by Angus Wilson
The Salads were having a particularly domestic time that evening, for Vin was giving a party. Mrs Salad had her guest - old Emmie, a hippopotamus-like old woman with only one eye. Many of Vin's guests came in costume with plenty of slap. Mrs Salad and old Emmie sat side by side with huge gins. They thought everything was lovely. When Vin did his dance number with the muslin strips, Mrs Salad said, 'I don't know what my gentleman would say.'
'That's the Professor,' Vin told the company; 'you don't know the half of my friends.'
Just at midnight, as Vin was doing his Marlene Dietrich turn, Frank bounced in. 'That'll be enough of that noise,' he said. Somehow or other he was persuaded to stay, however, and at three o'clock he was seated between the two old women, drinking an equally large gin and gossiping happily. Someone had put a crown of silver stars on his bald head. 'Well, I must say,' Vin cried, 'you do all right, Frank. It's the fairy godmother and the pumpkin with you.'
The same might also have been said for Rose Lorimer as she sat between two old readers some mornings later beneath the great dome of the British Museum reading-room. She was wearing a hat trimmed with water-lilies; her old fur coat, once more in use, seemed bulkier than ever. Ranged on the desk before her were copies of Crockford's, the Catholic Directory, and the Methodist Handbook. She had been uncertain about the Baptist Handbook, but she had decided by now that the Baptists were probably not in the conspiracy. To all the other clergymen she was busy addressing poison-pen letters. As she was descending the steps of the Museum, she saw Father Lavenham coming in. She crossed over towards him, still with her vague smile.
'Ah! Dr Lorimer!' he cried.
Rose said nothing. She merely swung her two heavy shopping-bags - one, two - against each of his shins. Despite the pain he felt, Lavenham managed to suppress any cry and the incident passed unnoticed. Unfortunately not all the recipients of the letters were equally forbearing. Police investigations were started, and it was only through the tact of the university authorities that criminal proceedings were avoided. The poor lady was certified, and, by some strange freak of the National Health service, confined in an asylum near Whitby. There for many months she gazed upon the hated ground where, at the famous Synod, the true, the Celtic Church had met its defeat.
It was not long before the newspapers got on to Gerald and, soon after, Dollie in her Cotswold cottage was besieged by visits and telephone calls from journalists. Gerald persuaded her that they could better withstand the attack together and he went to stay at her cottage.
One morning, after they had jointly routed a peculiarly pertinacious woman journalist, Dollie said, 'Well, this is a lark, Gerrie, and no mistake. I am enjoying it.'
Gerald smiled back at her across the chintz-covered sitting-room. A few minutes later he said, 'Yes. We get on so well. It seems silly not to make something more permanent of it.'
Dollie went to the window and looked out on to the little garden where the October sun was shining lustily upon the Michaelmas daisies. 'All the same,' she said, 'I think we'll have a fire.'
'Well?' Gerald asked. 'I wasn't suggesting anything...' His remark faded away.
'Bed?' Dollie said. 'I didn't suppose you were. That would be a Fred Karno show at our age.'
'I didn't even mean,' Gerald explained, 'my giving up the flat or you the cottage. Just something a bit permanent.'
Dollie had lit the fire; she now knelt before it with a newspaper. 'It just wants to draw,' she said. 'It wouldn't do, Gerrie. I'm sorry, old dear. We'd get on each other's nerves in no time. I'm awfully set since I gave up the drink, you know. And hard. Hard on myself and on others. And a bit pi about things too in a sort of way. Oh! I enjoy life and I'm no nuisance to others, which is about as much as you can ask from an old woman who was brought up as I was. I'd like to come and stay with you when I'm in London. And I'll be glad to see you here as a visitor. But I couldn't live with anyone for the world. And nor could you. Only you won't admit it.'
Gerald said, 'I'm a very lonely person, Dollie.'
'No you're not,' she cried, 'you thrive on being on your own. But you won't leave anything or anybody alone. Look at the way you fuss about your family. You deserve all the rasgreatlyrries you get from them. And you won't forget the past. Oh! I grant you the Melpham business. That was different. You had to act there. But it's over now. You've got to move on.'
'I feel,' said Gerald, 'as though I had moved back when I'm with you. Look at the other evening with Mrs Salad. We might have been back at Fitzroy Square.'
Dollie got up and pulled down her skirt, then she said angrily, 'That's the only time I've felt disgusted with you since I've seen you again. Oh! I'm not saying anything against Mrs Salad. She's the same pathetic, cunning, dirty old thing that she always was. And quite an old dear too. Naturally we put a halo round her head in those days. We were in love. But to try to build all that up again. Really, Gerald! you've got to grow up.' She sat down and began to read the paper.
Here's something rum,' she cried a few minutes later. 'Look at this.'
Gerald read - 'Man's body to be exhumed. Echo of recent Civil Service scandal. A Norfolk coroner yesterday ordered the exhumation of the body of Harold Cressett. Mr Cressett died suddenly a fortnight ago at Cromer. Death was certified by a doctor as due to a disorder of the bowel. The expropriation of Mr Cressett's market-garden led to a recent inquiry into Civil Service mismanagement. As a result of the findings of the commission of inquiry a high-up civil servant was severely reprimanded and posted to the Ministry's branch department at Bangor.'
'Well,' said Gerald, 'the mill grinds slowly.'
The next morning he received a letter from Inge, forwarded on from Montpelier Square.
Dear Gerald [she wrote], Here in Marlow the sun shines, the roses bloom and yet soon we shall burn the wicked traitor Guy Fawkes. I love the English customs. Johnnie already walks a little. One! two! with Thingy's arm. Soon he will be walking. One! two! three. Then we shall have again to fight. To win back his good career. Is England mad now that she wants to lose splendid men because of nasty, dirty little lies? But he will get back his career. With Thingy's arm.
Why do I write to you? You do not deserve to be forgiven for the wicked things you said. But so is not my way. I want all smiles and happiness. Poor little Kay is not so. She cannot forgive you. She will not hear your name. She must not be judged. It is because she has the poor little hand. Cripples are always so - bitter. But now I will tell you about her. Donald is come here and there will be no divorce. And they are so happy and so pleased with old Thingy who has brought them this happiness that they are together again. Now they will live here and Thingy will have Baby with her. Sometimes Donald has said wicked things like another silly boy I know. But Donald is a good boy and I have forgiven him. But he is also bitter - he is a poor orphan. He is most bitter at things you have said. How you have said that you do not like him for a son-in-law. So please you must not come here, Gerald, for some time, because everything is happy and I do not like to have things which are not pleasant. ...
Gerald tossed the letter across to Dollie.
'So John will get back his career with her arm,' she commented as she read it. 'Does that mean they will appear on T.V. together? There's never been a mother and son act, has there? After all, it wasn't Wee Georgie Wood's real mother, or was it?' She looked at Gerald across the Oxford marmalade and the coffee percolator. 'Oh, for heaven's sake,' she cried, 'don't make that hurt face. You've known all this for years. Accept it.' She paused. 'You do really, of course. You're glad to be free of them but you've got this tommy-rot about loneliness on the brain.' She laughed. 'Look,' she said, 'I'll tell you about someone who loves you. There's a girl come down to live here - one of those arty creatures. She's married to a painter. They've taken a perfectly insanitary cottage outside the village with no proper lav and no light, and painted it all colours of the rainbow. Anyhow it seems she's very fond of you.'
'What's her name?' Gerald asked.
'Adams,' Dollie s
aid. Gerald looked blank.
'Elvira Adams.'
'Oh! Elvira!' Gerald cried. 'How is she?'
'Blooming, I should have said. She's pretty, but too fat. I met her at tea, and when she heard the name Stokesay, she revealed that she knew you, said how much she admired you, how she wished you'd met in different circumstances, and she wanted to apologize because she's behaved awfully badly to you.'
Gerald looked very pleased. 'Didn't she tell you she was Lilian Portway's granddaughter? No, I suppose she wouldn't. She never liked Lilian.'
'Oh! she's a Portway,' Dollie cried. 'That accounts for it. They were all dotty.'
'Is her marriage working well?' Gerald asked.
'She told me to tell you she was blissfully happy, but she couldn't tell what it really meant because she might be over-compensating. What on earth did she mean, Gerrie?'
