The Oracles

by Margaret Kennedy

  On Wednesday Christina did the shops in Knightsbridge and Piccadilly. She explored the Burlington Arcade and walked up Bond Street. That night they dined with Frank Archer, who had kept in touch with them ever since his last visit to East Head. He and Christina had corresponded over the fate of Serafina Swann, and he had urged her to let him know if they ever came up to London.

  He entertained them in a private room at a famous restaurant, and Christina was able to wear the dinner dress which she had hopefully brought to London. The food was something to remember and so were the wines. But it was the company which impressed Dickie, for it included Sir Miles Corry, of Maxwell, Burke & Corry, a titan firm, in comparison with which Pattison & Pattison was as a minnow to a whale. Maxwell and Burke had both been cremated a long time ago, but Sir Miles was extant and had recently acquired a Mary Cassatt from Frank Archer. Both Christina and Dickie were struck by the difference in Archer’s manners and appearance on this occasion; he did not look nearly so odd as he had at East Head. He seemed to possess some protean quality which enabled him to get by in any company.

  The great Sir Miles was very nice to Dickie and talked to him a good deal after dinner, when they went into another room for coffee. Christina was gratified by this, and appreciated the food, but found herself a little shy with the other women. Lady Corry was very kind, they were all kind, they smiled at her, but they seemed to be at a loss for anything to say to her beyond enquiries concerning her baby, when they discovered that she had one. Since they were too good-mannered to raise topics from which she was excluded, she had no idea of the kind of conversation natural to them. She believed, however, that they would have gossiped about people, would have discussed births, deaths and marriages in their own set, and that they were a little sorry for her because she knew nobody they knew. This, she thought, was just like people in London. But it was a pleasure to see Dickie so animated and happy, discussing ‘take-over bids’ with Sir Miles.

  On Thursday she had a hair-do, for which she paid double the price of a good permanent wave in East Head. She could not believe that she looked twice as beautiful, but a new hair-do is an essential item in the ritual of a London holiday; she could not have gone home without one. In the evening they entertained the Barlows to dinner and a theatre. They had left the choice of a show to their guests, supposing that the Barlows must have seen a great many, and unwilling to make them see anything twice. The Barlows, who never went to the theatre, chose a musical of which they could not help knowing because it was advertised on such very large posters. Nobody enjoyed it.

  On Friday Christina lunched alone with Frank Archer, in a restaurant noted for the celebrity of its patrons. She hoped that he would point out a number of famous people, and came away without having gaped at one, not because there were none, but because of a conversation with Archer which put everything else out of her head.

  That night she and Dickie set off to celebrate the end of their little jaunt. They went to dine and dance at a very special place recommended by Archer, which turned out to be all that he had promised. It deserved the champagne which Dickie ordered, and the orchid on Christina’s shoulder.

  She let him get through one glass before she gave him Frank’s message, but she was anxious to deliver it as soon as possible because he would need time to think it over, and if he did decide to go and see Sir Miles he must do it early on Saturday morning.

  ‘Dickie!’

  ‘Yes, dear?’

  ‘I’ve got something rather important to say. I lunched with Frank, you know. It’s about Sir Miles Corry.’

  Dickie, who had been watching some mysterious cooking operations going on at a neighbouring table, turned and gave her his full attention.

  ‘Frank told me … they want … Maxwell, Burke want somebody … a young man … a junior partner really. A young man that was with them has decided to go to America. They want somebody instead. And Sir Miles liked you very much. And Frank and he have talked about you since: Frank told him that you are quite your own master and could come in, if you like the idea. I mean, if you sold the East Head practice you’d have some money to put in. Frank says, if you like the idea, will you ring Sir Miles and go and see him tomorrow?’

  She got it all out in a rush, giving Dickie no chance to say anything at all. Even when she had finished he was speechless for quite a long time. At last he said:

  ‘Maxwell, Burke … me … but that … but that’s the sort of chance … Maxwell, Burke … anybody … anybody … they could pick and choose … me … Maxwell, Burke?’

  ‘Well, he liked you. And Frank talked to him.’

  ‘Maxwell, Burke! Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve got a note to you from Frank. But I thought I’d explain first.’

  She fished the note out of her bag; he read it while their wild duck was brought to them and the orange salad was served.

  ‘I could never have dreamt of such a thing,’ he said.

  ‘But would you like it, Dickie?’

  He looked at her as though he could not quite grasp her question.

  ‘You’ve never been really happy in East Head,’ she suggested. ‘I believe you might be happier in some bigger firm. What do you think?’

