by Angus Wilson
As the glamour of the journey wore off - and with an unshaved and unwashed Larrie this process was hastened - John became utterly depressed and increasingly irritated. He tried to tell himself that although Larrie was not the charmer he'd been seeing all these months, he was not as worthless as he had sometimes feared. It was, of course, perfectly true: even Larrie's cunning was only an excess of histrionic emotion; he was a stupid, highly-strung, hopeless delinquent. He's a lost boy, John thought to himself, who needs my help. He could not, however, but realize that he was far more completely 'lost' himself. He had lived on a heady mixture of ideals and careerism. He had pepped up the mixture with the extra 'kick' of a double life; and now he was left with nothing but the dregs to survive on. He lapsed into moody, self-pitying silence. Larrie talked on and on.
A storm burst over them as they slept in a field outside Limoges and they were soaked to the skin. John's hypochondria added a nagging fear of pneumonia to his more real worries. Pictures of foreign hospitals and solitary death came before him, pushing out the comfortable images of Thingy's coddling, the luxury of his flat, the glamour of being a celebrity. He was aiding a fugitive criminal; he had shut the door on return to England.
He sneezed and ached and grew really alarmed as they drove under a blistering sun by the bushy woods and meadows of the Lot. In the end, he agreed to Larrie's continuous demands to be allowed to drive the car, although the boy was an inexperienced driver and had no licence. Soon they had lost their way among steep red cliffs and scrubby broom and tough grass. Larrie grew irritable with the heat. John shivered with a temperature. Their quarrelling grew more violent.
'It was a terrible day for me,' Larrie cried, 'when I met you. A terrible day. I was an innocent, decent lad till then.'
'You bloody little liar,' John shouted.
'I'll not let any man call me a liar. I'll fight the man that says it.' The car rocked perilously on the precipitous road.
'Shut up and mind your driving,' John said. But Larrie went on calling, 'I'll fight. I'll fight you.' John refused to make any answer.
Soon Larrie's worked-up rage gave way to tears. 'There's no-one, no-one I have in life,' he cried. 'I wish I were dead.' Still John gave no answer. 'I'll kill myself,' Larrie went on. 'I'll kill us both. Indeed, it would be better if the world were rid of our sort.'
John reckoned without the determination of hysterics, but Larrie reckoned without his poor command over the car. He swerved to frighten John and, in a moment, the car was over the edge, falling ten or more feet to a ridge below. Larrie was thrown through the windscreen. A vein in his neck was severed and he bled to death among the wild lavender. John lay trapped by his legs beneath the body of the car. It was two hours before he was found. They took him to hospital in Cahors, and to save his life they were forced to amputate his right leg.
CHAPTER 3
ElVIRA'S immediate reaction to Marie Hélène's letter was to ignore it. At first she was too preoccupied with her misery, and then quite suddenly, as the miserable summer rains changed to a sunny autumn, she was too happy. She fell in love again with a young painter. As she told her friends, 'It's such wonderful bliss to be in love with someone who's one's own age and who has some sort of mind - I mean actually in this case Joe's got a frightfully good one. But this awful obsession I've had for middle-aged men with splendid careers - forever watching bald spots growing and listening to talk about stock markets. And it got worse and worse, because with my last one I almost got a thing about his father, who must have been quite sixty and a sort of manic-depressive, only distinguished. And then the heaven of Joe's not being married!' In fact Joe was five years younger than Elvira and she began a frantic life of dealing with his socks and getting him better rooms and seeing that he ate regularly. In the meantime, however, she did produce a lot of money for the Houdets - nearly half, in fact, of what Lilian had left her. She was moved in part by the wish to free Robin of an incubus as the last thing she could do for him - Elvira was very romantic. But a far more potent motive was her feeling that Madame Houdet, at any rate, deserved reward from both herself and Marie Hélène, and to produce money freely would be to put Marie Hélène to shame - Elvira was also a somewhat priggish moralist. In communicating her offer to Madame Houdet, she said that she was shortly to marry Joe Adams, an important young painter of the Lupus Street Group, and asked Stéphanie to retail the news to the Middletons.
Yves accepted the offer on his mother's behalf very quickly, although he assumed great pique at Elvira's stipulation by which he was only to benefit if he agreed to leave England. He was, in fact, piqued, but not by this. England had proved most uncongenial to his talents, even his Bromley widow proving herself adept at taking what he offered and making inadequate returns. He would not be sorry to leave it. Nevertheless, he was disgusted that neither Elvira's substantial offer nor Marie Hélène's very small contribution was accompanied by any sexual demands upon him.
Madame Houdet was upset that Elviras offer had been made to her alone. She was horrified that any gains to Yves would mean his departure. She could not bear to be separated from him, yet she hated to leave the little world she had built up in Hampstead. Marie Hélène, who did not wish to lose her services, did everything she could to reach a bargain with her - she would leave her full control of the household economy, she would give her a special room in which to entertain the large circle of decayed Hampstead gentlewomen whom she now patronized. But Stéphanie's love for Yves was too great, and in early September they left together for Mentone. Yves was all smiles and kindness, and Stéphanie persuaded herself that she might have bought as much as a year's peace for herself.
As they crossed the Channel, another loving mother and son passed them en route. Inge had left for Cahors the day that the news of John's accident reached her; and now, thanks to the tireless efforts of Gerald and Robin, the authorities had agreed that there should be no prosecution for John's assistance to Larrie in his escape. The full scandal had not got into the papers, but one way and another his career was at an end. Lovingly now Inge brought him back to Marlow in his wheelchair.
John's difficulties, in fact, had taken up much of Gerald's time during August. Nevertheless, through all the family troubles, and despite the constant nag of the Melpham problem, he retained his new buoyant mood, though not, perhaps, with quite the carefreeness of the night of Marie Hélène's party. He continued to work both on the History and on his own book; he started quite suddenly to go to exhibitions of contemporary painting, and even bought one or two works by young artists, although when he got them home he decided that he was not sure of his feelings and did not hang them. His interview with the Cressetts left him with a feeling that he would never obtain any evidence even faintly conclusive of his beliefs about Melpham, although he was more certain than ever that they were correct.
One afternoon, however, Derek and Maureen Kershaw came to see him. They wanted news of John.
'Of course, it will be a long business,' Gerald said, 'learning to walk, but my wife'll take him up to the hospital at Richmond. She'll look after him all right at Marlow.' - Derek and Maureen exchanged glances - 'He'll be so happy to see you, I'm sure,-' Gerald said.
Derek said, 'Oh, good,' but Maureen broke in, 'Not at Marlow, he won't, I'm afraid. Johnnie's mother hates Derek's guts.'
Derek frowned, but he added, 'I'm afraid Johnnie's mother's never been keen on his friends who wanted him to have a life of his own, sir.
Gerald said, 'Surely that's not quite fair. After all, John's not a boy any more, hardly even a young man. And then he's had a fine career.'
Derek said, 'Oh! terrific!' but once more Maureen added, 'It could have been first rate.' Then she paused and said, 'Oh well! he's free of my stepmother now, anyway.'
Gerald saw an opportunity of deflecting the conversation. 'I'm in her clutches now,' he said.
They both said, 'Good God!' simultaneously.
'You think very ill of her,' Gerald remarked.
'Very,'
said Maureen grimly. 'What on earth have you got to do with her?'
He told them the story in outline. 'Her father died last month,' Maureen observed.
'Yes,' said Derek. 'The old boy had another stroke. The money's hers now.'
'Yes,' said Maureen. 'She only needs Dad's and she'll be set up for life. You know,' she said, turning to her husband, 'I bet Professor Middleton's right. I know they had a heap of money off that old clergyman. You bet it was blackmail. Look,' she said to Gerald, 'is this Melpham business important?'
'To historical scholarship, yes.'
The Kershaws looked reverent. 'I might be able to help,' Maureen said. 'It's difficult to see Dad on his own, but it can be done. I'll ask him to tea next week if you'll come. She may have said something to him in an unguarded moment. In any case, it'll be good for her to know you're still on the warpath.'
Tea at Slough was a curious meal. There was salami and mortadella and caraway bread. Not that the Kershaws went in for high tea, indeed ravioli was in preparation for dinner; it was simply that Maureen could not bear a meal that did not include something from the Continental Delicatessen.
Mr Cressett was only half at ease; he glanced around the room as though at any moment Mrs Cressett's ample form might materialize from behind some of the contemporary furniture. He looked ill and shrunken. 'I don't seem to take my meals well,' he said. 'I bring up most of what I've taken, if you'll pardon the phrase. It's all this agitation, I expect. They say it tells when it's over. And then Mr Barker's death, though it had to come some time. And now this move to Cromer. Alice says the sea air'll set me up. But I don't know.'
Gerald was surprised at the tact with which Maureen worked round to the subject of the Barkers' indebtedness to Canon Portway, though he guessed that her great affection for her father gave her tact beyond her usual powers. Even so Mr Cressett was alarmed. 'I know nothing about it,' he said. 'It was all before I knew Alice.'
But Maureen kept on, and in the end the little man said emphatically, 'I've never cared to think about it too much. They got a pile of money from that old man, and I've often wondered whether they hadn't got some hold on him.'
'You've no idea what hold it could have been?' Gerald asked.
'No,' said Mr Cressett, 'but the way Alice talks of that old man makes my blood run cold. And Mr Barker, too, when he could still speak. Brutal he was.'
Gerald sketched to him his doubts over Melpham.
Mr Cressett clicked his tongue in a shocked way. 'It would be a terrible thing if that were true,' he said. 'There'd be no believing what you read.'
It was only later just before he left, that he suddenly said, 'I don't know. It may be. I remember once I was reading to them about England - Prehistory from Pears', when Mr Barker laughed, "They'd look bloody fools, those historians," he said, "if I was to tell a thing or two I know." But Alice shut him up pretty sharp.' He looked anxiously at Gerald. 'I hope there's no more trouble coming,' he said.
It did not seem a very useful meeting and yet it did bear fruit. A few days later Gerald received a visit from Alice, enormous in black. She sat very sedately on the edge of a chair and refused tea. She was wearing a black straw hat, very high in the crown and covered in black ribbon. 'You'll be sorry to hear Mr Barker's passed over,' she said. Gerald bowed his head slightly but made no comment. He would give her no help.
'I hear you're still concerned about the Melpham excavation,' she said. 'I've tried to remember everything I could. You'll understand, of course, that in my position that was all above my station. But it does come back to me that Canon Portway was a bit worried in his mind over it. I think he wrote to Professor Stokesay and whatever the gentleman wrote back it eased his mind a little.'
'I see,' said Gerald, 'but he never told you what worried him or what Professor Stokesay said.'
'No,' Mrs Cressett replied, 'and I wouldn't have understood it if he had. But maybe some of Professor Stokesay's folk can tell you what it's all about.' She got up to go. 'I thought I'd come and tell you what little I could remember,' she said, 'because me and Mr Cressett are moving to Cromer. We've bought a house to take in lodgers. I'll be very busy from now on. So I won't have time for casual visitors.' She smiled comfortably at Gerald and sailed out of the room.
It came to Gerald immediately that if Alice Cressett was speaking the truth, then Lionel Stokesay had not only been inept but also dishonest. Both he and Portway had suppressed the proofs of their own stupidity. At one time he had refused any investigation for fear of diminishing Stokesay's scholarly reputation, yet now that his honesty was at stake, Gerald in his new mood thought only he shouldn't have poll-parroted his life away in humbug and hot air. If he could find any proof, he would expose it. Nevertheless, he could not see that he was any nearer his goal; he had seen all Stokesay's historical papers at his death, he had read all Portway's published work, there was no hint to be found there. He had schooled himself for years not to contemplate the possibility of seeing Dollie; it was therefore only some days later that he admitted to himself that she was the only source of information still untapped.
Once he knew that he had to contact her he was filled with delight. She was clearly surprised when he asked to come down to her Cotswold cottage, yet there was no trace on the telephone of the old edgy note in her voice to which he had become accustomed in the years before the war. He did not think, he told her, that his business would take more than a day, but if it did - he and Larwood would put up at the local pub. She said, 'Business?' in a surprised voice.
'Nothing to worry about,' he replied.
'Well, I wasn't really,' she replied. 'I never do.' He noticed that she no longer said 'Toodle-oo' when she rang off.
Although the village shared the excessively picturesque quality of the neighbourhood, Dollie's cottage was a pleasant stone building un-ornamented with old-world knockers or artily painted doors. The garden was neat, yet it avoided the tea-cosy effect. There were too many copper chrysanthemums for Gerald's liking, but then Dollie's charms had never included good taste. She came out to meet him - one of those frail-looking little elderly women who are in fact tough and wiry. Her face was lined and her hair a washy brown-grey; her legs had become too thin. But she did not look ill and puffy, as she had when he caught sight of her at the airport.
'You look well, Dollie,' he said. 'Quite different from when I saw you at London airport a few weeks back.' He cursed himself as soon as he had said it - no doubt she had been drinking. This was probably her party face got ready for his visit.
'Oh my God! I had been sick,' she said. 'I'd never flown before and I shan't again. It doesn't suit the colour of my eyes. Come to that,' she added, 'you don't look too bad for your age.'
Miraculously, as it seemed to Gerald, they slipped into the old, easy relationship of their happiest days; indeed, even the tension that had always been there was somehow relaxed. She apologized before luncheon for the absence of drink. 'If you want one, you'll have to go to the pub.' Gerald tried to remember if this was one of the usual gambits of secret drinkers. 'You're wondering if I keep it in the wardrobe now, aren't you?' she asked, laughing. 'People always think that. Luckily it's nothing to do with anybody but myself, so I don't have to convince you. Actually I've stopped drinking altogether.'
Gerald said, 'I always knew you would.' He thought it might help to pass the conversation on to other subjects.
'Did you?' she asked. 'I can't think why. I jolly nearly killed myself with the stuff. I got worse than ever after the Pater died - having a bit of money and the war being so frightful. Then I thought I ought to do my bit. I've always been one to wave the Union Jack, and when I was in my cups I couldn't put it down. I got a job at the Air Ministry. I wasn't much use for anything, but they were glad to have anyone then. I fded things for a wing-commander and, since I was a lady, they called me a secretary. They weren't glad to have me for long though. I turned up pretty squiffy once or twice and then one day I got completely blotto and they fired me on the spot in fr
ont of all the other women. I'd never been treated like that, you know. I'd always been very much the lady. It gave me an 'orrible shock, Gerrie. I really did try after that. I went to doctors and into a home and had injections, but none of it did the faintest good. I was a chronic soak. Then I got put on to the idea of the Alcoholics Anonymous. It sounded a bit pi, I thought. A lot of ex-drunks lending a helping hand and so on. I suppose it is a bit. But anyhow it worked. They put me in touch with a marvellous woman. Not my type at all. She'd been a glamour girl, but she knew all the answers. We had some sticky times, but anyhow here I am. It worked, and that's what matters.'
'And what do you do with yourself?' asked Gerald.
'Nothing,' said Dollie. 'At least, not a job. I tried one or two but I was awfully bad and I can't see any point in doing something somebody else can do much better. Anyway, I hate regular hours. I'm always busy enough. I garden and gossip with the neighbours a lot, and then I'm a local J.P., believe it or not. Actually I'm rather good at that. I never believe anyone, but I don't mind their telling me lies, and that seems to be the chief point about it. Oh! and I've written two books about how to play tennis which made me quite a lot of money. The publisher had to do all the grammar. So, you see.' It was to these books that Clarissa, in her superior authorship, had alluded as a 'little hobby'.
Dollie moved easily and quickly about like a girl, laying the table and fetching dishes from the kitchen as she talked. She smoked continually. The meal, to Gerald's surprise, was good and the cottage very clean. 'Yes,' she said, watching his gaze, 'you can eat off my floors if you want to. Do you remember how filthy the flat used to get? Poor old Mrs Salad. She must have been the worst char in London.' Gerald winced slightly. 'Oh I didn't mean I wasn't happy then. They were top-hole times. The old girl and I still exchange greetings at Christmas,' she said.
