by Simon Raven
On one occasion they actually did play tennis to ease their consciences. This was a pity, because they both lost their tempers after the second game and Terence hit Esme with his tennis-racquet.
'After that we're certainly not going to try golf,' said Esme later.
As a matter of fact it was really a very good thing, because the incident was immediately reported to Miss Loss by someone who happened to have witnessed it, and she respected their privacy more than ever in consequence. (It was also to be a help later on when Esme conceived and carried out his plan.)
Apart from these strenuous excursions, Aldeburgh, in its way, was a very charming little place. The beach was shingly and nothing much happened on it, but the sea front was pleasant to walk along, and Esme found several nice little pubs where they would spend a long time in the mornings, and the evening. They even paid a visit to the cinema, which wasn't quite as sleazy as it looked. Then there were book shops and antique shops, an amusement arcade with slot-machines, a cafe with an orchestra, and once it was nearly warm enough to bathe. Altogether it was just the place to potter about in. Esme began to withdraw his initial hostility and would probably have settled down without any fuss had it not been for his increasing consciousness of time's winged chariot hurrying up behind him and Uncle Bill Gomery telling his friends in Bordeaux that it was time he pushed on to Biarritz. Aldeburgh was a soothing place, but he mustn't allow himself to be soothed. Something had to be done: and one afternoon he suddenly saw his way.
They were sitting in the conservatory after lunch talking to a family they had been so ill-advised as to become friendly with. It was really quite a nice family, however, and consisted of a sensible, Esther McCrackenish sort of woman with short, grey hair, her ineffective and once military husband, a son in the Rifle Brigade and a daughter in a repertory theatre. It was the Rifle Brigade tie that had started Esme off with the son, while the rest of the manage had been introduced subsequently.
Now the daughter was rather an attractive girl who wore trousers, and for some reason found great favour with Terence, whom she used to encourage with bold looks and cigarettes. On this occasion the rest of the family drifted off to the beach and Esme drifted off to fetch a book, leaving the two of them alone. As he came back he took a look through a lounge window which faced straight into the conservatory, and was treated to a very charming spectacle.
The girl had heaved herself up full length on to a settee, raised her knees and was pretending to read a book. With her disengaged hand, however, she kept pulling one of her trouser-legs up, apparently in order to scratch herself, till by degrees it reached the knee and even an inch or two higher. When she couldn't get it any further she flicked it back and started the whole performance over again.
Now she was revealing far less than one could have been seen with ease at any hour on the beach; but something in her method, in the repetition of her movements, in the way she made them, endowed the exhibition with a lascivious significance Esme didn't fail to appreciate. As for Terence, he was sitting right forward on his chair, which was about two yards away, with his eyes nearly falling out of his head, his hands clasped, and his whole body absolutely rigid. He had better, decided Esme, be left there to get over it in his own time. And it was at this moment that he conceived his idea for escape.
There were two essentials for his plan. The first was that Terence should be seen about as much as possible with little Miss Moorsom who was the girl in question. This was easily arranged. Esme asked her and her family to have glasses of sherry, he took her out to a pub with Terence and left them in the lounge when they returned, and finally he gave Terence five shillings to take her out to the pictures. With a wink here and a nod there he soon converted the whole thing into a typical little boarding-house joke (adolescence, innocence, and sheep's eyes). Miss Loss was delighted — they were all one happy family party after all — and the girl's family, who had seen this sort of thing before, were pleasantly indifferent.
The next essential was taken care of by Esme on Sunday morning — a good time, he always found, for getting away with even the most transparent pieces of deceit. Terence, excused church, was playing patience.
'I've got a commission for you,' said Esme suddenly.
'?'
'I want you to do a drawing for me. Five bob offered if it's what I'm after — it's rather a tricky bit of work. All to do with a joke I have with a friend of mine.'
'What sort of joke?'