  Dickie shook his head. He was still a little stunned.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said helplessly. ‘It’s so sudden.’

  ‘There’s no reason you should stay in East Head. While your father was alive, yes! But now …’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  He tried to remember why he had thought that he could never get away.

  ‘Of course, the work,’ he said. ‘I’d have to be a good deal more on my toes. Would I be up to it?’

  ‘I suppose you’d have to work harder. Should you mind?’

  ‘No. No. But it would be … an upheaval.’

  We’ve just got ourselves into The Rowans, he thought. And now I’m to be shoved out of it. I dread to be led from East Head. What on earth is the matter with me? I should jump at it. I’m in a rut, and Tina is kicking me out of it. Tina!

  ‘But you?’ he exclaimed. ‘You’d rather hate it, wouldn’t you? You don’t like London. It would mean leaving all your friends and everything. You wouldn’t want to leave the new house?’

  ‘I should find that part rather hard,’ she agreed. ‘But I should get used to it, I expect. I’ve been thinking it over ever since lunch. I should be …’

  She broke off and spared him the knowledge of what she had been thinking ever since lunch. Her own happiness must lie in promoting his. She should be miserable unless she thought that he was getting the best possible out of his life. So long as he seemed to be doing that, she did not much care, now, where she lived. In East Head he was perpetually confronted by his own mistakes; Maxwell, Burke might give him less time to think of them. Should a removal to London turn out to be another mistake, that, she decided, would be just too bad. She must then resign herself to the fact that she loved a man who never knew what he wanted.

  ‘I get rather impatient with East Head myself,’ she continued. ‘It’s a pity, really, to spend the whole of one’s life in one place, unless one has a duty to. It’s a little cowardly; like a person who clings to their family too much because they can’t be bothered to make friends outside. I think a good shaking up is what we both of us need.’

  This rational answer contented him, and it was true, as far as it went. East Head had ceased to satisfy her. She had lately been very unhappy there, and none of her friends could do anything to help her. But of this grief, and its origin, she would not speak, because he did not want to see it.

  ‘I believe you’re right,’ he said.

  ‘Your duck is getting cold, dear.’

  They both began to eat.

  Tomorrow morning, he thought. But I mustn’t begin, yet, to think of it as settled. I must see what he says. A lot of things must be thought of. The sale of the practice … the work … it will all be on a different scale. Another year or two in that hole and I d
on’t believe I’d have had the energy to tackle it. Thank heaven it’s come in time. To get away! To get away!

  Why shouldn’t I make friends in London? she asked herself. People do have friends in London. Eight million people. Walking about in London and not knowing anybody. Not in the shops. Not in the streets. No Mrs. Hughes running in to help. No elevenses at the Pavilion, and hearing all the news. No news to hear unless they write. Pushing the pram out every day with Bobbins and Anne. I’m glad I didn’t tell him that I’m sure, now, about Anne. It might distract him. I will when he’s quite made up his mind one way or the other. Nobody stopping to look in the pram and say how they’re growing. But that’s nonsense. I shall find some more friends sometime. If it was just going to another little town, I should soon pick up with things. Eight million people! How do eight million people ever get to know each other? They don’t enjoy themselves in London. We’ve been out every night this week, but I haven’t really enjoyed it. I get more fun in the Pavilion café. But I shall manage. I’m not a fool. I must manage. No use making him come to London and then sitting about with a long face, and grumbling.

  ‘Let’s dance,’ suggested Dickie.

  They rose and went out on to the floor. They were good dancers and, in the past, had known some ecstatic moments as they moved to the same rhythm in one another’s arms. But now they danced rather badly because they were both preoccupied.

  ‘You’re a very good wife,’ said Dickie, bumping her into another couple. ‘I’m not worthy of you.’

  ‘You aren’t,’ agreed Christina. ‘You’re walking on my feet.’

  ‘You do know I’m grateful?’

  To hell with gratitude, thought Christina. Grateful men can’t dance, it seems.

  Having trodden a jerky measure, they went back to their table and ordered pêches flambées.

  ‘We could live in Bayswater,’ suggested the grateful Dickie. ‘Then you’d be near the Barlows.’

  Since the Barlows were her only friends in London, it would be nice for her to live near them. Bayswater was, in his opinion, a sluggery, but he must do the best that he could for Christina’s happiness.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I want to live in Hampstead.’

  ‘Oh, do you? Why?’

  ‘Well, it’s nice there, isn’t it?’