'She always fears that excessive emotions may mean the opposite.'
'Well, strike me pink,' said Dollie. 'She asked us to lunch, but I refused.'
Gerald raised his eyebrows.
'Wait a minute,' Dollie said. 'I've been there. She had two huge gins and I sat getting hungrier and hungrier. After an hour of that, while she talked nonstop, she went to see what there was in the larder. She came back with two tins of stuffed vine leaves but no opener. So we came back here and had eggs. Not again, thank you, Gerrie, not even for one of your girl-friends.'
When Gerald was getting into the car to return to London, Dollie said, 'Why don't you come here for Christmas? Or will you go to Inge's?'
Gerald was silent for a minute, then he said, 'As a matter of fact, I think I shall go abroad.'
'That's the stuff to give the troops,' Dollie cried.
As he travelled back to London, Gerald realized that Dollie was right. He was fonder of her than anyone, but her 'bright' simplicity, her self-confident censoriousness, would make her unbearable to live with. She was, he supposed, his unattainable vision of the noble savage.
Whether it was despite her injunction to keep away from his family or because of it, towards the end of November Gerald rang up Robin. His new-found intimacy with his elder son had been nipped in the bud, but there seemed no reason why he should not see this son he respected, especially as he now regarded the Marlow part of his family as lost to him.
Robin clearly also had a conscience. 'Oh, hullo, Father,' he answered. 'I've been meaning to ring you up for weeks, but I've been so hellishly busy.'
'You haven't had a return lunch off me,' Gerald said. 'When can you make it?'
'Oh! thank you. But you'd much better come to dinner in Hampstead. Marie Hélène'd love to see you.'
Gerald agreed reluctantly.
It was the only foggy night of November and Gerald was sorely tempted to cry off, but Larwood got him there somehow. Fog seemed to have seeped into the Regency dining-room. Marie Hélène's complexion and her bottle-green evening dress seemed full of it. The pretentious food tasted of it. There were three other guests - an ex- admiral turned company director and his wife - they talked of their holiday in Majorca - and Elizabeth Sands, the novelist's daughter. She said, 'After Mummy's death, I had the usual girl's decision - marriage or career, and as you see I chose career.' Gerald could see it all too clearly. The married couple left early because of the fog and took Miss Sands with them. Gerald waited for Larwood to fetch him. He seemed to wait a long time.
He made conversation with Robin about the brandy and with Marie Hélène about Timothy. She told him about the Jevington débâcle. 'Poor Timothy!' she said. 'They take love so seriously at that age. It's quite amusing to see it. However, it was over quickly. He's in love with someone else already. Armand Sarthe liked you very much,' she said proudly. 'He told me to say that if you want to use any of the Paris libraries at any time, he will always be glad to recommend you.'
'How kind of him,' Gerald said.
'The Houdets are in Cannes now. Poor Tante Stéphanie was so sad to leave us. I only hope that Yves doesn't spend all their money. Anyone else but Elvira Portway would have had enough sense to tie it up more carefully,' Marie Hélène told him.
Both she and Robin said once or twice, 'You don't come to us often enough, Father.'
At half past ten Marie Hélène retired to her room. Robin gave his father a whisky and soda. 'You're just the man,' he said, 'to advise me about something. I've got rather interested in this Catholic business. That affaire with Elvira made me realize what a sinking sand I've lived on and it's set me thinking about Marie Hélène and how it is she's been such a tower of strength all this time. I don't know that I'm cut out for religion, but I'd like to know a good deal more about it. I can understand a lot of it, but this business of the Pope rather stands in the way. Of course, I could go for instruction, as they call it, and they wouldn't try to influence me, you know: they're far more liberal than people think. But I'd rather find out for myself, to begin with at any rate. What's the best book on the history of the early Church in your opinion, Father?'
Gerald said that this was a very wide question and that he would like to think it over.
'Oh, don't worry,' said Robin, 'it's not that important.'
Gerald realized that he had only been asked out of politeness. Robin, it was clear, would go for instruction anyway.
At last Larwood came to fetch him. 'Come and see us again when you feel like it, Father,' Robin said, 'but I know you're a busy man.'
