‘Voyons, mon cher! La Pucelle d’Orléans! Did she not sit at the King’s table? That simple fact alone is all the proof I need. For a woman who was not born to sit at the table of a King of France would be a greater miracle than any voices, let me tell you.’
‘My aunt takes no account of historical characters unless they happen to be relations of hers. Luckily they nearly all are. Charles X was a great-grandfather so that arranges the legitimate royal lines of every country except Russia, while her Murat grandmother brings in Napoleon and the Marshals.’
Mme de Sauveterre asked Alfred to show her his library which had been redecorated during the time of Sir Louis Leone. She said she had seen coloured photographs of it in a magazine which Jacques Oudineau had brought down to Boisdormant. ‘He knows I like picture papers so he brings me all the ones he has finished with when he comes to see his father. You wouldn’t believe how extravagant he is – abonné to everything under the sun and you know the price they are nowadays. People are getting much too rich, it can’t be a good thing.’
‘I want to see Jacques Oudineau,’ said Charles-Édouard. ‘I hear he has got a Moreau I’ aîné he wouldn’t mind selling – ’
Uncle Matthew began telling the Conservatives about Yanky. ‘Teenage Beats,’ I heard him say. ‘You must remember the name, Yanky Fonzy, and ask for his records because he gets money for every one they sell. Of course, I’m not saying he’s Galli-Curci – ’
I took Valhubert by the arm. ‘I must have a word with you.’ In a loud voice I added, ‘Come in here, the National Gallery has sent us a large, dull picture and I want you to advise me where to hang it.’ We went into the yellow drawing-room. ‘Have you seen Grace this evening?’
‘Not yet. When we got back from the country my concierge said there had been this riot so I drove straight on here to see what it was all about.’
I told him everything. He shook with laughter, especially when I got to the Club and the Duke. ‘But my dear Fanny, what now? What does Alfred say?’
‘You do realize we must never tell him about the riot not being real. He would look the most awful fool if it got out –I haven’t told Grace by the way – ’
‘No, better not. Pity to spoil her fun – an anti-English riot is just her affair – she must be thrilled!’
‘She is naughty! Philip says if we can keep up the fiction there’s some hope of making them all see sense. As for the boys, Alfred doesn’t know the full horror. When these people have gone I shall have to explain about Yanky and the Showbiz. Oh, Charles-Édouard, children!’
‘Don’t worry. They’ll soon be off our hands, in prison.’
‘Here’s Philip, oh good. So what’s up?’
‘It’s wonderful. I’ve been with the press boys ever since I saw you. The best hoax of all time. Simply nobody has twigged. The stories will be amazing, you’ll sec.’
The newspapers played up exactly as Philip had hoped they would. The reputable ones stated, quite soberly, correctly as far as it went, that several hundred students had gathered outside the British Embassy shouting slogans and that after about half an hour they had dispersed of their own accord. These reports were accompanied by editorial comment to the effect that if there was a serious misunderstanding between France and England it was time that it should be cleared up. Perhaps the English had not used the most tactful of methods in pressing their rightful claim to the Minquiers Islands. No doubt it had been necessary to entertain Dr Niam (now in Pekin) but the timing of his visit had been unfortunate. As for the European Army, while we in England realized its desirability and inevitability, we had not shown much comprehension of French difficulties in this respect. All in all, we should do well to keep in with our friends since our enemies were legion. The French papers were even more conciliatory, digging into the history of the Entente and saying that so solid an edifice was not to be shaken by a few students exhibiting bad manners.
The Grumpy group reported the affair in their own inimitable style:
‘POST’ MAN IN PARIS RIOTS
I WALK WITH THE SCREAMING TEN THOUSAND
According to Mockbar, a fearful mob, baying for British blood, had milled in the Faubourg utterly uncontrolled by the police who looked as if they would join in for tuppence. It reminded him of the worst days of the Commune. No mention of sheltering among the ancient bibelots; heroic Mockbar had swayed to and fro in the thick of young devils who, had they guessed he was a Briton, would have scuppered him then and there. While, inside the Embassy, women wailed and babies wept (‘That’s you and ’Chang, Northey,’ I said), the Ambassador had escaped by a back door and taken shelter at the Quai d’Orsay. His First Secretary was drinking at the bar of a nearby hotel.
