by Anne Morice
‘Yes, I can imagine; but what does he get out of it? More power?’
‘Oh no, that’s quite a minor incentive. This is a cause he’s really dedicated to, almost a crusade. It was why he was so dead keen on getting adopted here. It was a real challenge because the present member is the most ghastly old reactionary who ever lived. He’d like to bring back the birch and have all the immigrants sterilised, among other charming programmes, and Magnus means to see him off or bust. But I mustn’t spoil it for him because he’ll adore telling you all about it himself. Besides, you want to have a bath and I’m holding you up. Come down when you’re ready. There’s absolutely no hurry.’
It was not the first time she had reminded me I wanted a bath and perhaps she had some excuse, for I had removed my make-up in a hurry and the forty mile drive had doubtless added its quota of scruffiness. Nevertheless I suspected there was more to it than this. Although I had placed Sarah as a fairly patronising, father-fixated old gasbag, at the same time I doubted whether she often spoke at random, and in hinting that I should take time and trouble over my appearance it was possible that she wished me to make a favourable impression on her father. If so, her reasoning was quite beyond me but at least there was no conflict of aims, and I went downstairs looking as daisy petal fresh as half an hour’s concentrated work could achieve.
CHAPTER THREE
1
There must be numerous reasons for children calling parents by their Christian names, but to assess the individual case correctly you have to know which side initiated the custom. So far as the Benson-Jones family was concerned, it had probably come about by mutual consent, for I cannot think of any man who projected a fainter Daddy-image than Sir Magnus, nor one who would have more disliked being labelled with it. Had I been asked to guess, I should have placed him in his early fifties, not so much on account of his youthful buoyancy as for the fact that he never used his seniority as a privilege and I never heard him quote his own longer experience to gain a point.
Apart from his grey-green eyes, enormously magnified by thick lensed glasses and reminding me faintly of oysters, he was an undistinguished looking man, powerful and stocky, with a flattish face and spreading nose; but it was easy to see where Sarah had got her vitality and drive. Virile and dynamic were the words I mentally applied to Sir Magnus and I feel sure he would have approved of my choice, for I never met anyone who so conspicuously paraded these qualities.
They can be attractive in well rationed doses but are apt to become wearing when unrestricted, and Sir Magnus had not eliminated this fault. During the first half of dinner he talked to me almost exclusively about his theories for re-organising the film industry, of whose economics he plainly knew a great deal more than I did, and during the second half gave me a detailed account of a discussion he had had with the Home Secretary relating to a shake up in the Police Force. A certain amount of bombast and name dropping went into this, but the implication was always present that my own views were at least of equal importance; and, curiously enough, many of the reforms which he listed would have had Robin’s full endorsement. Nevertheless, I found the tirade, and the alertness it required of me, somewhat exhausting at the end of a difficult day.
He rarely spoke to Julie on his other side, except occasionally to ask her if she was enjoying herself, a question which also came my way from time to time; but he frequently called down the table to enlist Sarah’s comments on some point or other, and she always responded with admirable poise and promptness. It was, needless to say, a refectory table which in its day had probably accommodated about sixty monks at each sitting, so they were obliged to conduct these exchanges in raised voices, and yet I had the impression that it was not really necessary for them to do so. Even when talking or, more rarely, listening to Kit, I sensed that Sarah had one ear permanently cocked to catch her father’s every word and that she could guess by some special tone or inflexion exactly when she would be called upon to intervene. It was as though they were both playing some elaborate game, of which only they knew the rules. In view of the meagreness and apathy of their audience, I could not think why they should bother, but it may have been sheer force of habit.
‘All forced of course,’ Sir Magnus announced at this point in my reflections, causing the spoon I was holding to clatter against the dish. The dessert was being handed round and I was helping myself from a huge bowl of glistening strawberries.
‘Under cloches, you know,’ he explained. ‘Not bad, is it, for early April? Sarah, you’ll have to remind Cathcart not to pick any tomorrow. We want to save as many as we can for Saturday. For the fête, you know,’ he explained, lowering his voice again as he turned back to me. ‘Strawberry teas. How much do you suppose we could sting ’em for that? Twenty-five? Fifty?’
‘Wouldn’t it rather depend on how many strawberries they got?’ I suggested.
‘Would it? I hadn’t thought of it in that way. You may be right but my idea was that people would be attracted by the rarity element. Something to brag about to their friends. When they’re in that frame of mind they don’t usually stop to ask themselves whether they’re getting value for money, do you think? Do you play bridge, by the way?’
‘Not for money.’
‘Is that so? You’re not a gambler? Well, I believe in being cautious, up to a point. The trick is to know when to break out and act boldly. Do you agree?’
‘Yes, and I’m sure it’s one you’ve mastered.’
‘To some extent,’ he admitted, ‘but perhaps not so successfully as I like to think. My worst mistakes have come from being over-cautious, counting the strawberries as it were. And I’m not just talking about money, you understand?’
‘I shall try to remember your advice,’ I told him.
‘Yes, but you shouldn’t necessarily act on it, you know. Much better if we all follow our own star and go along at our own rate. Enjoying yourself, are you?’
