by Simon Raven
Pally Palairet and his jolly, purple aunt watched Marius as he led Lover Pie round the paddock. Palairet had come to see Lover Pie because the stallion was linked in his mind with Marius and the wager which Marius had made, years ago, at Newmarket; he had neither expected nor wished to see Marius himself, whom he intended to avoid for the full half year of denial on which, at Jeremy’s suggestion, he had determined. When, however, he learnt from his racecard that Lover Pie was one of Raisley Conyngham’s horses (a fact omitted in the Four Day Declarations which he had read in his aunt’s Sporting Life), he at once realised that Marius, being Conyngham’s guest, might well be present at the meeting; and when he saw Marius actually with the horse in the paddock, he formed a pretty good notion of what must have happened.
‘That boy with Number Four, Lover Pie,’ he told his aunt: ‘he’s at school with me. He was at Oudenarde House too.’
‘What a nice looking boy,’ said his aunt with enthusiasm. ‘Let’s get nearer and wave.’
‘No. It would only put him off if he saw me.’
‘Nonsense. Let’s show him we’re on his side. What’s his name?’
‘Stern. Marius Stern.’
‘The one that hit you in the throat?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well… I do see he might be embarrassed. We’d better stay put and not shove ourselves forward.’
Palairet, who was determined not to be seen by Marius until his absence and the passing months had made Marius’ heart once more grow fonder, did not trouble to clear up his aunt’s misunderstanding in the matter, but steered her to a special alcove for the disabled which combined an excellent view of the ring with discreetly contrived immunity from the prying or contemptuous eyes of those sound in wind and limb.
‘Can’t you see the notice?’ said a whining and self-righteous voice.
‘Perfectly well,’ said Pally’s aunt, and at once produced a heavy limp and a clever illusion that she was crook-back.
‘What’s ’e doing then?’
‘My nephew is taking care of me,’ said his Auntie, leaning with great pleasure (for she seldom had such a good excuse) against his sturdy body.
‘Now then,’ she whispered to Pally, ‘let’s have a good look at this near-assassin of yours. Ah. He’s taking the horse over to the owner. Two tall men have raised their hats to him. Why, I wonder? Princely manners, I must say. And now that snake Conyngham – I’ve hardly ever met him, but I’ve never liked the cut of his jib – is giving him his usual slimy smile, and that sot, Jack Lamprey, is saying something conspiratorial to Jimmy Pitts…and…and this is surely most peculiar, darling…can you see what I can see? All of them are looking at Master Stern…just looking at him, as if he were on probation or being inspected or interviewed or something…yes, they’re just like that Board I was put in front of during the war when I was in for a commisson in the ATS – just looking at me in silence to see if I was up to the mark. What’s more, those two men who took their hats off – one of them has to be Prideau Glastonbury – are also staring at him. And Phil Roche, Prideau’s trainer, and that little dung rat, Danny Chead. They’re all looking at your Marius Stern as if they expected him to expose himself or something. The only one who is looking rather differently is that one with Prideau, even taller than Prideau, looks like Prideau’s cousin Giles, now I come to think of it, who used to own horses with Prideau: Major, or was it Colonel, Giles Glastonbury: did something quite horrid with the Army in India and then butchered some Hun in a duel, and good for him, of course I don’t see these people as often as I used when I still had all my money, but I knew ‘em all once… Now the interesting thing is that Giles is only looking at young Stern because the others are looking at him in such a funny way, and Giles don’t know why and he’s trying to work it out, and he can’t. Ah. I see that Master Stern is to lead Lover Pie on to the course. Let us follow unobtrusively…’
‘…I wonder what they’re all up to,’ she went on in some excitement, forgetting her limp and provoking spiteful hisses from the malingerers all round her, as they left the ‘disabled’ section of the paddock. ‘Whatever it is, it don’t look as if Giles were in on it…though it wouldn’t have surprised me if he was, because Giles first produced Danny Chead to be Prideau’s jockey… Danny Chead being the son of an old NCO of his, or something…so that if Giles had been in on whatever it is, he could have helped by putting pressure on Danny if needed, if you follow my train. But it’s clear that Giles doesn’t know what’s going on, and it’s also clear that little Stern doesn’t know either. He’s a study in bewilderment, and I don’t blame him, all those huge men looking him up and down as if he were being auctioned off in a market. See? He’s quite white with puzzlement and worry, that little Stern. And now Jimmy Pitts is saying something to him, not too kindly by the look of it…and little Stern is taking off Lover Pie’s blanket. Why on earth, I wonder, does Lover Pie need that atrocious, thick blanket on a warm and beautiful spring day like this?’
