“That makes two cards. Here’s yours, sir.”
“Ah, Grasmere Memorial, hey? Well done.” Pa had read the otter book, and considered it somewhat fanciful.
“Who else have you sent invitations to, may I inquire?”
“Oh, I thought one to my Mother, one to Mrs. Chychester, one to Colonel Satchville, one to my Uncle Hilary, and another perhaps to the Duke of Gaultshire.”
“H’m,” said Pa. He reflected, then, “I suppose you know the Duke well?”
“Not very.”
“Well, you’ve got one member of that family represented already, haven’t you?”
Phillip took the hint. “No Duke. Thanks for the advice. Now I must be off, to revise the climax of my novel by Monday morning. Then I must take it up to London; there’s not much time to be lost if it’s to be published in the autumn.”
“Ah.”
“I’ll be back in plenty of time for our visit to London, sir. I’m going up to meet Channerson, the war-painter.”
“Ah. Well, I must spray my teddies with copper sulphate, I suppose.”
Chapter 9
BOTTLE PARTY
Phillip delivered his packet at Satchville Street, and having a couple of hours to spare, went to the Tivoli cinema in the Strand; and thence, at 6.15 p.m., to Savoy Hill. Piers had left, so he walked to Blue Ball Yard, to be told by the porter that Mr. Tofield had asked him to give Mr. Maddison his apologies, but he had been called away unexpectedly and would Mr. Maddison dine with Captain Fox, Mr. Tofield’s brother-in-law, at seven o’clock at the University Club and afterwards see Mr. Tofield at Mr. Channer-son’s party. Mr. Tofield was expecting to be there about 9.30 p.m.
“Not to bother about a bottle, sir, Mr. Tofield will bring one for you.”
“May I dress here?”
“I’ll show you to Mr. Piers’ chambers, sir.”
He waited until 8 p.m. at the University Club and then left, to eat eggs and bacon in the Café Royal; and afterwards got a ’bus to Haverstock Hill. He arrived at the painter’s studio, which was behind a public house, at 9.20 p.m., and waited by a laurel hedge until Piers should turn up.
Half-past nine became a quarter to ten. People were arriving every few minutes. They came by taxi, and all were in evening dress.Should he go in and look for Anders? Or go back to London. He imagined that a crisis had come about, between Piers and Virginia.
While he stood there, hearing a subdued hum through the curtain’d windows, a Rolls-Royce drew up, followed immediately by other cars, out of which sprang nondescript men with cameras. Magnesium lights revealed two men wearing opera hats and cloaks, with two ladies, one of whom wore a tiara and a white fox fur round her neck. They waited to be photographed again, while by the open door stood a man-servant in a white jacket.
Phillip followed the gay party, and gave his hat and coat to another servant after the flat opera hats and cloaks had been taken. Meanwhile the host—Phillip recognised his face from newspaper photographs—was waiting expectantly beside a young woman with a round smiling face and bobbed yellow hair. Channerson smiled broadly as he took the hand of the woman with the tiara.
“Ah, Princess!” as he kissed her hand. “Delighted you could come.”
Other greetings; then it was his turn.
“I wonder if Piers Tofield has arrived? He was to have brought me here.”
The painter said as though deliberately, “Really?” while giving him a keen look. “And who might Piers Tofield be?” The fair young woman beside him said, “The Crufts are bringing him. Virginia telephoned she’d be late, Dikkon. You must be Mr. Plugge?” she smiled.
“I’m afraid not. But I’m also a friend of Archie Plugge. My name is Maddison.”
Channerson, smiling broadly, was now greeting other arrivals. Phillip moved away across a large room which was, he thought, the painter’s studio. It was fairly full. He moved through groups of talkers to stand against a wall whence to keep watch on the door.
In front of him was a large table on which stood a surprising number of bottles, ranging from magnums of champagne to a solitary stone flagon of schnapps. The bottles covered the table as closely as troops assembled for an attack; behind the shock troops were the reserves: fat, thin, tall and squat bottles, rising from the back of the table on what appeared to a bookcase. Would they all lie sprawling after the battle? By the un-Bohemian looks of the guests—no. More and more people were now arriving; none carried bottles; perhaps they had been sent on in advance.