“Very much, thank you.’
‘Yes, I can see you are. Well, we’ve got some nice neighbours coming in after dinner. You’ll be interested to meet them. That’s why I asked if you liked bridge. Babs is a first class player. But it doesn’t matter if you’re not keen. We can play something else. What shall it be, Julie? Any ideas?’
‘Oh no, I mean, anything you like,’ she replied in a fluster. ‘Why not let Tessa choose?’
Since my social accomplishments in this field do not include anything more sophisticated than demon patience, I was rather unnerved by this proposal, but Sarah weighed in just in time with my reprieve.
I could almost have sworn that something had now been said which she had not been prepared for. Her tone remained casual, but she had abandoned the pretence of being immersed in her conversation with Kit. Speaking directly to her father, she called up the table:
‘Don’t be such a tease, Magnus! You know very well that Julie is far too unselfish to want to choose for all of us. And perhaps Tessa hates party games? Have you asked her? I was thinking we might have some music this evening.’
‘Well no, that wouldn’t do, would it?’ he replied equably. ‘The Grahams are coming, aren’t they, and we all know how Babs feels about music.’
‘Which reminds me,’ Sarah said briskly, ‘we shall have to give them coffee, so Fernando had better serve it in the drawing room. We’ll leave you and Kit to hammer out the programme while I go and tell him.’
Sir Magnus bounded up and pulled back my chair, whereupon Kit came out of his dream and performed the same service for Julie, though bungling it a little, so that the chair fell backwards on the floor. He set it on its feet again, reseated himself and grabbed the port decanter.
‘The trouble with Magnus,’ Julie confided to me as she limped along at my side to the drawing room, ‘is that he’s got such enormous energy that he’s literally incapable of spending an evening doing nothing. He considers every minute wasted when he’s not throwing himself into some activity, however frivolous. Some people find it rather trying.’
I thought she might be one of them, for she was looking strained and anxious, and to boost her up I said:
‘I suppose that’s the penalty of having a tycoon for a father. They’re all the same, I’m told. Can’t ever relax.’
‘It’s not so much that,’ she replied, frowning and speaking as solemnly as if I had propounded an entirely new theory. ‘In some ways, he spends a lot more time relaxing than most people, but he works just as hard at it as he does at everything else.’
Sarah entered the room, wearing her public face again, and every inch the imperturbable hostess.
‘I hope you won’t mind too much waiting for your coffee, Tessa, but I’ve asked them to hold it up till the others arrive.’
‘Did you know he’d invited the Grahams tonight?’ Julie asked her.
‘Umm. I’d forgotten, as a matter of fact. Perhaps he did mention it, or perhaps he didn’t see any need to.’
‘More practical to mention it when he hasn’t invited them.’
‘True.’
They were conversing in a clipped, offhand way, very much, I imagined, as they did when there were no outsiders around and to remind them of the presence of one I said:
‘Tell me about the Grahams.’
‘Magnus should do that,’ Sarah answered, as her father came bounding into the room, followed at a more wavering pace by Kit. ‘They’re his protégés. At least, Martin is. Tell Tessa about Martin, Magnus.’
‘Not heard of him? No, there’s no reason why you should. Are you interested in ceramics?’
‘Not to the point of hysteria. Is that what he does?’
‘Among other things. He’s got a pottery about four or five miles from here. Village called Missendale. Makes quite a good thing out of it too. At least he does now. He was in rather a poor way when we first came here. Brilliant chap, you know, but not enough capital, that was the whole trouble.’
‘But you’ve straightened it out for him?’
‘Oh well, we managed to fix him up with some of the modern equipment, electric kiln and all that kind of thing. And I was fortunate enough to have a little pull with a few outlets in London. Most of his stuff goes up there nowadays, but we’ve got a local exhibition coming up in a week or two, and there’ll be some of his stuff on display at our do on Saturday. Most important to encourage these regional crafts, you know.’
‘It’s stretching it a bit to call it a regional craft,’ Julie protested mildly. ‘He could do it just as well in Scotland or the south of France.’
‘Nevertheless, he has chosen to do it here.’
‘Only because he had to move somewhere and this place was going cheap and near enough to London to suit Babs.’
‘He used to live in Sussex,’ Sarah explained. ‘Babs was married to the local doctor but she left him and ran off with Martin. This is not just scandal-mongering. It’s much better that you should know about it and spare yourself some possible gaffes. But Julie is quite right, of course.’
‘Well, all that’s in the past now,’ Magnus said firmly, but without a trace of annoyance. ‘The point is that if you haven’t got any indigenous craftsmen, the next best thing is to adopt some. I see nothing against that. In the end, it creates a certain pride, not to mention employment, among the local people and the skills get handed on to them.’
‘Except that most of Martin’s trainees come from overseas,’ Julie remarked. ‘So the skills actually get handed on to Nigeria and Australia.’
‘That’s perfectly true,’ he agreed. ‘But it also has certain built-in advantages, don’t you think? A small influx of foreigners in our midst must help to break down these odious racial prejudices. Surely we should be grateful for that alone?’
