by C. P. Snow
‘That’s done,’ said Mr March, and, instead of leaving the letter for the butler to collect, he took it to the post himself.
Katherine was thinking of getting up the next morning, when Mr March flung open the door.
‘It’s not my fault this has happened,’ he said. ‘It’s your mother’s fault. I never wanted another child. She made me.’
24: A Piece of News
From the morning of the announcement, Mr March was immersed in letters, notes, conversations, and telephone calls. Since he had feared more than the worst, he became cheerful as he answered ‘what they are civil enough to term “congratulations”’. Most of the March family wrote in a friendly way, though there were rumours that one cousin had threatened not to attend the wedding. Hannah was reported to have said: ‘I never thought she’d find anyone at all. Even someone ineligible. Mind you, she’s not married him yet.’
For several days Mr March did not receive any setback; Katherine thought she had been lucky.
Then Herbert Getliffe spoke to me one evening, in chambers, just before I went off to dine at Bryanston Square. He entered the room I worked in looking worried and abashed, and said: ‘There’s something I want to say to you, L S.’
Recently he had taken to calling me by my initials, though no one else did; as a rule, I was amused, but not that night, following him into his own room, for his alarm had already reached me. He sat at his desk: the smoke from his pipe whirled above the reading lamp; his face was ominous, and the smell of the tobacco became ominous too.
‘I want a bit of help, L S,’ he said. ‘They’re getting at me. You’ve got to come along and clear up the mess. I may as well tell you at once that it can turn out badly for your friends.’
His misery was as immediate as a child’s. It was hard to resist him when he asked for comfort.
‘Your friend Mr Porson is trying to raise the dust,’ said Getliffe. ‘You know something about him, don’t you? He was called at the same time as I was. But he didn’t find this wicked city needed his services enough to keep him in liquor, so he went off to lay down the law in the colonies. Well, he’s suddenly taken it into his head that I’ve been making more money than is good for me. He’s decided that I’ve used some confidential knowledge to make a packet on the side. You remember the Whitehall people asked me for an opinion last year? You gave me a hand yourself. Remind me to settle up with you about that. The labourer is worthy of his hire. Well, Master Porson is trying to bully them into an enquiry about some of my investments. Involving me and other people who are too busy to want to go down to Whitehall to answer pointless questions. But I don’t like it, L S. I can’t prevent these things worrying me. I ought to tell you that Porson is a man who can’t forgive one for being successful. You’ll find them yourself as you go up the ladder. But you’ll also find that more people than not will lend half an ear to Porson and company when they start throwing darts. That’s the world, and it’s no use pretending it isn’t. That’s why I want you to help me out.’
He wanted support from someone. He quite forgot, he made me forget, that he was the older man.
He gave me his own version of what Porson had discovered. It was not altogether easy to follow. Getliffe gave as much trouble as any of the evasive clients about whom he had ever grumbled. All I learned for sure that night was that he had been asked an opinion by a government department eighteen months before; while giving it, he had guessed (Porson said he had been told as an official secret) a Cabinet decision about a new government contract; two of his brothers-in-law had bought large holdings in the firm of Howard & Hazlehurst; they had done well out of it.
After telling me this story, Getliffe said: ‘Well, Mr Porson has just broken out in a new place. I’ve been told that he’s trying to persuade some pundit to ask a question in the House. Porson’s had the face to tell me so in as many words.
‘I warn you,’ Getliffe went on, ‘it’s possible he may bring it off, LS. I can talk to you frankly now you’re going up the hill a bit. Of course, I don’t worry much for myself. It may be a little difficult even for me, but it’s a mistake to worry too much about the doings of people who would like to step into one’s goloshes. I want you to believe that I’m thinking entirely of the effect on some of your friends. And particularly on my young brother. It’s for their sakes that I want everyone to use their influence to calm Porson down.’
He knew that I had met Porson occasionally since the coming-out dance.
‘If I can get the chance,’ I said, ‘I’ll talk to him. Though it won’t be easy. I don’t know him well.’
‘You mustn’t get the impression that I’m exaggerating. Porson could make things awkward for your friends. You see, my name couldn’t help but be brought in, whatever he did. That wouldn’t be good for my brother. The Chosen People don’t like public appearances. There are one or two members of the March family who would specially dislike this one. I give you fair warning. It’s uncomfortable for all of us.’
He was speaking with a severe expression, almost as though I was responsible for the danger. When he wanted your help, he sometimes appealed, sometimes threatened you with his own anxiety: anything to get the weight from his shoulders to yours. Then he said: ‘I can’t make out why Porson has got into this state. I always thought he was unbalanced. I don’t like to believe that he’s trying to bring the place down on our heads simply because he hates me. After all, I’ve managed to get on with most of my fellow men. I don’t like being hated, L S. Even by that madman. It’s a nasty sensation, and when people say they don’t mind being hated they’re just whistling to keep their spirits up. So I prefer to think something else may be moving Mr Porson. I shouldn’t be altogether surprised. Didn’t the young woman Ann Simon turn him down pretty flat not long ago? You may find that’s got something to do with it.’
