  ‘Ay de mi!’ said Northey, ‘how true!’

  ‘And the men? Aren’t Spanish women very much guarded?’

  ‘The men usually arrive dead beat. They take the journey worse than the women do and fury tires their hearts. They just have the energy to strip and peel. I don’t think they would ever manage – you know, in the state they are in. Besides, their emotions and energies, if any, are concentrated on revenge.’

  ‘And how do you spend your time?’ I vaguely hoped for an account of advanced lessons in Spanish.

  ‘Me? I lie on my face on the beach. It’s safer. Once we’ve arrived at the place and they’ve seen where they’ve got to doss down and when they’ve smelt the food, redolent of rancidol, which they are expected to press down, the younger male Britons have only one idea. Señoritas be blowed – they just want to kick my lemon – give me a fat lip, see? So I lie there, camouflaged by protective colouring. My back is black, but my face is white; they don’t connect the two and I am perfectly all right providing I never turn over. When the day comes for going home they need me too much to injure me.’

  ‘Goodness, Basil!’

  ‘You may well say so. Where’s Father?’

  ‘He’s been in London – back any time now. Look, darling, I haven’t told him about your summer – I didn’t know anything for certain – so let him think, what I rather hoped myself, that you were polishing up your pure Castilian. He might not like the idea of you – well –’

  ‘Carting out the rubbish?’

  ‘Oh dear, no, he wouldn’t like it. But I don’t think we need tell him. Now the holidays are over and you’ll be going back to your crammer I think we might, without being deceitful, forget the whole thing?’

  ‘Only I’m not going back to the crammer. That wasn’t a holiday, Ma – funny sort of hol that would be – no, it’s my career, my work, my future.’

  ‘Lying on your face in the sand is?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You’re giving up the Foreign Service?’

  ‘You bet.’

  ‘Basil!’

  ‘Now listen, Mother dear, the Foreign Service has had its day – enjoyable while it lasted no doubt, but over now. The privileged being of the future is the travel agent. He lives free, travels soft – don’t think he shares the sufferings of his people, he has a first-class sleeper, the best room in the hotel. Look at me now, washed, shaved, relaxed and rested. I only wish you could see my victims at this moment! Haven’t taken their clothes off for days. Some of them stood the whole way last night while I lay at my ease. Even during a railway strike you’ve only got to exhibit the armband and the officials will do anything for you. You see we hold the national tourist industries in the hollow of our hands. There’s nothing they dread more than a lot of unorganized travellers wandering about their countries exhibiting individualism. They’d never force a tourist on his own into those trams and hotels – he’d go home sooner. But you can do anything with a herd and the herd must have its drover. As he keeps the tickets and the money and the passports (no worry) even the most recalcitrant of the cattle are obliged to follow him. No good jibbing when the conditions are ghastly because what is the alternative? To be stranded without hope of succour. So the authorities need us; the tourists need us; we are paramount. Oh, it’s a wonderful profession and I’m lucky to have the family backing which got me into it.’

  My blood ran cold at these words. I have seen the promise of too many young men fade away as the result of taking a wrong step after leaving their university not to feel appalled at the prospect of this brilliant boy, easily my favourite child, thus jeopardizing his future. There is no sadder spectacle than that of a lettered beachcomber, a pass to which Basil seemed to have come in three short months.

  ‘And your first in history,’ I said, ‘your gift for languages – all to be wasted?’

  ‘It’s no good, Ma, you’ll have to be realistic about this. The world isn’t like it was when you were young. There’s more opportunity, more openings for a chap than there were then. You can’t really expect me to swot away and get into the Foreign Service and put up with an aeon of boredom simply to end my days in a ghastly great dump like this? I love Father, you know I do, and I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I’ve no intention of wasting the best years of my life like he has and nothing you can say will persuade me to. So now, having partaken of this smashing breakfast, for which I’m truly grateful, I must wend my way back to the hungry sheep who will look up, poor brutes, and not be fed.’

  ‘They must be fed. Where are they?’

  ‘Sitting on bursting canvas bags at the Gare du Nord – at least I hope so. I put them into the metro, before taking a cab myself, and told them where to get out and that I’d be along. I said to meet at the bus stop of the 48 because I believe the crowds at the station are terrific and one sheep looks very much like another. I expect they’ll be there now for days – only hope this fine weather will go on.’

