by Martin Boyd
“You may have thought,” he said, “that perhaps I would make a settlement on Anthea.” Again a gleam in Freddie’s eyes revealed that this was exactly what he had thought. “Now that I have asked you about your position, perhaps I should explain my own. I am not a rich man, not in the sense that Mr Vane is rich.” Freddie started at this further revelation of his thoughts. “My income is almost entirely earned. In ordinary prudence I have to put aside much of it to give security to my wife and daughters. If I were to settle on Anthea anything like the amount Mr Vane settled on the Brayfords, it would be roughly a third of my income. If it were unearned income, that would be, to say the least, disproportionate. But it is not, so it would mean that for a third of my working year I would be using my energies to support you and your wife. I am sure that you will agree that it is hardly reasonable to expect me to do that?” He smiled.
Freddie, equally with Wolfie, hated logic, but although he was far less cultivated and intelligent than Wolfie, he could understand it, while to Wolfie it was simply some sharp unnatural weapon that Diana stuck into him out of malice, to reduce him to despair and bewilderment, and Diana’s logic had a family resemblance to Cousin Edward’s. Freddie saw perfectly that there was no reason why old Langton should sweat to keep him. He began to sweat himself, and Cousin Edward, seeing his acute discomfort, and aware that he had made his point, began to ease the situation.
“I do not think,” he said mildly, “that it is a good thing to marry too early. In your life you have many opportunities of seeing the world before you settle down. It would be a pity to waste them. I don’t suppose you have ever considered living permanently in Australia? It has many advantages. One escapes the dreadful English winters.” He said this, thinking that if Anthea kicked over the traces and insisted on marrying this young oaf, he might make that the condition of a modest settlement.
“That’s the best time,” Freddie managed to choke out. “Hunting.”
“Yes. Each to his taste,” said Cousin Edward amiably. “I like walking in the winter.”
“Walkin’?” Freddie stared at him as if he were dealing with a lunatic.
Cousin Edward made a few more general observations, and then, seeing that Freddie was itching to get away, he pushed back his chair.
“Perhaps you would prefer me to tell Anthea that there can be no engagement at present,” he said. Freddie made a few guttural sounds which indicated his agreement. Cousin Edward, chatting pleasantly about the architecture of Government House and its resemblance to Osborne in the Isle of Wight, went with him along to the hall, where he handed him his hat and stick and wished him good night. He then put his head into the drawing-room and asked Cousin Sophie if she would give him a few minutes. She left the piano and followed him across into the dining-room, where he closed the door. Anthea looked surprised and perturbed. She went out, and not knowing that her parents had gone into the dining-room, she went first to Cousin Sophie’s sitting-room and then along to the study. When she did not find them she came back to the drawing-room and said: “Where’s Mother gone?”
In the dining-room Cousin Edward with a hint of blame that his wife had allowed things to go so far, said: “We couldn’t possibly allow Anthea to become engaged to that young man. He hasn’t a penny and he’s quite brainless.”
“Have you told him that you won’t allow it?” asked Cousin Sophie anxiously, thinking of the shock to Anthea.
“It wasn’t necessary. He’s after money. When I told him that I couldn’t make a large settlement on Anthea, he was obviously anxious to back out. The conversation was rather amusing, an exchange of implications—no naked steel.”
“You haven’t actually forbidden it, then?”
“It wasn’t necessary. I told him I couldn’t keep them, and that finished it.”
“But why on earth should he expect money with Anthea?”
“I have no idea, but he evidently did.”
“Couldn’t we allow them a little?” asked Sophie doubtfully. She was distressed at the thought of the engagement falling through, chiefly for Anthea’s sake, but also she could never quite eradicate the idea, implanted in her youth, that no Australian could be the equal of an upper-class Englishman.
