Sea of Glass (Valancourt 20th Century Classics)

by Dennis Parry

  A tremendous struggle was visibly enacted in Varvara’s face; it was like a virgin martyr deciding to go to the lions, or a wrestler performing under arc-lights.

  ‘Alas,’ she said at length, ‘I must do it. It is my duty to my grandmother to appear worthy of her station.’

  I played my final card.

  ‘If you’re thinking of your grandmother, couldn’t she meet you halfway by providing some pocket-money, so that you could buy your own clothes?’

  Though it was none of my business, I was surprised that some such arrangement had not been in force since Varvara’s first arrival. One reason, no doubt, was that Mrs. Ellison tended to be forgetful about the mundane details of existence. The other Varvara gave me herself.

  ‘No,’ she said, and the refusal clearly came from her heart. ‘I am her son’s daughter and either she shall enrich me fittingly, or I will take nothing.’

  That evening we went to the cinema together. It was pleasant because she was in a good mood, but the film happened to be extraordinarily fatuous. In it there was a hard-used wife. She had a faithful platonic boy-friend who would turn up at intervals with little gifts designed to redeem the husband’s neglect. Once when this happened Varvara caused some scandal by leaning towards me, reading out the caption which displayed the little woman’s pure gratitude, and adding in a voice which carried for several rows:

  ‘You see, David? She has had the gift, but she is not dishonoured.’

  After the film I tried, as I had done several times of late, to persuade her to speak about Doljuk. But again she refused with a brusque shake of her head. I was not altogether resentful; her performance on the night when she drugged me had been that of a pythoness and too frequent repetition would have depreciated it to the level of a parlour trick.

  The first appointment with the dressmaker took place three or four days later. Varvara went off about eleven to an address in Mayfair. Just before one she rang up and told Turpin that she would be lunching out.

  My thoughts about Andrew now became very low. I wondered whether he was actuated by anything as healthy and straightforward as physical lust: it struck me that he might have been making a few inquiries about the Ellison family’s situation, if indeed he had not known it from the first. He was extraordinarily shameless about such things and I had several times seen him cross-question his host about the income and connections of a fellow-guest, the moment the latter was out of earshot.

  Even at twenty, I did not delude myself that as the son of a well-known financier Andrew would have no interest in outside sources of wealth. That is not the way most rich people are made. In any case the Callinghams and the Ellisons held their money on quite different terms. Metaphorically speaking, the former had yachts, mistresses, and caviar on a yearly tenancy—which might in fact continue for a decade: but sooner or later, in the nature of their occupation, would come a black period when the markets went wrong and the yachts were sold and the mistresses turned loose to forage. Eventually there would be a grand recovery . . . but who favours a career of ups and downs if he has any chance of sticking exclusively to the former? It was natural that Andrew should envy the Ellisons whose fortunes varied no more between one summer and another than the African sun.

  There was one consolation for Varvara’s absence: it spared me her daily lunch-time bicker with Nurse Fillis.

  ‘Mr. Ellison’s coming this afternoon,’ she volunteered.

  ‘He turns up almost every day, doesn’t he?’ I said.

  She had evidently become so used to Varvara’s baiting that she saw a sneer in every remark.

  ‘Why shouldn’t he, Mr. Lindley? It’s surely nothing to be ashamed of, if a son takes the trouble to visit his old mother—particularly when she relies on him so much for help with her affairs.’

  As usual when she was upset, she went an alarming puce colour. Whilst I made some soothing reply, I thought of the prevalence of blood-letting in earlier ages. Millions of gallons must have been drawn off—usually, so medical science now declares, with no useful effect. It seemed ironical that Nurse Fillis should have been born after the practice lost its popularity.

  In the afternoon I went down to see Turpin. A bottle of Chablis was open amidst the knife-powder and the cleaning-rags, and we drank several glasses. Presently one of the maids came in on some trivial errand. This was a rare occurrence; perhaps because Turpin liked to keep his pantry free from feminine influence; although I think that the housekeeper may have had something to do with it.