Raisley Conyngham and Marius were home in time to join Milo and Tessa just before dinner.
‘Well?’ said Milo.
‘Fifth. Not a bad show at all – very much what we expected this time out.’
‘And Boadicea?’
‘Danny Chead tried to produce her just before the third out, but she wasn’t having any, not this afternoon. She was sixth, two lengths odd behind the Lover.’
‘Also much what we expected. How…did other arrangements go?’
‘Marius made an admirable stable boy, and was accordingly much admired on his début. Jimmy Pitts snapped at him about the blanket when they got on to the course, but it seemed to me that Marius managed the whole thing pretty well, always allowing for beginner’s nerves.’
‘A very heavy blanket,’ said Marius, accepting Raisley’s encomium as the truth, forgetting the faces that had peered from all angles and the cold sweat in his crutch. ‘Yes; a very heavy blanket to handle on a hot day.’
‘Lover Pie likes his blanket like that,’ said Raisley: ‘hot or cold, he finds it reassuring. Now then: dinner. And after dinner we’ll have another go at Twelfth Night… Sebastian and Antonio in Act Three, Scene Three. We shan’t have much time for literature during the next few days, and it would be a great pity not to have read that.’
As soon as Palairet’s sporty, old aunt, full of fresh air and booze, had retired (very early) to bed, Palairet went to work on the telephone. Although economy was the order of the day with this instrument, as it was with everything in Sandy Lodge, Palairet felt that in the circumstances, he had no choice but to make what was going to be very expensive use of it, even at evening rates. He would explain to Auntie later what he had done, give reason and ask forgiveness; meanwhile, since he could not run the risk of her denying him, he found the deceitful patience to wait until she withdrew and the prudence to put an extra powder in the sleeping draught which (according to their custom when he was staying at Burnham-on-Sea) he mixed for her every evening before she went upstairs.
Having consulted Who’s Who, he dialled the number of Peter Morrison (for as such he was still listed in Auntie’s edition) hoping to speak to Jeremy.
Yet what shall I say? he thought, as the number rang. ‘I’m Palairet, you may remember me from the riding school at Birchington, from the Junior Fives Courts, please remember me, because Marius, our friend is in trouble, such deep trouble – no, I can’t easily explain, it was a peculiar feeling I had at Regis Priory Races, my aunt had it too, I know it sounds ridiculous, but–’
‘Chamberlain to the Barony and Household of Luffham-by-Whereham,’ said a deep and scarcely sane voice.
‘Mr Jeremy Morrison, please.’
‘You mean the Honourable Jeremy Morrison?’
‘No, I don’t. That’s only for envelopes.’
‘Are you contradicting me?’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. Can I please speak to him? It’s urgent.’
‘Since you sound,’ said the Chamberlain, �
��an honest and excellent sort of boy, I shall tell you what I can. Mr Jeremy has gone, via London, to Lancaster College, Cambridge, where he should be arriving, any time within the next thirty-six hours, for a stay of two or three days.’
‘The next thirty-six hours?’
‘He may be there already, sir.’
‘And supposing he isn’t? Where do I find him in London?’
‘You don’t, sir. Mr Jeremy keeps his own counsel about his haunts in London.’
‘But this is urgent.’
‘So you have already said. This cannot alter the fact, sir, that I am not in his confidence about where he may be in London. All I can do is save you trouble by giving you the number of his next destination, which, as I say, is Lancaster College.’ The Chamberlain dictated the number of Lancaster.
‘Thank you,’ said Palairet, ‘for being so kind.’