He warned me again not to think that he was exaggerating the trouble. In fact, I was uneasy. He was shrewd, despite (or partly because of) his excessively labile nature. He was not a man over-inclined to anxiety. I had often seen him badgered, I had often seen him inducing others to extricate him from troubles – but the troubles were real, the consequences of living his mercurial, tricky life.
When I left him, it was nearly eight o’clock, and I had to go to Bryanston Square by taxi. As I waited while the Regent Street lights jostled by, rain throbbing against the windows, I was listening for the strike of eight. There was no chance of a word with Charles before dinner: I was greeted with genial shouts by Mr March: ‘You’ve made a frightful ass of yourself. You’re three minutes late. Anyone knows that you must allow five minutes extra on nights of this appalling nature.’
We went straight in to dinner. I was enough of a favourite of his not to be allowed to forget that I was late. Meanwhile I saw Charles several times, and Katherine once, looking in my direction: Charles at least knew that something was on my mind.
As luck would have it, Mr March was in more expansive form than for weeks past. Margaret March, whom I had met at my first Friday night, was there as well as Francis. After disposing temporarily of the topic of my incompetence, Mr March spent most of the night talking to Francis about buying a house.
The two of them were happy discussing plans and prices. Mr March occasionally burst out into accounts of his own struggles with Haslingfield and Bryanston Square. ‘One trouble you won’t have,’ he said, ‘since you are camping out in your Bohemian fashion, is that you won’t surround yourself with a mass of ponderable material that you’ll never extricate yourself from.’ The internal furniture of Bryanston Square had been valued years before at £15,000; but Mr March was lamenting that he could not sell it for as many shillings.
Houses of this size were relics of another age, now that people ‘camped out in a Bohemian fashion’, as Mr March insisted on referring to the style in which Katherine and Francis proposed to live. So the solid furniture of the March houses had become almost worthless, and Mr March and his brothers spent considerable ingenuity in
persuading one another to accept the bulky articles that they unwillingly received as legacies, as their older relations died off. Several of Mr March’s stories on this night, told mainly for Francis to appreciate, finished up with the formula: ‘I pointed out it was far more use to him than it was to me. And so I was willing to sacrifice it, provided he paid the cost of transport.’
When Mr March went to bed, Margaret settled down in her armchair. She was older than the rest of us, but still not married; she had a similar handsomeness to Charles’, and a similar hard, ruthless mind. Yet underneath, at the thought of any of our marriages, she was full of feeling. That night, she noticed the constraint in the air. Naturally she put it down to Mr March. So she said to Katherine: ‘I’m sure he has come round now. I’m positive you haven’t got anything to fear.’
‘I suppose not,’ said Katherine.
Margaret had spoken warmly and protectively. She was surprised, a little put out, to feel us all still in suspense. She turned for confirmation to Charles: ‘Don’t you agree that she’s safe enough?’
‘She ought to be,’ said Charles.
‘I wouldn’t have believed that Mr L could come round so quickly.’ Like her cousins, Margaret was not above plucking away at the same nerve. ‘He’s now drawn up your settlement good and proper, hasn’t he?’
‘Yes, he’s gone as far as that,’ Katherine replied.
Charles kept watching me, knowing I was not going to speak while Margaret was there. But Katherine was not so much on edge. At the mention of the settlement, she began to smile. ‘I’ve actually got it here,’ she said to Margaret.
She went to the writing-desk and brought out a sealed envelope. She broke the seal and looked over the document inside. It was printed, and ran into several pages.
‘I still think this is extremely funny,’ she said.
‘You don’t know what I shall become as I get older,’ Francis said, and they laughed at each other.
‘The point is,’ Katherine went on, ‘that really Mr L has the greatest possible confidence in Francis. Apart from his not being a Jew. Actually, Francis would have been a far more suitable child for Mr L than Charles. He wouldn’t have rebelled anything like as much.’
‘I should have managed,’ said Francis. His cheeks were creased by a smile, but he meant it. He would have found his way to his science somehow; he would have been radical, but he would have kept quiet. That night his quixotic, fine-drawn expression was less evident than it used to be; he looked composed and well.
‘Well,’ said Katherine, ‘it’s obvious that Mr L approves of the man. But as soon as he drew up my settlement’ – she pointed to the sheet in front of her – ‘he at once acted on the assumption that I was an imbecile and Francis was a crook. He’s taken every possible precaution to see that Francis never touches a penny. The settlement never gives him a chance. When I die, the money goes straight to our children. If Francis outlives me, he receives a small tip for watching his sons inherit their slice of their grandfather’s estate.’
All the marriage settlements in the family followed the same pattern; no one but a March should handle March money. Katherine and Charles had been amused, but nevertheless they took for granted the whole apparatus as an ordinary part of a marriage: while in the property-less world into which I had been born, no one would have known what a marriage settlement was.
I mentioned that I had never seen one. Katherine was just going to show me theirs, but Francis said: ‘I think Mr L would be shocked – even though it’s Lewis.’
‘You mean you’d be shocked yourself,’ said Katherine, but slipped the papers into the envelope again.
It was nearly midnight, and Margaret rose to go.