“A little would be no use. He’s got Lucinda Brayford’s three thousand pounds a year fixed in his mind. Anyhow I don’t want Anthea to marry him. If they were back in England with no money, and he was no longer in the viceregal aura, she’d see him without glamour and he’d bore her to death. I’m blowed if I know what she sees in him now. He’s almost inarticulate. It’s quite upsetting to think one’s own daughter can be attracted to a man like that. Though he’s not really bad of course. In a way I rather liked him as he was so transparent. But he’s not homo sapiens, only a house-trained animal. I suppose we ought to tell Anthea.”
He had the inherited characteristic of liking anyone who provided him with amusement, but he held it under strict control, unlike our side of the family who, when they saw Wolfie, burst out laughing, and in gratitude handed him Diana on a silver dish.
“It will be a dreadful blow to her,” said Sophie, but she never dreamed of questioning her husband’s decisions. She had not taken in that the decision was really Freddie’s, and that if he had expressed his devotion to Anthea and his willingness to work for her, Cousin Edward would have settled a suitable income on them, but in hundreds, not thousands. As it was he had to endure the odium of being thought a stern parent, indifferent to his daughter’s happiness.
Anthea, not finding her mother in the drawing-room, went out again. Trying to ignore this disappearance, one by one, of our hosts, I made some remark to Cynthia, but she did not reply and after a moment of indecision followed her sister, and I was left alone with Josie, who also seemed affected by the general uneasiness.
Soon Cousin Sophie came back to us. She said that Anthea was not very well, and would I take Josie to the train. We expressed our sympathy, and with that slight sense of humiliation, inseparable from receiving a request to go, however reasonable it may be, we left without seeing the others, except, just as we were saying good night to Cousin Sophie, Anthea came out from her sitting-room, which opened into a passage at the far end of the hall. The light from the open door shone on her face, which was hardly recognisable in its grief. I had never seen Anthea, except as the English rose blooming with confidence on the breeziest heights of the hedge-row, the most vital creature that I knew. To see her blighted with despair gave me one of those shocks which, particularly when they come in youth, we always remember, as they are an extension of our experience.
“What’s up?” I asked Josie as we walked down the drive. She told me that John had told her that Freddie wanted to marry Anthea, and that he was coming to ask Cousin Edward’s permission.
“Then why did everyone disappear, and Anthea look so ghastly?” I asked. “You’d think they’d drink their health or something.”
“Perhaps Cousin Edward won’t allow it,” said Josie. “Oh, I do hope it isn’t that.” She sounded as if there were tears in her voice, as she imagined that if this were so, Anthea must be feeling as she herself would feel if she were ever separated from John. Her fear may have been justified, as the frustration of a purely physical attraction, combined in this case with social ambition, which incurred a wound to pride, can be as painful as the frustration of a love which also suffuses mind and spirit. Though with moderate common sense the pain of the former can be cured in about three weeks.
“Why shouldn’t he allow it?” I asked. “I’d have thought that they’d be awfully pleased. Cousin Sophie dotes on Government House and the English.”
“Freddie Thorpe hasn’t any money at all,” said Josie. “He has to marry someone to keep him. I suppose Anthea can’t do it. It must be awful for him.” The idea was not shocking to her, as she had been used to it from infancy, Diana always having supported Wolfie. Josie also attributed to Freddie the same sensibility, with a corresponding capacity for anguish of soul, that she kne
w existed in John.
I put her into the train which was to be met at the other end by Wolfie, and I went home to Mildy. I was puzzled that someone with no money at all could live in a palace, spend his time at dances and race meetings, drive about in huge motor cars, have perfect clothes, dine off gold plate, and go about with people who, whenever they entered a room or a theatre, galvanized everyone to attention and awakened the strains of “God Save the King”. I enjoyed a certain amount of free high-life myself, but nothing on that scale.
Mildy was usually difficult when I returned from the twins’, but tonight as I was back early, she was cheerful, hoping that I had been bored.
“You are back early,” she said. “Will you have your hot milk now, or shall we have a little talk first?”
“I don’t mind,” I answered, though I had been taught that this was the rudest possible reply to any offer, and I added: “Cousin Sophie asked us to go.”
“Have you quarrelled with them?” Mildy asked with delight.
“No, but Captain Thorpe came. I think it was to ask if he could marry Anthea.”