  As the girl passed him on her way out Turpin slapped her saucily on the bottom, at the same time observing:

  ‘ ’E nothing common did or mean

  Upon that memorable scene.

  I don’t bloody think!’ he continued in the same breath.

  ‘Language, Mr. Turpin!’ said the girl, but she did not seem offended.

  ‘You want to watch them little tarts,’ said Turpin as the door closed behind her. A sudden fit of class-consciousness swept over him, bringing back for a moment his official voice. ‘Not, sir, that I suggest you would lower yourself to misbe’ave with a mere corpus vile. I meant it general. I once lost the best place of me life that way.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have thought you could do much better than this.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Turpin, ‘no damned disloyalty—no, sir. But this ’ere, it might ’ave made something of me. And near did! See, I was first footman to Sir Travers Wilkin—’

  The name was vaguely familiar. As he talked on I picked up clues which combined with my scattered memories. Sir Travers had been one of the great figures of Victorian archaeology. Most of the gloomy Assyrian bulls and nervous Persian lions in British museums which had not been acquired earlier by Sir Henry Layard were the fruit of his foraging. He was, in the better sense, a gifted amateur. And this gave him a breadth of taste rare in the present age of subsidies and specialization. For instance, I now learnt that he had been a great lover of English literature and vintage port. From him, in differing degrees, Turpin had caught both tastes.

  ‘Drink!’ he said. ‘The old boy made a bloody camel of anyone else I’ve seen! Lock ’imself up in ’is study with a dozen Cockburns, and then after two, three hours, you’d ’ear it beginning—rumble, rumble, rumble, like a big drum.’

  ‘Do you mean he got D.T.’s?’ I asked rather stupidly.

  ‘Not ’im! ’E was reading ’imself poetry—Shakespeare, Tennyson, ones ’ose names I can’t remember. Well, after maybe another couple of bottles, ’e’d start thinking ’ow beautiful ’e read and what a pity there wasn’t nobody to listen to ’im. That’s where I came in. I was only first footman, but the butler was deaf. So when ’e rang I ’ad to go up to the study and act audience for ’im. Many’s the night we did a play, a couple of long Brownings, and a handful of tiddlers. I got to like it; though, mind you at first it was a job keeping awake: because ’e made you drink level with ’im. But I knew it was as much as my job was worth to doze.’

  I said: ‘He sounds a marvellous old pirate. Were the rest of his habits to match?’

  Turpin shook his head regretfully.

  ‘Strait-laced as a Baptist over women. That was my trouble. I reckon the ones that are always taking it out on Cleopatra or Queen Guinevere don’t see what us others want with the real thing. Caught me in the cellar, doing the under-’ousemaid a bit of good. “Filthy malpractice”—I can still ’ear ’im—“and in the middle of my wine.” Still ’e never put a word against me in my character.’

  A bell rang, and in a box above our heads a light came under the sign which said ‘Morning Room’.

  ‘Now what’s that for?’ grumbled Turpin. ‘It’s an hour and a ’alf to tea-time. Besides the old lady’s got Mr. flaming Cedric up there, giving ’er the usual pasting.’

  He struggled into his coat and went reluctantly upstairs. I sat and waited. On return his first words gave me a sharp surprise.

  ‘It’s you that’s wanted.’

  ‘Me? Who by?’


  ‘That Cedric. Know what ’e ’ad the bleeding face to say when I told ’im you was down ’ere? ’E ’oped I wasn’t teaching you to fuddle yourself in the afternoons! Bastard!’

  I was almost as annoyed as Turpin—particularly as I was still near enough to my public school to have a sense of guilt about indulging in sluggardry after lunch.

  ‘I suppose, in courtesy, I must go.’

  ‘You watch out,’ said Turpin prophetically. ‘ ’E’s up to something.’

  I found Cedric Ellison pacing up and down the morning-room. As soon as he saw me he leapt forward and gripped my hand, at the same time subjecting me to one of his compelling, man-to-man stares.

  ‘I knew I could rely on you,’ he said, allowing his voice to vibrate slightly.

  ‘I didn’t,’ was what I nearly replied; but prudence won and I merely made a non-committal noise.