  ‘You horrify me. Can’t we do something for them?’

  ‘They’re all right. Singing “Roll out the Barrel” like Britons always do at waits – wish they’d learn a new tune.’

  ‘How many are there?’

  ‘In my party? About twenty-five. You don’t need to bother about them, Ma, honest.’

  ‘Please go straight to the Gare du Nord and bring them here. I’ll have breakfast for them in the garden, ready by the time they arrive.’

  A wail from Northey. ‘No, Fanny, you’re not to – they’ll petrify my badger.’

  ‘Surely he’s blacked out in his air-raid shelter?’

  ‘He’ll smell them down there and tremble. A badger’s sense of smell is highly developed – people don’t understand about creatures.’

  ‘Don’t you take on,’ said Basil, ‘they smell like badgers themselves. He’ll be thrilled – he’ll think his mates have arrived.’

  ‘Go at once, Baz,’ I said.

  ‘But, Ma, this strike will probably last for days. You’ll get awfully tired of “Roll out the Barrel”.’

  ‘Yes. As soon as you’ve brought them there you must see about a lorry to take them to the coast.’

  ‘No fear. All our profit would melt away – Grandad would kill me.’

  ‘I’ll pay.’

  ‘You’re soft. Another thing – have I got to face all those posh butlers with that lot in tow?’

  ‘Northey can go with you and bring you in through the Avenue Gabriel. It’s nearer for the metro. Get the key of the garden, dearest, from Mrs Trott as you go out and tell Jérôme to be ready to help Baz find a lorry. Go on, Basil, twitch your mantle blue.’

  I was not at all surprised when Basil’s Britons turned out to be entirely delightful, very different indeed from the furious, filthy, haggard, exhausted, sex-starved mob which anybody not knowing Basil and not knowing England might have expected from his description. They were, in fact, sensible, tidy and nicely dressed, covered with smiles and evidently enjoying this adventure in a foreign land. There were rather more women than men, but it was unimaginable that any of them could have gone to bed with customs officers or waiters or indeed that they should commit fornication or adultery under any circumstances whatever. They looked more than respectable. I was glad to be confirmed in my suspicion that Basil’s account of his own tough and unmerciful behaviour was an invention, to startle Northey and me. The Britons were full of his praises and when he explained that I was his mother they crowded round to tell me what a wonder boy or miracle child I had produced. They had no idea that they were in an embassy – not that they would have been impressed had they known it, since the English are less consc
ious than any other race of diplomatic status; they evidently thought I kept a hotel in Paris. ‘Nice here,’ they said, ‘we must tell our friends.’ Any strangeness in their situation they would put down to being abroad. ‘Very nice,’ they said of the breakfast, which they ate with the relish of extreme hunger.

  When they had finished they told me, in detail, how splendid Basil had been. Hundreds of Britons, it seemed, many of whom had paid much more for the trip than they had, were left behind at Port-Vendres; Basil had literally forged a way through the mob, and, using his gigantic strength in conjunction with his mastery of languages, had lifted and pushed and shoved and lugged and somehow inserted every single member of his party on to a train already full to suffocation.

  ‘Now all the others who were on it are stifling at that horrid Gare du Nord while here we are in these nice grounds.’

  ‘Masterly organization,’ said an elderly man of military aspect. ‘He’ll do well in the next war – a genius for improvisation – marvellous linguist – I think you should be proud of him. I could have done with more like him in the Western Desert. Now he’s gone off to get a lorry to take us to the coast. What initiative! We are all going to subscribe for a memento when we get home.’

  I said, ‘You must be so tired.’

  ‘Oh no.’ A cheerful woman like a W.V.S. worker spoke up. ‘After the holiday we’ve had, a night or two in the train seems nothing. Yes, forty-eight hours we’ve been since leaving. Quite an adventure!’

  ‘And I suppose it wasn’t too comfortable in Spain?’

  ‘You don’t go abroad for comfort exactly, do you? I always say, plenty of that at home. One likes to see how the foreigners live, for a change. There’s no end to what they’ll put up with. The toilet arrangements! You’d never believe!’