“Oh!” said Mildy crossly. “How mean! They’re jealous of Josie so they have to catch an aide-de-camp for themselves.”
“It’s not that at all,” I said hotly. “Cousin Sophie has been terribly nice to Josie. Anyhow, Cousin Edward won’t allow it, as Captain Thorpe has no money.”
Mildy clapped her hands. “Oh, good!” she cried.
I thought of Anthea, the stricken rose, and was revolted by Mildy in her silly glee. My education had made me very chivalrous towards women, except in moments of sensual reverie, but then my feelings were not directed towards any individual, only towards the headless nymph. I was shocked to find that they could be so unchivalrous towards each other.
I was too disgusted to speak, as I could not have done so with restraint. Mildy, with an uneasy smile which showed that she was conscious of being guilty of an error of taste, but at the same time that she was not going to accept any criticism from me, went out to heat the milk. On the mantlepiece was a large photograph of myself and with the egoism of my age I went over to look at it. While I was wishing that my nose was shorter, I noticed a smudge on the mouth, from which it was evident that Mildy had been kissing the photograph. I was furious and rubbed the smudge off on the seat of my trousers.
Yet Mildy was more deserving of sympathy than Anthea who still had many prospects of kissing something more living than a nephew’s photograph. Having been sent to Europe to recover from Wolfie’s mild avuncular embrace, for this more serious convalescence she was only sent to Fiji where she stayed a few months with the High Commissioner, who had married one of the Bynghams. After the outbreak of war, she forgot Freddie in the excitement of there being a German battleship loose in the Pacific.
It was thought necessary to get her away before Josie’s wedding, which it would have been painful for her to attend, as Freddie was to be best man, and it would have been “marked” if she had stayed away. In spite of her absence the wedding did aggravate her humiliation, as Freddie as best man was made more aware that John had “beat him to it”, and he proposed to Clara Bumpus, the second girl on his list, who accepted him with alacrity. She was altogether more satisfactory than Anthea, as her father had considerable capital assets, on which he drew to show his gratification at the alliance. Also she was unlikely to embarrass him by quoting Montaigne, Madame du Deffand or Voltaire at a hunt ball, as she was no more than himself aware that any such people had existed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
One of Diana’s chief preoccupations during the three months between Josie’s engagement and the wedding, was to keep in existence the barrier between herself and Wolfie. This was made more difficult by an event which, if she had known of it, she would have thought could not possibly effect her in any way. The manager of the building where Mrs Montaubyn had her flat, dismissed the liftman and engaged another, a retired professional footballer. This handsome man was eight years younger than Mrs Montaubyn and his fine muscles had not yet turned to fat. When one day she walked unsuspecting into the lift and found herself in that confined space with such a splendid specimen, she gave a faint wheeze of wonder and desire, and turned on him glances similar to those she had given me at Government House, though warmed with something of the reverence of invitation with which, on the same evening, she had looked at the prince. In the next few days she found many occasions to use the lift, and at the end of the week she invited him, when he was off duty, to come into her flat.
Mrs Montaubyn since the ball had become increasingly irritated with Wolfie. He maintained his air of moral superiority to compensate himself for the disgrace he felt attached to him at home, and for which he implied too often that she was to blame. He also boasted about Josie’s engagement, exaggerating the grandeur of the life she would lead in England and again, with Teutonic unawareness of effect, implied that it was a life of which Mrs Montaubyn could not even touch the fringe. She would have parted with Wolfie for good if she had not been doubtful of her ability to attract another man into her life. The new lift-man relieved her of this anxiety. Far from being patronising, he was naively impressed by the luxury of her flat, and he said frequently: “I never thought I’d go with a real lady.”
When Wolfie rang the bell on Saturday evening, Mrs Montaubyn, also with Teutonic indifference to the effect of her words, half opened the door and said: “You can clear out Dingo. I’ve had enough,” and she slammed it in his face.
Wolfie wandered desolate about the streets of Melbourne. He walked through the arcades and looked in the windows, but he did not see what he was looking at. He could not go home to Diana, shut off from him behind her cool efficient manner. It would only emphasize his terrible sense of isolation. Also she would ask him why he was back so early.