  She chose Hampstead because she did not want to see too much of the Barlows. She did not mean to depend upon them. In Hampstead once, three years before, she had met a nice girl, of whom she sometimes thought and whom she would like to meet again. She had been taken there by the Barlows to walk upon the Heath, but she had somehow managed to miss them and to lose her way. So she had asked this girl, who was out with a dog and had been very friendly, not merely directing her but offering to go with her. They had walked for half a mile together, chattering gaily, until they ran the Barlows to earth in Ken Wood. Christina had never felt so much at ease with a stranger before, and the girl belonged to Hampstead, because she was married and lived in a little old house near the Heath, so she said. There might be others like her: Hampstead might turn out to be a place where lonely women made friends when they walked upon the Heath.

  ‘We’ll have some brandy,’ said Dickie when their coffee came. ‘We must celebrate.’

  ‘You have brandy,’ said Christina. ‘I’ll have crême de menthe.’

  A great big glass was brought for him, a little green one for her. If they were to get their money’s worth they ought to dance again, but they could not, at the moment, because the band was taking a rest, and the pianist was playing a solo.

  It was a regrettably sentimental number, hackneyed and out of fashion, which he often played because he knew why it would always go down. His patrons, while affecting to despise it, listened; it sounded difficult to play but it was really a very easy piece and a large number of them had once played it themselves. The memory of this achievement gave them a certain satisfaction, although they shook their heads and raised their eyebrows. It had been, upon the whole, their most successful piece.

  ‘Oh,’ said Christina, putting down her little green glass. ‘Liszt! I know this.’

  Her eyes clouded with memories. She was on the school platform at East Head, in her white organdie. Ten years ago! After that year she had given up learning the piano. Home! Home!

  ‘It’s got something,’ allowed Dickie. ‘But it hits below the belt.’

  ‘I played it once.’

  And were you killed i’ th’ Capitol? he asked his doppelgänger, who would take the allusion.

  This faceless comrade was now a man, and likely to remain one. Dickie no longer yearned for sympathetic female companionship. He would still have said that his marriage had been a mistake, but he could say so without any very painful implications. The worst effects of it had been weathered and had worn off. He could now live with it very comfortably; he and Christina had grown sensible, they had learnt how to get along together, they had settled down. He did not want any other wife. He had made a mistake, but he had, upon the whole, done very well for himself, could scarcely have done better. They would never quite understand one another, but he preferred that they should not. To understand Christina fully would be to acknowledge himself the object of a love, passionate and disinterested, which he had never, perhaps, deserved, and which he was powerless to return. He could give her gratitude, respect and affection, but love was not his to command, once he had lost it. That she no longer depended upon it, but lived merely to see him happy, was the most disturbing possibility of all; it exalted her to a stature with which he could not hope to compete, and gave a dire meaning to the conjecture that they were ill-matched. He took refuge in the belief that they had settled down.

  This tune, he told his other self, hits below the belt because it has the nostalgic cadence; three notes down in the diatonic scale. Soh! Me! Doh! All the great nostalgic tunes are built up upon those three notes. Forty Years On. Linden Baum. Home Sweet Home. Swanee River. Dulce Domum. Sing those three downward notes to people and they will sigh. Look at Christina! Sodden with sentimentality. But only in the West, objected the doppelgänger. If we were Chinks, the nostalgic cadence wouldn’t mean a thing.

  Dickie dropped the conversation. An imaginary friend can always be shut up when we have had enough of him. He began instead to consider what he should say to Sir Miles tomorrow morning. It was a great advantage that they had met already, in such pleasant circumstances. He reflected, with a grin, that Sir Miles was also the owner of a Swann, sold to him by Archer. But he would not mention this link tomorrow. Oh no! Not for many years would he venture to talk about his own Swann; not until his professional capacities had been proved and accepted. A queer fellow, Swann! Attractive, but a little silly. Having spent months upon a particular work, he took a sudden dislike to it and dropped it into the Bristol Channel.

  Liszt, after some noisy agitation, had got back to the nostalgic cadence, with an augmented diddle-diddle in the bass. Mummie was sitting in the front row, remembered Christina. Everybody I knew was there.

  Dickie, smiling at his memories, sat up and straightened his waistcoat. There was upon his face an upshot light of years to come. For a moment he looked older, harder and more assured. Hope and regret, anguish and solace, were no longer to roam unchecked across his nights and days. They were to be kept henceforth in their proper kennels, recognised and ruled, brought firmly to heel by the appointed man.

  THE END

  Copyright

  This ebook edition first published in 2011

  by Faber and Faber Ltd

  Bloomsbury House

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  All rights reserved

  © Margaret Kennedy, 1955

  The right of Margaret Kennedy to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

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  ISBN 978–0–571–28156–5