  ‘Frankly,’ he continued, ‘it’s a god-send that we have you in the house. It’s so often the same story; the man that’s needed is the expert who can speak with authority. As an ordinary business-man with no professional qualifications I’m always coming up against that hard fact.’

  He gave a rueful laugh that was so rueful it would have got any ham actor turned off the boards.

  ‘What did you want me to do?’ I said cautiously.

  ‘Just a little matter of explaining a legal term to my mother. . . . You know about Powers of Appointment?’

  ‘Something,’ I admitted.

  ‘Then what are we waiting for?’ cried Cedric with ogreish gaiety.

  I followed him out on to the landing which he crossed to a door I had never previously seen opened. It gave on to a small room which had been equipped as a sort of feminine study. It contained a beautiful Louis Quinze writing-desk at which Mrs. Ellison was seated.

  My first reaction was that the old lady ought not to be bothered with any business matter at all. She looked too ill. She was wearing an old-fashioned black dress sewn with jet ornaments and her face against the dark fabric was chalky white.

  ‘Now, Mother,’ said Cedric in a very jolly tone, ‘I’ve brought along our referee.’

  ‘He can’t know whether they were married,’ she said, mumbling.

  Cedric’s face hardened, but he maintained a surface of bluff patient good-humour.

  ‘Now, now,’ he said. ‘We must keep to the point. One thing at a time. We want to straighten out the legal aspect first—don’t we, Mother? Don’t we?’

  ‘Very well,’ said Mrs. Ellison wearily.

  Cedric said: ‘Shall I pose our problem or will you?’ Without waiting he answered the question in his own favour, and began to address me. ‘Supposing a man were to leave a part of his estate to X for life and after her death as X should appoint between the children of Y and Z—that would be quite a usual form of gift, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘It’s an ordinary Special Power,’ I said, relieved to be asked anything so easy.

  ‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ said Cedric, ‘but isn’t it called a Special Power, as contrasted with a General one, because X cannot give the money to anybody except that one limited class of persons, the children of Y and Z.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  I saw that he already knew as much as, and possibly more than I did, about the subject. It was crazy to suppose that if he had really wanted information he would not have gone to an accredited lawyer.

  ‘And it would be rather a serious thing if X tried to dispose of the property outside that class—eh?’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘the disposition would be void. Presumably there would be a gift over in default of appointment and that would take effect.’

  It was evident that in some way I had run contrary to his puppeteering and had given the wrong answer. I had the impression that he wanted me to help in making his mother believe that there was something near-criminal in exercising a Power of Appointment invalidly. But he abandoned this tack for the time being.

  ‘Now, here’s where we really want your assistance, David. In the context of a case, such as the one I’ve imagined, how would the law interpret children?’

  I was baffled by the seeming pointlessness of the question.

  ‘The usual way,’ I said.

  He gave a cough of pretended embarrassment. Then assuming a sort of roguishness, he said:

  ‘I’m sure we can be frank here. It can’t be any secret to you at your age or to mother at hers that children are born outside marriage as well as within it.’

  I could have kicked myself for appearing so naïve. But I retrieved a little self-respect by giving the text-book answer.

  ‘ “Children” in a will or other legal instrument means prima facie “legitimate children”. Unless there was something unusual in the will which created the Power of Appointment X couldn’t give any share to an illegitimate child of Y or Z.’

  ‘There, Mother,’ said Cedric. ‘That’s just what we wanted to know.’

  The old lady sat fumbling with a gold fountain-pen. I had a moment of insight in which I felt the air of the little room grow heavy with the distillations of enormous wealth. She seemed weighed down, logged by the vapour of gold, and its concomitants of greed and jealousy and hatred.

  ‘Cedric,’ she said with an effort, ‘you can’t prove a person a thief—you can’t prove a person—you can’t—’

  ‘For God’s sake, Mother,’ he interrupted harshly, ‘who’s talking about thieves?’

  I was disgusted, but I had not the self-assurance, nor even the knowledge, of how older people treated each other to dare to interfere. But Mrs. Ellison could manage without my support. Unsticking her tired mind from its groove, she tried again successfully.