  ‘Excuse me, but is that a badger’s sett?’

  ‘You are clever!’ said Northey, twinkling and sparkling at the poor man whose head was turned there and then.

  ‘Are there many badgers in this part of Paris?’

  ‘I’ve never seen another but there may be. Do you have them where you live?’

  ‘Oh no, not in the Cromwell Road. I knew what it was from the TV. I see you have a redstart, now that’s a delightful bird.’

  ‘Yes, and an owl at night. But we haven’t got a TV.’

  ‘Shame,’ said the Briton. ‘They don’t seem to go in for them abroad we’ve noticed. Still, with so much nature about you hardly need one. That’s what I have mine for, the nature. I didn’t know Paris was like this, wouldn’t mind living here myself.’

  As Northey and I went back to the house we met Alfred. ‘I was looking for you. Who are all these people?’

  ‘Sweet Britons,’ said Northey.

  ‘Stranded by the railway strike,’ I added. He seemed satisfied with this explanation. ‘How was London?’

  ‘Worrying. I’ll tell you later – I must go to the Chancery now. Are we lunching in? Oh, thank goodness –’

  I told Northey to see that the Britons got off all right, to have some sandwiches made up for them and to say good-bye to Basil for me. My business now was to protect Alfred, tired and preoccupied as he seemed, from the sight of his son in such a garb.

  The Britons had a little nap on the grass. Then they began a sing-song. We had ‘Lily Marlene’, ‘Colonel Bogey’ (whistling only) and ‘Nearer my God to Thee’. The noise was not disagreeable, thinly floating on a warm breeze. Just before luncheon-time I heard female voices sounding a cheer in the Avenue Gabriel.

  Northey came running, to announce that they had gone, in a car.

  ‘What, all twenty-five in one motor?’

  ‘Car is French for charabang. Basil sends his love and he’ll probably be back next week. He seems to think the Embassy can be his Paris H.Q. in future, if you’re lucky. He’s cooking a lot of schemes, I note. Then faithful Amy turned up.’

  ‘You don’t mean Mockbar?’ I was horrified.

  ‘Good little soul, indeed I do. But don’t worry. I told Baz you wouldn’t like to have him hanging about in the garden and he got rid of him in a tick.’

  ‘How did he? That’s a formula worth knowing.’

  ‘It’s not one you can use very often though. He pretended the Britons were all radioactive. Amy buggered off before you could say canif.’

  ‘I absolutely forbid you to say that word, Northey. No, not canif, you know quite well. Wherever did you pick it up?’

  ‘The Captain of the Esmeralda. He was a most unpleasant person, but I rather liked some of his expressions.’

  ‘Well, I beg you won’t use that one again.’

  ‘All the same, do you admit it’s perfect for describing the exits of Amy?’

  I dreaded the Daily Post after that. Sure enough:

  RADIOACTIVE

  Some two score radioactive Britons sought the protection of our Embassy in Paris yesterday. Did Sir Alfred Wincham send for scientific aid? Are they now receiving treatment at a clinic?

  DUMPED

  No British officials went near them. They were hustled into a lorry by our amateur envoy’s son Mr Basil Wincham and dumped at the coast. All efforts to get in touch with them subsequently have been fruitless. Where is this dangerous lorry-load now? Have the sanitary authorities been informed? If they went home on a British ship were the necessary precautions taken to see that their fellow-travellers were not contaminated? This whole incident seems to typify the slack and unprofessional outlook which permeates our Paris mission today.

  I was quite terrified, envisaging awful developments. After a consultation with Philip we decided not to tell Alfred until something happened, knowing that he would never look at the Daily Post of his own accord. Nothing happened at all. The powers that be in England knew better than to believe an unsupported statement by Mockbar; the French were unaware of his existence and of that of the Daily Post. Philip said that even if their sanitary authorities should raise the question he could easily deal with them. ‘You know what the French are, they don’t quite believe in modern magic. They all go to fortune-tellers (M. de Saint-Germain is booked up for months), they read the stars every day and make full use of spells. But they don’t get into a state about things like radioactivity.’

  Old Grumpy, having failed to make any mischief for us, had to drop the story because Basil and his Britons, merged among thousands struggling home on Channel steamers, were never identified and therefore could not be interviewed.

