by Simon Raven
But at last the sound of gentle sobbing guided him to a place which he had not come across before, though he had spent many days in the house and garden during the summer; one reached it, he discovered now, by a concealed path that started at the rear of the summerhouse, ran back towards the big house through a thick clump of small fir trees, and at length came to a pond, little more than a puddle, which was covered by water lilies and surrounded by a narrow margin of rough grass. On this grass, on a camp stool, sat Jo-Jo, snarling, while beside her Oenone sobbed in the carrycot.
‘To think,’ said Jo-Jo with venom, ‘that Ptoly gave that boy my clothes to wear. My jeans, my shirts, my socks.’
‘You surely had no more use for them,’ Jeremy said. ‘He arrived in a Friar’s habit, you know. He had to change into something, and anyhow Mr Tunne very soon bought him his own stuff to wear. Where is everybody?’
‘He was wearing my shirt, jeans and socks – on that horrible foot – at lunch. I think it’s some joke he’s having with Baby.’
‘And you’re jealous at being left out of it?’
‘That’s the sort of thing a man would say, particularly a conceited know-all like you. But of course I should have expected something nasty. You were rude to me when we last met–’
‘–Yesterday? Surely not?–’
‘–Last April, smart arse, in the Provost’s Lodging, at Sarum’s christening.’
‘You were pretty gruesome yourself. All those questions you kept asking, like the Grand Inquisitor. Let’s forgive and forget. We have other things to worry about now.’
Oenone started glugging. Jo-Jo looked into the carrycot as though it were a box of chocolates from which she knew that all the soft centres had been taken.
‘Forgive and forget,’ repeated Jeremy, ‘at least forgive?’
‘I’ll try. I am not in my giving – or forgiving – mood today.’
‘Richard the Third. He came to a horrid end.’
‘All right. You’re forgiven.’
‘And so are you. Now then: where is everybody?’
‘Oenone and I, as you see, are sitting by this pool. Uncle Ptoly has gone racing at Newmarket – something which he has not done for some time, so I imagine it is a mere excuse to get away from us all. We are,’ said Jo-Jo, ‘a tolerably unattractive crew – all of us totally absorbed in our own squalid preoccupations.’
‘Where is Piero? At Newmarket too?’
‘No. He is upstairs with Baby. They know you are coming and are waiting for you.’
‘Can you mean that?’
‘Piero told me,’ said Jo-Jo, ‘that you had telephoned Ptoly this morning and would be coming this afternoon. “Tell him when he arrives,” Piero said, “to come upstairs to me and Baby.” I assume that he spoke for Baby as well as himself, though she was not actually present when he said this. Being in a thoroughly disobliging frame of mind, as I have just informed you, I determined that I was not going to be used as a kind of receptionist to pass on other people’s messages, so I hid from you. However, since you have found me out, you deserve to be told. First floor landing, fifth door on the left.’
‘Ah. The room with the four-poster. I was in there last summer.’ He lingered. ‘Suppose,’ he said, ‘that my friend Nicos had been with me, what would have happened then?’
‘He and I would have gone blackberrying, or something of the kind. With Oenone. I did not look forward to it – another boring task to suit someone else’s convenience – so that was one reason the more for me to hide. Where shall I go? I thought. And then I remembered this pond. When I lived here with Uncle Ptoly, I used to come out here, with the same stool, to read.’
‘Why didn’t you bring a book this time?’
‘I did. She reached down to the carrycot and extracted a thin book from behind Oenone’s pillow. ‘Potted Tennyson,’ she said. ‘I’m going to read “Oenone” aloud to Oenone; I’m going to read her her own lament.’
‘I’ll be off then.’ He shuffled about.
‘Yes, you be off.’
‘You’re sure they’re expecting me?’
‘I can be sure of nothing,’ said Jo-Jo, ‘except that Piero told me to tell you to come to them when you arrived. I wasn’t going to, as I told you, but now I have. First floor landing – but we’ve been through all that.’
‘Yes, we have. Thank you…er…Mrs Guiscard…that is – Madame Guiscard. I’m very much obl–’
‘–For Christ’s sake bugger off.’
Part Two
Traghetto
Come d’autunno si levan le foglie
l’una appresso del l’altra, infin che il ramo
vede al la terra tutte le sue spoglie,
similemente il mal seme d’Adamo:
gittansi di quel lito ad una ad una
per cenni, come augel per suo richiamo.
Così sen vanno su per l’onda bruna,
ed avanti che sian di là discese
anche di qua nova schiera s’aduna.
As in the autumn the leaves drop off and fall,
one and then another, until the bough sees
all its finery strewn upon the earth, so on the
shore wait the ill-born heirs of Adam. One and
the other they fling themselves thence, at signals,
as a hawk flies to its lure. Then they depart
over the grey waters; and before they arrive on
the other bank, there is a new company growing
dense on this.
DANTE: Inferno, Canto iii, 11. 112 to 120
On the morning after Baby’s first night away in the Fens, Canteloupe came up to London, entertained his solicitor to a quiet luncheon at his Club, and then, by previous arrangement, waited on Fielding Gray at Buttock’s Hotel.
‘Piero,’ said Canteloupe, as he sat down on the one armchair in Fielding’s bed-sitting room. ‘Baby has gone to the Fens to get him out of her system.’
‘Did she say so before she left?’
‘As good as. She said she must go to take care of Jo-Jo, but she made it very plain how much she was looking forward to seeing Piero. She knew I wouldn’t mind, you see. But there is a problem. Tullius. Although that nice little ginger Nanny is coping very well, she can’t be left alone with him for too long: so either Baby must come back pretty soon, or Tullius and the Nurse must go to the Fens – and that would not be a suitable thing at all. Tully’s place is in his own home in Wiltshire.’
‘Did Baby say anything about that before she left?’
‘No. Tullius has now been weaned, and she may think she deserves a holiday from him. Which is all right with everybody, as Tully is quite happy with the nurse – almost prefers her, I sometimes think – provided it doesn’t go on too long.’
‘How can I help?’
‘You’ve seen Piero, I understand…since he came to England, I mean, I haven’t. What is he after, in your view?’
‘He’s not after Baby – or not for keepers. Mind you, I haven’t seen them together, but I do know of one thing which Piero wants, and that thing rules out protracted dalliance, with Baby or anyone else. Piero wants to make a place for himself as his own man. In his time he’s been a beggar, a tart and a Franciscan messenger boy. Now he wants something sérieux, as the French say.
‘How do you know this?’
‘The day after he arrived, I went down to see him in Tom’s Lodging in Lancaster. Piero was liking what he found there – and I don’t just mean the handsome furniture or the Corots on the wall; I mean the sense of achievement. He saw a successful and respected man – the Provost of Lancaster College – slowly beginning to approach the last stages of a long and interesting career. Repeat, Canteloupe, career. That’s for Piero. At the moment his money is on Ptoly Tunne to get him started, and the signs are – so Jeremy Morrison writes to me from Cambridge – that Ptoly’s getting ready to keep Piero exceedingly busy.’
‘And what’s in all this for Baby?’
‘Very little indeed, I’d say.’
‘So we just let the thing go on, and hope he lets her down lightly?’
‘That’s about it. I’d be very surprised if she’s not back with you in Wiltshire within a week.’
‘Without Piero, I hope. At one stage she was talking of having him to stay.’
‘Should you mind that?’
‘Who was it who said that the decline of upper class families begins when “they start bringing vice into the house instead of going out for it”?’
‘Nigel Dennis. Cards of Identity. I had to review it in the bad old days, when I was doing a novel column. He goes on to add that when “the lower orders are admitted into the better bedrooms the vertical structure of society begins to totter.” It’s a very nice point, Canteloupe. But I shouldn’t worry. If Piero’s instincts are as sound as I think they are, he’ll stay put with Ptoly Tunne.’
‘Gregory Stern has written,’ said Carmilla Salinger to Theodosia, ‘to thank us for our offer to print his book. He wants to know how we would wish him to proceed. Apparently the typescript will be ready before very long – soon after some trip he’s going on to consult what he calls “his principals”.’
‘P, A, L, S or P, L, E, S?’
‘Former.’
‘Pity,’ said Theodosia. ‘If only it were the latter, they might tell him to give the whole stinking thing up.’
‘You got us into this, Thea – because of your childhood pash on Lord Canteloupe.’
‘On Captain Detterling. I know I did. And believe me, I’m sorry. Shall we back out after all?’
‘No,’ said Carmilla. ‘You’ve given your word, which means that we have given our word. It’s too late to go back now.’
‘Right you be, Carm. So we’d better tell Gregory Stern to get in touch with Ashley Dexterside at the firm as soon as the stuff’s ready.’
‘And that’s that settled,’ said Carmilla, scribbling a note on a pad. ‘One more nasty problem out of the way – at least for the time being. But there are plenty more, even nastier in some ways and certainly more boring. Oh, so many, Thea: look, look, look, girl, at all of this horrible cag.’ She waved both hands in circles over the piles of opened and unopened correspondence which covered the round table, and looked through the window at the Lawn and the South Wall of the Chapel. ‘Sheer disruption,’ she said, bringing her eyes back to the table. ‘How can a girl concentrate on Stubbs or Motley when she has this sort of muck to deal with every day.’
‘It’s not helping my badminton either,’ Theodosia said.
‘We need someone to handle all this for us until we are finished here at Lancaster. Salinger & Holbrook will be always with us, Thea: Lancaster not much longer. We mustn’t waste it.’
‘I expect you’ll get a Fellowship and stay on.’
‘Very tricky work – writing a thesis for a Fellowship. Whichever way we look at it, we must be rid of this, for the time being at least.’
Again Carmilla waved her hands over the piles of envelopes.
‘We need an honest man,’ said Theodosia, ‘or one whose margin of dishonesty is moderate and constant. There’s a character in Trollope who says he doesn’t mind if his lawyer robs him of ten shillings in every sovereign provided he himself can be sure of the other ten. Whom shall we approach?’
‘Ashley Dexterside? An old chum of Da’s. He’s been with the firm for ever.’
‘His thing is layout. That’s what he knows and that’s what he loves. He doesn’t want to be buggered up,’ said Theodosia, ‘with endless niggling correspondence. What about John Groves, the lawyer?’
‘Unsympathetic,’ Carmilla said.
‘Len? Would he take it on? Our Secretary as well as the Provost’s?’
‘We can always ask.’
After Canteloupe had left him to return to Wiltshire, Fielding reviewed his accounts. In the days since his return from his expedition with Jeremy he had sorted things out pretty thoroughly, and the upshot was that if he sold most (not, as he had feared, all) of the bank stock which was one of his two major holdings, he could pay up and look big all round – though some months of economy and the rapid completion of his next novel would also be required of him before his affairs were tidy.
So far, so bad; but it could have been a lot worse. His real worry was the accusation, by the Inland Revenue, that he had been under-declaring his income. The figures which Stern & Detterling had sent to the Inspector of Taxes were now being investigated by his accountant, whose interim report indicated that the Inspector’s charge appeared to be well founded. But it cannot be, Fielding thought now; I simply did not try – would not have dreamt of trying – to get away with such a thing; there would have been no point; I know I transcribed the figures accurately, that all the monies received by me were included in my returns over the last three years – over the last twenty, for the matter of that.