  ‘You can’t prove a person a thief simply by reading out the law on theft.’

  I suppose she made her point in this oblique form because she did not like referring to bastardy. At any rate she made it. At the same time I belatedly realized what was afoot and at whom all these manœuvres were aimed. Even then it was a shock to me, for I had never shaken off my first impression that Varvara was a melodramatic creature who saw a conspiracy behind every accident.

  Cedric was saying: ‘Very well, Mother, I won’t tire you by chopping logic. In any case, if you take that line, we can hardly discuss the factual evidence in front of the boy.’ (I had gone down a bit from my status as legal adviser.) ‘I’ll come to see you again tomorrow.’

  ‘Not tomorrow, Cedric,’ said Mrs. Ellison faintly.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ he repeated firmly. ‘Alone.’

  He went out, not saying goodbye. I was terribly at a loss, but Mrs. Ellison braced herself in a final effort to rescue me.

  ‘Thank you, David, for your good advice. You’ll help a lot more silly old women in your time.’

  Her courtesy moved me. I knew that I wanted really and effectively to help her.

  ‘Don’t do it,’ I said, the words coming out almost of themselves.

  ‘Don’t do what?’ asked Mrs. Ellison, surprised through her fatigue.

  ‘Whatever he wants you to do.’

  She did not reply for so long that I feared she must think me daft or impertinent. But at length, with a jump in thought as wide as my own, she said:

  ‘If you have sons, David, never insist on making business men out of them. Either it doesn’t succeed . . . or it succeeds too well.’ She bent her head forward which at first I took as a sign of dismissal. In the next second, however, I realized that she could no longer hold it upright; she was on the verge of collapse. I rushed to the door and shouted, ‘Nurse! Nurse!’

  Fillis appeared with a creditable promptness. She took one look at Mrs. Ellison, then said:

  ‘Stay here and watch that she doesn’t fall out of that chair.’

  I was terrified that the poor old lady would die during her absence. But she was gone for less than a minute. The hypodermic which she carried must have been kept perpetually charged against emergencies. This was clearly one, for Nurse Fillis ripped up the buttons
on the long sleeve of her patient’s dress, sending them flying to all quarters.

  The injection took effect quickly. Mrs. Ellison sat up looking almost normal. Nurse Fillis said soothingly:

  ‘Now in just a moment we’re going to get you to bed.’

  That she refrained from saying ‘beddy-byes’ emphasized the gravity of the crisis. When she took Mrs. Ellison’s arm on one side and draped it over her shoulder, I naturally suggested that I should give support on the other. Probably she knew exactly how to manage such operations and I should only have hindered her. At any rate she waved me aside.

  I was left with a great deal of new-won knowledge to digest. Automatically I sat down at the little desk, in the place which Mrs. Ellison had vacated. Twenty minutes later I was still there, pondering uneasily, when Nurse Fillis came back.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she said sharply.

  ‘Nothing particular.’

  ‘You’ve no right to be in here.’

  ‘Why on earth not?’

  ‘Mrs. Ellison keeps a lot of extremely valuable and private papers in this room.’

  It was too much. I thought again of my aunt. She might have allowed me to be bamboozled and patronized within reason by Cedric Ellison, for she had strong ideas about the subjection of the young to their elders, but she would not easily have forgiven me for submitting to Nurse Fillis’s cold-blooded insult.

  For once my own sentiments agreed. Unlike most people, I have always been more exasperated by blank rudeness than covert sneers. Rage gave me an instinct for the place to strike.

  ‘Nurse,’ I said, ‘I’d like to ask you something. Have you had so many friends in your life that you can afford to make enemies quite gratuitously?’

  Her eyes dropped miserably. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I only spoke like that because I’m on edge.’

  Then it was my turn, of course, to feel that I must make amends.

  ‘That’s not surprising. It shook me up. I hope Mrs. Ellison’s better now?’

  ‘Yes. She’ll be all right.’

  ‘Was she actually in danger?’

  ‘There’s always danger in her condition . . . if she gets overexcited.’