Lord Grumpy’s editorial said: British lives are threatened, British property is menaced. Where? Behind the Iron Curtain? In barbarous lands across the seas? Not at all. These things occurred in Paris. How did our Ambassador the Pastoral Theologian respond to the outrage? Was he at his post? We think there should be a full inquiry into the events of this black day in the history of British diplomacy. If Sir Alfred Wincham has failed to do his duty, he should go.
Lord Grumpy’s remarks, as usual, gave much pleasure.
They were read with delight and absolutely unheeded by several million Englishmen. Later in the week, Alfred went home to report on the, now vastly improved, situation and to see, with the Foreign Office experts, what could be done to re-establish the Entente. This was made easier by the fact that Junior across the Atlantic was annoying Mother and Auntie with behaviour learnt, it must be said, at their knees. Under a cunning pretext of anti-colonialism, the Americans were scooping up trade in a part of the world where hitherto French and English interests had been paramount. The quarrel over the Eels began to look silly; as soon as the newspapers had lost interest in them and gone on to more important subjects, the dispute was quietly submitted to The Hague Court where the islands were judged to belong to England. In harmony with the spirit of the age, we then granted them full independence.
During the Anglo-French honeymoon which now began, Basil disembarked his atom marchers at Calais. They were all in fancy dress, the men in kilts, the women in trousers; the weather was clear and sparkling and not too cold; the whole expedition was permeated from the start with a holiday atmosphere. Since atom objectors do not exist in France, literally the only public matter on which all Frenchmen are united being the desirability of a Bomb of one’s own, the French immediately assumed that the march was a congratulatory gesture to unite Aldermaston with Saclay. The word jumelage was freely used by the newspapers; the two establishments were henceforward twin sisters, friends for ever. When the Britons got off their boat they were met with flowers, flags, speeches and wine; from the moment they landed they hardly drew a sober breath. None of them knew any French so, cleverly prompted by Basil, they concluded that the reception meant that the whole population felt as they did; in a joyful Kermesse they danced rather than marched across Normandy. They were not allowed to pay for a meal, a drink or a bed; Basil and his Grandad, who had extorted huge sums for the all-in trip, garnered a rich profit. At Saclay the Atom Minister himself, sent by Northey, was there to greet them. There were more flowers, more flags, stronger wine and longer speeches. The Britons were cordially invited to go to the Sahara and witness the first French atomic explosion whenever it should take place. In a happy haze of drunken misapprehension, they were then driven in official motors, with a circus turn of motor-bicyclists escorting them, to Orly and sent home free by Air France.
‘Never, since the war, have Anglo-French relations been so cloudless,’ said The Times. The Daily Telegraph said, ‘Sir Alfred Wincham’s wise and subtle manoeuvring in a difficult situation has been triumphantly successful.’ Lord Grumpy said the cunning French had twisted the lion’s tail once more and that their valet, Wincham, ought to be sent, forthwith, to Rangoon. Plans and projects for The Visit were now put into operation.
Chapter Twenty-three
; ‘I WOULDN’T mind the boys calling me Dad,’ said Alfred (who did mind, however, and had made great efforts, successful with David and Baz, to be called Father), ‘if only they wouldn’t pronounce it Dud.’
It was the morning after the riot; Grace and Charles-Édouard had come round for another conference on what could be done with the children. Our two had had breakfast with Alfred; there had been a long, perfectly fruitless argument on lines which were becoming all too familiar. In a sincere effort to use language that Alfred could understand they explained that members of the Showbiz were the aristocracy of the modern world; that Yanky was its King and that as Yanky’s gentlemen-in-waiting they had the most covetable position of any living teenagers. Alfred asked what their plans were for the immediate future. ‘Driftin’ with Yank to Russia,’ was the reply. (Driftin’, it seems, is Showbiz for touring.) They were to drift through France, Switzerland, and Czechoslovakia, possibly taking in the Balkans; their final objective was Moscow. ‘So lucky we all opted to learn Russian at school.’