  In London, Alfred had submitted his own views on the likelihood of the French ever accepting the European Army; they were in direct contradiction to those of his American colleague. The Cabinet would naturally have preferred to be told what they wanted to hear and Alfred’s prognostications were not well received. He was merely instructed to stiffen his attitude and informed that London regarded the C.E.D. as inevitable and essential. He was also informed that our government were going full steam ahead over the Minquiers and that he must make this perfectly clear in Paris. The Foreign Secretary announced that he would be coming over to see his opposite number, as soon as he had one. I believe that Alfred heartily wished himself back in Oxford, though he did not say so to me.

  10

  M. Moch, M. Pléven and M. Bidault all tried to form governments and all duly failed. Then Bouche-Bontemps tried again and was accepted by the Chambre the very day before our dinner party. Alfred and I were delighted. For one thing, he had become a friend and it was most fortunate for us to have him to help and even sometimes guide us while we were still finding our feet; besides which our dinner was, we thought, saved. Bouche-Bontemps was taking the direction of foreign affairs himself, anyhow for a while, so that the government was virtually the same as that which had been in power before this long crisis. M. Béguin was now Vice-Président instead of Président du Conseil, and one or two minor ministries were given to new men, belonging to groups hitherto in opposition. This procedure, known as dosage and fr
equently resorted to during the Fourth Republic, had ensured the extra votes necessary to put Bouche-Bontemps in.

  I told Northey and requested Philip to come to my bedroom early on the morning of the dinner in order to talk over dispositions. Philip appeared, punctual as always. ‘Isn’t this a mercy!’ I said. The morning papers hailed the end of the crisis, giving Bouche-Bontemps a friendly reception. In fact a naïf and optimistic reader, like myself, would suppose that a long term of stable government lay ahead. The Times, in a leading article, compared Bouche-Bontemps to Raymond Poincaré; the Daily Telegraph said he was the strongest man thrown up by the Fourth Republic so far and shared many characteristics with Clemenceau.

  Philip looked sceptically at the headlines. ‘You can thank the General for this. If he were not sitting like the rock of ages at Colombey we should never have a government here at all. As it is they are obliged to come to these little temporary arrangements simply in order to keep King Charles in exile. This ministry won’t last six weeks. Hullo – have you seen Mockbar?’

  ‘No – don’t tell me – better not shake my nerve – !’

  ‘Not too bad. It’s headed: Paris Dinner Muddle. “Confusion – bungling – secrecy – lack of organization are casting a shadow over our amateur envoy’s first official dinner.” And so on. Zero, in fact. The old boy’s losing his grip – he’ll get the sack if he can’t do better than that. Where’s Mees – I thought she was to come for orders?’

  ‘Naughty girl. I suppose she’s overslept as usual.’

  ‘She’s not in her room – I banged as I came up the back stairs – nor in the bath, I banged there, too.’

  ‘Are you sure? How very odd. I wonder if Katie knows anything?’

  Katie knew everything, as she always did, in her cage and told what she knew with evident enjoyment. Philip listened in to her account with the earphone. It seemed that while Alfred and I had been out the evening before, rushing from the National Day of Iceland to a party for the Foreign Minister of Bali, ending up at a concert at the Costa Rican embassy, a hamper of live lobsters had arrived for me. They were a present from M. Busson, a deputy with a seaside constituency, one of the people invited to our dinner. The chef, overjoyed, unable to get hold of me, had informed Northey, saying that the menu would now have to be altered. It would then have been Northey’s plain duty to send interim acknowledgment and thanks to M. Busson. No such thing. On seeing the dear lobsters, which were lurching about on the kitchen floor, she flew into a fantigue. She made Katie put her through to the Ministère de la Marine where, strange to say, she had no friend, and asked to speak to the Chef de Cabinet. Presenting Alfred’s compliments she inquired at what point the Seine became salt. The answer was Rouen. She then ordered Jérôme for 8.30 a.m. When the time came she forced the furious chef to cram the lobsters back into their hamper, and made the footmen load them on to the Rolls-Royce (not in the boot, for fear of smothering the darlings, but inside, on the pretty carpet). By now she was well on the way to Normandy where the sweet creatures would duly be put back in their native element.