But what if the thing went against him? If they claimed tax on the money which they alleged he had not declared – and that was the very least they would do if he were proven to have made false returns, whatever the explanation – what could he then do? To whom could he apply? Even if he cashed the last of his reserves it would not be enough to meet the bill of at least £12,000 which would then be facing him. Would Canteloupe help him? But Canteloupe had comparatively little ready money (or so he always used to say) under his own control; and in any case, would it not seem like blackmail? Give me twelve, thirteen, fifteen thousand pounds, or I shall tell the world how you and Baby asked me to father on her the son whom you could not. That was how it might sound in Canteloupe’s ears. So what, some would have said, provided the tactic were successful? Desperate situations called for, and justified, desperate remedies. But to Fielding it would be unbearably horrible should his old friend and publisher think that he was using him in this way. Or yet again, suppose Canteloupe did not think this (for after all, Canteloupe trusted Fielding, otherwise he would not have been at Buttock’s that afternoon, seeking his advice), suppose he realised that Fielding was asking out of need and not demanding with implied threat, suppose he took the request in good part and acceded to it with all promptness and kindness, suppose all this – and what, what then, of Fielding’s ghastly loss of face? I, Fielding Gray (he would in effect be saying), have so far lost control of my affairs that unless I am given many thousands of pounds I shall be a ruined man.
Wait and see, wait and see, Fielding told himself: the accountant might yet find the simple explanation which might, which must, lie behind this apparent error in his returns; or perhaps a fresh supply of money might come in from some where (there was renewed interest, it seemed, in the possibility of making a film of his early novel, Love’s Jest Book); or perhaps, great shades of Mr Micawber, perhaps even both.
‘Sorry, girls,’ said Len to Carmilla and Theodosia, ‘I’m not sure that I’d want to take it on – even with the generous honorarium which you’re offering – but in any case I can’t. My contract as Secretary to the Provost rules it right out. But I think I have a good candidate for you. Do you remember a large, grinning man, with what foreigners call “the English suntan”, at Sarum’s christening in April?’
‘Hung about on the edge of things,’ said Theodosia, ‘not a friend of Da’s or Max’s–’
‘–But a friend of Canteloupe,’ said Len, ‘Colonel Blessington. An honest soldier. Retired.’
‘Dreary, sensible wife,’ said Carmilla remembering, ‘and two jolly little girls. So perhaps the wife isn’t as dreary as she looks.’
‘That’s them. Blessington is a stockbroker these days. He gets by but doesn’t get rich. Too slow, and in any case rather bored by it, even disgusted. Not the kind of thing which an ex ADC and ex-Military Attaché much cares for.’
‘Intelligent, then,’ said Theodosia, ‘if he was once an Attaché, and well mannered. Slow, you say, but intelligent and well mannered…and very possibly in need of extra income. What about it, Carm?’
‘I think we should have a word with Colonel Blessington,’
Carmilla said. ‘I don’t like to think of those two little girls on short commons.’
‘So Lord Canteloupe was here this afternoon,’ said Maisie, when she paid her teatime visit to Fielding’s room to ask what he’d like for dinner. ‘Steak and kidney pudding,’ she said, writing it down, ‘more a lunchtime thing, dear, but I don’t see why not. Tessa’s out at Rosie’s, so there’s just the two of us. So Canteloupe was here?’ she said.
‘Trouble with Baby. He wanted my opinion.’
‘Pity it’s not his cousin, old Loopy, having the trouble. He’d have settled that little madam in ten seconds flat.’
‘You liked the late Lord Canteloupe very much, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, and I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong. He’s not Tessa’s father, and neither are you.’
‘When are you going to tell me who?’
‘What’s the matter with now?’ Maisie said. ‘I promised I’d tell you some time, and I reckon you need your mind taking off that Taxman.’
‘Cheering up?’
‘This isn’t a story to cheer anybody up, Fielding Gray–’
‘–Sorry, love–’
‘–But it may take you out of your dismal self for a bit. So where shall I begin? Rosie’s mother, Isobel Stern. It was a long time before she had Marius and Rosie. It kept going wrong, right?’