‘My pleasure, sir. Please telephone whenever you like. It can be lonely here when Mr Jeremy and his lordship are away. Mr Nicky, you see, has gone forever. But I can tell that you are busy, and I shall not keep you now.’
‘“I could not stay behind you,”’ read Jack Lamprey, who with the assistance of half a bottle of cognac had been conscribed as Antonio:
‘“My desire,
More sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth,
And not all love to see you” – This Antonio is as queer as a cardboard box,’ said Jack. ‘Why have I got the part? He reminds me of that bugger in our Regiment, Fielding Gray, sort of way he’d carry on.’
‘Major Gray is a friend of Tessa’s and mine,’ said Marius.
‘So that’s why he’s sticking his nose in. Come to think of it, he said so himself.’
‘Let us discuss this later,’ said Conyngham gently: ‘please carry on with the reading, Jack.’
When Pally Palairet got through to the Porters’ Lodge in Lancaster and asked for Jeremy Morrison, the Porter on duty hesitated, then put him through to Len in the Provost’s Lodging.
‘Please may I speak to Mr Jeremy Morrison?’ Palairet said.
‘And who may you be?’
‘Nobody much. I just want to speak to Mr Morrison.’
‘I want doesn’t get,’ said Len, who was in a foul temper because of the absurd way in which Tom Llewyllyn was carrying on about the dryads in the Provost’s Garden. ‘Mr Morrison hasn’t arrived yet. When? How should I know? There’s enough going on here without him.’
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be a nuisance.’
Pally put the receiver down and rang up Enquiries for Jakki Blessington’s number in London.
‘“I am not weary and ’tis long to night,”’ said Milo Hedley as Sebastian without looking at his text, which lay closed on the floor beside his left foot:
‘“I pray you, let us satisfy our eyes
With the memorials and the things of fame
That do renown this city.”’
‘“Would you pardon me,”’ carolled Jack Lamprey:
“I do not without danger walk these streets.
Once in a seafight ’gainst the Count his galleys
I did some service – of such note indeed
That, were I ta’en here, it would scarce be answered.”
‘And that reminds me,’ said Jack. ‘He threatened me.’
‘Who did?’ said Milo.
‘Fielding Gray. He said that unless I tipped him off whatever I knew, he’d rake up some old Army scandal.’
‘And did you…tip him off?’
‘No,’ said Jack, omitting to mention that he had telephoned in order to do so but had drawn a blank.
‘Then that’s all right. Forget him.’
Marius and Tessa exchanged looks. Marius hesitated for a moment, then nodded. Tessa said to Milo: ‘If you like I’ll ring up Major Gray and tell him what a super time we’re having.’
‘Not a bad idea,’ said Conyngham: ‘that should finally rid us of this particular pest, whoever he may be.’
Tessa bit her lip and was about to say that Fielding was a very well known author and Mr Conyngham should be ashamed not to have heard of him. But then she realised that Mr Conyngham was almost certainly only pretending to ignorance, for some reason of his ’own, and that she would do much better to let the thing pass: and so when, a second later, Milo smiled at her, as if to say, ‘Whatever you do, don’t take the bait,’ she simply smiled back and went quietly to the telephone.
After about twenty minutes (or so it seemed) Palairet got through to Enquiries, and was instantly given Colonel Blessington’s number. When this had rung twice, a mannered and recorded voice of Colonel Blessington ‘had the honour to inform his correspondent that his family and he had left for a month’s holiday in the Balkans’, as indeed, thought Pally, I should have remembered for myself.
‘“Haply your eye shall light upon some toy,”’ lilted Jack in his best Bloomsbury.
‘“You have desire to purchase; and your store,
I think, is not for idle markets, sir.”’
‘You see?’ said Jack. ‘A real fruit, this one. Much fruitier than Fielding.’
‘Major Gray is not with Auntie Maisie at Buttock’s,’ said Tessa, coming away from the telephone. ‘She sounded quite cross. I think she hoped he’d be there with her for Easter. She says he’s at “that College”, by which I imagine she means Lancaster.’