'Well, it's about something that happened to him once which we haven't let him forget. He was with a girl he knew in her house and asked her to lend him some money or something. Quite unexpectedly she fainted. He didn't know what to do, but he had an idea she should be lain out flat. So he made a big effort and picked her up and put her on the hall table. But as she'd fallen on her face, he'd picked her up face downward and put her down on her stomach — the hall table was too small anyway, so her legs were just left dangling. And just when he was going to turn her over and start fanning her and throwing water about, her mother walked in through the front door. So there he was muddling around trying to turn this girl over and getting mixed up with her legs, when her mother marched in and found herself staring straight at her daughter's bottom. She didn't allow my friend to call again,' concluded Esme rather vaguely.
'What must I draw?'
'Well that's the point. I'd like a girl — dark hair for choice — sort of slung over a table. As I've told you, she's got to have rather a prominent behind — that's an important part of it, so I suggest you put her in trousers or something. In fact it's so tricky,' he went on hurriedly, 'that I'll offer seven-and-six. Half-a-crown in advance — catch.'
'I still don't get the joke,' said Terence, settling down to work.
It was now up to Esme to choose his moment. This must be done with care, for if his coup fell either too early or too late, Sandra might be able to take preventive action. Bellamy was due at Badlock by lunchtime on Wednesday. After furtively consulting Bradshaw — trains were rather important — he decided to strike on Wednesday morning.
'Clarie' Loss appeared with her lists and a pair of girls at about ten o'clock. But before she could introduce anyone, Esme had her on one side and said he must speak to her instantly — it was most urgent. So the girls were left in an even more embarrassing situation than usual — just standing around knowing no one — while Esme and Miss Loss (pleasantly agitated) vanished into her private sitting-room.
'Take a look at this,' said Esme, and thrust Terence's drawing at her.
Miss Loss nearly fell out of her scat.
'But really,' she said, 'I can't imagine — '
'I found it by Terence's bed this morning,' continued Esme sternly, 'do you know who it's of?'
'Well, I — '
'If you look at the colour of the hair and notice the emphasis on the trousers, you'll soon get there.'
'But surely — it can't — but they were such friends, Mr Sa Foy.'
'It's happened before,' said Esme grimly, and gave a swift and painful account of what happened to the gardener's boy.
'It's a melancholy trait in his character,' he went on, 'it's a twist given to ordinary affection by some violent and uncontrollable impulse at the root of his being.'
'But what will you do?'
'There's only one thing I can do,' said Esme, 'and that's to take him home. For his own sake, for your sake. Mind you, it might well mean, or at any rate lead to, nothing at all. That's a risk I can't take. I'm sorry about this, Miss Loss, we've been very happy and very comfortable. However, I'm sure you realize the difficulty of my position — if anything should . . . and your own position too.'
Miss Loss, who remembered the tennis-racquet incident, seemed to realize that.
'Very well then. Now if you'd be so good as to tell the other guests we've been called away suddenly, it would be a great help. I shall tell Terence merely that there's been an error on the part of Mrs Fairweather's secretary' over the bookings, and that
our rooms are required today. Also, I must ring up Mrs Fairweather and tell her what's occurred — no, it's very' kind, Miss Loss, but I mustn't keep you, the 'phone in the box will do — it's quite private.'
He left the bewildered Miss Loss to shepherd off her girls, and hurried to the 'phone box. He managed to get through to Sandra's bedroom. She was distinctly disagreeable, having left instructions that she was on no account to be woken up.
'Yurse?' she said blurrily.
'Oh, Sandra, it's Esme here,' he said brightly, 'now look here: that dismal Loss woman has gone and made a muddle of her bookings — she only told me this morning, which was so helpful, but she says we'll have to get out today. I've tried a lot of other places, but it's slap in the middle of the season and they're all booked out. So I'm afraid we shall have to get on a train and come back.'
'Oh God,' said Sandra, 'is she quite sure? Springing it on me like this — it's so extraordinary. Look, Esme, get her on the 'phone will you, I'll have a stiff word with her and see what I can do.'
'Hang on,' said Esme. He collared Miss Loss on the lawn and brought her in.
'It's been rather a shock to Mrs Fairweather,' he said, 'so I'm sure you'll be very careful what you say and not mind if she seems a bit hasty.'
