‘Well, I must get along.’ Kenyon set down his glass.
‘You’ll find a taxi at the end of the road,’ said Gregory affably.
‘Thanks—thanks too for the drink. I’ll give you a ring, Ann, if I may—sorry to have been such a nuisance to you.’
Kenyon was standing by the door, but Ann felt that he might have been a thousand miles away. By the time she had reached the landing he was half-way down the stairs.
‘Don’t bother to come down,’ he called. ‘I can easily let myself out.’
The front door banged while she was still upon the second step. ‘He might have waited,’ she thought, ‘but of course the darling was trying to make it seem ordinary and natural. Anyhow Gregory couldn’t have seen much!’ She yawned, suddenly realising how tired she was and went back into the sitting-room to fetch her coat.
Gregory stood there grinning like a fiend. ‘Ann,’ he said, ‘Ann—how could you be such a little idiot?’
‘What do you mean?’ she cried, her eyelids lowering angrily.
‘I never meant you to go and overstep the mark like that!’
Misunderstanding his meaning completely she flushed scarlet. Thank you, Gregory, what I choose to do is entirely my own affair.’
‘Of course,’ he was serious now, ‘but why in God’s name pick on a man like that?’
‘He’s worth a thousand like you!’ she snapped.
‘Perhaps, but he won’t be any earthly good to you if we all have to get out in a hurry—and that’s what it is coming to, you believe me!’
‘Why?’ Ann demanded truculently.
‘Because he’ll be too busy with his own crowd.’
‘What exactly do you mean?’ she said slowly.
‘Well, you’re a typist-secretary aren’t you?’
‘What about it? He knows that.’
Gregory set down his glass with slow deliberation; his mouth hung slightly open. ‘Does he? Well, do you seriously think he’ll give a damn what happens to you when the crash comes? You’ve just been an excellent amusement for the evening that’s all. A little quiet fun which will be forgotten in the morning. Surely you realise that, unless … Good God! perhaps you don’t know who he is?’
‘I do—his name is Kenyon Wensleadale. I was telling you about him only this evening, and that he was getting some sort of Government job.’ Ann shivered slightly, feeling for the first time the chill of the night air.
‘Government job, eh?—that’s pretty rich.’ He shook his head whimsically. ‘You poor little fool, hadn’t you the sense to realise that Wensleadale is the family name of the Dukes of Burminster? That young man is the candidate for mid-Suffolk, Ann—and he is known officially as my Lord the Marquis of Fane!’
4
Love, Cocktails, and the
Shadow of Fear
‘Darling! How divine of you to come!’ Lady Veronica Wensleadale was stretched at full length on the comfortable sofa in her private sitting-room. It was on the third floor of the Burminster house in Grosvenor Square, a friendly, well-lit and exquisitely furnished room.
‘My dear! I’ve been simply dying to see you.’ Fiona Hetherington stretched out both her hands. She was Veronica’s closest friend and from their greetings one might have imagined that they met after a separation of months. Actually they had seen each other less than ten days before, exchanged letters, and held two long conversations on the telephone in the meantime.
‘Sit down, my sweet, and tell me everything.’ Veronica pulled the other girl down beside her. She was darker than her brother Kenyon, but a suggestion of red lit the almost black hair on her small and shapely head. As she lay back her slim body was half-buried in the cushions and her pale oval face only just appeared above her knees. A thin spiral of smoke rose from a cigarette in her slender jade holder.
‘I suppose you’ve heard all these ghastly rumours which are floating round,’ Fiona said.
‘Yes, too nauseating, my dear—why don’t they have their absurd revolution and get it over!—but tell me about the Tweekenhams’ dance?’
‘It was an awful flop, half the people failed to turn up!’
‘But, darling, they were completely loppy to give a party in August, anyhow.’
‘I don’t know,’ Fiona remonstrated, ’as Parliament is still sitting everybody has stayed on in London this year, but even Peter tried to back out at the last moment—said it was such damned bad taste with the King ill and everything—but we had to go in the end, I couldn’t let Angela down.’
‘Poor Angela! she is a complete nit-wit, but such a sweet. It was hellish to have to refuse her, but I couldn’t get away from Holkenham until yesterday.’
Fiona pulled off her hat and shook back her fair hair. ‘Was it amusing?’
‘Grim, my dear—grim.’ Veronica cast her eyes up to the ceiling. ‘The house was Strawberry Hill Gothic, not enough bathrooms, and a vast brown-tiled hall—real Neo-Lavatorial!’
‘How depressing. What were the Bronsons like?’
‘Quite too terrible. Of course it’s a bit of luck for Kenyon that he was at Magdalen with the son. Old Sir George is practically fighting the election for him, but the old woman was appalling. It is one of those ghastly places where they keep up the prehistoric custom of the men sitting over their port, and as Juliana Augusta went up to bed early the first night the Bronson cornered me in the drawing-room. She third-degreed me about Juliana Augusta’s little whims and she must have said “the dear Duchess” forty times in the hour. I think she thought that to say “Your mother” would have been lèse majesté.’
Fiona smiled. ‘And what about the young man?’
‘Oh, he was quite a nice little cad—played a decent game of golf and made sheep’s eyes at me of course, but the poor lamb was dragged off to do this filthy electioneering most of the time—Hell’s Bells!—that’s done it.’ Veronica grabbed frantically at the end of her cigarette which had fallen from the holder into her lap. When she had succeeded in rescuing the glowing stub she surveyed her light summer frock angrily. Two large yellow burns showed right in the middle of it.
‘Ruined, my dear—ruined!’ she exclaimed wildly in her rather high-pitched voice. ‘How absolutely too maddening—and the rag’s not even paid for!’
‘Poor darling,’ Fiona consoled her, ‘but you can have it dyed, I’ve got quite used to that sort of thing since I married Peter.’
‘I know, sweet—you’ve been an absolute angel, but I just can’t wear dyed clothes.’
‘I do wish you’d be sensible. How you can keep on running up these awful bills, I can’t think.’
‘Madness, isn’t it. Maria threatened to writ me last week!’
‘Did she? My dear, if I were in your shoes I shouldn’t be able to sleep a wink.’
‘I don’t, darling, at times I squirrel terrifically, but let’s face it—if you’re not a beauty, clothes do count.’
‘What nonsense—you’re, lovely!’
Veronica tapped her high, arched nose. ‘Good old mountain goat, lovie.’
‘How absurd—who wants stupid doll-like prettiness anyhow. You’ve got the most shapely head I’ve ever seen, a figure like a sylph and the loveliest pair of legs in London. Besides you’re the most amusing person in the world to talk to and men adore that!’
‘Oh, I can get away with murder among the males.’
‘Well, what are you grumbling about then?’
‘Clothes, dearie, clothes, an’ ’ow ter pay me bills!’
‘Must you have so many?’
‘Yus! All part of the gime, lovie.’
Fiona nodded. ‘I don’t blame you really because you’ve got such marvellous taste. I expect I should be the same if I looked so devastatingly chic. But can’t you get papa to increase your allowance?’
‘Not a hope, darling; Herbert is broke to the wide. I cornered the old boy at Holkenham after he’d been at Bronson’s ‘96 port, but it wasn’t any earthly use.’
‘But he must have a pretty bi
g income still.’
‘He swears he hasn’t a bob. It would be different if we could persuade him to close down Banners. That place positively eats money, but he wont. He says it is unfitting that he should add to the number of the unemployed.’
‘It’s a pity that some of these beastly Communists can’t hear him!’
‘Oh, it’s not only that, my dear, he gets all Ducal too! “As long as there has been a Burminster, Banners has been the centre of life for three counties. The Monarch would be most displeased, I’m sure.” Then I just hoot with laughter. You know what a little round fat man Herbert is, and he’s just too comic for words when he starts to take himself seriously. No, darling—I’m afraid it’s got to be the Purple Monkey in the end!’
‘You can’t, Veronica.’
‘Darling, why not? He’s got a delicious wit, really artistic taste, and we could have a bedspread sewn with diamonds. What more does any girl want?’
‘Someone to be really fond of—don’t you think?’
‘What rippling rot, Fiona. Everybody gets divorced after two years these days.’
‘Ugh!’ Fiona gave a little shudder. ‘Just to think of that blue chin pressed against my neck makes me sick—and he’s old enough to be your father—you simply couldn’t!’
Veronica leaned back and gave a shout of laughter. ‘You pet!—how gloriously serious you are!’
‘I detest lecherous old men.’
‘I don’t—they amuse me. Besides he’s no age really—forty-five perhaps. Anyhow I should trompée him and have dozens of handsome young lovers!’
‘How’s Alistair, as mad about you as ever?’
‘Yes, poor lamb—and I thank you, my love, Major Hay-Symple is in excellent health. He was with us at Holkenham.’
‘To help Kenyon with the campaign or to flirt with your ladyship?’
‘Both!—but my ladyship was rather unkind I fear. Holkenham is no place for parlour games. If we’d been rumbled by the Bronsons they’d have spread the most ghastly scandal about me in ten ticks. I simply didn’t dare risk it, so Alistair had to console himself by punishing the port. He was a great success with the children though.’
Fiona looked puzzled. ‘I didn’t know there were any.’
‘Oh, in the house?—thank God, no! that would have been the last straw. I mean the young Britons. We made him tell them “What I did in the Great War, Daddie!” He simply hated it, of course, and he was only some sort of junior dogs-body at the time, but he got crossed fig-leaves or something for some act of idiocy he performed when he was tight as an owl—they lapped it up! He had to leave us on Saturday though, he was recalled by telegram.’
‘Yes, all leave has been cancelled. Peter says the Government have got the wind up to the eyebrows—but about Alistair. Why don’t you marry him, Veronica?’
‘My sweet, you know perfectly well that he hasn’t got a cent.’
‘But he’ll come into the place when his father dies.’
‘Yes, when he’s ninety—and I’ve grown a lovely long dewlap, thank you, darling—No!’
‘Oh, Veronica, don’t be absurd.’
‘I mean it, lovie—these ’ere surgeons is that ‘andy wiv their h’instruments nowadays they keeps all the old crocks in the ‘untin field until they’re h’octogenarians!’
‘You’d be very happy with Alistair.’
Veronica stretched her slim arms above her head and smiled indulgently. ‘You think of everybody in terms of Peter and yourself—and, little sentimental fool that you are—I adore you. But I always have been attracted by strange men—and I shall always be liable to go off the rails with any new man who comes along if he’s got brains and guts.’
‘Well, you can’t say that Alistair lacks guts, and he’s got brains as well—he’s been through Staff College.’
‘Yes, with a kick in the pants!—as for guts, darling, he keeps them filed away in the War Office to be taken out when wanted, so they’re not the kind I care about. Tell me, is Peter coming in to booze with us this evening?’
‘Yes, about six I expect, it’s nearly that now.’
‘Marvellous—I tried to get several chaps but they are all in their little blue uniforms playing at Special Constables, or busy joining Llewellyn’s comic opera Greyshirts. Still, Alistair is coming in for half an hour, and Kenyon will be in any moment so they’ll be able to tell us all about Auld England on its last legs. I suppose you haven’t seen an evening paper, have you?’
Fiona shook her head. ‘No, but I believe that there’s been awful trouble in the north. Dorothy—you know, the fair girl who does my hair at Ernaldé’s, told me that Glasgow is completely cut off, and a railway bridge blown up so that no trains can come through.’
‘My dear! these filthy Communists.’
‘Terrible, isn’t it, but I suppose we shall pull through somehow—we always seem to!’
‘Of course, darling. Everything would have been straightened out years ago if it hadn’t been for those pompous old lunatics in the Cabinet. Half of them are absolutely gaga.’
‘Well, if somebody doesn’t do something soon we shall be in a fine mess. Lots of people are so scared they are leaving for the country.’
Veronica blew out a thin spiral of smoke and nodded. ‘Herbert said something last night about packing Juliana Augusta and me off to Banners.’
‘That sounds rather grim.’
‘Quite shattering, my dear, just think of mother and me cooped up at Banners without a soul to separate us when we fight. The thought appals me.’
Fiona turned as the door opened behind her. ‘Hullo, Kenyon, my dear. How are you?’
‘Splendid, thanks. Electioneering can be almost as good exercise as polo. How’s Peter?’
‘He’s very fit, but so swollen-headed I hardly know what to do with him. Last Sunday he got round the Red course at the Royal Berks in 82. He’ll be here in a moment and then you’ll have to hear all about it.’
‘Good for him—but all the same, I flatly refuse to listen to any more golfing stories except from registered voters in my own division.’ Kenyon glanced at his sister, ‘Well, long-legs—what about a drink?’
‘Brute!’ she flung at him, ‘how many times have I told you that I absolutely forbid the use of derogatory terms in connection with my delicious limbs. The drinks are in the cupboard, and, my boy—may I remind you that it is your turn to pay?’
‘But hang it, we were away all last week,’ he protested as he opened the cupboard. ‘Still there’s lots here—some fresh bottles, too!’
‘Yes, my love—I ordered them this morning.’
‘Oh, well that was decent of you—I take it all back.’
Veronica suddenly guffawed with laughter, ‘and I put them down to your account at Justerini’s! Tra-la-la … tra-la-la!’
‘The devil you did! I owe them quite enough already.’
‘Never mind, Herbert pays his bills regularly so they won’t worry you.’
‘I dare say not, but I hate running up big bills. Electioneering is the most expensive pastime I know after yachting.’
‘You forgit the lidies, dearie!’ mocked Veronica. ‘All the same I think Herbert is a mean old pig to make us pay for our own tipple.’
‘Does he?’ exclaimed Fiona. ‘I thought he was supposed to have one of the best cellars in England?’
Veronica nodded. ‘Yes, sweet, and sherry, if you like it, is “on the ‘ouse” as they say. But Herbert doesn’t approve of cocktails so we pay for our three pen’oth of gin in turns.’
The door opened again and a footman in plain livery announced ‘Major Hay-Symple.’
‘Hullo, Veronica—Fiona, how are you? How’s Peter, eh?—Hullo, Kenyon, old boy!’ The rather thickset soldier with lively blue eyes threw a quick succession of smiles at them all. For a moment they stared at him in mild surprise. His immaculate khaki tunic with its little row of ribbons, wide breeches and shining field boots seemed strangely alien upon this intimate friend. That he should arri
ve at a cocktail party in uniform brought home to them more than any newspaper placard the gravity of the situation.
Then Veronica jumped up, and flinging her arms wide, kissed him with a loud smack on the forehead. ‘Alistair, my hero! come and sit here by me. What news out of Flanders, laddie? Stand the King’s colours where they stood—spare not the gruesome details for we are women of England. What news of the War?’
‘Eh—what’s that? What war?’ Hay-Symple looked vaguely astonished at her onset.
‘The rioting or whatever you call it, stupid—in all these horrid places that no one ever goes to!’
‘Oh, well—there’s been a spot of bother in the North.’
‘God! what a man!’ Veronica sank back on the sofa, her hands clasped dramatically to her head. ‘Details, my good fool—details are what we want.’
He grinned good-humouredly and took the cocktail that Kenyon held out. ‘Well, there’s trouble in Glasgow; the wires are down and some of these blackguards have sabotaged a bridge, but it’s nothing to worry about. Three battalions of the Highland Division have been concentrated there, and they’re great fellows—know a lot of ’em myself. They’ll soon put things right.’
Veronica shook him gently by the shoulder. ‘You divine person, we heard all that hours ago from Fiona’s hairdresser. Do you really mean to tell us that you don’t know anything more?’
‘Not much,’ he smiled at her affectionately. ‘We’re just standing by. Have to give a telephone number if we leave barracks for more than half an hour—that’s all.’
Kenyon filled up Fiona’s glass from his shaker, then he looked across at Veronica. ‘Why waste your breath, sweet Sis?’ he inquired with gentle sarcasm. ‘Don’t you realise that Alistair rides one of the King’s horses and is one of the King’s men. If he did know anything he wouldn’t tell you in a thousand years. It’s his job to keep his mouth shut.’
Black August Page 5