I believe Julie had been ready to continue the discussion, but Magnus abruptly turned away from her, saying:
‘Well now, Kit! You haven’t much to say for yourself. Do we bore you?’
Presumably he had been hitting the bottle harder than I had realised, for he opened his eyes, said: ‘Oh, definitely, sir,’ and immediately closed them again.
Julie let out a nervous squeak and even Magnus looked faintly nonplussed. Sarah said impatiently: ‘Wake up, Kit, for goodness sake!’ exactly as though he were a child misbehaving himself.
Kit opened his eyes again and blearily focused them on her.
‘Whassat? Oh, sorry! Fact is, it’s been quite a day. Going to bed now. No games for Christopher tonight.’
Holding on tightly to the arms of his chair and fumbling his feet a little, in a series of uncharacteristically clumsy movements, he managed to stand up. He was sweating a bit too, and it was partly an instinctive impulse to help him make a dignified exit, partly opportunism which caused me to get to my feet as well.
‘Nor for me, either. Kit’s right, we’re both rather jaded. If you won’t think it rude, I’ll . . .’
As I spoke, the door opened and four people entered the room, followed by the butler bearing a silver tray of coffee and liqueurs. Without a tremor, Sarah rose to greet them. In doing so, she had to pass close to Kit and, without glancing at him, she stuck out her right hand and jabbed him in the chest. It may have been intended as a playful gesture, but evidently there was some force behind it, for Kit collapsed in his chair like a sack of coals, a comical expression of disbelief on his face as, with teeth aflash, Sarah continued on her way to welcome the visitors.
2
The procession was headed by Babs Graham, the only woman of the party, and she advanced upon us with both arms outstretched, all eager smiles and jangling bracelets. She rivalled Sarah in vivacity, but in no other respect, being quite ten years older and at the same time much more youthfully dressed. She also had coarser features, far too much blue eye shadow and an over-effusive manner. Nevertheless, I could understand some people finding her attractive.
She was followed by her husband, a slight, bearded man with hungry, mad looking eyes, which he fixed on me with an unnerving stare while he wrung my hand, as though inviting me to break down and confess my sins on the spot.
The other two were both much younger. One was a gangling, red headed youth, with a loping walk and an over-developed Adam’s apple, and I was told that his name was Walter Greig and that he came from South Africa. He spoke in a twangy voice, sounding his ‘r’s’ as though he were grinding them out with a pestle and mortar. Last of all and hanging back a bit, perhaps from laziness rather than shyness, came Henry Ngali Mbwala. I confess that I did not grasp this with perfect accuracy at the time, but I was subsequently to see his name in print far too often to forget it now.
He must have been about the same age as Walter, not more than twenty, and presumably they shared a common interest in pots, but there the resemblance ended. If the passionate and proselytising glint in Martin’s eyes denoted, as had been hinted, a keen desire for racial integration, he had certainly plunged in at the deep end with this pair. Henry was small and compact, with slender hands and feet. What chiefly set him apart from the herd, however, was his way of speaking English. It was a more melodious brand than Walter’s, but a lot harder to understand, for he had a trick of accentuating all the syllables which are normally swallowed, and of rounding off his sentences with high pitched peals of laughter. It was puzzling at first, but I eventually reached the conclusion that he had learnt English from books, long before hearing it spoken and that the laughter was set off by the bewilderment on the faces of everyone around him.
Pausing only to embrace Sarah and say how much she had to tell her, Babs pursued a straight course to Magnus and, watching her go to work on him, I began to understand Sarah’s motives for grooming me into a counter-attraction for her father. Whether or not she had known the Grahams had been invited was probably immaterial. Magnus was clearly in a fair way to becoming besotted by Babs, and from Sarah’s point of view, no potential diversion was too hopeless to be neglected. However, I was only prepared to play her game up to a certain limit, and did not wait meekly for Magnus to remember my existe
nce and ask me if I was enjoying myself. I left him to it and took my coffee cup over to the tray, where Sarah was in charge.
‘What kind of music do you like?’ I asked her. ‘Not pop, I imagine?’
‘Oh, sometimes. All sorts, really. Nothing highbrow, I assure you.’
‘Do you play yourself?’
‘Yes, we all do. In a very amateurish way, I hasten to add. Mainly for our own amusement, you know, although Julie stands in for our church organist occasionally.’
‘All this and talent too!’ I remarked sadly. ‘It’s not fair.’
‘No, it’s not,’ she agreed. ‘But don’t misunderstand me. It’s not that we have more talent than other people; less probably, although my mother was very musical. It’s simply that we’ve had unlimited opportunity to develop our potential. Do you realise that nine tenths of the population go to their graves without even discovering what they’re capable of? That’s where the true inequality lies, and it’s the kind of thing which Magnus is fighting.’
‘Rather an ambitious programme, I should have thought.’
‘Maybe, but it makes practical sense too. It’s not just a Utopian dream. Imagine trying to run a factory with only one tenth of the plant in working order! And yet that’s precisely how most of the world is run, under our present system.’
Conceivably she was right, but I wished she would step down from her soap box once in a while, and also stop quoting her father every time she opened her mouth. I did not consider that either of these traits boded well for her marriage, and with this in mind I said:
