Members drew a deep breath that was almost a sigh. There was a pause.
‘But I thought you said he was so squeamish about people?’
‘Not when he has once decided they are going to be successful.’
‘That’s what he thinks about Quiggin?’
Members nodded.
‘Then I noticed St. J. was beginning to describe everything as “bourgeois”,’ he said. ‘Wearing a hat was “bourgeois”, eating pudding with a fork was “bourgeois”, the Ritz was “bourgeois”, Lady Huntercombe was “bourgeois”—he meant “bourgeoise”, of course, but French is not one of St. J.’s long suits. Then one morning at breakfast he said Cézanne was “bourgeois”. At first I thought he meant that only middle-class people put too much emphasis on such things—that a true aristocrat could afford to ignore them. It was a favourite theme of St. J.’s that “natural aristocrats” were the only true ones. He regarded himself as a “natural aristocrat”. At the same time he felt that a “natural aristocrat” had a right to mix with the ordinary kind, and latterly he had spent more and more of his time in rather grand circles—and in fact had come almost to hate people who were not rather smart, or at least very rich. For example, I remember him describing—well, I won’t say whom, but he is a novelist who sells very well and you can probably guess the name—as “the kind of man who knows about as much about placement as to send the wife of a younger son of a marquess in to dinner before the daughter of an earl married to a commoner”. He thought a lot about such things. That was why I had been at first afraid of introducing him to Quiggin. And then—when we began discussing Cézanne—it turned out that he had been using the word “bourgeois” all the time in the Marxist sense. I didn’t know he had even heard of Marx, much less was at all familiar with his theories.’
‘I seem to remember an article he wrote describing himself as a “Gladstonian Liberal”—in fact a Liberal of the most old-fashioned kind.’
‘You do, you do,’ said Members, almost passionately. ‘I wrote it for him, as a matter of fact. You couldn’t have expressed it better. A Liberal of the most old-fashioned kind. Local Option—Proportional Representation—Welsh Disestablishment—the whole bag of tricks. That was just about as far as he got. But now everything is “bourgeois”—Liberalism, I have no doubt, most of all. As a matter of fact, his politics were the only liberal thing about him.’
‘And it began as soon as he met Quiggin?’
‘I first noticed the change when he persuaded me to join in what he called “collective action on the part of writers and artists”—going to meetings to protest against Manchuria and so on. I agreed, first of all, simply to humour him. It was just as well I did, as a matter of fact, because it led indirectly to another job when he turned his back on me. You know, what St. J. really wants is a son. He wants to be a father without having a wife.’
‘I thought everyone always tried to avoid that.’
‘In the Freudian sense,’ said Members, impatiently, ‘his nature requires a father-son relationship. Unfortunately, the situation becomes a little too life-like, and one is faced with a kind of artificially constructed Œdipus situation.’
‘Can’t you re-convert him from Marxism to psychoanalysis?’
Members looked at me fixedly.
‘St. J. has always pooh-poohed the subconscious,’ he said.
We were about to move off in our respective directions when my attention was caught by a disturbance coming from the road running within the railings of the park. It was a sound, harsh and grating, though at the same time shrill and suggesting complaint. These were human voices raised in protest. Turning, I saw through the mist that increasingly enveloped the park a column of persons entering beneath the arch. They trudged behind a mounted policeman, who led their procession about twenty yards ahead. Evidently a political ‘demonstration’ of some sort was on its way to the north side where such meetings were held. From time to time these persons raised a throaty cheer, or an individual voice from amongst them bawled out some form of exhortation. A strident shout, similar to that which had at first drawn my attention, now sounded again. We moved towards the road to obtain a better view.
The front rank consisted of two men in cloth caps, one with a beard, the other wearing dark glasses, who carried between them a banner upon which was inscribed the purpose and location of the gathering. Behind these came some half a dozen personages, marching almost doggedly out of step, as if to deprecate even such a minor element of militarism. At the same time there was a vaguely official air about them. Among these, I thought I recognised the face and figure of a female Member of Parliament whose photograph occasionally appeared in the papers. Next to this woman tramped Sillery. He had exchanged his black soft hat of earlier afternoon for a cloth cap similar to that worn by the bearers of the banner: his walrus moustache and thick strands of white hair blew furiously in the wind. From time to time he clawed at the arm of a gloomy-looking man next to him who walked with a limp. He was grinning all the while to himself, and seemed to be hugely enjoying his role in the procession.
In the throng that straggled several yards behind these mort important figures I identified two young men who used to frequent Mr. Deacon’s antique shop; one of whom, indeed, was believed to have accompanied Mr. Deacon himself on one of his holidays in Cornwall. I thought, immediately, that Mr. Deacon’s other associate, Gypsy Jones, might also be of the party, but could see no sign of her. Probably, as Quiggin had suggested, she belonged by then to a more distinguished grade of her own hierarchy than that represented by this heterogeneous collection, nearly all apparently ‘intellectuals’ of one kind or another.
However, although interested to see Sillery in such circumstances, there was another far more striking aspect of the procession which a second later riveted my eyes. Members must have taken in this particular spectacle at the same instant as myself, because I heard him beside me give a gasp of irritation.
Three persons immediately followed the group of notables with whom Sillery marched. At first, moving closely together through the mist, this trio seemed like a single grotesque three-headed animal, forming the figurehead of an ornamental car on the roundabout of a fair. As they jolted along, however, their separate entities became revealed, manifesting themselves as a figure in a wheeled chair, jointly pushed by a man and a woman. At first I could not believe my eyes, perhaps even wished to disbelieve them, because I allowed my attention to be distracted for a moment by Sillery’s voice shouting in high, almost jocular tones: ‘Abolish the Means Test!’ He had uttered this cry just as he came level with the place where Members and I stood; but he was too occupied with his own concerns to notice us there, although the park was almost empty.
Then I looked again at the three other people, thinking I might find myself mistaken in what I had at first supposed. On the contrary, the earlier impression was correct. The figure in the wheeled chair was St. John Clarke. He was being propelled along the road, in unison, by Quiggin and Mona Templer.
‘My God!’ said Members, quite quietly.
‘Did you see Sillery?’
I asked this because I could think of no suitable comment regarding the more interesting group. Members took no notice of the question.
‘I never thought they would go through with it,’ he said.
Neither St. John Clarke, nor Quiggin, wore hats. The novelist’s white hair, unenclosed in a cap such as Sillery wore, was lifted high, like an elderly Struwwelpeter’s, in the stiff breeze that was beginning to blow through the branches. Quiggin was dressed in the black leather overcoat he had worn in the Ritz, a red woollen muffler riding up round his neck, his skull cropped like a convicts’. No doubt intentionally, he had managed to make himself look like a character from one of the novels of Dostoievski. Mona, too, was hatless, with dishevelled curls: her face very white above a high-necked polo jumper covered by a tweed overcoat of smart cut. She was looking remarkably pretty, and, like Sillery, seemed to be enjoying herself. On the other
hand, the features of the two men with her expressed only inexorable sternness. Every few minutes, when the time came for a general shout to be raised, St. John Clarke would brandish in his hand a rolled-up copy of one of the ‘weeklies’, as he yelled the appropriate slogan in a high, excited voice.
‘It’s an absolute scandal,’ said Members breathlessly. ‘I heard rumours that something of the sort was on foot. The strain may easily kill St. J. He ought not to be up—much less taking part in an open-air meeting before the warmer weather comes.’
I was myself less surprised at the sight of Quiggin and St. John Clarke in such circumstances than to find Mona teamed up with the pair of them. For Quiggin, this kind of thing had become, after all, almost a matter of routine. It was ‘the little political affair’ Sillery had mentioned at the private view. St. John Clarke’s collaboration in such an outing was equally predictable—apart from the state of his health—after what Members and Quiggin had both said about him. From his acceptance of Quiggin’s domination he would henceforward join that group of authors, dons, and clergymen increasingly to be found at that period on political platforms of a ‘Leftish’ sort. To march in some public ‘demonstration’ was an almost unavoidable condition of his new commitments. As it happened he was fortunate enough on this, his first appearance, to find himself in a conveyance. In the wheeled chair, with his long white locks, he made an effective figure, no doubt popular with the organisers and legitimately gratifying to himself.
It was Mona’s presence that was at first inexplicable to me. She could hardly have come up for the day to take part in all this. Perhaps the Templers were again in London for the week-end, and she had chosen to walk in the procession as an unusual experience; while Peter had gone off to amuse himself elsewhere. Then all at once the thing came to me in a flash, as such things do, requiring no further explanation. Mona had left Templer. She was now living with Quiggin. For some reason this was absolutely clear. Their relationship was made unmistakable by the manner in which they moved together side by side.
‘Where are they going?’ I asked.
‘To meet some Hunger-Marchers arriving from the Midlands,’ said Members, as if it were a foolish, irrelevant question. ‘They are camping in the park, aren’t they?’
‘This crowd?’
‘No, the Hunger-Marchers, of course.’
‘Why is Mona there?’
‘Who is Mona?’
‘The girl walking with Quiggin and helping to push St. John Clarke. She was a model, you remember. I once saw you with her at a party years ago.’
‘Oh, yes, it was her, wasn’t it?’ he said, indifferently.
Mona’s name seemed to mean nothing to him.
‘But why is she helping to push the chair?’
‘Probably because Quiggin is too bloody lazy to do all the work himself,’ he said.
Evidently he was ignorant of Mona’s subsequent career since the days when he had known her. The fact that she was helping to trundle St. John Clarke through the mists of Hyde Park was natural enough for the sort of girl she had been. In the eyes of Members she was just another ‘arty’ woman roped in by Quiggin to assist Left Wing activities. His own thoughts were entirely engrossed by St. John Clarke and Quiggin. I could not help being impressed by the extent to which the loss of his post as secretary had upset him. His feelings had undoubtedly been lacerated. He watched them pass by, his mouth clenched.
The procession wound up the road towards Marble Arch. Two policemen on foot brought up the rear, round whom, whistling shrilly, circled some boys on bicycles, apparently unconnected with the marchers. The intermittent shouting grew gradually fainter, until the column disappeared from sight into the upper reaches of the still foggy park.
Members looked round at me.
‘Can you beat it?’ he said.
‘I thought St. John Clarke disliked girls near him?’
‘I don’t expect he cares any longer,’ said Members, in a voice of despair. ‘Quiggin will make him put up with anything by now.’
On this note we parted company. As I continued my way through the park I was conscious of having witnessed a spectacle that was distinctly strange. Jean had already told me more than once that the Templers were getting on badly. These troubles had begun, so it appeared, a few months after their marriage, Mona complaining of the dullness of life away from London. She was for ever making scenes, usually about nothing at all. Afterwards there would be tears and reconciliations; and some sort of a ‘treat’ would be arranged for her by Peter. Then the cycle would once more take its course. Jean liked Mona, but thought her ‘impossible’ as a wife.
‘What is the real trouble?’ I had asked.
‘I don’t think she likes men.’
‘Ah.’
‘But I don’t think she likes women either. Just keen on herself.’
‘How will it end?’
‘They may settle down. If Peter doesn’t lose interest. He is used to having his own way. He has been unexpectedly good so far.’
She was fond of Peter, though free from that obsessive interest that often entangles brother and sister. They were not alike in appearance, though her hair, too, grew down like his in a ‘widow’s peak’ on her forehead. There was also something about the set of her neck that recalled her brother. That was all.
‘They might have a lot of children.’
‘They might.’
‘Would that be a good thing?’
‘Certainly.’
I was surprised that she was so decisive, because in those days children were rather out of fashion. It always seemed strange to me, and rather unreal, that so much of her own time should be occupied with Polly.
‘You know, I believe Mona has taken quite a fancy for your friend J. G. Quiggin,’ she had said, laughing.
‘Not possible.’
‘I’m not so sure.’
‘Has he appeared at the house again?’
‘No—but she keeps talking about him.’
‘Perhaps I ought never to have introduced him into the household.’
‘Perhaps not,’ she had replied, quite seriously.
At the time, the suggestion had seemed laughable. To regard Quiggin as a competitor with Templer for a woman—far less his own wife—was ludicrous even to consider.
‘But she took scarcely any notice of him.’
‘Well, I thought you were rather wet the first time you came to the house. But I’ve made up for it later, haven’t I?’
‘I adored you from the start.’
‘I’m sure you didn’t.’
‘Certainly at Stourwater.’
‘Oh, at Stourwater I was very impressed too.’
‘And I with you.’
‘Then why didn’t you write or ring up or something? Why didn’t you?’
‘I did—you were away.’
‘You ought to have gone on trying.’
‘I wasn’t sure you weren’t rather lesbian.’
‘How ridiculous. Pretty rude of you, too.’
‘I had a lot to put up with.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘But I had.’
‘How absurd you are.’
When the colour came quickly into her face, the change used to fill me with excitement. Even when she sat in silence, scarcely answering if addressed, such moods seemed a necessary part of her: something not to be utterly regretted. Her forehead, high and white, gave a withdrawn look, like a great lady in a medieval triptych or carving; only her lips, and the elegantly long lashes under slanting eyes, gave a hint of latent sensuality. But descriptions of a woman’s outward appearance can hardly do more than echo the terms of a fashion paper. Their nature can be caught only in a refractive beam, as with light passing through water: the rays of character focused through the person with whom they are intimately associated. Perhaps, therefore, I alone was responsible for what she seemed to me. To another man—Duport, for example—she no doubt appeared—indeed, actually was—a different woman.
; ‘But why, when we first met, did you never talk about books and things?’ I had asked her.
‘I didn’t think you’d understand.’
‘How hopeless of you.’
‘Now I see it was,’ she had said, quite humbly.
She shared with her brother the conviction that she ‘belonged’ in no particular world. The other guests she had found collected round Sir Magnus Donners at Stourwater had been on the whole unsympathetic.
‘I only went because I was a friend of Baby’s,’ she had said; ‘I don’t really like people of that sort.’
‘But surely there were people of all sorts there?’
‘Perhaps I don’t much like people anyway. I am probably too lazy. They always want to sleep with one, or something.’
‘But that is like me.’
‘I know. It’s intolerable.’
We laughed, but I had felt the chill of sudden jealousy; the fear that her remark had been made deliberately to tease.
‘Of course Baby loves it all,’ she went on. ‘The men hum round her like bees. She is so funny with them.’
‘What did she and Sir Magnus do?’
‘Not even I know. Whatever it was, Bijou Ardglass refused to take him on.’
‘She was offered the job?’
‘So I was told. She preferred to go off with Bob.’
‘Why did that stop?’
‘Bob could no longer support her in the style to which she was accustomed—or rather the style to which she was unaccustomed, as Jumbo Ardglass never had much money.’
It was impossible, as ever, to tell from her tone what she felt about Duport. I wondered whether she would leave him and marry me. I had not asked her, and had no clear idea what the answer would be. Certainly, if she did, like Lady Ardglass, she would not be supported in the style to which she had been accustomed. Neither, for that matter, would Mona, if she had indeed gone off with Quiggin, for I felt sure that the final domestic upheaval at the Templers’ had now taken place. Jean had been right. Something about the way Quiggin and Mona walked beside one another connected them inexorably together. ‘Women can be immensely obtuse about all kinds of things,’ Barnby was fond of saying, ‘but where the emotions are concerned their opinion is always worthy of consideration.’
Dance to the Music of Time, Volume 1 Page 60