'Hullo,' said Miss Loss, 'Miss Loss.'
'Oh,' said Sandra like a lion, 'I've heard from Mr Sa Foy what's happened, Miss Loss, and that they'll have to come back. Is that the case?'
'Well,' said Miss Loss, 'I really think it might be best, don't you?'
'It's a bit too bad,' said Sandra, 'having people come to your hotel like tins, when my secretary booked for a clear fortnight.'
'But I wasn't to know, was I?'
'Good heavens, woman, who else would if you don't? Well you can't keep 'em?'
'I'm afraid not, Mrs Fairweather.'
'And there's nowhere else they can go?'
'I don't think so, in the season. And even if there were — '
'Well that's that, I suppose. I'm very displeased, Miss Loss. I shall expect a discount on your bill for inconvenience caused. Now give me Mr Sa Foy, will you?'
'She seemed to blame poor Miss Moorson,' said Miss Loss later.
'Yes, she gets like that,' said Esme, 'it's the strain, poor woman. But there's no need to worry, Miss Loss: just send your account straight in to the secretary, and everything will be all right.'
Or that was what he hoped. Originally he had intended to take Terence's drawing back to Badlock and use the same excuse right through. This would have had the advantage of homogeneity; but if Miss Loss was a fool, Sandra wasn't. Besides, it would have been very unkind to Terence — nobody cared what Miss Loss thought, but Sandra was another matter, apart from what Trito would have said when he saw right through it all.
Even as things were, there were sufficient loose ends lying about. Heaven alone knew what Miss Loss would tell her cousin Dr McTavish. Mercifully he was away on his vacation, and even if he were to receive a letter and make enquiries, it would all take a very long time. Esme only hoped Miss Loss wouldn't enclose a chatty letter with her account. If she did, with any luck she'd only refer to the 'unfortunate thing which occurred', but you could never tell. He would have paid the account himself, despite the fact it would probably have taken a year to get the money out of Sandra, but his funds were sinking, he'd need as much as possible in Biarritz if they got there, and in any case it would have been thought a little odd all round.
No, there was a lot to worry about, but he could hardly have done much better. And whatever else, the immediate effect of it all should be excellent. Trains from Aldeburgh in the Badlock direction left only at 8.30 in the morning or shortly before lunchtime. They had had to take the lunchtime train, and would therefore reach Badlock far too late to be disposed of that night, in the event of anyone having that idea. Sandra would have heard from him much too late to do anything about Bellamy, who would have been sitting tearfully in the train from Eton when he rung her up. She might, of course, have bundled Bellamy away after lunch, but that did seem a little excessive. And even if she had, she would want Bellamy back, and lose no time in disposing of himself and Terence. Whichever way you looked at it, she had to do that within about a week. For cither Bellamy was at Badlock, making Terence and himself de trop, or else Bellamy had been hurriedly parked out, but under so temporary an arrangement that she would have to get rid of them just the same. Either way she was trapped. And with any luck Trito would be there to give her suitable guidance in the predicament.
XII
When they arrived at Badlock station Bellamy and Trito were there to meet them, Bellamy beaming all over his face and Trito wearing his slyest smile.
'So you didn't stay long at Aldeburgh?' he said.
'We couldn't,' said Esme.
'No, I don't suppose so. Well, there's a fine party gathered here for your reception.'
'Yes,' put in Bellamy, 'Mother's brought Mrs Chaser down, and the Valleys have been asked to see me. I wish they hadn't wanted to.'
'Well,' said Esme smugly, 'I suppose she'll have to think of somewhere else to send us now.'
'She was in a hopping rage when I arrived,' said Bellamy, 'she called Miss Loss everything she knew. Then she cheered up a bit.'
'Why?' asked Terence.
'Because Bellamy's just had a bit of luck,' said Trito meaningly.
'Yes,' said Bellamy sadly, 'a letter came this evening by express post saying the Lanchesters have suddenly got a vacancy for the twelfth. They've even asked me a few days earlier.'