Afterwards in bed Robin said, 'My God! that was a sticky evening. I do realize what Mother means about Father, poor old chap.' Marie Hélène said, 'It was good that we could entertain your father.' She preferred to say no more.
A week before Christmas Gerald had to report to the Syndic on the progress of the History. There were, as he had expected, some critics, but he had routed them easily. As he came away, Sir Edgar said, 'Well done, Middleton; you were in fine form. By the way,' he added, 'I'd like to see you this week. I've something important to discuss with you.'
'Well, I'm afraid that's going to be difficult,' Gerald said. 'I'm off to London airport now to fly to Mexico.'
'Mexico?' Sir Edgar said, amazed.
'Yes,' Gerald drawled a little. 'I've always wanted to see those Aztec things, and Christmas time seemed to be a good time to go away. The contributions'll be pouring in by the spring and I shan't have much time for travelling. I'm taking The Confessor with me, I think I can write quite a bit of it there.'
'Ah, well,' Sir Edgar said. 'You're rich enough to do these things. It's a damned nuisance, though. I may be dead when you get back. I'm very old, you know.'
'Nonsense,' Gerald answered. 'But if it's important why not come down to the airport in the car with me. Larwood'll take you back to Holland Park.'
'Very well,' Sir Edgar said, and he chuckled. 'A few years ago if anyone had asked me to go to an airport and back I'd have thought he was mad. But when you're as old as I am, you might as well do what you're told.'
As the car sped through Hammersmith, Gerald noticed the evening newspaper placards. They read, 'Cressett Murder Trial. Latest Report.'
'I'm going to resign the chairmanship of the Association,' Sir Edgar said. 'I'm too old for it. But I'll be happier in doing so, if you'll agree to take it on. '
There was a moment's silence, then Gerald said, 'Thank you. I think I should like to accept.'
As they waited for Gerald's flight to be called, a woman in a Persian lamb coat bore down upon them. 'Professor Middleton. How very nice!' It was Clarissa Crane.
'You know Sir Edgar Iffley, Miss Crane, don't you?' Gerald asked.
'But of course. How are you, Sir Edgar? Where are you off to, Professor Middleton?'
'Mexico.'
Clarissa took care to show no provincial surprise. 'Oh, yes,' she said, 'I didn't know you went in for American archaeology.'
'I don't,' Gerald answered. 'My motives are pure pleasure. I'm giving two lectures at the university there to pay for my keep.'
'Lucky man!' Clarissa said. 'I'm off to Li
sbon on my way to Angola. But I have to work for my living. My publishers have commissioned me to write a book about it. They say it's a heavenly country with appalling social conditions.'
'Do they?' Gerald commented.
'I had to give up my historical novel, thanks to your awful revelations about Melpham,' Clarissa continued. 'I think all you historians are frauds really, Sir Edgar. No more fiction for me now, historical or otherwise, just dreary old fact.'
'You are lucky,' said Sir Edgar, 'to be able to distinguish between them.'
Gerald's flight number was called. 'Good luck for your book, Miss Crane,' he said. He turned to Sir Edgar, 'I'll send you a postcard of a human sacrifice,' he said.
'My dear fellow, I know you won't do anything in such poor taste,' Sir Edgar replied. 'I'll put your name up to the committee when I send in my letter.'
'I'm very honoured,' Gerald said gravely and left them. With his black hat, umbrella, smart dark overcoat, and dispatch case, he looked like almost all the other men travelling on the aeroplane.
'He's so good-looking,' Clarissa said, 'and a charmer. He hasn't done much, has he? It's awfully dangerous really for people with brains to have money and good looks. They're practically bound to waste their talents. In any case I suppose one could say that Gerald Middleton had taken life a bit too easily.' She cocked her head, birdlike, on one side, as though considering her words. 'Don't you think so?' she asked Sir Edgar.
The old man got up from the red American-leather couch. 'I can imagine someone who hardly knew him at all saying so. Yes,' he said. He raised his bowler hat. 'Good day to you,' he said. As he walked towards Larwood and the waiting car, he felt ashamed at having lost his temper. I had no right to be rude, he thought, God knows who the woman was, never seen her face or heard her name before. One thing was perfectly clear to him, however: she was a time-waster.