So this was post-war London semi-Bohemian society—face after face familiar from newspaper and magazine, faces patrician and elegant, bronzed male faces beside slender young women with extremely fair hair and straight, almost severe gowns; laughter and grace. He began to feel the ache of loneliness, and with relief saw the profile of Plugge bending over the table to examine the labels on the bottles. Archie’s face was pink, as though much-washed by carbolic soap, above his tall white collar and thin white tie. His thick hair, inclined to kink, was brushed back and held in place by a mixture of oil, scent, and gum arabic. His dark eyes, enlarged by his horn-rimmed spectacles, showed delight on meeting Phillip’s gaze.
“How good to see you here! I was only at this moment thinking of you. Have you seen Piers?”
“No. Have you?”
“Not since the 6 o’clock news bulletin. He told me he was expecting you later on at his flat.”
“I was supposed to meet him there, but the porter said he had been unexpectedly called away.”
“Did he say where?”
“No.”
“Oh, my goodness. I think I need a drink. May I get you one?”
Plugge squeezed his plump body, with many winsome apologies, to the edge of the table and returned with two glasses and a bottle of champagne. They drank.
“The last I heard of Bill Kidd was that he had been shot outside Cork, after setting fire to a farmhouse, Archie.”
“He told me he had to die officially, before he could do special work with Ironside’s Force in Russia against the Reds.”
“I hope he’s not a friend of yours, because I had good reason to dislike the real Bill Kidd.”
“I found him a little alarming myself, I must admit.”
“He was a frightful bloody nuisance, and quite impossible when tight. But sober, he could be a very kind person, with his boyish enthusiasm. I’d rather like to see him again, come to think of it.”
“He kept referring to you as ‘My Mad Son’. I must get another bottle while the going’s good. Do forgive me.”
Plugge returned with more fuel. “I say, I say, I am enjoying this party, aren’t you?” Plugge was looking round. “I wonder where Virginia and Piers have got to? I expect you’ve heard about them?”
“Piers took me to see them last week, when I was up, and we played cards.”
“I suppose Piers has told you how Tony and I met Virginia Helston-Hood at Eleanor Metfield’s party in the Polaris, and introduced her to Tony Cruft?”
“No.”
“But surely you saw their wedding photograph in The Tatler last November, didn’t you?”
“No, I haven’t been to my dentist for eighteen months.”
“Ha-ha-ha! Let me fill your glass, my dear Phil. This is fun, isn’t it? I say, I am glad you’re here.”
Glasses were refilled. Plugge became most confidential. “Surely you know about the bogus marriage?” he almost whispered.
“No.”
Plugge hunched his padded shoulders, and moved nearer to Phillip’s ear. “Now where shall I begin? Well, about a year ago, it was last June, in fact, Tony asked me if I’d care to go with him to Eleanor Metfield’s party in the Polaris. You know, that ship moored along the Embankment? Tony was then ‘feeding’ the Society columnist of The Daily Trident. It was his first entrée into Society, and when he saw me in a dinner jacket he refused to take me. We went in a taxi to Cahoon Bros., you know, that firm who run a night service during the London season. It may be worth knowing.
”
“Did you go to the party in Polaris?”
“Yes, as I was saying, having got myself fitted out, with these broad padded shoulders—they had only bandleaders’ outfits for hiring out at ten o’clock—Tony gave me a lesson on how to pronounce certain key-words, as he called them.”
Plugge paused before saying, with a conspiratorial air, “Tell me, old boy, how do you pronounce the word ‘1-o-s-t’?”
“The cockney way.”
“Have you noticed how cockneys and those in Debrett often have the same pronunciation?”
“Both resist compulsory education.”
This set Plugge laughing loudly.
“Everyone spoke the same way in London until genteelisms arose among the superior middle classes, and their children were taught to pronounce words as spelt.”
“I’ve never thought of it like that before.”