‘And wherever we appear,’ Fabrice said, ‘the kids will go screaming, raving mad because in those countries everybody has Yanky’s discs which they buy on the black market. You should see the fan-mail he gets from iron teenagers.’
Alfred then spoke, in the tongue of our ancestors. He summoned up all his wisdom, all his eloquence, he drew tears from his own eyes as he argued his case for civilization. They listened politely for an hour. When they were quite sure he had finished and that they were in no way interrupting him they replied that his fate had been an example to them. They couldn’t help noticing that he had led a sorrowful existence year after year, growing old without having known any pleasure, fun, or enjoyment and that as a result he had landed up in this deplorable, antiquated giggle-academy, the English Embassy at Paris.
‘When I left the room,’ he said, after telling us all this, ‘I heard Charlie say to Fabrice “Poor Dud, he’s had it!” I think that pretty well sums up their attitude. We are duds, Valhubert, and we’ve had it. Yes, even you.’
‘I don’t know why you should say even me. Specially me, I should have thought.’
‘You are a man of action and as such they might have had a certain respect for you. Of course they know quite well that you had a good war, but I’m afraid that means nothing to them because what were you fighting for? They don’t care a fig for liberty, equality, fraternity, or any of our values – still less for their King and Country. The be-all and end-all of their existence is to have a good time. They think they could have rocked and rolled quite well under Hitler and no doubt so they could.’ Alfred buried his face in his hands and said despairingly, ‘The black men affirm that we are in full decadence. Nothing could be truer, if these boys are typical of their generation and if they really mean all the things they told me just now. The barbarians had better take over without more ado. We made the last stand against them. At least we have that to be proud of. But you have fought in vain, my life’s work has come to nothing – this job the most pointless part of it, very likely.’
‘My dear Ambassador,’ said Valhubert, ‘you take it all too tragically. Young persons in prosperous circumstances live for pleasure. They always have and no doubt they always will. When I think what Fabrice and I were like, right up to the war! Between women and hunting, we never had a serious thought. Of course when we were Sigi’s age, our noses were pressed in the direction of a grindstone by force of economic sanctions. If we could have earned £9 a week packing shavers do you really think we would have stayed at the lycée another hour? And I bet we’d have found some watertight method of nicking, by the way.’
‘I’m sorry, Valhubert, but I cannot agree with you. Many adolescents, even rich ones, have a love of learning for its own sake. I know, because as a don I have had hundreds of civilized rich young men through my hands.’
‘But with these boys you must face the fact that they are not, and never will be, intellectuals. Hard for you, I know – still two out of four in your family took firsts, quite an honourable percentage. The other two never will, in a hundred years. In the end they will probably be the most conformist all the same.’
‘But nowadays no respectable career is open to people without degrees.’
‘To speak practically. Sigi will be very rich – I have never had to work so I can’t exactly blame him if he doesn’t, can I? little Fabrice only has to play his cards well enough to refrain from throwing them in Tante Odile’s face to be in the same circumstances.’
‘But Charlie must earn his living.’
‘Don’t you see, darling,’ I intervened, ‘the point is that he can. He was making this huge amount in London, and now, at sixteen, he is one of the kings of Showbiz!’ I trust that a note of pride could not be detected as I said these words.
‘You torture me. Have we brought a human soul to this stage of development only to see him promoting pop sessions?’
‘But, dearest, how can we prevent it? Charles-Édouard is quite right. We can’t do more for the boys now (any of them) than look on at their vagaries with tolerance and provide a background when they need one.’ Twinge of conscience here. Had I been nice enough to David?
Valhubert said, ‘Exactly. They are grown up. Each man in the last resort is responsible for himself. Let them be – let them go. Sigi tells me they are drifting off tomorrow with Yanky Fonzy, taking 20 per cent of his earnings, plus their expenses and anything else they can nick. All right. Count it as the Grand Tour; they’ll see the world; it’s better than packing. When they come back, if they are eighteen by then, they can go to the wars like everybody else. Only do send Fabrice this afternoon to see Tante Odile.’