He usually went by train to Brighton station but there was now another way; to go by train to St Kilda and take the electric tram from there. To go by his usual route, by which he had returned so often and so happily from evenings with Mrs Montaubyn, he thought would sharpen his distress, and after an hour of aimless wandering he took the train to St Kilda. It was still early and instead of entering the Brighton tram, he strolled down to the esplanade.
He went into some tea gardens, where the ti-tree was festooned with coloured electric bulbs, and he drank a lemon squash into which had been tipped an ice-cream. After that he paid sixpence to go into the Palais de Dance, where he sat bouncing a little in time to the music, and sighing as he watched the happy couples. From there he went on to Luna Park, a huge fun fair at the end of the esplanade. In this, was an erection called the Helter-Skelter, a tower round which descended in a spiral, a trough of highly polished wood, down which one might slide at a few pence a time. Wolfie thought it looked very dangerous but he was feeling so desperate that he decided to allow his suicidal impulse threepence-worth of gratification. He mounted the tower and came whizzing down through the fresh night air, a sensation so exhilarating that he bubbled with laughter. But what most eased his depression was the kindness with which the young man at the bottom of the slide took his elbow and helped him to his feet. It was for just some such human touch that he had been longing for the past two hours. He went up the tower again. He stayed in the place until closing time, and every now and then he went back to have a slide down the Helter-Skelter for the moment of flying freedom, and the kindness of the hand on his elbow. The young man was amused by him, and he enjoyed that too, as he had been accustomed to provoke laughter.
When he came home he looked so innocent that Diana had the feeling that the barrier she was trying to maintain had dissolved, not through any deliberate action by either of them, but of its own accord. She had to continue for these three months a life of which the habits were not in accord with her intentions. There were moments like this when Wolfie, by some unconscious expression of his personality, so much more effective than his deliberate oglings, made the impulse of her habits irresistible. She had to st
op herself laughing and ruffling his mousey hair. He did not notice how near she was to a reconciliation, as on the way home he had turned both his sorrows and his pleasures into music and they did not worry him any more. He went to his music-room where he stayed up late composing a little nocturne. He began in a minor key, in a melancholy reflective mood, which was interrupted by a succession of airy scherzos. He called it “Helter Skelter”.
While he was composing this, Diana was trying to reason out and justify her own position. She told herself something like this: “I either have to stay or to go. If I stay, what happens? I shall be most of the time alone in this too large and shabby house, keeping it in order for no real purpose. I shan’t have Josie. Wolfie will always go out for his amusements, respectable or otherwise. His behaviour has freed me from any duty to him. But I’m no longer angry. I can’t use my anger as an excuse for leaving. That’s weak and negative. But as I’m no longer angry with him, it makes the present situation more difficult. I may very easily behave in a way which he would afterwards be justified in thinking underhand. I’m walking on a razor’s edge till I go, but I must go. Apart from my own wishes I must keep my promise to Russell. There can be no question of my not going—none at all. If I stay here what will my life be? Harry will come down from Queensland and disapprove of us for two or three weeks every year. Daisy will come to stay when she’s tired of house-keeping, or is going to have a baby. Josie, the one who most cares for me, will be on the other side of the world. If I stayed it would be allowing sentimental feelings about the past to spoil the future.
“If I go what happens? I suppose some sort of scandal is unavoidable, but it may not leak out for a year, and it will only be talked of in Melbourne. The family may not like it, but I don’t owe them much, and should I sacrifice the remainder of my life to them? No one will know what I am doing in Europe, and by the time a divorce becomes public, Josie will be well established with her in-laws, and it may even be possible to keep the details from them. Anyhow, surely I’ve come to the time when I may consider myself. My life with Russell will be wonderful, all that I used to long for. We understand each other perfectly. There is never a flat moment when we are together. I am very fond of him, and I’m sure that when once we are away and free from all these uncertainties and stratagems, I shall love him dearly.”