Plugge looked as though he had received a revelation. “Now isn’t that interesting! Well, Tony certainly gave me a lesson in pure Cockney, to correct my middle-class pronunciation! The key word, he assured me, was ‘girl’. Not ‘gel’ nor ‘gal’, which was Middle West American, he explained, but the ‘gi’ should be pronounced with the tongue close to one’s upper back teeth, ha-ha-ha!”
Faces were beginning to turn in their direction. Enthusiastically Plugge emptied his glass, and having refilled it, continued, warm with his story.
“Well, as I was saying, I found myself sitting in a taxi on the Embankment, in an actor’s hired dress suit, being rehearsed before the gate-crash. I kept thinking what a funny shot it would make in a film. ‘Go on,’ Tony said. ‘Say it! Gir—, not Gur—— Say it after me, Archie. Let your tongue lightly rest on your upper back teeth. Say it with your mouth partly spread, the position of the tongue is the same as when pronouncing the word ‘cheese’.”
Across the hot and crowded room came Channerson’s hearty laughter. Phillip turned slowly to observe him. Channerson was about thirty-six, with prematurely grey hair above eyes which remained hard during his laughter. The laughter sounded hollow; behind the eyes which had looked at him at the door had been caution, irony, even despair.
“I suppose Channerson has had a fairly grim time. Most people loathed his paintings of the war—or did when he first painted them.”
“He suffers from a simply frightful persecution complex, I’m told. On three occasions when he drove Tony to London, he stopped his car outside the Slade and cursed Tonks. I say, there’s Virginia. Will you forgive me if I leave you? I must have a word with her. Well, I have so enjoyed our talk. You’ve simply made my evening.”
“Before you go, Archie, what did you mean by cheese?”
“You know, surely? The debutante’s smile of greeting, cheese-cheese-cheese all the way, but never before the camera.”
*
Phillip watched him working a way towards the door, where Mrs. Cruft stood, looking around her without the least appearance of seeking anyone in particular. She was dressed in a tight gown sewn all over with silver sequins. Her lips were parted; her regular, white, elongated teeth were held ready to form the unspoken word cheese at the first sight of any known face. She had not yet seen Plugge, whose padded shoulders remained politely fixed in the press of bodies, waiting until some restless individual, seeking a face more interesting than those around him, allowed a few inches of progress.
With the arrival of the last of the theatrical and late-dining people, the human density of the room was now at its greatest. Suddenly Phillip saw Felicity Ancroft standing by the door. He moved towards her. Young actresses gave him helplessly amused glances as he insinuated his way past them, only to find himself wedged in among elderly painters, musicians, actors, and Georgian poets (to judge by their austere, aloof faces)—figures closely cohered all the way to the open double-doors leading to the adjoining studio.
While he awaited a chance to move on, Felicity Ancroft saw him. She waved a hand, and came towards him; in one flowing movement they met and clasped hands, he led her back to the comparative privacy of the wall where he had been standing.
“Will you have some champagne, Virginia?”
“Oh, thank you. I heard you were coming, Phillip. May I call you Phillip? My name is Felicity, by the way.”
“Of course. I’m so glad to see you. Are you at Savoy Hill?”
“I’m not on the staff, I’m a free-lance. I write things for the Children’s Hour.”
“Do you live in London?”
“Well, fairly near. But I want to live in the country.”
“Hullo, here comes my literary agent.”
Anders Norse was pushing his way towards them.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Phillip. Honestly, I’d rather see your face at this moment than any other face in the world. Hullo, Felicity. I didn’t know you two knew each other.”
“I’m waiting for Piers Tofield. Apart from Felicity, Archie Plugge and you, I don’t know a soul here.”
“Why not go and introduce yourself to Channerson? He’d be proud to know that the winner of this year’s——”
“Let’s all have a drink!”
By the look on Anders’ face Phillip thought that he had been drinking with friends in the Barbarian Club.
“I’ll have a scotch. Have you told Felicity yet? Let’s all drink to the great news! Let everyone drink to it!”
“Oh please, Anders. I don’t suppose anyone here has ever heard of me.”
“Then the sooner they know who’s here, the better! Don’t you agree, Felicity? After all, Phillip has won the——”
“Please, Anders!”
“But why not tell everybody?”