‘Full of fruits, Lancaster,’ said Jack Lamprey. ‘I expect he’s having a marvellous time there – all those fruits being fruity together. There was one of those fruits from Lancaster I met once, Daniel Mond he was called, friend of Fielding’s. We came across him in Germany, place called Göttingen, where we were playing at soldiers and he was researching into some high-powered sort of arithmetic. We had to dress him up as a Dragoon for some reason – I expect he got some sort of fruity kick out of it.’
‘I think that’s enough of Twelfth Night,’ said Raisley Conyngham. ‘Good-night, Jack. It’s been a long day…’
‘Shall I try Lancaster?’ said Tessa to Milo and Conyngham, after Captain Lamprey had fallen out for the evening. ‘Get hold of Major Gray there?’
‘Please, darling,’ Milo said: ‘get the thing out of the way for good.’
The next person whom Pally Palairet telephoned was Ptolemaeos Tunne. He had heard a lot of him from Marius, enough to know that Ptolemaeos, if not exactly Marius’ friend, had nevertheless been an important factor in his life at one time and might well turn out to be an abiding one. What was more, Pally had the impression that Ptolemaeos would be prepared to listen carefully to what he, Pally, had to say, and would not be scornful of his fears and suspicions simply because they were conceived from a fleeting impression rather than founded in hard fact.
Having asked Enquiries for Ptolemaeos’ (ex-directory) number and been turned down flat, Palairet had had an inspiration: Mr Tunne, he remembered hearing from Marius, had once been a regular racing man like his own aunt. Palairet therefore applied himself to the address book on his aunt’s desk, in the hope that she and Ptolemaeos had been acquainted; and was rewarded by the discovery of Ptolemaeos’ Fenland number and address, which were written in mauve crayon under the entry TON, Tolymius, and were followed by the comment, ‘Greedy fat fruity sod, amusing shit.’
At this stage Pally’s luck ran out. The telephone was answered by a female voice, clearly much the worse for drink (Pally was familiar with the noises of women in drink because Auntie sometimes overdid it), which said that it was called Mrs Statch and what the fucking hell was anyone ringing it up for.
‘I’d like to speak to Mr Tunne.’
Mr Tunne and his pansy secretary were away for a few nights, which was why Mrs Statch was there guarding the place, which she wouldn’t be never doing again ’cos Mr Tunne, or more likely the fairy secretary, had locked up all but two bottles of the cunting gin.
‘Aren’t two bottles enough?’
This question elicited a magnificent curse in Fenland vernacular, followed by a prolonged liquid noise.
>
‘Hallo?’ said Pally.
‘That was me being sick,’ said Mrs Statch.
‘Oh. Well, goodnight.’
The next person whom Palairet decided to appeal to was Fielding Gray. Major Gray, he remembered, had often been spoken of as taking Marius to watch racquets, cricket and royal tennis, also as someone given to close inspection of Marius’ physique or person and liable to hand out fivers in an equivocal manner. However, it had always been clear to Pally that Major Gray was regarded by Marius as an amicable if disreputable figure, and there was no difficulty, in this case, in raising the number of the novelist’s Norfolk hide-out from Enquiries (for although the number had once been ex-directory, Fielding had begun to find himself so lonely in Broughton that it was now a pleasure to him to answer the telephone, no matter who turned out to be on the other end of it). Once again, however, Pally was out of luck: thirty rings brought no response.
So perhaps, thought Pally, he’s in London, at the hotel where he often stays: Buttock’s. Having rung Buttock’s and asked the operator there for Major Gray, he was put through to Maisie Malcolm, who told him her name (which he remembered from Marius’ account of the place) and briskly asked him his business.
‘My business is with Major Gray.’
‘You’re the second person in ten minutes who’s rung up for him,’ Maisie said: ‘what’s UP? And what’s someone of your age wanting with Fielding Gray?’
‘Literary advice?’ said Palairet, at a venture.
‘At this time of night?’
‘It’s only ten o’clock.’
‘Too late for literary advice. He’s always drunk by this time. Anyway, he’s not here. That’s what I told Tessa when she rang just now. You know who I mean by Tessa?’