'You ought to be jolly grateful,' said Terence with a giggle.
'Everyone thinks it's just the thing for Bellamy,' said Trito.
So no doubt it was, thought Esme savagely, but it was going to get Bellamy out of the way a damned sight too quickly.
'When are you going?' he asked.
'Night train on Saturday,' said Bellamy glumly, 'I've got a tutor coming tomorrow who's coming too.'
Esme's blood froze. That only left Thursday and Friday. Sandra would never object to them all being together for only two days, which meant she could go on 'considering' for as long as she liked. She might even do so to such effect that she would snap out of her Biarritz fixation — especially with the Valleys around — and in any case valuable time was going to be lost
'Sandra's very pleased about it,' said Trito, 'she says that now the house won't be overcrowded. Since she's got nothing to worry about, I'm going back to town tomorrow.'
Esme nearly choked. This was what came of such damned cleverness. You created very skillfully a highly promising situation—and then a letter came along and it just fizzled out. He'd stuck his neck out a long way and to no purpose whatever. Trito seemed to have divined his hopes and something of his dismay at what had occurred. When they reached the house he took him off for a quiet drink.
'Do cheer up,' he said, 'I'm doing my best, and she's sure to send you off when the mood takes her.'
'It's taking a long time to take her.'
'And Terence has got a long holiday.'
It was no good trying to explain how cold this bit of comfort was. Esme went to bed.
The next morning they took Trito to his train and waited at the station for Bellamy's tutor to arrive.
'I bet he's going to be awful,' said Terence.
'I expect he'll be jolly nice,' said the loyal and hopeful Bellamy.
As a matter of fact he was neither. He was just entirely nondescript, and made Esme's heart sink even further. He came, it seemed, from an improbable Oxford college which had recommended him on account of his excellent character. His name was Jeremy Clair, and he had spots, spectacles, and a 'belief' in Socialism. It was all rather depressing.
Conversation on the way back was desultory.
'It seems you're going to Scotland,' said Esme.
'That will be very nice,' said Jeremy Clair.
'I don't think it's a bit nice,' said Bellamy.
'Gosh, you're ungrateful,' said Terence.
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Everyone shifted uneasily.
'Have you met Mrs Fairweather yet?' asked Esme.
'No, not yet,' said Jeremy Clair, 'I was interviewed by her lawyer.'
'Well, you've got a shock coming,' said Terence.
'I'm sure Mother will like you very much,' said the warmhearted Bellamy.
There was another silence.
'Do you like shooting, Mr Clair?' Bellamy enquired kindly. 'Don't you think you ought to call me "sir",' said Jeremy Clair. This went down very badly indeed. No tutor had ever been called 'sir', and it was unthinkable that the practice should start now.
'It's not usual in the family,' said Esme uneasily.
'Quite right, Esme,' said Terence embarrassingly.
Bellamy giggled.
'I will call you "sir" if you really like it,' he conceded.
'That's all right,' said Jeremy Clair stiffly.
A further pause.
'Was it you who was telling me how pompous Oxford men are?' said Terence innocently to Esme.
'No,' said Esme firmly, 'I like them very much.'
'How did it go?' went on Terence absently, ' "An Oxford man stands on his dignity like a tart who can't get" — '
'I never said anything of the kind,' said Esme, 'and in any case Mr Clair comes from Oxford.'
'Do you?' said Terence, 'but it wasn't me who made that bit up, it was Es—'
'Shut up,' said Esme fiercely. Mercifully, they had arrived.
If the day had started badly, it went on no better. Lunch was a nightmare.
'. . . The really irritating thing,' Esme was saying, 'is that Terence and I were just beginning to get very interested in sailing. We were getting along rather well.'
A gleam of interest came into Jeremy Clair's face.
'What sort of craft were you using?' he asked.
'Oddly enough,' said Esme guiltily, 'I never really asked the man what it was. It — it — just had a sail,' he concluded.
'He should have told you,' said Mr Valley, 'it's generally the first thing you're taught — to know and appreciate your tackle. What sort of crewmen did you and Terence make?'