As she said goodbye, she noticed that I was staying. Her bright eyes looked keenly, uncomfortably round, worried because there was something wrong, self-conscious because she had been in the way.
We heard the butler taking her across the hall.
‘What’s the matter?’ said Charles, the moment the door clanged. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Is anything wrong with Sheila?’ said Katherine.
‘It’s nothing like that,’ I said. I told the story.
Katherine cried: ‘Will he bring it out in the next three weeks? Before we’re married?’
‘No one knows,’ I said. ‘In any case, we may all be taking it too seriously–’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Charles. ‘Herbert Getliffe is right, it’s the sort of affair the family wouldn’t like. You mustn’t worry,’ he said to Katherine. ‘It ought to be possible to stop Porson yet.’
‘That must be tried,’ said Francis. ‘There’s plenty to do. We’ll break the jobs down in a minute.’
Suddenly he had taken charge. He had the decision, the capacity for action, of a highly strung man who had been able to master his nerves. It was easy at that instant to understand the influence he had had on Charles when they were undergraduates, with Francis two years older.
He spoke straight to Katherine as though they were alone.
‘The first thing is, we must prepare for the worst. We’ve got to assume that he’ll act on it. It’s better to assume that right away. If he does, we shan’t let the family make any difference.’
‘That’s easier said than done,’ said Katherine. ‘But – no, we shan’t.’
‘Good work,’ said Francis, and took her hand. ‘Now let’s get down to it. Lewis, tell us the practical steps Porson can take. If he wants to make as much fuss as possible. We want all the details you can give us.’
Sharply he asked me: could Porson start anything more damaging than a parliamentary question? How long did it take to get a parliamentary question asked? Could it be delayed? Could we find out the moment it began to pass through the department?
Francis arranged that on the next day I should try to see Porson. Charles would see Albert Hart, who might have an acquaintance in the department. Francis himself would speak to his brother.
That settled, Francis looked at Katherine, and said with a smile, tart and yet distressed:
‘I’m sorry that my brother should be responsible for this. It isn’t altogether his fault. Ever since I can remember, I’ve been listening to his latest manoeuvre. He’s got too much energy for one man. That’s what has made him a success.’
He had just surprised me by being more effective than any of us. Now he surprised me again – by showing something he had never shown before, his true relation to his half-brother.
Occasionally he had not been able to disguise his shame and anger at one of Herbert’s tricks: but he had usually spoken of him very much as Charles used to speak, with amusement at his exploits, with indifference, with humorous disapproval. His apology to Katherine had torn that cover aside. Now we saw the affection, the indulgent, irritated, and above all admiring affection, which a man like Herbert Getliffe so often inspires in his nearest circle; so that Herbert’s children, for example, would come to worship him and make his extravaganzas into a romance. That was true even of Francis, so responsible and upright.
Francis soon controlled his smile, so that the distress was no longer visible. His expression became commanding and active.
‘It’s clear what must be done,’ he said. ‘I think it’s all set. You’ll do what you can with Porson, Lewis? I don’t like to involve you in this business, but if it can be stopped it would be convenient.’
‘It probably can be stopped,’ said Charles. He was trying to reassure Katherine on a different plane from Francis’. ‘I’ll see Ann first thing tomorrow. She may know more about Porson. And there is something I might be able to say to the family myself.’
25: The Smell of Wet Leaves in the Square
From the night of Getliffe’s warning, there were nineteen days before the wedding. On the first of them I could not find Ronald Porson, but within forty-eight hours of the news from Getliffe I had managed to have a long talk with him. I was able to assure Katherine that there did not seem much to fear.
/> Since we met at the coming-out dance, I had got on well with Porson. He was boastful, violent, uncontrolled; but he had the wild generosity one often finds in misfit lives, and I was the only one of his new circle who was still struggling. With me he could advise, help, and patronize to his heart’s content. And with me he could stick a flower in his buttonhole, swing his stick, and lead the way to a shop girl who had taken his fancy: he was a man at ease only with women beneath him in the social scale.
Ann had punctured his sexual vanity, as was so easy to do. He had talked to me about her with violent resentment and with love. He was more easily given to warm hate than anyone I knew.
So I did not dare ask him to call off his attack on Getliffe in order not to risk disturbing Katherine’s marriage. He was capable of such inordinate good nature that he might have agreed on the spot, even for a girl he scarcely knew; but on the other hand, because she was connected with Charles and Ann, he might have burst out against them all. Instead I felt it was safe to talk only of Herbert Getliffe and of what Porson was now planning.
To my surprise he was very little interested: he seemed to have given up the idea of a parliamentary question, if he had ever entertained it. He mentioned Ann affectionately, and I suspected she had gone to see him the day before. He was full of his scheme for going on to the midland circuit.
For some reason or other his anger had burned itself out. So I told Katherine, and Charles agreed that there seemed no danger from him. He had heard something more about Ronald, also reassuring, from Ann, though exactly what I did not learn.
For a day or two there seemed nothing to worry over. Katherine had to show Francis off to some of her relations, and recaptured the fun of being engaged, which, since Mr March first came round, she had been revelling in.