Alarmed by the other’s earnest persistence, Phillip began to move away. “Do forgive me for a moment, I must speak to Virginia Cruft. She looks just like a mermaid. Perhaps she knows where Piers is.”
At the far end of the room he saw Virginia looking about her. He moved on, leaving Felicity Ancroft by the wall. Anders, following, said, “Come and meet Anthony Cruft’s wife, Phillip. Do you know Anthony Cruft’s work? He’s going to make a big name for himself, like you. Come on, Felicity!”
“Doesn’t Mrs. Cruft look just like a mermaid?” repeated Phillip, allowing Anders to get past him; and then changed direction towards the door. There unexpectedly he met Plugge, who had worked through the press to intercept him.
“I say, Virginia is in a state. She thinks that Piers may have gone to Dover in his Aston-Martin, to cross by the night boat.”
*
Anders reached Virginia, standing alone.
“Phillip Maddison says you are like a mermaid,” he said. “If you’re a mermaid, he is certainly an otter. Let me introduce my friend, Phillip Maddison. Phillip, let me—that’s funny. I swear he was here a moment ago.”
“Hullo, Anders,” said Virginia. The skirt of her gown lay upon the floor, having formed itself into the semblance of an argentine fluke. “My dear, I am quite unable to move,” as she put a delicate small hand on his sleeve. “What an idiot I was to put on this ancient frock.” She smiled with sudden brilliance; she spoke, despite the awful doubt upon her diaphragm, in the clear, direct voice of a self-assured young woman.
“You have met Phillip Maddison, haven’t you?” said Anders. “If not, may I introduce him?”
“Piers Tofield brought him to see us,” she smiled. “I rather hoped I’d find Piers and Phillip here together when I arrived.”
Anders had a puzzled look on his face. “Where’s Tony? Didn’t you come with your husband, Virginia?”
“I rather fancy he’s looking for Piers,” she said, with another wide smile. “Do be an angel and get me some brandy.”
Phillip, having successfully dodged Anders, who had obviously had too much whisky to drink, made his way to Mrs. Cruft.
“Oh, I am so glad to see you,” she said, touching his arm with a hand like a delicate small flipper with crimson claws. “I do apologise for not being able to come here before. Po
or you. Piers was too, too naughty to leave you alone.” She appealed to him with innocent round eyes. “Phillip—may I call you that?—Phillip, you are Piers’ best friend, aren’t you? He worships you. I must see him. I cannot explain just now—you do understand, don’t you? But in case I don’t see Piers before you leave, be an angel and ask him to be sure to telephone me tonight. I’m staying with Mama.”
“He knows the address?”
“Oh yes. You are an angel, really you are.”
Anders came back with two tumblers of schnapps. “It’s all I could get, Virginia. Now I’d like to introduce you to Phillip Maddison. He’s won the—— No! don’t stop me, Phillip! Why not tell Virginia your news?”
“Anders is joking, don’t heed what he says.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Anders, his brow furrowed, his eyes unhappy. He swallowed half his tumbler of spirit. “Why not let everyone know the good news? No, don’t move away.” He held Phillip’s arm and in a louder voice cried, “Tell Virginia, Phillip! Tell everyone! Let them know who’s here!”
“No-one is really interested in my horses,” said Phillip to Virginia. He went on, as easily as he could, “Well, I think I’ll go and see what’s happened to Archie Plugge.”
But Anders the Norseman, the single-minded Viking, was not to be put off by the delaying tactics of a Celt.
“I really mean it, Phillip. I’m your friend, don’t you know it? I’m honestly glad to know that you have won——”
“But my horse only won a local flat race for hacks, Anders.”
“Tell Virginia——”
“At the Grand National,” said Phillip to Virginia, as he tried to raise and lower his eyebrows in rapid succession, to convey a warning, “Staenyzer Kabaret, the colt from my Belgian stud, you know, may not be able to carry the weight of Captain Bill Kidd. Now there’s a man, Anders. Bill Kidd! Can’t you persuade him to write his memoirs?”
“Do you breed ’chasers, or for the flats?” asked Virginia, with a brilliantly simulated interest in what appeared to be an entirely bogus conversation.
The Power of the Dead Page 25