‘How French you are, Charles-Édouard,’ said Grace, laughing.
‘Hot newsP This was Northey, coming in with my breakfast. ‘The Bomb from Brum has buggered!’
‘Already? And the boys never came to say good-bye?’
‘The point is, he has left them behind. There was the most terrific bust-up yesterday at Le Pop Club and he has gone.’
‘Can it be true? What has happened?’
‘It was all about the publicity. You see when Yank saw those kids in Main Street – biggest outdoor reception even he has dreamed of – he thought he’d never had it so good. He expected to hit the headlines on the front pages. Grandfather in the taxi, he thought, gave that little extra something that journalists love, then the crowds, the police, Alfred going to the Quai (I must say it wrung my withers not telling the dear little soul about it).’
‘If you had, Northey – ’
‘Yes, well, I didn’t, did I? So Yank thought the boys were geniuses and honestly, Fanny, in a way they were. You’ve got to hand it to Sigi – he mobilized that enormous crowd – then the Vel d’Hiv was a whizz, every teenager in Paris must have been there and the receipts broke all records. At the Club they were congratulating Yank on his wonderful agents and he was so pleased he kept signing travellers’ cheques, giving them to the boys. Of course he could hardly wait to see the papers. Came the Dawn – quell horrible surprise! As you know, sweet Amy and the rest of them barked up the wrong tree – Yank might have stayed in London for all they knew and the bitter thing was his wonderful riot was put down to those silly old islands. His name wasn’t mentioned in the news at all – no photographs of him with the screaming kids – taxi gimmick thrown away. A few paragraphs in the entertainment pages saying that he had arrived in Paris and sang from a balcony in the Avenue Gabriel. There’ll be a story in the jazz papers of course, but he always has them on his side and this time he’d counted on the dailies. In short, Sigi did marvels, but he only warned the jazz journalists and he got all of them in the garden. He never thought of telling the others – he had no idea, of course, that there would be such a mob of kids in Main Street. So the whole thing has fallen as flat as a pancake. Yank says that’s what comes of dealing with bloody amateurs; he telephoned to London fot his old agent he’s always had and as soon as he arrived they drifted off – ’<
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‘Northey! It’s too interesting and unexpected I So how are the boys taking it?’
‘If you ask me, they are relieved. They had begun to see that Yanky is a most unpleasant person. And Fanny, it’s my opinion they’ve had about enough of earning their own livings. They admit now that the shavers were a tremendous bore – it seems you are shut up in a horrible sort of place which brings on headaches. Driftin’ would have been rather fun, but not with Yank. He has put them right off the Showbiz – and they didn’t much care for the people at the Club (except for the Duke, who is heaven). They were all on Yanky’s side and made the boys feel inferior. Then one of their friends at Eton has asked them to a boys’ shoot in Jan which they long to accept. Apparently it’s a spiffing house to stay in, where the oldies know their place. They’d like to become ordinary again, you know – they’d really give anything to go back to Eton.’
‘Well, that’s out of the question – silly little fools. We shall have to see what can be done with them – Condorcet probably, before they cram for Oxford. Meanwhile it’s almost the Christmas holidays and they can go to their old shoot. Oh, darling, you don’t know what a weight off my mind this is!’
At dinner that evening the boys were studiously normal. They wore dinner jackets, their hair, which had been standing on end, was now watered and brushed in the usual way; they were clean. They gave us looks which I well remembered from their early nursery days and which I could remember bestowing, myself, on the grown-ups; looks which said if all can be forgotten and forgiven we will be good again. They called Alfred Father, and asked him to explain about the CE.D. They asked me what books I had been reading – I quite expected them to say ‘Have you been abroad lately?’ a favourite gambit with people they hardly knew. They were sweet and attentive to Uncle Matthew and told him about the shoot they were going to. His old face lit up because it had once belonged to a relation of his and he had shot there many a time in the past.
Don't Tell Alfred Page 24
